Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

'Indeed! It haunts me, this… that is to say, the responsibility of guarding the relics of Our Lord's Passion is an honour that I never thought would rest on my shoulders,' said de Cayeux. He had reverted to his blustering tone, but I knew he had revealed to us a glimmer of truth. What mortal man would not be haunted by that terrible thing? But those two men who still pottered around in the chamber behind us like pantrymen clearly were not, and many more like them had stripped a holy city of its wonders as one might skin a rabbit. The Regent was evidently cut from more delicate cloth, as far as his immortal soul was concerned, at least. Leaving them to their devices, he ushered us out to where the guards were waiting with their smoking lantern.

'Dear visitors, I must get back to my affairs. But I insist you shall be our guests tonight, and as long as you stay in this city.' He turned and barked through the chapel door: 'Hughues!'

The chamberlain's grey head popped up behind the altar, looking rather spectral in the dim light. He saw the Regent beckoning impatiently and disappeared, to emerge with de Toucy. The two men hurried about, blowing out candles, and finally left the chapel, their clothes reeking of soot. Hughues was commanded to show us to our new quarters, and the Regent, with a final bow, hurried away down the ruined hall, de Toucy following behind. There was anger there, if I was not mistaken. And now the chamberlain pocketed his key and regarded us, buzzard-like. He scratched his grey stubble with a yellowed nail and sniffed thoughtfully.

'Now. Where shall we put you?' he mused aloud. I looked around at the ravaged walls and shuddered. Where indeed? In the event, our rooms were not so very horrible, which was fortunate, as we were to make them our home for the next two months. They were two flights up and faced south, out over the Bosphorus towards the shores of Asia. We were in another part of the palace from the Regent's throne room, and it took all our navigating skills to find our way to and from our lodgings to the state-rooms. There were other folk living around us, some in some style, others in more straitened circumstances. Perhaps it was the only section of the wrecked complex that was fit for habitation, for it had the air of a boarding-house, albeit a noble one. I did not know where the Regent had his rooms, but I recognised several of the barons from his court. They too lodged on our hallway, and every time I saw one of them, haughty or sometimes harried, toing and froing from the throne room, I could not help but reflect on the tenuous nature of this empire's heart.

Below us was another courtyard, clean-swept but mouldering, in which a party of stone statues held an eternal conference. Perhaps they were comparing their various dismemberments, or bemoaning the state of their home. In any event they were silent neighbours, although when the moon shone down upon them they seemed to gain some measure of life, an odd revenant tremble that made them kin to the fading, gouged faces of the frescoes and mosaics inside the palace. For although the Bucoleon was all but deserted in most of its vast area, its half-looted decorations kept watch. There were eyes everywhere, and if they were but paint and coloured glass, still they observed our mortal comings and goings, and judged them sternly.

The rooms themselves were pleasant. They were dry, their ceilings were firm, and the walls were painted gaily with flowering trees and vines, gambolling animals and happy birds. My chamber had three high-arched windows and slender stone columns that ended in carved thistle-leaves. I had a gigantic bed and linen that was changed tolerably often, from which I guessed that a Greek held sway at least over the running of the household; and indeed I was right in that, for the serving girls who made up our beds, the pot-boys who brought our food, and the major-domo who called in every so often to make sure all was in order – all these folk were Greek. It was clear that no Frank would sully themselves with such demeaning work, although most of those who were not soldiers appeared to have no function at all in the working of the palace, and indeed often seemed half-starved. But the Greek servants were cowed, and if they were not, perhaps, slaves, they were not free.

The days passed slowly. The Regent was distracted by the crumbling state of his borders and was often away from the palace for days at a time with his barons, and so there was no one to negotiate with. We did some business with the Italian merchants on the Golden Horn, and I went out sometimes to walk through the city, but I found it too ominous and sad, and all but empty of the Greeks, Anna’s own people. Those that remained were wan and half-starved, and cringed from the swaggering Franks like beaten hounds. I saw more than one man set upon and dragged away by the Regent's men-at-arms, and the city's gibbets were always heavy with stinking fruit. Once I came upon a naked corpse, so bruised that at first I took it for a Moor, sprawled in an empty doorway, and two smiling Franks walking away from it, eyes chilly as fox-lights. So most often I stayed in my chambers, reading the old Greek books that I would find amongst the rubble in deserted rooms. Winter was creeping in, and I found that Constantinople grows bitterly cold when the wind begins to blow down from the land of the Russians. One day, after I had been wandering through the palace in search of wood to burn in my fireplace, I returned to find the Captain waiting for me in the doorway to his own chamber.

At last there was, all of a sudden, much to occupy us. The Captain was already packing his bag. He would be taking ship back to Italy as soon as one could be found, and he hoped it would be in the next two days. A fast ship from Venice had brought a letter from Gilles, and the Captain handed it to me after first locking the door of his chamber.

Jean de Sol and Petrus Zennorius, from Gilles de Peyrolles, Greetings,' I read. I am in Venice, dubbed the Serene, although serenity is not, at present, a commodity of which I have much stock. I arrived in time to meet the envoys of His Noble Majesty et cetera, et cetera, Louis Capet, the two Dominican friars. They will be taking ship for Constantinople early next week. If the vessel I have chosen to carry this letter is swift, it should arrive a good while before them.

I hope with all my heart that it does. For Baldwin is not here in Venice. I have been to the offices of the Doge, and have searched high and low, but he is nowhere. My friend, I fear that Petroc is right: Querini is holding him. This Querini is a power in the city and I fear it is not safe for our company here. I am leaving for Rome, and on the way I shall make further enquiries. The Cormaran I have sent to Alexandria under the guise of trade, but perhaps it will draw Querini’s spies.

The brothers will be with you a few days after you receive this. They are good men, and you are right to trust them. Can you trust anyone else? Dear friend, my suspicious heart tells me that there is more rottenness in Constantinople than even you no doubt suspect. I recommend that, when you receive this news, you will make haste back to Paris with the brothers. Could Petroc remain behind, and use his excellent wit to divine the true nature of this looming disaster?

Michel, I hope I shall see you anon. Safe journey, my friend. Petroc, to you our usual advice: Pay Attention! Farewell! Gilles de Peyrolles 'It makes perfect sense, does it not?' I asked the Captain.

'Alas: it proves – finally, I should say, although I did not ever doubt you – that Baldwin is no longer his own master. Why would he avoid those whose sole intent is to cover him with gold? Baldwin is a fool, but not that big a one. Now there is hardly any point in us being here at all, in this forsaken city, and this ridiculous heap of a palace.' 'But the emissaries, these friars, are on their way’ I protested. ‘They are ready to offer gold for the relics in the Pharos Chapel.'