The town’s one notable feature was the Schloss Altenberg, perched high on the crag which gave the town its name. From a distance, the Schloss seemed like a castle from a fairytale, all white stone and towers and flying pennants. At a closer remove, one might have noticed that the walls were cracked, at least one tower was beginning to lean out of true, and the pennants were threadbare and sun-bleached of much of their colour. This was not, one would conclude, a prosperous place. It was not poor, in the sense that many places in the world are poor, but its best days were past, and had probably not lasted very long anyway.
If one had been walking along the grassy banks of the river on this particular day, one might have noticed a horse standing quite still, its rider sitting comfortably in the saddle and looking up at the Schloss. The horse was sturdy but of no great interest, as was the rider. He was a youngish man wearing well-used travelling clothes. Brown-haired, he had one of those faces that people forget shortly after having seen it. He seemed entirely at peace, sitting there on the outskirts of Altenberg. There was no sense of the distance he and the horse had travelled, which was considerable.
The rider seemed in no hurry at all. He gazed at the Schloss as if calmly committing every detail of the scene to memory. It was a nice day, his posture suggested, it was peaceful here by the river, and the fairytale castle was a pleasing sight.
Finally, though, the rider seemed to come to a decision, and gently shook the reins. The horse obediently began to walk towards the town.
The path through the town carried horse and rider across a little cobbled market square, although this could not have been market day because there were no stalls or vendors. There was a small Cloth Hall at the centre of the square, and to one side a modest church. The townspeople who saw their visitor pass through watched him incuriously because, for all that Altenberg was out-of-the-way, it had become used, in recent months, to all manner of newcomers.
The newcomers all did as the rider now did. They passed through the town and, on the other side, came across a steep, winding path which carried man and horse up the side of the crag until emerging at the main gate of the Schloss, which, on this particular day, stood closed.
The rider reined in the horse and sat in the saddle, regarding the gate and the walls of the castle, listening to the snap and rustle of the pennants in the breeze high above. A close observer would have found no clue to his thoughts in his expression.
After some minutes, he dismounted unhurriedly and led the horse up to the gate, where he stood waiting patiently. Eventually, a Judas-door set into the gate opened, and a soldier wearing odds and sods of armour and carrying a crossbow emerged.
‘Who are you?’ the soldier asked in the local dialect.
The rider smiled. ‘I am Father Philip,’ he replied in the same dialect. ‘Tell your master I have come to observe the Miracle.’
*
‘Miracle,’ scoffed the Prince, pouring another goblet of wine. ‘I don’t need a miracle. What I need is trade. That would be a real miracle.’
‘Your town is not prosperous, then?’ Philip asked politely, picking at his bowl of stew and trying to ignore the glowering presence of Friar Pascal on the other side of the dining table.
‘Prosperous?’ The Prince guffawed. ‘It’s in the wrong place, Father. It’s not on the way to or from anywhere, it doesn’t produce anything. It barely serves to support itself. I have no idea why anyone would want to build a town here.’
‘Surely because of the . . .’ Philip gestured around the dining room and the Schloss in general with his spoon.
The Prince tore the leg off a roasted chicken, took a bite, washed it down with wine. ‘This place? The legacy of a war so long ago that nobody remembers who was fighting it, nor on which side.’ He was a burly bear of a man, one of a line of burly bears of men, if the portraits of his ancestors hanging on the walls of the dining room were any indication. Some of them actually seemed to be wearing bear-skins. ‘My ancestors built the castle and the war went away, and that was the last interesting thing to happen in this accursed place.’
‘There are many places more accursed,’ Friar Pascal murmured from the depths of his cowl. His fingertips brushed the bread on his plate which seemed to be the extent of his meal. ‘God has been good to this place.’
‘Your pardon, Friar,’ said the Prince, ‘but it is my opinion that God lost interest in this place many years ago.’
If the Friar was offended, there was no sign. ‘God is ever attentive,’ he said in his quiet voice. ‘One must have faith.’ He turned his head, so that within the shadows of his cowl Philip could see a pinched face and a pair of bright, almost feverish eyes. ‘Is that not so, Father?’
‘That is so,’ Philip agreed amiably. He picked up his goblet and moistened his lips with wine. Not because he was particularly abstemious, but because the wine was dreadful. Friar Pascal drank only water – or more precisely, was served only with water. Philip had not yet seen him eat or drink. ‘Still,’ he said to the Prince, ‘one would expect that the Miracle would bring many pilgrims to your town.’
‘One would have to get here first,’ the Prince answered bitterly. ‘Tell me, Father, your journey was a long one, yes?’
‘It was,’ said Philip.
The Prince nodded. ‘Altenberg is a long way from anywhere. In truth, I don’t think even miracles could cause people to travel so far these days.’
‘Not on a whim, perhaps,’ Philip said. ‘But surely if the Church recognises it as a Miracle?’
The Prince smiled. Behind his bluster and drinking and hearty eating, Philip thought his host hid a sharp intelligence. Sharp and rather sly. He nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said as if the thought had never occurred to him. ‘That would give them a reason to come, I expect.’ He held Philip’s gaze, but Philip could tell he was trying not to glance at Pascal, and that told him all he needed to know about the dynamic between the Prince and the Friar.
Turning to Pascal, he asked, ‘And have you seen it, Friar? Is it truly a Miracle?’
The Friar nodded slowly within his cowl. ‘I believe so, yes,’ he murmured.
Philip smiled sunnily at Pascal, at the Prince. ‘Then I must see this Miracle at once!’ he declared goodnaturedly.
‘Tomorrow, Father,’ the Prince said. ‘You must be weary, after your travels.’
‘I am not unused to travelling,’ Philip said. He had the sense that, despite the equable atmosphere in the dining room, its occupants were all, each in his own way, on the verge of losing their temper.
The Prince laughed. ‘It was a Miracle yesterday, and it will be a Miracle tomorrow, is this not right, Friar?’
Pascal nodded. ‘This is so.’
‘Come, Father, you were not going to eat with me, view the Miracle, and then leave immediately, were you?’
This had actually been the kernel of Philip’s intentions; most ‘miracles’ could be dismissed in a few moments, and he did not like Schloss Altenberg. He would much rather have accomplished his business, rested overnight at the local inn, and taken his leave in the morning.
This was not going to happen, he saw. The Prince said, ‘I have had a room prepared for you, and I hope you will take your ease here tonight. Tomorrow you will be rested and you will be able to view our Miracle with a clear head.’
Philip thought for a moment. Sometimes, in the course of his Commission, he had encountered situations which were delicate or difficult or unusually complex. This was one of those situations; the presence of Friar Pascal alone made it so.
He smiled again. ‘It would be my privilege to accept your hospitality, Prince,’ he said.
*
Later, having made sure his horse was adequately stabled and tended, Philip stood in the room which had been prepared for him, his saddlebags dumped on the uneven floorboards around his feet. The room was high in one of the towers of the Schloss, and its narrow windows looked out on a dizzying panorama of forest and valley. The wind whistled around the tower, and even
the faded tapestries hanging on the walls failed to ameliorate the chill.
Still, the room contained a canopied bed and a commode, and he had slept in places which lacked either. Standing at the window, he judged there to be at least six hours of daylight remaining. He took a worn travelling cloak from one of his saddlebags, removed a leather pouch from the other, placed the bags in a chest under the window, and left the room.
*
‘It arrived about a year ago,’ said the priest, whose name was Albrecht. ‘I don’t know where it came from; the first thing I knew about it was a message from the Prince to come and see it.’
‘Is it a Miracle?’ Philip asked.
‘Isn’t that what you’re here to decide?’ asked Albrecht. He was a spare, dry old man with tufts of hair growing out of his ears. ‘That’s why I wrote to His Holiness.’
Philip could tell Albrecht was not overly impressed with Rome’s response to his letter. He said, ‘I would value your opinion, Father.’
‘All I can tell you is what I know,’ the priest said.
‘The Prince seems sceptical,’ Philip said.
‘Bah.’ Albrecht seemed about to spit, but thought better of it – they were, after all, sitting in the little church on the market square. ‘The Prince sees only opportunity. If this were to be a Miracle, there would be a steady stream of pilgrims coming to Altenberg. The town would prosper. He has already spoken of a Cathedral to house this great Mystery.’
Philip raised an eyebrow. ‘A Cathedral? Here?’
‘Altenberg would be an important town. Trade would visit us. Pilgrims are already beginning to visit, word is spreading. A Cathedral would befit our status.’
‘All of which hinges on the Miracle actually being a miracle.’
‘Indeed so.’
‘Which is why Friar Pascal is in attendance.’
Albrecht pulled a sour face. ‘God forgive me for saying this, but for the right amount of money that man would say white was black and up was down. I’ve seen his like before, selling indulgences and relics. It’s not the Church I understand.’
Philip nodded. Rome – the whole wide world, it seemed – was full of men like Friar Pascal. One day there would be a Reckoning, but that was not his concern. He asked, ‘You said it arrived a year ago?’
Albrecht shrugged. ‘Perhaps a year and a half. The Prince summoned me one night and there it was, in his private rooms. A Miracle.’
‘And no suggestion of where it might have come from?’
‘None. There was a boy with it, though.’
‘A boy?’
‘Never saw him before. Scruffy, probably an idiot. He was polishing it when I arrived.’
‘And the Prince asked . . . ?’
Albrecht spread his hands helplessly. ‘“Albrecht, is this not the most miraculous thing you have ever seen?”’
‘And you answered?’
‘I told him it was more likely some kind of demon. “Would you necessarily know the difference?” he asked.’
‘One would hope you would,’ said Philip.
‘One would hope so, or I’d be useless to this place,’ Albrecht agreed.
‘I presume you asked around the castle? Around the town? To discover whether someone had seen the arrival of this great thing?’
‘I wrote this in my letter,’ said the priest.
‘Forgive me Father, but His Holiness did not see fit to allow me to read your letter.’
‘His Holiness, if you’ll forgive me, sounds like a poor employer.’
Philip laughed. It was the first time he had laughed, he realised, since that dreadful business in the seminary outside Rouen eight months ago. ‘I was on the road,’ he said. ‘Word reached me while I was travelling; I have not seen your letter, only His Holiness’s instructions to me. And yes, His Holiness is not the gentlest or most understanding of employers, and yet I am sworn to do his bidding.’
Albrecht narrowed his eyes at him. ‘You seem an . . . unusual kind of priest.’
‘I have an unusual kind of job.’
‘Your Order. It’s very old, isn’t it.’
‘Old, and very nearly extinct, I’m afraid. Father, you were about to tell me about your investigations . . . ?
Albrecht shook his head. ‘One of the serving girls at the Schloss said there was a carriage, late at night. Its windows were curtained. She didn’t see the driver. It was the noise that attracted her attention.’
‘Noise?’
‘She heard clanking from the courtyard. She looked out of the window and she saw what she thought was a child in full armour, being helped down from the carriage by the idiot boy, the Prince looking on. Then they passed out of sight.’
‘And the Prince summoned you the same night?’
‘The next evening. I cannot surmise what happened in the interim.’
Neither could Philip. He said, ‘And your first impression of the Miracle?’
‘The smell,’ Albrecht said with a shudder. ‘There is a smell of burning about it, a smell like the Pit itself. All the windows were open, and it still filled the room. But that was not the worst thing.’
‘Tell me, Father,’ Philip said in a kindly voice. ‘Tell me about the worst thing.’
‘It speaks,’ Albrecht said with a shudder. ‘About terrible things.’
*
Though a good hour or more of daylight remained on the face of the world, dusk was already filling the valley in which the town sat. Philip turned up the hood of his cloak and walked purposefully but not swiftly through the town to the path which led up the side of the crag to the Schloss. Ascending the path, he could see night settling on Altenberg, while on either side of the valley the wooded ridges high above were still bathed in late-afternoon sunshine.
The night overtook him while he was still only halfway to the castle, although the sky was still bright enough for him to see the two large, roughly dressed men who stepped out onto the path from the trees to one side, and to see the cudgels each carried.
‘Give us your money,’ said one.
‘I am a humble priest,’ Philip answered, settling his weight. ‘I carry no coin.’
‘Funny-looking priest,’ said the other tough.
This was a good place for an ambush. To Philip’s right there was a narrow strip of trees and undergrowth and then the side of the crag; to his left the edge of the path was only a few feet away, and beyond that was a sheer drop into the river below.
‘I’ve been travelling,’ he said. ‘My robes are at the castle, where I reside under the protection of the Prince.’
The first tough snorted. ‘That fucking arse? You think we’re scared of him?’
‘It seemed unlikely,’ Philip admitted. ‘But it was worth a try.’ There was, he had learned through long and mostly unpleasant experience, a certain type of man who expected to dominate others through sheer physical bulk and threat. This type of man would always expect his prey to try to escape, to turn and flee. Doing that here would be fatal; on the dim path he would lose his footing and they would be on him in moments. So instead he did what they would not expect. He stepped forward. At the same time, he reached behind him, up under his jerkin, where his fingers found the handle of the dagger sheathed there upside down. He drew the dagger and stuck it up to the hilt in the right eye of the first tough, who dropped like a sack of flour. Jerking the knife free, he turned and buried it backhanded in the throat of the second tough. The man, like many men of his ilk, refused to believe that he was already dead, and with a gasping cry plunged away down the path, the dagger still protruding from his throat. Philip sighed. Rouen, all over again.
He found the second tough fifty yards or so down the path. In his death throes, he had managed to pull the dagger free, but had only managed to hasten his own end. He lay there with it still clutched in his fist. Philip prised the man’s fingers away from the hilt, then rolled him off the edge of the path. A few moments later, he heard the splash of the body hitting the water. Going back up the pat
h, Philip did the same with the first body.
His cloak was soaked with blood, but the clothes beneath were unstained. Philip found a clean patch of cloth and cleaned the dagger and resheathed it. Then he searched the edge of the path until he found several large stones. These he tied up in his cloak, and this parcel too he dropped into the river. He could always get himself a new cloak. The trouble was, he reflected as he continued on his way up to the Schloss, Friar Pascal and the Prince could always get themselves new thugs as well.
*
Breakfast the next morning was beer and pork and bread and cheese, all of which the Prince ate in hearty amounts. Friar Pascal, as ever, sat with a plate of bread and a goblet of water in front of him, and touched neither. If either of them was surprised to see Philip partaking of the meal with them, they made no sign.
‘I understand you visited Father Albrecht yesterday evening,’ the Prince said at one point.
‘I thought I should pay my respects,’ Philip answered genially, wondering what the priest’s life expectancy was now.
‘You found him well?’
‘He seemed very well,’ Philip agreed.
‘Father Albrecht is a profane man,’ Friar Pascal opined.
‘I didn’t notice,’ Philip said. ‘I am a profane man myself, on occasion.’
‘It would be better for everyone if His Holiness sent him away,’ said Pascal.
‘That would be up to His Holiness to decide, surely,’ Philip said. ‘Perhaps you should write to Rome.’
‘Perhaps I should. This is about to become a very important place; it ill behooves Altenberg to have such a rough man as its priest.’
Philip turned to the Prince. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I thank you for your hospitality, but I must ask that I be allowed to view the subject of my visit.’
The Prince and Pascal exchanged glances, and Philip saw the Friar’s cowl move in a barely perceptible nod. The Prince gathered himself. ‘Very well, Father. Let us show you what you have come all this way to see.’
*
Flanked by Pascal and the Prince, and followed by two servants, Philip felt more as if he was being marched towards incarceration than to view a Miracle. The Prince kept up some smalltalk about the weather, which Philip took part in, but no one was being deceived.
Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more Page 27