Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

There is no time for lavish explanation. My journey was short, for I heard Louis Capet was near Marseilles, and so had no need to cross the Alps. Louis C was eager – nay, ravenous -for that item of which I bore tidings. It was the work of an hour, sitting under an olive tree as per his custom, to negotiate a transfer: aid to Baldwin de Courtenay in the form of funds, in return for said item. The next day the king let fly the great bow of state, and sent me speeding into the east in the company of two Dominican brothers who have the power to offer a great portion of the French treasury in return for -I repeat myself – said item. So far, most satisfactory, but as we made ready to depart I discovered that the banks there were abuzz with rumour: the French king calling on his reserves and credit, and suing for more credit, to raise a gigantic sum, reason unknown. Excellent, thought I. But bankers' news flies fast as greed, for now this came to my ears.

It is not by chance that I share a banking house with the Republic of Venice. In that infinitely malleable place, everything has its price, especially information, and the bank's agent in Marseilles had some for me, namely this: young Baldwin de Courtenay is up to his eyebrows in debt to Venice, and the Doge is getting impatient. He is about to make the strongest demand upon Baldwin’s Regents in Constantinople for collateral – or he perhaps already has, for matters are not clear. In a bankrupt kingdom, what can collateral mean? Olive oil? I rather think not.

Petroc, I fear our nice, easy coup is in the process of going badly awry. I require you in Constantinople with Gilles now, not in Venice. Horst will go with you. I can all but hear you ask, why must it be me? I trust Gilles had a talk with you about the greater trust we would like to place on your shoulders. Well, we are calling upon you sooner than we had thought. As Gilles perhaps also told you, I wish to bring you into the heart of our business. Well then, at this moment there is no place more vital to that business than the Pharos Chapel in Constantinople. Gilles needs a strong companion. Do not tremble. Patch: it is for your quick wit that he needs you, and for your excellent Greek which the Vassileia Anna drilled into you. This affair will be words, not daggers. A hundred pardons for wrenching you from what I hope has been a pleasant tour of pleasant lands, but you will see wonders, my friend. I will require a full report of them, you may be sure! Until then, I wish you speed and safety. Gilles will instruct you, do not fear. Farewell! Michel de Montalhac, in Lyons Patch: Pay Attention! Jesus. My stomach cramped suddenly with anxiety, and I dragged myself up off the floor and staggered to the window. I thought I might puke the rest of my rich dinner out into the night, but the warm and resin-scented air calmed me at once, and I found that my turmoil had given way to a strange, buoyant calm. It seemed that Venetians were all around me. The Captain had made no mention of danger: This affair will be words, not daggers, he had said. Well, that was rather obviously no longer true. I was ahead of him with the news. Venice had taken Baldwin himself as collateral. And I held a papal decree that gave Baldwin absolution from simony. With this instrument, whoever controlled Baldwin could strip his empire of every holy relic it possessed and sell them for hard cash. Business gone awry, Horst? I should say so. I should very definitely say so.

With a clarity I had not felt since arriving in London – nay, since the time, long ago it seemed now, that I had set out in the dark of night to steal the bones of Saint Cordula from her island shrine – I turned my head to the east. A half moon was hanging above the turrets of the fortress. It was waxing, and shone so brightly it dazzled my eyes to look upon its face. All was quiet save for the whirr of insects and the piping of the bats. I would leave immediately, I decided all at once. I would ride through the end of the night, and feel the dew gather on my horse's mane. I would see the sun rise before me, and I would take my course down to the sea. I held up my hand. It glowed softly in the light of the waning moon, just risen over the roofs of the town, and cast a crisp shadow on the windowsill. I closed my eyes and imagined the moon working on my blood as it worked upon the waters of the ocean, pulling me ever to the East. I saw a sea of white, dancing light, and beyond, the long walls and strange spires of Byzantium.

I pulled out my old rag-pickers'-market cloak and tied it around my waist with my sword belt. The cloak was black, which was good: patched and faded as it was, it would attract no attention. Nevertheless I cursed Giovanni for denying me my new cape, then cursed myself for my ingratitude, for the poor fellow had undoubtedly saved my life with the surrender of his own. I was pretty sure that Iblis would be unguarded in the stable, for everyone would be downstairs, gawping at the body, but how to leave unseen? I pondered this for a moment. It would be good to slip away, and to put a distance between me and the Venetian, whoever he was, before he discovered his mistake. Peering out of the window I considered jumping down on to a lower roof that jutted out below me, but it looked slippery with lichen and the tiles were crumbling to boot. So there was nothing else for it. I unhooked my sword from its belt and tied it against the saddlebag, which I slung over my shoulder. The bed, so comfortable and clean, mocked me as I laid a gold piece on the bolster, more than ample payment for my stay. Then I heaved the chair out of the way and peered out into the hallway.

There was no one there, and the rush lights had almost burned out. A great commotion came from downstairs, grief-filled wailing, but also the excited chatter of men. I tiptoed down the stairs, and craned my neck over the banisters. The entry hall was empty. All the noise was coming from the back of the inn, for they had laid Giovanni out in the dining room. Sending up a prayer of thanks, I was about to let myself out of the front door when it struck me that the place was probably being watched. Or perhaps not, I thought, hand beginning to sweat on the latch-ring. The murderer must surely have fled? Yes, but what if he had not? Biting my Up in vexation at my own wariness, I turned back. The kitchens were this way. Had I not seen the groom disappear that way, a coin in his hand, with orders to lavish the finest bran upon my horse? I thought perhaps I had.

The kitchen was empty too, and I snatched up a flitch of bacon from the table and a bottle of wine from the floor. From behind a door in the far wall came the sound of dreaming horses. It was dark in the stables, and I had to light a lamp with my tinderbox, taking care not to spill any sparks on the straw. Iblis was not best pleased to see me advancing upon him with his saddle, but let me belt it on, snicking his teeth and shaking his head.

You have no idea’ I assured him. By way of apology I waved a full nosebag in front of his eyes. 'This for later, good beast. Now we must hurry.'

I guessed it was still not quite midnight by the time I led Iblis out into the night. There was no sign of a watcher with a horse, thankfully; but I had no wish to attract attention, and indeed I knew full well that I was far too poor a rider to canter, or even trot, down these almost sheer streets. First, thinking to find a back way out of the town, I climbed to the very top of the hill, past a little church standing at the end of its own square, and beyond to an open space filled with ruins and sleeping goats. Then the land dropped off into a sheer, wooded ravine so deep that I could barely hear the rush of water below. So I led Iblis back, and we walked slowly down a quiet street that seemed to run parallel to the one we had come up that evening. Sure enough we soon came to an ancient-looking archway I remembered, and then I took both our lives in my hands and plunged down a stepped alleyway. But the wide way coiled about the hillside and after a few agonising minutes of tripping and slipping on dewy stone only to find we had again fetched up on the main street I gave up and swung myself on Iblis. The gate was not far now. I tried to remember if I had heard a curfew bell, and thought perhaps I hadn't, and indeed the gate was open, although a knot of men-at-arms lounged around a glowing brazier. I had buckled my sword back on by then, and was wondering if I would have to charge the guards when one of them, scratching his arse and leaving his halberd leaning against the wall, wandered into my path, hand held up more in greeting than warning.