Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

'The palace of the pope!' exclaimed our officer, trying to sound haughty, no doubt, but merely seeming wet and out of sorts.

'Mayhap they have lit a fire for us’ muttered the Captain, and seeing my expression, he added: 'Not that kind of fire, Petroc! We are safe, I promise.'

The gates thudded wetly behind us. I looked around and saw a large open space that looked something like a builder's yard: some grand project had got under way, and blocks and carved pieces of that depressing grey stone lay scattered about everywhere amongst wooden scaffolding, winches and buckets. We parted with our horses, I with great joy, for I could hardly walk, so chafed was my crotch. The grand doorway of the palace was guarded by men in shining mail coats who did not so much as glance at us as we entered.

Inside the palace it was gloomier than out, for no one had yet lit the torches that jutted from the wall, but at least it was dry: so dry, in fact, that I caught the stony astringency in the back of my throat and almost coughed. The air smelled faintly of incense, of beeswax and of dust. But before I could take stock, we were called to one side, into a sort of guardroom, and there up a plain flight of spiral stairs, along an unadorned corridor of stone and into a room, quite large and as austere as everything else I had so far seen. On the bed, which was large and of a dark wood, two sets of clothing were set out, and when I saw them my heart thumped, for they seemed to be priests' robes: simple things of black and white. What dreadful mockery was this? But while I quavered, the Captain had shucked off his wet clothes and pulled on the dry ones, and I saw that they were not vestments after all, but ordinary tunic and breeches, somewhat old-fashioned but made of fine cloth.

'How considerate’ said the Captain. 'Mine fit rather well. And yours?'

'Not too bad’ I admitted. It was somewhat delicious to draw on the clean, dry things after two days of sodden misery. 'I thought they were clerical robes, actually. Some sort of jest.' I swallowed. 'Or worse. I have heard that the heretic-finders dress their victims in such things before

'Petroc! Your imagination is a rich and wonderful thing, to be sure, but calm yourself, I pray you! You and I would be hanging from the Tor di Nona by now if our host meant us ill. That I promise you.' The Captain combed out his lank hair with his fingers as he spoke. ‘We are to be fed, not cooked. Sit down.' He pointed to the bed. I plopped down upon it obediently. He stood before me, arms crossed.

'Now then. I have not spoken of this since we were… invited upon this journey, for although our hosts seem pleasant enough, I'll wager their ears are sharper than their swords. And besides, I have been sunk deep in my thoughts, for which I apologise. But here is something that will cheer you. Do you remember our conversation with Baldwin?' I nodded. 'Of course you do. Then you will remember that I told that foolish young man that I had supped with popes and emperors. That, Patch, was no idle boast. The truth is that I know old Ugolino de Segni, who now delights in the name of Gregory, ninth of that name, Pontifex Maximus, et cetera, et cetera… I know Pope Gregory rather well’ You know the pope? I was aghast.

'Extraordinary, isn't it? But in fact, not really that extraordinary. I knew him long before he took up Peter's keys. He was a diplomat, you know, roaming about the lands of the Church drumming up alliances against the German emperors. What better way to seal an alliance amongst clerics than with the gift of a relic? I became a trusted purveyor, and in time an occasional dinner companion. He is a very learned man, our Ugolino. I tend to keep off ecclesiastical topics, however, and fortunately we share an interest in philosophy. I can talk a little – and he a great deal – upon the subject of Aristotle, and things that branch off from there, and so we count each other as friends. There is no real foundation for it, but then again, he is the pope and, by definition, friendless in the earthly sense. You might find him a little unearthly, Patch. He is uncommonly ancient, but sharp as a pin. Be calm and close-lipped. I will handle the conversation’

And that was the end of our talk, for at that moment a rap came at the door and a cleric in the robes of some important office entered. It was time for our audience.

Later, I realised it was a shame that I could not remember more about the pope's palace. I dimly recalled heavily armed guards in the papal livery – many of them, guarding a great many doors that stood at the end of a great many stone corridors. Although the place was not unlike a monastery, in that it was cold, austere and very old, I felt as if we were descending into the earth, and that the successor of Saint Peter must dwell in some cavern in the depths like a lonely old spider. So I had little but an impression of gloom and disquiet, although I also knew that for the privilege I had been accorded the armies of pilgrims who came to Rome every year would have paid almost any price. But those pilgrims would be bringing home tales to tell to their families and friends, and I had no home, no family. Another pair of halberds clanged in front of us, and I winced. Then the final door swung open, and we walked on into the light of a thousand candles.

Pope Gregory the Ninth was truly ancient. The wizened man who hardly filled his robes – let alone the great throne, raised on a red-draped dais, in which he slumped, looking unnervingly like a child's doll – did not, on first inspection, seem to be living at all. Less like a doll, I thought, imitating the Captain's reverent shuffle along the carpet that led to the throne, than a well-preserved relic. But as we grew closer I saw that I was very much mistaken if I thought that life had deserted this creature. For, although his eyes drooped and wept thin trickles of rheum down his leathery cheeks, they burned like pale embers. I noticed that the Captain was being deferential only to a point. He performed the bare minimum of obeisances, drawing – or so I perhaps fancied – disapproving glares from the clerics who surrounded us. But I did not have the Captain's strength of will, and scraped and simpered my way along behind him until all of a sudden the Captain came to a halt and I all but slammed into his back. The pope was holding up a ring-festooned hand – a claw, really: no more than a simulacrum of a living hand – and was glaring at us with what seemed to be unrestrained fury. I glanced nervously at the Captain, but he was smiling broadly, and now I saw that what I had mistaken for rage on the face of the Holy Father was in fact a fond smile, or as much of one as those moribund features could form. There was another wave of the claw, and two priests came forward with chairs and planted them on the carpet behind us. The claw bade us sit.

Welcome, Signor de Montalhac. And welcome, Petrus Zennorius.' The pope's voice belied his necrotic form. It was deep and rich. If I had not seen the body from which it issued, I would have said it came from a man at the height of his powers.

‘I am overjoyed that you have ceased your endless peregrinations long enough to pay our city a visit, but I understand my simple invitation to luncheon somehow translated into your good selves being frogmarched here by a squadron of my troops! So sorry, so sorry.' Try as I might, I could not discern a speck of sincerity in the pope's apology. You will forgive me, of course,' he went on. It was not a suggestion. 'I have always enjoyed our meetings.'

As have I, Your Holiness,' replied the Captain, with complete sincerity. I was astonished. Here was Captain Jean de Montalhac, whom I respected and admired above all other living men, but who made his living from – I shall not be reticent, as the Captain never was – from thievery, deception, usury and sacrilege, talking to God's representative on earth as if to a favourite uncle.