'Baldwin de Courtenay, I believe I can find the heart of this matter that plainly weighs heavily upon you.' The Captain was leaning forward, looking past me into Baldwin's eyes. It was like watching a baby rabbit mesmerised by a stoat. The boy swallowed painfully. His eyes were very wide.
'In your palace of Bucoleon in Constantinople, there is a chapel. That chapel's name is Pharos. I know every single thing, great and small, that resides within the Pharos Chapel.'
Baldwin looked for an instant as if he had been run through the heart with Zianni's stiletto. Then, as the shadow of a cloud moves across and leaves a summer hillside, his face crumpled into a grimace of the most intense relief. His shoulders slumped and he put his two hands together as if in prayer and kissed his fingertips.
'I knew it, gracious Lord’ he whispered, finally. 'I knew You would bring me to this man. Thank You for guiding me this night’ I was puzzled for a moment, then I realised that the boy really was praying. I had not seen a man pray in earnest in many, many days and it struck me that prayer, a habit I had learned at my mothers breast and had performed as naturally as breathing every day, every hour of my life until I had joined the Cormaran, was now as strange to me as the habits of some grotesque from the pages of Herodotus. I looked around at my fellows. Zianni was smiling indulgently and a little wolfishly at Baldwin; Horst was scowling. The Captain's face was unreadable. Baldwin de Courtenay finished his prayer and crossed himself extravagantly. I believe the Captain was the only one of us who did not flinch.
'I am most flattered to be taken for an answered prayer’ he said. 'However, I am usually thought by most to be a businessman. I would be delighted to talk business with you tomorrow - I will come to your lodgings, if you would care to name a time’
Baldwin blinked in surprise. He was forever being taken by surprise, this one, I thought.
'As you wish, monsieur’ he said. 'But I .. ‘
'Please stay a while and order some more food - in fact I shall see to it. We must be elsewhere, unfortunately. And tomorrow?'
Yes, yes. I am lodging at the Locanda della ... di...' he snapped his fingers in frustration. '... in any event, the Sign of the White Hound, in the Borgo. I will await you ...'
'At terce, if that suits.'
'It does, it does’ Baldwin rose, and we followed his example. I thought he was about to push past me and embrace the Captain, but he stood fast. He was younger than I had thought, or perhaps relief had softened him, but I saw that, had I acted on my base, angry instinct I would have killed a child. As I left the table I bowed my head politely. He gave me a bland look in return that I could not read. With Zianni and Horst I pushed through the crowd and stepped out into the street. It was raining, a warm mizzle, and Baldwin's two men were standing across the way, sheltering in the mouth of a covered passageway. At the sight of us they squared their shoulders and stepped into the rain. Horst held up a hand.
'Be of good cheer, lads - your emperor is within, filling his belly. I should join him before he scoffs the lot.'
If he had intended to sweeten matters with the honey of peace, it was obvious that his words had achieved the opposite effect. Both men stopped short, threw back the cloaks they were wearing and clapped hands to hilts. In another instant they would have drawn, had not the Captain stepped in front of us.
'I am the man your master sought’ he said, and his voice rang against the stone walls around us. Well, he has found me, and we are to meet again tomorrow morning. He bid me summon you to his table, where you will find food and wine. You are my guests, good fellows: I ask you to eat no less than your fill. We will see you on the morrow, and there will be no more thoughts of war. Good night to you.'
And he opened his arms as if to sweep them into the taverna. Horst, Zianni and I stepped back to let them through. One, taller than his mate and with the close-cropped hair of a soldier, whispered to his partner and stalked to the doorway. He peered inside. Looking over his shoulder I could just see the boy-emperor mopping a plate with a hunk of bread. The soldier turned and gave us a look that was more puzzled than angry. Then he beckoned to the other man, who walked past us, biting his lip and with his narrowed eyes on the ground. They stepped through the doorway and did not turn back..
'Gentlemen, I am sorry our evening has been cut short, but the circumstances are ...' the Captain paused and rubbed his nose. 'I need to think things over. Thank you, dear friends, for not skewering that half-grown kinglet. I dare say we may never have a more fortunate meeting again, though we live as long as Adam. If you would care to take a cup of wine at the palazzo, you are welcome.'
Zianni shook his head. He was grinning. 'Captain, you are a prodigy of this age. Merely by sitting quietly in the midst of the city you draw the greatest fish of all into your net. Ill bid you good night and hide my fair locks, I think. I don't want to feel any more hands upon my shoulders.' And with a wave, he set off up the street towards his lodgings.
'By your leave, friends, I will see if my little Clementia is still awake,' said Horst.
'It is late to be calling on a lady,' I scolded him in my monk's voice.
'She'll not mind if I wake her,' he said seriously, and hurried off after Zianni. 'Hold up, boy,' we heard him call. 'Come meet my little pigeon.'
We watched them turn the corner. I was about to make my excuses as well, but the Captain took my arm and we began to stroll. He was silent for a few long minutes, then as we were crossing a little square he paused. The square was small, a black pool in a ravine of towering stone walls. In its centre stood a piece of ancient marble carved like a fish, from the mouth of which flowed a thin stream of water. It had stopped raining. An archway led out of the place, and beyond it people streamed to and fro along a busy thoroughfare, but where we stood we were surrounded by looming slabs of shadow. Voices and laughter reached us with no more form or substance than the piping of bats. I listened to the water trickle behind us.
'The world passes by’ murmured the Captain. I looked at him. He was staring at the shadows. I could not think of a reply, and perhaps none was needed, so I kept silent.
You are a country lad, Patch’ he said finally. You must have remarked, a thousand times, how of a summers evening great clouds of midges hang in the air, and that when you walk through them it is like passing through a curtain: the creatures part for you, and form themselves again behind your back. And save for one or two, perhaps, who have become entangled in your hair, it is as if you had never disturbed them at all. I have always thought of the world in that way’
I looked at him. 'Like gnats’ I said, cautiously.
'Look over there - and everywhere in this city and over the whole face of the earth - at how they swarm. I pass through them, and they part, and re-form as if I had never been’
'I have had that very sensation’ I said quietly.
'Perhaps every man does. They seek to find a pattern in the swarm, to descry meaning. Perhaps they call it fate or destiny. Usually they choose to see God in the meaningless whirl. But there is no form. My faith teaches me that all life - all matter itself - is the creation of the Dark One, and to contemplate it is worthless and corrupting’ He shook his head. 'And I know that to be the truth. But then from out of the vast cloud, the whirling chaos, steps Baldwin de Courtenay, who holds the key to the Pharos Chapel. Patch, tonight I am like a disenchanted alchemist who, out of sheer habit, peers into his alembic and finds the Philosophers Stone. The great event, the goal of goals, that one gives one's life to prepare for while never really believing it will come to pass ... The Pharos Chapel is that to me, and its key is my magical Stone. The world is not behaving itself, Patch. This smacks of fate, and I do not believe in fate’
'Surely there is no deep mystery here, Captain’ I said, trying to sound light-hearted, although my mood was indeed guttering. 'Baldwin has been looking for you. He was fortunate, or skilful - though that seems doubtful - and found you. After all, you do not hide yourself, at least not here’
He sighed. 'G
ood sense, Patch, as always. You are absolutely right. What is troubling me is that this night's events are like nothing so much as the answer to a prayer. And I do not pray’
'Baldwin does,' I told him. 'So what will you do?'
'Do?' He laughed, and all at once he seemed to grow cheerful again. ‘What will I do? What would the alchemist do, who finds the Philosopher's Stone?' He spread out his arms, and his cloak flew up around him like wings. For a moment the Captain was a magus of night, binding the city to his command. Then the cloak settled, and he was a man again.
Chapter Four
The bells of every church in the Rione Campus Martius, with all the other belfries in the city, began to chime the nine bells of terce.
Gilles had awoken me at dawn. Opening my eyes, I found him squinting at me down his nose, like a surgeon in a mummers play.
You are rested? Not still in a drunken stupor? The Captain has need of you’
'I was not so drunk - I hardly drank anything last night’ I rasped indignantly, my leathery tongue giving the lie to my protest. And then, 'Has need of me? How so?' I asked, curious despite myself.
'He is taking you with him to see Baldwin’
I all but choked.
'Why, O Gilles, is the Captain taking me? It is much too weighty a matter’ I protested when I had recovered my breath.
'Aha!' he said, chuckling. Your perfect manners’ He smiled. 'Listen, Patch: I will not say more now, but I can at least tell you this. The Captain has a great liking for you, lad, as do I. You are a brighter light than most; you are young, and you have proved that you have the liver for our sort of work. If the Captain chooses to take you along to an important audience, perhaps he means you to learn something. Eyes open, yes? Eyes and ears’
'And mouth shut tight?'
Gilles merely laughed, and, seeing that my unsteady hand was shaking ruby droplets on to the bed linen, reached out to steady my cup.
'Look upon it, then, as your reward for having the hardest head on the Cormaran, and for returning to us despite all’ he said. 'By the bye, you will be Peter of Zennor, of course.' I nodded. It was the name I had assumed in London, where my own name was likely to lead me to the scaffold.
Gilles had ordered a set of fine clothes laid out for me. I dressed hurriedly, all fingers and thumbs, and although I heard a commotion beyond my door I was too nervous to join in with what was clearly a rowdy breakfast. When at last the Captain knocked, I was pacing in front of the window, watching the goats play-fight amongst the stones. After that I broke my fast on raw eggs, cheese and good bread with the Captain, who all but ignored me, instead leafing through a sheaf of old parchments. But at last he poured me a mug of small beer and one for himself, toasted me with a warm smile, and drank.
'That is better’ he said, wiping the foam from his beard. Well, my lad, are you ready for the off? An emperor is waiting for us.'
I followed him out into the already bustling street. Striding through the Campus Martius, we came at last to the bank of the Tiber, and nervous though I was, my heart leaped to see it, running fast over a bed of weedy, tumbled stones. Perhaps I had been expecting something as grand and majestic as the Thames, but here was a stream much like my own River Dart back in Devonshire. But that was merely the river itself. If it seemed friendly and familiar, what lay along its banks was not. We passed a dark, lowering building spiked with gibbets that overhung the bank of the Tiber, a brace of leathery cadavers swinging there seemingly unnoticed by those who walked beneath them, and crossed a great stone bridge that led over the river to a strange, circular castle that guarded the far bank.
This, Patch, is the Pons San Petri’ said the Captain. 'The Romans built it - the old ones, mark you - and they built that thing as well’ he said, pointing to the castle. "That is the Castel Sant' Angelo, the fortress of the pope. Grim, is it not?'
'Not as grim as the one behind us’ I said.
'Ah yes, the Tor di Nona. That is where the Holy Father has his enemies strangled in the dead of night. Up there’ he pointed up the hill across the river, where I could just make out the long roof of a great church, 'that is Saint Peter's, from where the Church extends its control over the souls of men. But here we stand between the symbols of its power over their bodies. The pope is also a prince, lad. Old Gregory is also Ugolino, Count of Segni.'
My strength was ebbing under the baleful watch of the bodies dangling from the Tor di Nona. I began to feel weak again. What was I, a bumpkin, a pipsqueak from the boggy moors, doing here? I followed the Captain like a whipped hound into the tangle of streets that made up that part of Rome called the Borgo, which lies beneath the walls of Saint Peter's Church. Saint Peter's! The dangling cadavers of the Tor di Nona had all but driven the thought of her from my head, yet there was the mighty arched tower of her bell tower, there the great flight of steps up which pilgrims were crawling, and rising in the distance, the basilica itself. I stopped in my tracks, slack-jawed with wonder yet again, until the Captain tapped me on the shoulder.
It was not hard to find the Sign of the White Hound. It was directly across a square that stood before the church of Santo Spirito in Saxia, the biggest church hereabouts, whose bells were beating the air with their din; and the two French soldiers from last night were standing self-consciously in front of the door, pretending not to guard it. They recognised me straight away: there was no mistaking my finery, which the Captain had bid me wear. As always, he himself was dressed in simple black, almost priestly garb, with a cloak thrown about his shoulders and a black coif covering his greying hair. Only when you came very close would you see that what seemed to be homely cloth was in fact damasked with strange creatures and plants, with subtle workings of silver thread. This morning it was I whom the two bodyguards fixed their blue eyes upon, and seeing this, the Captain leaned and whispered in my ear.
"They look no happier than they did last evening’ he said. 'Go to, Patch: win them over’
I licked my suddenly dry lips and stepped forward. The taller one was grasping the hilt of his sword in a business-like manner, and it was true: neither of them seemed overjoyed to see us again. Not quite knowing what to do but remembering how I had seen courtly folk act (the few times I had been anywhere near such people), I strolled towards them, halted a few paces from where they stood, pointed my right toe in front of me and bowed slightly from the hip. Straightening up I spread my arms wide and smiled, in what I hoped was a friendly manner. Last night I had been angry and withdrawn and quite eager - as my late friend Will would have said - to get stuck in, and now I wanted them to know I was harmless, or at least in a better mood. Happily they seemed won over, for my true harmlessness was no doubt all too apparent, and both smiled faintly at my display. And now they take me for a prize poltroon, I thought. Nevertheless I cleared my throat ostentatiously.
'Good morning to you, sirs’I said in French, which luckily I spoke tolerably well - luckily, that is, for apart from a smattering of Latin, French was the only tongue that Baldwin and his entourage had at their disposal. We are here at the hour appointed by your master. Pray tell: is he within?'
'His Majesty the Emperor of Romania is within, and he awaits you’ said the tall one in courtly French, and it was then I realised that he and his mate were not men-at-arms, but knights. They had made an effort to disguise themselves in rough attire, but I now saw, as I had not last night, that they wore golden rings on their fingers, and their belt buckles were golden also, and worked in the outlandish fashion of the East. The tall man had taken a sword pommel or shield-edge on the nose once upon a time, and an old scar trailed from his temple to his mouth.
‘You are welcome’ added the shorter man, who had seemed so possessed with fury outside the inn. He had grey hair and age or a fight had robbed him of two front teeth. 'And we beg you to forgive our intemperate manners at our last meeting. It was poorly done.'
'No, no: if my manners were surly, the fault was mine alone’ I said graciously, trying not to sound as relieved as I
felt. 'I was mistaken in my assumptions, and somewhat on my guard, as I am not yet familiar with this place.'
'Then we shall be friends, in that at least’ said the tall man. 'Though I took you for a native son of Italy last evening, you are an Englishman, I think.'
'Do I know you, sir? I mean, aside from last night?' I asked politely, for there was something familiar about him that I could not place.
'I do not think so, good sir’ he replied.
'Bruges, perhaps?' I was racking my brains.
'Alas! I was whelped not far from there, but I have not been back these twenty years or more’ he exclaimed with a sad smile. Perhaps he simply looked Flemish, I thought, and let it be.
'Now let us make haste’ said the other man. 'The emperor is anxious to talk with you. Monsieur de Sol’ he called. 'I bid you welcome in the name of His Majesty Baldwin, Emperor of Romania and Constantinople. Please, come inside’
The Captain shot me an approving look as we made our way inside the inn. The Sign of the White Hound had seen better times, but it was not quite so insalubrious as its surroundings promised. I caught sight of a couple of bright whitewashed rooms with long tables laid for the midday meal, and a pretty serving-maid in a clean apron was bustling around. We were led upstairs to a suite of modest rooms panelled in painted wood, with dark wooden ceilings. There were tapestries on the walls - I guessed they were Baldwin's, for they were creased and somewhat clumsily hung - glass in the windows, and fresh rushes underfoot that filled the air with their sweet scent. An ornate but travel-worn chest stood against the wall, and I glimpsed another in the adjoining room, where there was a bed and a somewhat grander hanging, upon which a cross in gold thread shone on a field of red cloth, surrounded by a pattern of smaller golden crosses. Baldwin was sitting in a high-backed chair with his back to the largest window. A shield - a war-shield in size, but bearing no marks of war - hung behind him, and on it a black Flemish lion pranced on a field of gold behind a diagonal red band. The sun was coming in and it was obvious he had chosen this spot so that anyone facing him would be dazzled. The tall man offered us two stools that had been placed in front of Baldwin’s would-be throne, but the Captain winced as if in pain.
The Vault of Bones Page 6