The Lazarus Vault (14 page)

‘Has she told Blanchard about your encounter in Oxford?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘We need to get her on her own. Tell her more. If she could get into the vault for us …’

‘I thought we agreed we wouldn’t try that again,’ Harry said quietly. Perhaps George didn’t hear him.

‘Where is she now?’

London

In a bare room, a woman in a white strapless dress wandered among long, empty tables. The lights were dim and smoky: it must be late, or very early morning. She stroked her hand along the tables, as if the touch brought back memories. She looked lost.

Ellie settled into the plush velvet seat. Her new dress, bought that afternoon, was tight against her skin. Under the lights, the
woman in white hesitated under the false proscenium, then stepped through onto the raked stage sloping towards the orchestra pit.

Afterwards, Ellie found she couldn’t recall the evening with any sort of precision. She had memories, vivid memories, but they were disordered, pages plucked from a book that couldn’t be reassembled. Hours in the warm womb of the theatre that passed like a dream, a woman in white and a man in black and a love so immense that only music could properly describe it. The cup meant to kill them that instead made them fall in love – or did he only fall in love because he thought he was dying? Drinking champagne in the glass hall where girls like her had once sold flowers; and, later, on the roof terrace, watching the tourists and the street artists far below while a full moon rose over London. Blanchard’s hand slipping over her seat-arm to rest on her thigh somewhere in the darkness of the second act, his touch hot through the thin silk of her dress. The lovers who surrendered themselves to night because they couldn’t bear the starkness of day, careless of the wounds they inflicted on those they loved less well. The faithful, unheeded friend:
Take care, take care. Soon the night will pass
. And always the music, more beautiful than she had ever imagined music could be. Circling, overlapping, rolling in like great ocean waves and breaking over her as if it would dash her to pieces.

She left the theatre in a daze. She felt limp, bruised by the music and yet desperate to hear more. She clung to Blanchard’s arm and he told her it was called
Tristan-
intoxication, that it was a well-known phenomenon of the opera. Part of her was glad to know it wasn’t just her; part of her resented it. The emotion was so strong she couldn’t bear to share it.

The Bentley was waiting for them on Floral Street, a faithful
dog who always knew where to find its master. Blanchard held the door open for her.

‘Would you like to come back to my home? It is not far.’

Ellie’s world had shrunk again. All her choices, her past and her future, had reduced to this single point, a fulcrum. To move would tip the balance irrevocably. She could taste the champagne sweet on her tongue, smell the scent of her own perfume intoxicatingly strong. She looked at Blanchard for reassurance and saw only intent.

Take care, take care. Soon the night will pass.

The car drove down Shaftesbury Avenue, past theatregoers emerging from the shows with their souvenir T-shirts and shopping bags held over their heads against the rain. Down Piccadilly where wet crowds huddled in the bus shelters, and right into Mayfair, to the brightly lit arcade of Claridge’s hotel.

Ellie stiffened. For a moment, the spell flickered.

‘I thought you said we were going to your house.’

‘My home. This is where I live.’

Ellie didn’t question it. A doorman held an umbrella and escorted them to the lobby. She saw Blanchard slip something in his pocket and wondered if he did that every day. The lobby was golden and bright. A man in a white dinner jacket sat at a piano playing Cole Porter and Gershwin. The concierge nodded to Blanchard and smiled respectfully at Ellie. The lights from the crystal chandelier winked back from the chequerboard floor, polished like a mirror.

Stars of bliss shine smiling down.

Blanchard’s suite was on the third floor, a dimly lit world of heavy fabrics and elegantly outsize furniture. He took a bottle of champagne from the fridge and poured two glasses. The liquid was so cold it hurt. Ellie drained it in one gulp. There
was nowhere in reach to put down the glass, so she let it fall on the carpeted floor. Blanchard stepped behind her to turn out the light; for a moment she felt the giddy illusion of being alone in unbounded space.

Blanchard’s hands, surprisingly gentle, slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders. It slithered to the floor. He leaned around and kissed her throat, while his hands traced out her silhouette: her thighs, her hips, her taut stomach and her breasts.

Ellie sank onto the bed. Darkness enfolded them.

Normandy, 1135

October brings rain. Rain chews up the roads, rusts iron, spoils fodder. You can’t build a campfire with wet wood, or a siege engine. There will be no more wars this year, and no more wars means no more knights. It will be a long winter of regret and resentment, listening to water drip through the roof and trying to keep our quarrels from spilling into violence.

All the squires feel the disappointment, but I think I feel it worse than others. I’m tired of waiting. Waiting for my spurs, waiting for my revenge, waiting for Ada. The hope that flowered in the summer has withered. Now I stand behind my lord Guy at the table and scowl. I still contrive excuses to bump into Ada in the courtyard or the corridors – I can’t help myself – but when I see her I’m curt to the point of rudeness. I always regret it afterwards. Worse, it doesn’t seem to bother her.

One day, I’m passing by the door to Guy’s chamber when I hear Ada’s voice. I pause, lurking in the impenetrable winter shadows. To my surprise, I hear my own name spoken.

‘Don’t leave me with Peter. If I have to be chaperoned, let Jocelin do it.’

A draught blows through the open window. My heart turns to ice. I edge further along the corridor so that Guy and Ada come into view around the doorframe. She’s kneeling in front of him, lacing up his leather gauntlet. It looks obscene.

‘I want Jocelin beside me for the kill.’

‘Peter looks at me as if I’m something that fell down the chimney.’

Guy strokes her hair. His hands are clumsy; he’d take more care brushing his horse.

‘He’s obedient and trustworthy. You’ll be safe with him.’

It flashes across my mind:
he doesn’t trust his own son with his wife
.

Ada stands and turns away, frustrated. ‘As you wish.’

If we can’t make war on each other, we make war on the animals. Hunting keeps our arms strong and our aim true through the winter: it also keeps us out of mischief. Normally I enjoy it, but not today. Ada’s words were like a knife through my heart – the sharper for being so private, so true. I wish Lady Death would take me.

But if Hautfort’s taught me one thing, it’s to bury my emotions. I keep my eyes tight on my tasks as we gather in the courtyard. I fasten my riding cloak; I saddle Ada’s horse, tightening the girth and the breast-straps; I remember to look surprised when Guy tells me I’m to accompany her. It’s no risk. Four of her ladies will be with us.

We ride into the woods. One of the foresters has seen boar, and Guy wants one for his table. The hounds bay and sniff about the bushes; behind them, the kennelmen walk with the mastiffs on tight leads. I think I see a resemblance to Jocelin.

I can see dark clouds gathering. The rain will return, but it doesn’t put off Guy. Two of Ada’s maids return to the castle; we ride further, deeper. It isn’t like the Welsh forests of my childhood. The trees are more spread out, the stretches of heath and scrubland broader between.

We’re in one of these open spaces when the hounds catch the scent. The wind’s rising: it snaps their baying away through the long grass. I can’t smell the boar but I can smell rain in the air. The unleashed hounds bound away towards the line of trees at the edge of the heath. Guy spurs after them, followed by Jocelin, Gornemant and his retainers. I stay with Ada and her ladies and watch them go. By the time they reach the trees, they’re already well dispersed. In this weather, it might be hours before they raise the boar.

A plump drop of rain lands on the back of my hand. The sky looks as if it’s about to fall. I gesture to the trees on the near side of the heath.

‘We should get under cover.’

Ada nods, though she doesn’t look at me. She looks as if she wishes she were back at the castle. We walk the horses towards the forest. I glance back, in case the hunters have changed their minds, but there’s no sign of them. Thunder rolls across the heavens.

We’re halfway there, riding past a lone beech tree, when the lightning strikes. It sears the air; the thunder pounces so fast that it masks the sound of cracking wood. I only hear it when a heavy branch, half a tree’s worth, crashes into the grass in front of me. The lightning’s blasted it clean off the trunk.

My hunter rears up with a shriek of terror: it takes all my strength and practice to rein her in. By the time I’ve mastered her, the other horses have scattered. I can see one galloping up a hillside without a rider; another’s vanished completely.
Ahead, through the rain, I just glimpse Ada’s piebald mare disappearing into the forest.

I canter after her, oblivious to the wet branches clawing and pawing at me. Ada’s horse seems to be following some sort of path, though I don’t know where it goes. All I can see is the flash of her cloak flitting through the trees, leading me on. We’re climbing; the trees thin, oak and ash giving way to pine and fir. The ground becomes steeper and stonier. It slows the horses. Now she’s only a few dozen paces ahead of me. If she were a doe, I’d risk the shot.

Ada emerges into a high clearing and halts. The rain pounds through the scrawny trees; a pile of twisted rocks makes an ominous backdrop. I slide down from the saddle and run to take her bridle. I whisper in the horse’s ear to calm her, then look up at Ada. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’

Her eyes are glazed; she’s shivering. I look at the rocks and find a place where an overhang makes a rudimentary cave. In my mother’s stories it would be the door to another world; here, it’s just somewhere to get out of the rain. I tether the horses to a fir tree, letting the reins out loose, and join Ada under her shelter. Thunder roars over us. The storm doesn’t seem to be moving.

‘It won’t last long.’

Ada doesn’t answer. She sits with her arms around her knees, staring into the rain. She looks as if she’s thinking hard. I put my cloak around her shoulders, careful not to touch her. Her dress is soaked through, plastered against the curves of her body. I try not to notice.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Things I wish I could change.’

I shift, trying to make myself comfortable on the hard
ground. The rush of the chase is still in my veins. It makes me say things I normally wouldn’t dare.

‘Do I really look at you like something that fell down the chimney?’

I’m not prepared for how furious she looks. I thought
I
was the wounded party. Now I feel compelled to defend myself.

‘I was passing the door.’

‘You don’t understand. And you do – look at me – like that.’ I think she’s sobbing. The cloak’s slipped off her shoulders, but when I try to rearrange it she almost slaps me away.

‘You treat me like a criminal.’

‘You treat me like a serf.’

‘Each time you look at me, I feel I’ve done something unforgiveable.’

‘Then what do you want me to do?’

She hesitates, closes her eyes. I think: she’s going to say something so terrible it will change everything between us.

She reaches across, ever so gently, and kisses me on the lips.

I’m lying propped on my elbows. I’m so stunned I lose my balance, sliding backwards. Her eyes widen: she thinks I’m recoiling in disgust or loathing, and I reach out an arm to keep her from pulling away. I only mean to reassure her, to make her understand, but my clumsy movement brings her down on top of me. Or perhaps she comes willingly. I feel the weight of her body against mine, her flesh stiff through the sodden fabric.

After that, I hardly know what happens. She’s kissing my face, my lips, my neck; she’s pressing me into the damp ground; she’s running her hands through my hair. She unlaces her bodice and I bury my face in her breasts. I roll on top of her, scraping my back against the low-lying rock. I fumble with her skirts, and she guides me gently inside her.

Thunder rolls its warning across the sky, but we don’t heed it. The rain curtains off the world and hides us from the day. I smell rock and wood and wet earth; I feel her damp skin against mine. I imagine I hear a hunting horn and pull back, but Ada says it’s only the trees creaking in the wind. She draws me back in.

At last I understand what the poets’ songs mean. The walls of the world seem to melt away. All we know is each other.

London

‘Where were you last night?’

Doug’s voice, like water dripping down the back of her neck.

‘I went to the opera.’

Ellie stood in the check-in queue and endured Doug’s surprise, the obvious questions and the false answers she’d prepared. She knew she should feel guilty, but – against the enormous act of betrayal – these subsidiary lies simply irritated her.

‘Just a client. It was pretty boring, actually. Went on for five hours. I forgot to turn on my phone when I came out.’

A tannoy announcement shouted down the rest of her story, as if the airport itself were ashamed of her.

‘They’re sending me to Brussels. I’ll probably stay the weekend, meet a few people.’

She waited while the tannoy repeated its announcement.

‘They’re calling my flight.’ Another lie. ‘I’ll call when I get there.

‘You too.’

*

Somewhere in the depths of the night, Ellie had woken and crept to the bathroom. She splashed water on her face and stared at her body in the mirror. Moonlight flooded the room, so that her naked skin became like the marble on the walls. She felt devastated, her limbs like wax. Blanchard’s love-making had been an all-out assault – not physically, but on her very being. Tenderly, delicately, he had stripped her defences until she was reduced to pure sensation, utterly in his power. It had been terrifying, but also ecstatic, a sense of utter abandonment. Even the memory made her shiver.