Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

'The fury of the Church of Rome died down a little after Avignon fell to Louis of France,' he said. 'That Louis in whose company I have sat, and who is a kind and gentle man, but who has sent a legion of my folk down to death. No matter: there is a stain upon all of us, even those who call themselves innocent. But here is the burden of my story: there is a new danger lately risen, worse in a sense than the crusaders because it creeps through the land like fingers of rot in an old house. When Simon de Montfort sacked my home, there was a priest in his company: one Dominic Guzman, a Castilian. This Dominic had a special hatred for the Good Christians, for whatever reasons men are driven to such passions. He was de Montfort's pet – he would watch the sieges and butchery from his master's side. And he was at Lavaur, of course, and Beziers… all great slaughters. I can hardly bear to tell you that this man was declared a saint two years ago, although the world has been rid of him for longer than that – he died in his bed, make no mistake. But not before he had founded his own order of preachers..

'The Dominicans, yes: who in England we call the Black Friars. And our new friend Peter of Verona is…' 'One of Gregory's black-robed devils.'

'There was a Black Friar in Balecester for a while,' I said, remembering. 'He came and stirred things up – I remember him preaching in the market and outside the cathedral. He was thin and white-faced, and a bit sweaty. Folk would have fits and roll about in the mud at his feet. Not at all like our friend from Verona.'

'And yet that jolly man is filled with hatred, do not doubt it,' said the Captain, bitterly. 'And no doubt it is a hatred very specifically of my people. The domini canes, as they call themselves: the hounds of God – they are darkness manifest. I cannot look upon their black cloaks without my gorge rising, for they wear them to mock our perfecti. They mock the living and the dead without distinction. Patch, had Pope Gregory ordered the Inquisition while you were still a cleric?'

Word had just reached us,' I replied. 'Although it did not mean very much to me then, I confess. But sitting here…'

'It makes the crackle of the flames a little less friendly,' finished the Captain.

'Master, are you saying that His Holiness placed you at the right hand of this Peter deliberately? How much does he know about you?'

'He does not know I am a… a credente, said the Captain, all but swallowing the word. 'I am certain of it. Only my company knows that secret, and not all of them. We are all bound to each other by secrets, as you know. I believe – I think I believe – that it was a meaningless act. But the Dominicans themselves have much to say on the nature of belief.'

'No man less like a devil could ever be imagined’ I said. 'I have never liked friars, but I would gladly have ridden a few days in Peters company. That is…'

'I cannot abide them’ said the Captain. 'That they mock my faith, that is one thing. But they roam the country, begging and pretending that they live the life of the Christ, when all they are about is prying and sniffing and stirring up hatred in the breasts of ordinary folk. But…' He dragged his fingers across his brow. 'I should not have spoken so hotly’ 'But they killed your people!'

'Loathe them as I do, I have always striven not to be drugged by hate's poison’ he sighed, and bowed his head wearily.

'I suppose it makes no difference’ I muttered. 'Hate will not raise the dead. But it is as strong as love, is it not? It makes a wondrous armour, I think’

'But my dear Petroc, it gets in the way of business’ said the Captain. I had never heard a man utter a sadder thing, nor heard such a note of desolation in a human voice.

'If it were me, I would wish them all in hell’ I said, bitterly.

'Have you not heard what I have been telling you?' said Michel de Montalhac, softly. 'My poor friend, this is hell.' We talked a little, after that, of lighter matters, and the fire died down, but a pall had been cast over the evening and I took myself off to bed before long, although I could not sleep at first. Then I dozed, and when I opened my eyes again I saw the Captain hunched over in front of the embers, writing. The scratch of the quill and the low hiss and spit of the fire sounded like the breathing of a dying man. The quill was scraping as I went off to sleep, and was scratching still as I woke the next morning.

'There: it is all set down’ said the Captain, turning to me, his eyes bagged with netted shadows. 'There are instructions for Gilles, and an account of what has passed here. Take these back to Rome, and wait for your orders – for orders there will be, Patch! Will it not feel good to be about things again?'

'Indeed, sir’ I said politely, stretching, and noting that an ecclesiastical flea had left a trail of bites up my leg.

Well, I am looking forward to the off’ he said. 'Even though I ride with the Devil himself.'

'Be on your guard’ I said, then bit my tongue at my presumption.

'I shall. Nay, do not fear. Yon Peter is no devil – not the Devil, at least. He believes he does good. Though I think I will find his goodness more insufferable, in the long run, than plain evil. Besides, he and I will part company at Fidenza, which is only a few days from here.'

'Be that as it may, I will be fearful for your safety until I hear you have reached France safely’ I said.

'Oh, I have supped with bigger wolves than he’ said the Captain. The dark mood of last night seemed to have left him, and he shook out his grey locks like a happy dog before tying on his travelling coif. There was not much else to say, and after he had handed me a thick parcel of letters and embraced me, he left me to my own packing and was gone. I heard his strong, confident stride ringing along the corridor. I went to the window to look for him, but the view was of some inner yard where an old woman sat plucking a goose. It began to rain, and soon Viterbo was wrapped in a wet, grey shroud once again.

I arrived back in Rome two days later, having spent the night once more in Sutri, although this time I had at least found a pallet before the fire, and so had not woken feeling like a drowned sheep. Nevertheless the weather had not broken, and when at last I dragged myself up the stairs of the Palazzo Frangipani I was feeling more like a selkie – that faery seal that can take a human form – than a man. Trailing puddles behind me – for since I had crossed the Tiber and entered the gates of Rome the rain had turned into the kind of torrential deluge I had only ever encountered out on the deep ocean – I staggered into the kitchens, shedding clothes frantically. 'Good Petroc, what cheer?' called Roussel.

'None whatsoever,' I shot back, grumpily. 'I have water in my ears and mayhap I am growing fish scales beneath my tunic. For the love of God, find me something hot to drink!'

'Nothing easier,' said my friend, pouring a big cup of red wine into which he thrust a poker that had been resting in the fire. A cloud of fragrant steam boiled up. 'Is Captain de Montalhac close behind?'

'No,' I said, curtly. I was naked now, and freezing, and realising what a mistake this was I ran out and across the hall to my chambers, where I grabbed a blanket and an old tunic I had left flung across the bed. I returned to laughter, for Gilles had heard me, and Horst, and I had to smile in turn as I crouched before the fire, warming my gooseflesh.

It took several long, gut-warming swallows of the hot wine before I felt inclined towards conversation, but meanwhile my comrades had gathered around me and were waiting expectantly. It was Gilles who broke the silence.

What happened, Patch? Where is the Captain? Where… where have you been?' To see the pope’ I replied as casually as I could.