Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

Our Lord hung there, His face fixed in as terrible and sorrowful an expression as paint and the hand of man has surely ever rendered. A crown circled His brow, an appalling thatch of murderous thorns that pierced and rent His flesh. The artist had known that blood would soak Our Lord's hair, and showed it limp and wet, clinging to temple and cheek. The body hung, the weight of death already dragging it earthwards, bones and sinews tearing where the nails had pierced the hands and meekly crossed feet. Christ's flesh was pale, almost snow-white, and seemed to hold its own faint luminescence. As the blood had flowed out, so light had crept in to fill the empty places.

Years of training in monastery and school had not prepared me for this. Nor had a lifetime of belief. And the utter loss of my faith, which had come upon me when I fled England, had left a great wound that, I now found, had not yet fully healed. For my first thoughtless impulse was to fall to my knees and cross myself, something I had not done in three long years, and my second was to puke. A burning gout of bile rose in my throat and I would have vomited at the foot of the altar had not some inner discipline, some strength I had not known lay in my possession, caused me to clamp my mouth tight shut and swallow. It was all over in an instant. The Franks doubtless approved my piety, and the Captain doubtless thought my acting skill worthy of emulation, for he too dropped to his knees and genuflected. I stood up and shook my head, trying to clear it. The oppressive stillness of the chapel was worse in this chamber, and the air was more dead. My head buzzed, and I shook it again. Then a loud clank brought me more or less to my senses. The chamberlain had dragged a large chest into the circle of candlelight, and was fiddling with the lock. Now I saw that the room was lined with such chests, some large, some very small. Some were ornate reliquaries dripping with gems, others plain wooden boxes. The one which Hughues was now working upon was black and banded around and about with many hoops of metal and studded with nails. It seemed to swallow the candlelight, for it had been coated with pitch long ago.

'Do we need a priest for this?' the Regent asked querulously. De Toucy shrugged, and Hughues shook his head. 'Not if we don't touch it.'

'Garry on then, man!' said de Toucy impatiently. The chamberlain went back to the lock, which finally opened with a sound like the snapping of bone. He scrabbled for a purchase on the smooth pitch-covered wood, and with a barely stifled oath managed to heave up the lid. As one we craned forward, like so many peasants at the summer fair, straining for a first look at some two-headed piglet.

There was nothing to see at first, nothing but a black cloth spangled with tiny golden stars. It was as if the chest contained the night itself, I thought, but then Hughues pulled it away to reveal the yellow shimmer of tarnished silver. With a grunt he set his feet like a wrestler, leaned forward, and heaved out a large box. It was evidently quite heavy, for he winced as he set it down on the floor. The Captain dropped reverently to his knees, and I did the same. The Frankish barons darted quick looks at each other, but followed suit, and de Cayeux crossed himself fervently. I regarded the box. It was a cube of silver, somewhat battered with age, its corners rounded and with a dent or two here and there. In fine gilded relief, figures with the delicate poise of ancient carvings I had seen in Rome acted out the Passion. On the lid, a calm Christ, looking young and unconcerned, hung from a slender cross. Hughues bent and kissed the metal, then carefully lifted the lid and handed it to the Regent, who accepted it reluctantly, as if it were burning hot. Then he stepped back, and gestured us over to the box. We rose, knelt again, crossed ourselves reverently, and peered in.

Something unfathomably old and horrible nestled down amongst the folds of stained linen. Jet black, a mass of thick and wickedly curved spines, it seemed to reach up towards the dim light like a crippled spider. The spines twisted about each other in a whorl. It was a blighted flower that had no centre. I thought of sea urchins and the teeth of night-terrors. At the same time I had the overwhelming urge to reach for it with my hand, which I resisted with difficulty. I looked at the Captain. He had gone very white, and had an odd half-smile on his lips that could as easily have signified pain as amusement. The barons and the chamberlain, I noted, had retreated and stood, backs pressed against the wall. The Regent fidgeted, his body twisted with unease. Again I had the urge to plunge my hand into the midst of the thorns, imagining them snag and burrow into my flesh, closing around my wrist like the jaws of a mantrap. I shuddered. The Captain must have felt it, for he stood up quickly and took two brisk steps backwards.

'My lords, I have no reason to doubt the authenticity of this holy thing’ he croaked.

I rose too. My legs felt weak, and I felt sick again. Christ in His agony loomed over us, and the ghastly Crown bristled at my feet, sucking the candlelight from the air. And then I remembered the Inventarium I had first read that day in Viterbo. It had been nothing but a list then: how had the Captain referred to it? A stock-in-trade. And yet now I was in the storeroom, and I knew what the boxes that littered the floor held: the holy Lance, Christ's Shrouds and Burial Cloths, the vinegar-soaked Sponge, the Chain. That was what vibrated in the close air: it was torment, and death.

Would you care to see more?' De Toucy had paced to the centre of the chamber and was peering at a stack of chests. 'Hughues, what have we here?'

'Narjot! In Our Lord's sweet name, please! This is not a larder, man!' It was the Regent, and his voice was full of pious indignation.

I could have sworn that the chamberlain and de Toucy rolled their eyes at one another. The baron shrugged, and Hughues busied himself with the lid of the silver box. De Cayeux made a small hiss of displeasure and came over to where the Captain and I stood. He gave the Crown a wide berth.

You do not wish to see any more at this time, do you, gentlemen?' he asked. By the way he kept glancing over our shoulders I could tell he was anxious to leave. The Captain smiled and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

‘It is no secret that the wonder we have just beheld is but one of many such in this chapel,' he said. The Regent's face fell. The Head of the Baptist, I believe?' the Captain went on. 'The Robe of the Virgin herself?'

‘Yes, yes, and more, much more,' blurted de Cayeux. 'But surely you are both tired. Surely

‘You have a list, of course,' said the Captain, implacably. 'His Majesty King Louis has an interest that does not necessarily end at the holy Crown.' The Regent, well and truly impaled on the hook of greed, writhed. Strong and vital as he was, he was plainly unmanned. This place seemed to have the same effect on him as on me, although where my discomfort stemmed from my loss of faith, I guessed that for the Regent, piety and a guilty conscience – both beasts with sharp teeth – were gnawing his insides. I felt a tiny prick of sympathy for the man, then stifled it.

‘Yes, a list… I believe such a thing exists,' I said. De Cayeux gave a sort of whimper and ducked through the door. We followed. He stalked up the central aisle, then halted and turned to face us. He had mastered himself.

'There is an inventory, to be sure. I would be delighted for you to see it, and…' He dragged a sweaty hand through his curls. 'And I will order a copy made, for His Majesty the King.'

"That will be excellent,' said the Captain. He turned, genuflected a final time towards the altar, and strolled to the Regent's side. 'Such wonders,' he said, shaking his head in a fine parody of ecstatic disbelief. ‘I never thought to see such a thing. That these unworthy eyes…'