'Tell him!' said Letice.
Yes, do tell us all, and be done with it,' said Zeno, 'for I would fain have your head on a spike right now than listen to this drivel.' He scraped the tip of his sword impatiently across the floorboards.
'The chest contains the Crown of Thorns,' said Nicholas Querini, with a fine simulacrum of boredom. 'I have it as surety of a loan I made to Anseau de Cayeux. You see, you doubted me, but I have been working on your behalf.'
Baldwin fell to his knees and clutched his face with his hands. When he looked up, I saw a new purpose in his face.
You think me so starved and confused that I have gone mad’ he said, Tor a madman would suit your purpose. Sir’ he said, turning to me, you spoke to me of my subjects’ There was a light in his eyes, unsteady, to be sure, but more than I had seen there before. What do my subjects say of me?'
'They would have you with them’ I said. 'Sire, some are disloyal, like the Regent and his faction. But many more are loyal. They love you, and want only that you come back to them. They need your hand to lead them. Do you know a man called Aimery de Lille Charpigny?'
'De Lille Charpigny ... no’ said Baldwin, shaking his head distractedly.
'He saved me from this man's plots, sire’ I told him, pointing to Querini. 'He is but one of your loyal men, who would risk their lives to have you back. There are others.'
'And what of your debts?' sneered Querini. 'They are real enough. Thirteen thousand pounds of gold, mark you well. Men die every day in the prisons of the Doge for owing one-hundredth of that sum. The Republic deserves your gratitude, Majesty. Not only do we strive to save your honour and your reputation, but your rotting Constantinople as well.'
'Silence!' screamed Baldwin. He tottered, and I grabbed him around the waist so he would not fall. 'Sirs’ he said, when he had mastered himself, and my lady, I know not if you be another masquerade designed to undo my mind yet further, but if you are, what I say shall make no difference. Please, arrest this man, and you shall have the gratitude of the Latin Empire, for what little that may be worth.'
'Zeno?' I said. He shook his head in disgust.
'Nicholas Querini, it is the council's pleasure that you surrender the Crown of Thorns, which you removed from its rightful home without licence. And it is their suggestion that you leave Venice and limit yourself to your realms in Greece from this moment on’
And if I say no?' said Querini, folding his arms across his chest.
'The pope shall hear that you kidnapped the only hope of the Church of Rome in the East’ said Zeno.
'And perhaps were planning an alliance with Frederick Hohenstaufen, who is a friend of John Vatatzes’ I said. 'Although, since you murdered the Vassileia Anna Doukaina Komnena, who was Vatatzes' niece, I wonder how that plan would have fared. Further, King Louis of France shall be told that you seized his cousin, and planned to extort money from the French patrimony’ I said. ‘I do not think that the Doge or the council would be best pleased by that’
'So! I will go to Stampalia’ snapped Querini. With pleasure. But what of my thirteen thousand pounds, eh? Eh, Baldwin? Who will give me satisfaction? You worm. My grandsire climbed the walls of Constantinople and took it from the Greeks! You dishonour his memory!'
'All well and good, Messer Nicholas, but the loan you made to Anseau de Cayeux was funded by a consortium’ I said, 'of which you happen to be a minor stakeholder. Giacomo Tiepolo has bought up the debt. You are owed nothing’
'Lies!' snarled Querini. He seemed to be growing more bold. At that moment he could have walked past us and through the door, and perhaps we would not have stopped him. And then Letice moved. She left her place in the doorway and came slowly over to me.
'Andrew's letter, Petroc’ she said. Wordlessly I gave it to her. She walked across the room, daintily, carefully, choosing every footfall, and went up to Querini, so close that their knees were brushing together. She handed him the letter, and, laying a long white hand against his ruddy cheek, she reached up on tiptoe and breathed something in his ear.
It was as if she had run him through. Worse, for if you have ever seen an ox brought to slaughter you will remember that the great beast stood, indifferent, secure in his bulk and power, until the very instant when the butcher's axe cleaved through his backbone. Then everything is done: the solid legs turn to water, the massive body plummets to the ground with a dismal crash, the hooves churn the beast's own excrement into gory mud. Thus was Nicholas Querini felled, for as he listened to the girl's whispered words his eyes scanned the letter, and the blood left his face quicker than if she had cut his throat. He leaned heavily against the wall, groped for a chair and dropped into it. His jaw went loose, and I thought that he had suffered an apoplexy.
I did not want Baldwin to hear any more, so I helped him to his feet and out into the hall. I could hear Querini beginning to speak, disjointedly, as if in a trance. Steadying Baldwin by the shoulders, I walked him to the stairs and helped him down. When we had reached the cloister I let him sit on the low wall of the colonnade.
Will you go back home now?' I asked.
‘In penury?' he said. 'How can I? You think me a fool - oh, it is nothing, sir, I have been counted a fool since the day I was born. I know what has happened. Querini stole the Crown of Thorns from me, and Venice has stolen it from him. So Cousin Louis will pay Venice for my property. You might let me die here: it would be a kindness.'
You are right,' I said. 'That is about the size of it. But all is not lost. You still have the Pharos Chapel.'
What do you mean?' he asked, barely interested.
‘I mean that you are wealthy in relics beyond man's reckoning.'
'But I cannot sell them!' 'No. But I can,' I said.
From far away, glancing along stone walls and trickling down stairs, there came the sound of a man's angry tears. Nearer, a woman's light footfalls were coming down the passage. I looked up and saw Letice walking towards us, her hair a pale glow, wrapping her in a light of her own, sunlight and starlight, like primroses shining in a lane at nightfall. I felt the weight of the pope's seal just below my heart.
‘You can trust me,' I said. 'I bring you absolution.'
Epilogue
Venice, August 1239
‘There is a narrow little tavern in the weave of narrow streets east of the fish market of Venice. It is indistinguishable from two score or more others, the low-ceilinged, stuffy places where the fishermen and labourers of the Republic go to quench their endless thirsts for wine and for sharp-edged gossip. Doubtless I could not find it again now, and if I did I might not recognise it. Perhaps that was why-Michael Scotus had summoned me there. A note had come to the Ca' Kanzir just after the house had risen, and I had slipped out and searched the alleys until I had found the tavern's sign, proclaiming - what? A bunch of grapes, a fox, two ravens? I do not remember. But there in the shadows was a slender form I recognised at once. Doctor Scotus pushed back his cowl and regarded me with his grey, timeless stare.
Well met, Petroc of Auneford,' he said. 'I hoped we might see each other again.'
'But not so soon!' I cried. 'This is an unexpected—' He silenced me with a raised finger.
'Let us be quiet, and quick,' he said calmly. 'I am supposed to be somewhere else altogether.' He let the words hang in the close, ham-scented air, and for a moment I wondered where exacdy he meant, for he did not seem to be entirely here. But I blinked and he still sat before me, no phantom, but an old man in a travel-stained cloak.
'The war that my dear old friend Mesarites hoped to ward off has come’ he said, and I nodded. The news had been bad, if one loved the pope: the whole of Italy's middle portion had been taken by the Emperor Frederick, and his lieutenants were barking at the edge of the Lagoon: every morning new pillars of doleful battle-smoke rose across the water, black and shimmering against the hazy mountains. 'Perhaps it is not Armageddon - not yet’ he went on. 'But there will be no getting between these two dogs now, not until they have destroyed each ot
her. In any case, I did not come to give you the news. No: I heard of your ... of your survival, and rather more. The Crown of Thorns will be in Paris by now, I suppose. And you look well.'
I nodded. It was true: my body had healed, and I had discovered that, underneath the scabs of grief and hurt I was still a young man after all. Joy and delight had begun to uncurl their shy petals again, but slowly. ‘I am well’ I agreed.
‘I thought so. Now then: to work. Nicholas Querini.'
'He is fled to Stampalia’ I said, surprised. 'In disgrace.'
'A mild sort of disgrace though’ said Doctor Scotus. 'It would not do for the Doge to cut Venice off from all the Querini riches, especially with battle so near.'
'He is ruined’ I protested. 'Exiled. He will never sit on the council, and his enemies are crowing.' But then I shook my head. Once I had wished the man dead with such vehemence that I feared it had poisoned my blood. And although I had seen him brought low, seen his spirit felled like a rotten tree, thoughts of revenge still came back to taunt me.
'Men as powerful as Querini are hard to ruin for good’ said Scotus. Which brings me to my point. When I left you I made my choice and went south, to Gregory. I cannot say that it was the right choice, but at least I was able to whisper some words into his old ears’ 'Meaning what?' I said, puzzled.
'Meaning, my lad, that the pope knows that it was Querini who foiled his plans to wed Baldwin to ...' He paused, but I nodded him on. He caught my eye and smiled. 'Well, then. And he knows that Querini has been guilty of simony. The one, the other ...' He made a balance with his hands. 'But together?' His hands dropped to the table with a thump, palms up. 'His Holiness does not enjoy being thwarted or toyed with, and if he was ever a patient man he is one no longer. Did you know that simony is a heresy? Of course you did. Peter of Verona, as the pope's Inquisitor here in the north, has decreed that Querini be tried as a heretic'
'Peter of Verona?' I remembered the shrewd-eyed, half-jolly friar from Viterbo. 'But he will not hurt Querini! He was the man's spy!'
'Ah.' Doctor Scotus snatched a bluebottle out of the air and smeared it into the table. There is no justice in this life, as you have found to your cost,' he said softly. 'But there is always cruelty. As a physician I was taught to balance the humours of the body. Let us think of this as redressing the cruel humours of the world, if only in the smallest way: hardly more important, really, than the death of a fly.'
'So the Inquisitor will turn on his paymaster?'
'Oh, the saintly Peter did not spy for money. Querini gave him influence in the lands of Venice, the better to carry out his hunt. Who used who? It is a moral question I should not dare to answer.' He gave a faint smile. 'All this Gregory knew: he chose his Inquisitor well. You knew that Peter was once a Cathar? Well, like many converts he is a fanatic. Gregory allowed him to play up to Querini, for he has no need to doubt his loyalty. Indeed, he used Peter to take a closer look at the Captain and, I dare say, you yourself. Apparently you satisfied His Holiness that you would be worthy instruments of his will. '
'Instruments? Dearest Doctor, if you can discern some form in all these past horrors, indeed you deserve your reputation’
'Oh, there was form, certainly there was. Three wills, those of Gregory, Querini and Captain de Montalhac - and latterly your own, lad, if we talk of reputations - twining and striving like serpents for mastery. You should not be so very disappointed that Gregory has won, for he is the greatest prince on earth - he is fighting this war to prove it’
'So we are the losers’ I muttered. I did not wish the night of despair, so recently faded, to return again, but the darkness seemed to be gathering.
'Did you not hear what I told you? Querini has been summoned to answer charges of heresy. He is at this moment sailing towards Rome’
'A rich man need not fear such a charge’ I scoffed. 'No one is ever declared a heretic because of simony’
'Peter has been diligent. Querini will land in Ostia to find himself an outcast. But there is an invitation, a friendly one, inviting him to the Castel Sant Angelo to explain himself to a sympathetic Holy Father. My dear lad, he will find that Gregory is not there. The Castel Sant’Angelo is the pope's fortress, and his prison. It used to be a tomb, did you know that? Hadrian's tomb. It has depths that you, delicate soul that you are, ought not even to imagine, wormy tunnels gnawed through ancient mausoleums and sewers, into which the Tiber seeps like dead men's sweat. Querini will be set there to wait, in hope of a trial, of forgiveness, and he will wait for ever.'
I found myself looking into Michael's grey eyes, and in their depths, where time seemed to quaver like faded grass in the wind, I glimpsed a sudden darkness. A chill shot through me, but then the old man smiled, and I found myself letting out a great sigh of release.
'The worthy Peter's eyes are many and sharp, lad, so I had better be on my way. Ah: one other matter. Would it give you any satisfaction to triumph after all, even if neither Querini nor old Gregory ever knew about it?'
'Of course!' I laughed. 'But I ask for nothing. I am glad to even draw breath, if you would know the truth.'
"Then my physician's work is done. Now: that thing you took from Constantinople, so beloved by Mesarites?' I nodded.
'It is safe,' I said.
'Good. I think de Montalhac has a plan for it. I renounce my claim. Do what he wishes, and there is your victory. Best do it quick, though, while the Inquisitor's gaze is elsewhere.'
He rose, and we embraced, and then he was gone, and I was left alone in the bright sunshine, blinking like a barn owl, catching the faint smell of burning on the north wind.
Two days later, very early in the morning, only the fish market was awake. Boats were coming in, and dripping baskets of eels, crabs, cuttlefish, clams and mantis shrimp were being slapped down on the slimy stone pavement. Michel de Montalhac and I walked through the throng, and paid the drowsy traghetto men to row us across to Santa Sophia. We walked quickly through the empty streets as the mist trickled over the edges of the canals and the sparrows started complaining to one another from every tree and rooftop.
Past churches and monasteries, past sleepy priests and famished monks who did not give us a second glance, across the Rio del Paradiso and through the square of Santa Maria Formosa. We were silent, but it was a companionable silence, and we were not in any great hurry. Anyone watching us would have seen two friends, one older, with the suggestion of a limp, the other a younger man carrying a small seaman's pack of oiled cloth.
We walked for a long while, and the streets began to grow narrower and more down at heel. There was more life here. Workshops were already clanking and sawing away, children were running errands and even a few optimistic whores were seeing if anyone could possibly be in the mood, for it was going to be a lovely day, and what better way to begin it? But we pressed on until the acrid stench of boiling pitch began to sting our nostrils, and we knew we had reached our destination.
The Captain knocked four times on a door up a narrow alleyway no wider than a man. The door opened, and a black-swathed figure beckoned us inside. We found ourselves in a large room, very clean and bare, empty save for two old women sitting on a bench, and three men in plain black robes. Someone was leaving soon on a long journey, for saddlebags and a bedroll were lying by the door. The Captain exchanged greetings, while I hung back. The man who opened the door asked the Captain a question. He nodded, and the other man stepped back and spread his arms wide. His fellows did the same, and the Captain sank to the floor and prostrated himself. I heard murmured prayers in the soft, lilting tongue of Provence, and to my surprise it was the Lord's Prayer. I wondered if I should kneel as well, but felt awkward, and so remained standing.
The Cathars' prayers were at an end. The Captain was helped to his feet, and concerned questions were asked about his leg, his hip. He waved them off, and signalled to me. I undid my pack, and laid it on the ground. I drew out a plain box of ancient wood, shiny from centuries of touch. The Captain gave a n
od, and I opened the lid and drew out a square of cloth, wide as a bedsheet, stained and yellow with age. He rose to his feet, and the cloth unfolded and rose with him. The men in the black robes gasped. They recoiled, and then one by one they came closer and examined the cloth. Now the women rose and looked also. They shook their heads in dismay, and one hugged the other, hiding her face in her friend's head-cloth.
The Captain laid his hand on my shoulder, and, very relieved, I hastily returned the cloth to its resting place and closed the lid.
Everyone stepped back, and the box was left: there in the middle of the floor. There was a long silence. The old women went back to their bench. Finally, the man who prayed took the Captain in his arms and they swayed together as they took their leave. I felt awkward once more, and offered my hand, which was shaken warmly. The other two men picked up the box gingerly, and I gave them my empty pack. The perfecti bowed once more, and the Captain gave a strange smile in which joy struggled with longing, and turned towards the door.
Outside, the streets were full of noise. The great Arsenal of Venice was about to give birth to another galley. We hurried down alleys and across bridges until at last we came out on to the wide seafront. We paused and looked at the ships, and began to stroll, easily, unburdened. We were almost at the palace of the Doges when the bells in the campanile of San Marco started to chime, a low, liver-shaking knell, and then every bell in Venice began to ring, until the very waters of the Lagoon were trembling, rilled by the throbbing waves of sound. It was Sunday, and away to the south, past the zone of war, past the disputed areas, across the mountains in Rome, the pope was rising, stiff and crippled, from his throne in the Lateran. In Venice, a Good Christian was setting off for his home outside Toulouse.
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