Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

'How pleasant it is to warm my old bones’ said the Captain loudly. Then he turned to me, and I saw that he too was red-faced and sweating. 'A little excessive, perhaps’ he said in a lower voice, and gestured. 'Come closer’ he said. I pulled my chair up next to his, and he poured me some wine, which was white and beginning to grow unpleasantly warm.

'I do not think that this is entirely necessary’ he began, waving at the fire. 'But we are in the pope's house, and the walls may be listening. Oh, yes’ he said, seeing my shock. 'It is a simple thing to build hollow pipes into the walls of a room, that carry sound down to waiting ears. And perhaps there is a black-robed brother kneeling before our keyhole. Would you care to find out?' I shook my head. 'Sensible. The crackling of our fire will mask our words, I hope, and I am sorry I could not think of a better way. Needs must’ 'But I thought the pope was your friend!' I told him.

'Popes have no friends. That is how they become popes’ said the Captain. 'He is a customer, an acquaintance and someone who finds my profession a source of great fascination – that is, what he believes to be my profession. If he knew the truth, he would be fascinated in quite a different way.'

'That at least I can believe’ I said, choking back a mouthful of the hot, sour-sweet wine.

'Ah, Patch’ said my companion, with a sigh of such unguarded melancholy that I turned to him, startled. His face was grim, set, as if he were about to open a door and step out into a snowstorm. Instead he reached out his hand for mine, and grasped it tightly.

This is something of which we have spoken very briefly’ he said, sadly. 'I should have talked of it sooner, but when one is so much out in the world, as we have been, it is hard to talk about things that belong within. We both have much to forget, you and I, but now, alas, it is time to remember. There would have been a better time and place than here in the lion's den, but so be it.' He paused, and threw another twiggy branch of olive on to the blaze. The dead leaves flew up in a sizzle.

‘You know all the secrets of our… of the company of the Cormaran, let us say. And the chief secret, to those who care about such things, is that some of us – Gilles, myself, Roussel, the other men of Toulouse – are Good Christians. That is, we are what the people call Cathars, worshippers of cats, for the Church considers no slander too vile for us. To the world at large, heretics. Now, I should add that most of us, most particularly myself, are not very diligent in pursuit of our faith. We are outcasts, and most of us still feel the anger and pain that attended our casting-out. We carry horrible things here’ he touched his breast, 'and here.' And he held his fingers against his brow. 'Because those we left behind us have been destroyed, by the French and by the creatures of the pope: aye, this one as much as any, and perhaps he will prove to be the worst of all’ 'This I knew’ I said quietly.

'I am glad’ said the Captain. 'Then you may or may not know that, within our faith, there are two sorts of believer. The greater part of us have always been what we call credenti or croyants: those who believe the tenets of the faith but are not constrained by all its practices. I am a croyant, as is Gilles. We all are. But the second… they are the pinnacle of our faith, if you like. We call them perfecti. They are the ones who have given themselves in body and in soul to the Lord’ I blinked: it was utterly strange to hear the Captain talk of the Lord in this way.

'The perfecti are those who take the Consolamentum, which is our only sacrament. In doing so they renounce the world and all its temptations. It is all a little complicated for such casual talk’ he said apologetically. 'But I can explain the essence thus: God is perfect; nothing in the world is perfect; therefore nothing in the world was created by God. The Evil One – whom most call the Devil – made this visible, tangible world, and indeed he is that which is called "God" in the book you know as the Old Testament, for who but the Devil could use his creations so cruelly? God made the invisible world. So you see it is all very simple’ he smiled thinly. 'That is why we are so suited to our vocation: to us, no relic can be holy, for all matter is evil’

'And the Saviour?' I breathed, for here it was at last, the question I had longed to ask but dared not, for although I had lost my faith I still quailed at the bald fact of heresy, though it drew me on. 'Jesus Christ was the Holy Spirit.' 'Not a man?'

'How could he be, when all flesh is the Devil? Christ was spirit, and any man who takes the spirit within himself will become Christ.' 'But the Crucifixion…' I began.

'… Was a sham, a mummery. A trick to deceive mankind. The Holy Spirit cannot die.'

'So this world is nothing?' I pressed. 'But what of the scriptures?'

'The New Testament is also our testament’ he said. 'The Old tells of nothing but the Devil, for no God would treat his people thus.' 'So God – my God, I mean, the God of Christendom…' 'Is the Devil himself’ said the Captain, flatly. I gasped. 'So you have not taken this sacrament, this consolation?' I asked, after a long pause. Perhaps I had not understood any of this aright.

'No. I could not live the life..he paused, and ran his fingers through his hair. He had removed his coif, and in the torchlight I noticed that his hair was beginning to tarnish into silvery-grey. I had never given it much thought, but now I began to wonder exactly how old Michel de Montalhac really was. Certainly I had never seen him so weary. Meanwhile he took a draught of wine and held his glass cup aloft. 'I could not do this, for example. I could not eat flesh, nor milk, nor eggs; nor could I seek fine lodgings. I would have to go about always in the company of another of the perfecti. It is a hard road to choose – deliberately, of course. Most of us, most credenti only take the sacrament on our deathbeds, or when we know

The Captain was looking quite stricken. His hands busied themselves with his goblet. For a while he fussed with the poker, stirring the blazing coals until the heat grew almost intolerable. Finally he heaved a great sigh and slumped back in his chair.

'My dear Petroc. We have known each other for two years now, and I know, it is certain, a good deal more about you than you know of me. You have never asked, and that was good. I do not care to speak of the past – I who make the past my own special affair – but tonight matters have come to a sudden and unexpected point. If you will favour me with your patience, I will tell you of my past, or that… that event in the past that now bears very heavily upon our present. Can I do so?'

I nodded. He squeezed my hand and placed it gently upon the wood of the table. Then he took a sip of wine, pushed his plate away to the side and began. 'Patch, I think I told you where I was born, did I not? That night in Gardar? In any event, I came into this world as the heir to the seigneury of Aupilhac, which lies an easy day s ride to the north and east of Toulouse. To pare a long night's tale down into that of a moment, my people, and most of the folk who dwelt in those lands, were Good Christians. I… No matter, it is all gone, all burned long ago. My dear friend Gregory's uncle and predecessor Lotario de' Conti, who you will know as Pope Innocent but who was as innocent as a ferret in a rabbit warren, declared a crusade against our liege lord, the Count of Toulouse. In the course of this most holy war, the French jackals came down upon us and destroyed all that they could. What they did not ruin, they stole. My parents died when the French chief, Simon de Montfort, burned our castle. I was young and bold, and I escaped the fire, as… as you will have gathered.' He paused, and placed the tips of his forefingers gently against his closed eyelids. Thus he sat for a long while, and I waited, not hearing the hiss and pop of the fire, but imagining the grey stone walls of our chamber straining to catch his next words. At last he opened his eyes and blinked wearily.