Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

'No. He waits outside. Apparently he had made prior arrangements for his accommodation..he shook his head, as if such a thing were completely unthinkable. 'He has yet to settle his horse, and would not let my groom near it. These northerners! Oh, I beg your pardon sir: this gentleman is from the north of these lands, not your own brave and magnificent country’ he went on, regaining some of his unctuousness.

'How vexing’ I muttered. I did not wish to go out again. But I supposed that I must, so I opened the heavy door and was about to step out when the innkeeper exclaimed behind me: 'Good God, your honour! Do not go out in the night air without your cloak! The draught will kill you! The man who was looking for you: Christ's blood, but his tunic was so short you could see his knees!'

I waved him off, for what could be more ridiculous than a Devon man laid low by cold air, and stepped out, leaving consternation behind me. The street was dark, of course, and empty. I was about to go back inside when I heard a snort and the unmistakable clack of a shod hoof on stone, coming from further down the hill. The gentleman, whoever he was – and I half-thought it might be a friend from the Cormaran, perhaps Zianni, for who else would be wearing a cycladibus out here in the country – must have grown tired of waiting, and set off to find his own lodgings. Feeling that to retreat back into the warmth of the inn would be something of a defeat, and not wishing to prove that fussing old woman of an innkeeper right, I set off after him. If the message he bore was urgent, I would save time and, besides, it was a fine night for a stroll, and I had a large supper to walk off.

The hill was steep and the dew had already begun to wet the cobbles, so I went slowly, confident that I would soon catch a man leading a horse. But when I reached the point at which the street gave out upon the stairway that led down to the cathedral I still could see no one, and there were no more noises to guide me. Well, I had missed him. Apparently whatever message he bore could wait until tomorrow. Feeling rather glad that I could still enjoy what was left of the evening, and suddenly quite happy to be outdoors, I decided to stroll down and look at the cathedral, for doubtless I would have no time on the morrow.

I wandered down the wide steps and across the square. The stars gave enough faint light to show the carvings on the pillars and the cathedral walls: beasts and birds, carved in the strong, strange manner of a century before. I stared up at the towering campanile, patted the head of a stone lion, and – finally admitting to myself that the air was a trifle chilly – decided to start back to the inn. I had traversed the square and had just set foot on the bottom step when two things happened at once. I heard the clash of hooves pounding on cobbles, and looked up to see a figure standing at the top of the steps. I raised my hand, hoping it was not the Watch – and perhaps he had summoned help, for why else would anyone be riding at breakneck speed up that infernally steep hill? And at that moment, hurling sparks to left and right, the horse came into view. The watchman, if so he was, turned and threw up a hand, there was a flash of cold light and the horse sped on, clambering more than running up the hill, the memory of sparks staining my vision. The clatter was barely fading when I heard another sound: a hollow thud, thunk, thud, and saw the watchman collapse into shadow. But still that noise came, like old winter turnips thrown into a barrel, and as I started to run up the steps I understood what was making it. For down the stairs towards me rolled a ball, and as it bounced and juddered to a halt above me I saw that it was a human head.

Half disbelieving my eyes, I squatted down to make sure, and felt the bile burning its way up my throat, for sure enough I beheld a tangle of wet hair and a pale ear. With infinite reluctance I stood and turned it a little with my foot. The face of Giovanni the groom grinned up at me, teeth clenched, a black bubble swelling and bursting as I watched. I turned aside and puked, then swallowing hot bile and curses, I ran up the remaining steps to where the rest of Giovanni lay in an unseemly tangle of misarranged limbs. There was no sign of his murderer, although the cobbles of the street were scarred with livid marks where the horseshoes had gouged them, and the smell of metal against stone still hung in the air, mingling with the darker scent of blood and fresh shit. I felt very tired all of a sudden and sank down next to the corpse, and noticed that before he died, Giovanni had put on my lovely blue riding-cape.

I raised the alarm, of course, although no alarm had needed to be sounded, for the horseman had awoken everyone in the street and perhaps in the whole town. The innkeeper was beside himself, and the inn filled with wails and groans as four watchmen bore the groom's corpse in upon a trestle, his head perched grotesquely upon his chest. It was explained, first to the watchman and then to me – and then, over and over again, to the whole congregation – that the innkeeper, fearing for my safety and seeking to protect me from the deadly air, had sent Giovanni after me with my cape – hanging by the door, sir – which the poor boy must have put on, for the night was cold and he must have thought he would catch his death without it, poor boy – may the saints and the Holy Mother clasp him to their breasts – and so the robber or bandit, or whoever had done this terrible thing – may devils chew upon his liver for eternity – had caught him out in the empty street.

For some reason the fact that he had been wearing my cape seemed to escape the quick minds of the Watch. And I myself, and indeed the other guests, were all but forgotten in the chaos that had descended upon the inn. The messenger who had come looking for me – this detail too was brushed aside. Still I lingered, half-expecting to be arrested by the Watch, but when a parcel of old, black-clad crones arrived, silent but grimly excited, to lay out the body, I slipped away unnoticed. Back in my room, I secured the latch and pushed the room's one chair, a vast and hideous affair carved from oak, but fortunately for my purposes as heavy as granite, against the door. Then, my hands trembling in earnest now, I pulled the Captain's letter from my tunic.

The front was blazoned with a large P and sealed with black wax into which the image of a flying, sharp-winged bird had been pressed. I took out my knife and used it to prise up the seal without breaking it. Then I opened the letter. At first I thought it had been dropped in water and the ink all run together, so dark was the page. But looking closer I realised that the Captain had covered every fraction of the vellum with script. I cursed gently. I could not wait for daylight, and yet surely I would be able to read nothing in this paltry light. Looking around the room I saw three other little rush lights dusty and unlit in a corner. Lighting these, I arranged all four flames in a crescent on the floor and, stretching out on the cold tiles, I found I could more or less make out the writing. Petroc of Aunefordy from Michel de Montalhac, greetings! The letter began conventionally enough, and this I took to be a hopeful sign. And it was not in cipher, Saint Lucy's rolling eyeballs be praised. The Captain disdained such things, though, for as he said, in ignorant times such as ours, plain script is cipher enough. My own eyeballs watering in protest, I read on: I am hopeful that this letter will reach you in Rome. If it does not, the bearer must perforce chase you the length of Italy for you must have this news. I am at Imperia, a week's ride from Venice. The letter is entrusted to the swiftest horsemen, but it may be that I will be not so far behind it. No matter. There is reason for my haste, and great need for haste on your part as well