'Oh, yes. There's evidence. Did you see the cross on her chest? It had a gold coin set into it, a Roman solidus. Thank your good fortune that I have eyes like an owl. The emperor on the coin was Valentinian the Third. I'm happy to tell you that Valentinian ruled the West from 425 to 455, and Attila sacked Cologne in ... 453, wasn't it?'
'I have no idea. Lady Eleni, you are a prodigy,' said the Captain.
'I simply have a basic education,' she grinned. 'So that really is . . .' I swallowed. 'It is who we hoped it would be, I mean.'
'So it seems,' said Gilles.
'But - and perhaps I'm a little slow, so make allowances, please - I thought Saint Ursula and her virgins were a myth. I mean, that's what most educated people think.'
'And what about Adric's paper trail?' 'Superstitious fabrications, surely.'
'So what are we doing here, then?' asked Gilles through a mouthful of spice cake.
'I thought - I assumed - we were taking advantage of some ancient nonsense and giving our client what he expected, an old body with some sort of shady provenance. Our proof for him would be the fact that we took her from this particular place. But the lady in there really could be you-know-who. And I don't understand how.'
'I can try to answer that,' said the Captain. 'Have a little more wine. Now, it is as Adric suspected. In these cases, where there is a popular legend that seems exactly that, a legend, there is no smoke without some kind of fire. Eleven thousand virgins? Ridiculous, of course. Eleven virgins? Not impossible, but too neat, too pious. A girl called Ursula who got killed along with a friend or two? Now that happens all the time, particularly when the Huns are around. Remember that Adric's letter said nothing about virgins, or even mentions the name of Ursula. I believe, as Adric did, that you-know-who, as you call her, was the daughter, or niece, or cousin - even lover, perhaps - of the soldier who brought her body back here. He was an important man, probably a senator or a consul - we can tell that from the coffin in there. Given the effort he took to bring the body all the way back here, does it seem unlikely that he left a monument back in Cologne as well? Something - a stone tablet, perhaps, with a name, a date and perhaps how she died - that was found later and tied in with Ursula, who meanwhile had become celebrated. I would guess that Cor -you-know-who - is the only real thing in the whole Ursula myth, and perhaps what started it all in the first place. So. Are you answered?'
'I have to admit that it makes perfect sense.'
And it did, incredible as it was. I did have some more wine,
and munched my way through a number of small birds, delicious and crunchy and doused in olive oil and spicy herbs. Stripping a minute leg of its meat, I realised that this was probably why I had heard almost no birdsong on Koskino. I was just reaching for another blackbird, or possibly a lark, when the happy chatter around us went quiet. I turned to see three men walk into the walled circle. And one of them I recognised.
By their dress they were plainly Franks: loose tunics and leggings in the style of Outremer, and long surcoats belted at the waist. Surcoats of blue cloth, upon which reared white hounds. Two of the men wore wide-brimmed straw hats, like pilgrims. But the third, who seemed to be the leader, was bareheaded, and as if in a dream I saw a face from my past. As I struggled to make the connection I felt as if I were being pulled down a whirlpool of bad memories. And then I had him. It was Tom, page to the Bishop of Balecester. I stared, dumfounded, at a man who could not possibly be here. But he was. My companions had seen the strangers too, and I saw Gilles drop his hand gently to his lap, where no weapon lay. All of us - except Anna, whose blade remained our secret -had unbuckled our swords in deference to the saint and they were piled, guarded by the village children, under the trees. So it was with a glimmer of relief I noticed that the Frankish apparitions had no arms in sight. But for the first time in my life I felt utterly naked without even Thorn at my belt. The three men had stopped and were looking about them, dazed no doubt from their climb up here. But they had come from up the mountain. They must have crossed from the other side of the island. Meanwhile, they had not yet seen us over in the shadow of the chapel. As casually as I could, I leaned over to the Captain.
'I know that man,' I murmured. 'His name is Tom. The bishop of Balecester's page. They all wear the Bishop's livery. What the fuck are they doing here?'
Will he know you?' he replied, smiling as if I had told him a joke.
I wondered. He had seen me once, and he had seen a young monk in a dark hallway. I was much changed - perhaps I was a completely different person. In any event I had a full head of hair and the sun had beaten every vestige of boyhood from my face.
'I think probably not,' I said, carefully. 'But you know him.'
'I met him once only, but I have forgotten nothing about that night. He was a nervous boy hiding in the shadows. Sir Hugh made him jump, that I know.'
'And Kervezey must be on the island - this proves it. But why come here now? Play this very close, Patch. Very close indeed. This lad will not recognise us. Maybe he will believe we are who we say we are.'
Anna gripped my knee beneath the table. Who are they?' she hissed.
They have something to do with Kervezey,' I told her. 'Be very calm.'
Even as we spoke, the three men saw us and began striding through the crowd. I had gone rigid with anticipation, planning the fight to come, but when Tom reached our table he bowed low to Anna in what I had to admit was a very courtly manner.
'I am truly surprised to find such a fair lady in this rough isle,' he began. I noted that his voice had sunk an octave since I had last heard it. But now Tom was bowing to each of us in turn.
'Forgive me,' he went on. 'I had no intention of causing any disruption. I see you are people of quality, and from the north and west, by your dress. I am Thomas of Trobridge, and my fellows and I are bound for Cyprus. We stopped in this Godforsaken place to take on water, and took it into our heads to climb the mountain. I am glad we found you, as we are a little low on water ourselves. Again, please forgive me, but I am so happy to have met some fellow - what do these people call us? - Franks.'
'The pleasure is ours, dear sir.' It was the Captain, at his most charming. His English was near perfect. We are feasting in honour of my lady Eleni's visit to this shrine of Saint Tula. My lady is the Duchess of Grammos, and this is her betrothed, my lord of Arenberg, currently residing in Venice. We are returning to the Serenissima for the wedding, but my lady heard a charming native tradition that this Saint Tula has a virtue of fertility and . . .' He waved his hand discreetly.
And I have the pleasure of addressing?'
'I am Zianni Maschiagi, young sir. I keep a squadron of ships at the Doge's disposal, but my current passion is my vineyards at Monemvasia. My lord and lady's ship stove in her keel in a storm off Cape Lerax and put in at my port. I was bound for Venice on business and ... a jolly accident, in any event. And yourself? Cyprus is very far from England.'
'Cyprus, sir, and then Jerusalem. I made a vow to my lord the Bishop of Balecester, in whose service I am - this is his emblem,' and he tugged at his surcoat. 'I will fight the Infidel for three years.'
And return to serve your bishop?'
'Indeed. He let it be known that I might find my fortune in such a way.' Tom paused, almost panting, and looked about him. 'So this is Tula's shrine? What incredible luck. I mean, we've trudged . . .'
'My young companion had heard of some stupid Greek superstition and wanted to take a look. We're sorry to trouble you, my lords — we'll be on our way.'
It was another of the Franks. He had come up behind Tom and now stood with a not altogether companionable hand on his shoulder. If I did not recognise him, I knew his sort: a Balecester thug, the kind we students would fight with on Saturday nights. They became tannery hands or men-at-arms.
The third man was the same. Now I could see that Tom was quite guileless compared to these two. The man who had spoken had pig's eyes that roamed across our faces, intent and angry. The third was su
llen, breathing listlessly through a slack mouth. They had round Balecester heads and the sun had scorched their faces nearly raw.
Anna's clear voice cut through the tension-heavy air. She was hiding her English behind a thick Greek accent that I had never heard before, but her words were clipped and as cold as hailstones.
'Is this how knaves deport themselves in the lands of the Barbarians?'
'If. . .' The pig-eyed one was swelling with belligerence, but it was his turn to be cut off by Tom, who whispered urgently into his red ear. 'Your pardon, Highness,' he began again. 'I did not know who I stood before.'
Much to my horror, Anna turned to me. 'My lord, I am going into exile for your sake - will you allow me to be insulted on my own soil? Or is my people's stupidity legendary in your country?'
My eyes had somehow become locked with those of the angry pig. An appalling calm settled on me, a white-hot, almost joyful clarity. I reached out, carefully selected a bird from the dish, and pulled off a leg. Sucking off the meat, I laid the tiny bone on the table in front of me. Now the whole gathering was staring at me.
'My love, are you insulted by the stench of the pigsty? The pig cannot help the stink of his shit: it is his nature to live out his days with a muddy snout and a shitten arse. So with these creatures: the low-born Englishman is a creature whose ignorance clothes him like the pig is clothed in his own dung. Do not be insulted, dear one. One cannot be insulted by beasts.'
I took the other leg, dragged it between my teeth, and laid it cross-wise over its fellow. I took a long swallow of wine, draining my cup, and ran my thumb once across my lips.
'Give these thirsty hogs some water, and cry them on their way,' I said.
You were quite good, Patch,' said Gilles. 'Every inch a lord.' The three of us had wandered off from the shrine under the pretence of relieving ourselves. Now we sat on an outcrop of rock overlooking the sea. We could still hear the festivities behind us, and below us one of the mountain's many spurs swooped, a knife-edged ridge, down to the blue water a half-mile below. One of those miniature coves glimmered there, and a flock of goats was ambling across it, black dots against white stone. 'Kervezey is here, and that settles it, I suppose. We'll sail in the morning.'
'No, no,' said the Captain. He had been in an unusually good mood since the Franks had been sent packing up the mountain.
'But this is business,' said Gilles, surprised. We have no obligations, we have received no advances. Kervezey was using those oafs to scout for the prize. Now he has found it, and he will fight for it, the island will be raised against all Franks, and that will be the end. It is over.'
'It will be over tomorrow,' the Captain replied. We will take the saint tonight. No, dear friend . . .' and he raised a hand. We can. You know that we can.'
We could,' said Gilles. 'It is possible. I can see as well as you that the Cormaran could anchor down there and that a party could scramble up. But in the dark, over unfamiliar ground? We need preparation.'
'I could do it,' I said.
‘You?'
‘Why not I?'
‘What has got into you?' It was the Captain, and he was grinning. I was not.
'Death,' I muttered. You know what I have had festering inside me since . . .' The two men nodded. Well, then: if this is to be a chance to hurt Kervezey, even in his . . . his purse, then that will do for me.'
You are strong of heart, Patch - no one doubts it,' said the Captain, gently. 'But for such a task, there are a few more . . .' he pinched the bridge of his nose, as he did when searching for the right word, '. . . experienced men on the Cormaran. This time, perhaps—'
'Sir, with the greatest respect, there is no one aboard with more experience of Kervezey. My own . . . think, Captain, of that boy Tom. Kervezey is like a bot-fly, laying his eggs in innocent flesh and watching as the maggots hatch and feed, on the Toms, the Wills . . .' I fell silent. From the moment Tom had spoken, the horror of my last night in Balecester had wrapped itself around me like corpse-breath. I looked up. The Captain was studying me through narrowed eyes.
'How did it feel to face those swine, Kervezey's beasts?' he asked.
'I felt nothing,' I said. 'Save pity for Tom.' I stood up and walked to the edge of the cliff. 'I grew up scrambling,' I said. 'And I am not afraid any more. Do you think I can manage Tula on my own, though?'
'Tula will be light as a feather, my lad,' the Captain said. I turned and found the two of them on their feet, studying me. 'The job is yours if you wish.' They both reached out to me and laid hands on my shoulders. 'Now let us get back - your betrothed will be getting worried.'
Anna was not the least bit worried, though. She was learning a folk song from the headman's wife, and by the blush on that good woman's face it was clear that the noble lady had wheedled out something ribald.
'It's a good one,' she confirmed. About goats. I swapped for one I know about an old couple and a giant melon. They use it as a privy: brilliant song.'
So I listened to dirty Greek songs as the cicadas thrummed along, and sipped astringent retsina. As the cypress shadows lengthened and turned our walled circle into a giant sundial, as the village packed up and said farewell to their saint, and as I jogged back down the mountain on the fiendish donkey, all I could think about was the long, dark climb to come, and opening the old blue door on a blackness that would be deeper than any moonless night.
Chapter Nineteen
W
e made our excuses and weighed anchor as soon as we got back to Limonohori. I was happy to leave. My conscience was troubling me with a vengeance, and the warmth of our send-off felt like a knife twisting in my soul. The villagers seemed to want to keep us there forever, and when we finally tore ourselves away they loaded us with food and wine, gifts they certainly could not afford. And so I kept my back turned as we crossed the bay and swept out past the guardian windmills that were turning madly in the evening breeze which filled our own sails.
The plan was to sail north and west to a small rocky island we had seen from the mountainside. A casual question to the headman had revealed it to be deserted save for goats. We would hide until nightfall, and until the fishermen of Limonohori had put out. They fished at night in these parts, using flaming torches to lure the fish up from the deep and into their nets. Fortunately for us, the evening wind was sharp this time of year, and the men would use it to run south along the coast, rowing back in the early hours when the air would be still again. Meanwhile, we would make our way to the cove below the shrine. I would climb up, Tula's replacement strapped to my back, make the switch and scramble down again. It was nothing if not simple. The only thing I had to remember was not to break the relic. My own neck felt far less important.
Gilles called me down to the hold. A number of chests and bundles had been moved and a coffin of rough deal planks had been dug out from the bowels of the cargo. Gilles handed me the lamp he was carrying and pried off the lid with a claw hammer.
'The eighteenth woman,' he intoned as the contents were revealed. It was indeed a body, and I suddenly wondered how many other corpses I had been sailing with these past months. It was not a pleasant thought. I could see several more coffin-shaped chests now that the covers were disturbed, and although I had seen at least one of them before it had never occurred to me that they held anything like this. Eighteen women? How many more were there? I must have said something aloud, because Gilles seemed to guess what I was thinking.
'This is our stock-in-trade, Patch. Our inventory. We try to keep them from piling up down here, but . . .' He shrugged. 'And there is much else besides, all of which you will learn about soon. Now come and help me. Don't worry: they won't hurt you.'
The occupant of the open box was swaddled in soft white sheeting, which Gilles unwound from the head. A soft, dry scent crept into the air, not altogether unpleasant and somehow familiar.
Well, that's not going to work,' I muttered as a face came into the light.
The eighteenth woman looked nothing like Co
rdula. She had short, dark curls lying close about her scalp, through which yellow skull-bone showed where the skin had peeled back. Her eyes were half open, but the sockets were filled with what looked like pitch. The nose was perfect but the corpse had no lips. Black skin opened onto a hedge of snaggled brown teeth set in a piteous, hopeless snarl.
Gilles swore. You are right,' he admitted. 'Never mind. Help me.'
There was obviously some system governing the cargo. Gilles clambered into the heart of it, moved a large rolled carpet and tugged out another crude coffin. He set it down next to the open one and pried the lid off.
'The nineteenth woman?' I guessed.
'No, twenty-third,' Gilles replied, absently.
She was a far better prospect, but still not perfect. The hair would pass in bad light. The face was battered but intact and in proportion. She was also the right height. While Gilles had paced nervously in Tula's shrine he had measured out the reliquary and guessed the size of her body, and this cadaver would fit.
‘We can work on the face,' Gilles explained. 'That is not so hard. The priest and probably some of the older women will have spent time with Tula and will notice details, but the truth is that most people do not like to study dead people. Who can blame them? But it makes this sort of thing a little easier. Anyway, this is just to cover our tracks until we have put a good few sea leagues between us and Koskino.'
'Is this easy, then?'
'For me, you mean? Yes, I think it is. I have seen a legion of corpses in my life, many of them people I loved. The body is simply a shell made by the Evil One, but still Death's work is never easy to contemplate. This one, poor dear, left this life many, many years ago. Her soul . . . that is not right. Her essence is long gone. She is merely a thing.'
Relics Page 32