Pip Vaughan-Hughes - The Vault of bones

'Salve, goodman Walter,' I replied, carefully. The man had spoken to me in English. Walter's red and rheumy eyes explored my face with great care.

What are you doing here?' he asked brusquely, after an uncomfortable pause.

Taking comfort in your beautiful Hagia Sophia,' I said, as politely as I could.

'My Hagia Sophia? Mine’ he replied. I could not tell if he was amused or angry. And I could see that his robes were neither those of a Greek nor of a Latin priest, but seemed to be a somewhat disreputable confection of elements culled from both. An ordinary madman, I suddenly thought. Well, no peace here, then, and he might scare off whoever was coming to find me. Time to go. I was turning, when a gnarled hand shot out and caught my sleeve.

Wait, Devon lad,' Walter said. I turned and stared at him, mouth open like a codfish. 'Devon?' I gasped.

'Certainly. Devon. Devonshire. Well, you are not from Dorset, are you? Or a bloody Cornishman, against whom God defend us all?'

'No, no -I am from Devon, right enough,' I said, shaking my head. 'But what… what do you know of Devon, good-man Walter?'

'None of your "goodman",' he snapped. Walter will do well enough. Quite well enough, thank you kindly. I know of Devon because I am of Devon.'

'Ah. From whereabouts?' I enquired, knowing as I did so that entering into discourse with the mad can have many consequences, the commonest being deathly boredom. But I could not help myself, for the name of my homeland was a charm strong enough to loosen my tongue even in this strange circumstance. But instead of answering, Walter began to throw furtive glances about the vast cavern of the church. Then he turned back to me, eyes twinkling. He laid a finger alongside his nose.

'Nothing is what it appears, boy,' he rasped. Then he snapped his fingers gently and pointed to the far side of the church. I looked over and saw nothing but a Frankish cleric peering up at the rainbow-perched Christ in the cupola. He was far enough away that, in the hazy golden light, I could make out nothing save that the man was poised and seemed to be concentrating very hard on whatever he was regarding. And he was very well dressed in dark robes, like a scholar or a man of law. 'Another sightseer,' I shrugged. 'Perhaps he would be happier to join you. As a matter of fact, I have things…' What things?' asked Walter blandly. I shrugged. 'Business.'

'Oh. Business.' He sniffed damply. 'He knows about all kinds of business. Perhaps you'd care to talk to him! I glanced down into the church again, but the man had gone. Only a priest, I thought, or a monk.

Would you care to talk more?' asked Walter. Then, not waiting for a reply, he added, ‘I must retrieve my hat. Wait here.' And he shuffled off with surprising speed, and disappeared through one of the many stone-framed doors. His hat, for God's sake? Was I to lose my chance of escape, because of a madman's hat? Cursing my luck, or the ruins thereof, I stood up and padded over to the stairs. Descending into the lambent gloom I cast about for signs of danger, but the body of the church was empty save for a few tardy crones busy with their candles. It occurred to me that I was a fool, for I knew but one way in and out of this place, but there was no choice, and so, skirting the walls and colonnades, I gained the main door. Out of pure habit I glanced behind me before I stepped outside, and noticed a Greek priest watching me a few paces off, arms folded. I gave him a quick, respectful bow, another habit; and when I raised my head, I saw it was Walter. He had donned a priest's high, toadstool-shaped hat. So he truly was a madman. Without further ado I turned tail and trotted – for I did not want to attract any more attention – out into the dusk.

The square that lies before the Hagia Sophia is a dismal and deserted place dotted with ruins and missing huge areas of flagstones so that gorse and other wild trees and plants have pushed their way into the sunlight. That night it was even more desolate, although the fog was clearing, and the sky was fretted with rags of black cloud fleeing westward from a brisk wind out of Asia. There was not a soul about, and, wrapped in my black cloak, I felt little more than a ragged cloud myself, scudding, dissolving. It gave me an odd feeling of safety, but a slow, creeping dread also, as if I had stepped out of this world altogether into the kingdom of shadows.

I resolved to make my way back to the ruined chapel. Perhaps the serving girl would come to look for me there. Perhaps, though, the serving girl had been caught, or killed, or worse. I shuddered, the hoar frost of guilt settling upon me. The Golden Horn glittered under a bright sliver of moon to my left, so I turned right. Blocking my way was a thicket of scrubby elder bushes that had grown up around a broken pillar and I stepped into its shadow. There was, I remembered, an alleyway that gave off the square and led towards the sea, and through it -I had trailed around all these streets to fend off creeping boredom these past weeks – I could wind my way through ruins and dead houses to the wall of the palace, and there to the chapel.

Footsteps sounded behind me. A priest was leaving the church. I guessed it was Walter, and stepped back into the thicket, letting the thin, pithy trunks of the elder bend against my weight. A bird fluttered and scrabbled behind me. Do not sing, I begged it, silently. It did not, but flapped its way free and whirred away. 'Thank you’ I muttered. The priest had stopped twenty or more paces away, and seemed to be gazing up at the stars. I sank back a little further into the elder bushes, feeling a branch dig into my back. Then another, and then before I could flinch a hand wrapped itself around the handle of the knife that lay against my spine, and another was clamped over my mouth. I felt the knife being tugged out and I bellowed into the suffocating hand, waiting for the butcher's blade to enter my back. But instead a dry voice hissed into my ear.

'Keep silent, boy. Turn around’ it ordered, in English. I obeyed. As I turned, there was a crackle of twigs and the hand left my mouth, to land upon my shoulder, thumb digging into the soft flesh beneath the collarbone. I… I did nothing. Perhaps I was too tired and hungry to resist. I do not – choose not, it may be – recall what I thought in those instants. Be done with me, mayhap: do it fast, and do not turn me over to the braying Franks for their sport. So I did not bolt or even raise my hands, but turned like a child turns to face its father. And found the grey eyes of Michael Scotus staring into mine.

'I have cut myself on your bloody knife’ he murmured, and held it up, handle foremost. I took it, as if in a dream, and he put the ball of his thumb to his lips and sucked.

'Did Walter not tell you to wait?' he asked, when he was done. It was too dark to be sure, but I fancied his lips were flecked with blood.

You? I was waiting for you?' I managed to choke out the words, but I was so dazed that I could manage no more.

'Aye’ The Scot was inspecting his thumb again. 'And I for you. For some days. Come quick, now’ he said. Walter will lead us’

The mention of Walter cut into my torpor a little, enough to rouse a pinprick of resistance. 'I will not!' I said, my voice no more than a strangled bleat.

'Do you perceive that you have a choice?' said Michael with a half-smile. You may think this is but a dream, or some horrid chance, but it is not. Come: I will explain.'

He clapped his hands twice, and the sharp reports echoed back and forth across the square until it seemed to me as if the air were full of a thousand wooden birds clacking their wings, and I cringed. But the square was still empty when I looked up and here came Walter, trotting over stiffly. 'Said you would wait for me’ he muttered, testily.