The Lazarus Vault (41 page)

‘How would you know which order that is?’

Annelise tapped the computer. Ellie and Doug stared. A geometric pattern had appeared on screen, a spiky tangle of black lines criss-crossed into sharp points and overlapping triangles. It wasn’t the same as the Mirabeau mosaic, but the family resemblance was unmissable.

Annelise, with her back to them, didn’t see their shock. ‘This is what one of the solutions looks like.’

‘
One of the solutions
?’ Ellie repeated. ‘How many are there?’

Annelise moved down the page on the computer. Text replaced pictures. ‘More than you’d think.’ She read a little further, then gave a rueful laugh. ‘According to this website, no one knows how many possible paths there are. Something over one hundred trillion is the latest estimate.’

She gathered up the mugs and piled them on the tray. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.’

‘Not at all,’ said Ellie. ‘You’ve given us lots to think about.’

‘It’s probably all nonsense. There’s something about the Grail that provokes fantasies, even in a hardened old cynic like me. Eight hundred years ago Chrétien de Troyes described a jewelled serving dish. In the next generation it became the cup of Christ. In the German tradition it’s a stone that fell from heaven. Now people want you to believe that it’s the body of Jesus’ love child, or esoteric wisdom. Did you know, there are scholars who argue that Chrétien intended his poem to be as infuriating as possible? He piles up these dense, allusive symbols like a dream, and never tells you what they mean; his plot spins out of control without resolution, and then he leaves the whole thing unfinished. Perhaps it’s just a joke, to drive people mad with wondering.’

‘You don’t think it’s a joke,’ Ellie said. She tucked the leather tube back in the bag and stood. ‘But we’ve kept you up much too late.’

‘Do you have somewhere to stay?’

‘We’ll find a hotel.’

‘Not around here, at this time of night. Stay here. You’d be very welcome.’

Ellie glanced at Doug. A vision of bed, of clean sheets and soft covers and hot water, danced before her eyes.

‘It’s very kind of you –’

Annelise made an embarrassed gesture around the grand house. ‘I’ve plenty of rooms.’

The room she gave them was warm and snug. Doug had to physically drag Ellie out of the shower so he could have a turn. She left her clothes in a corner and curled up naked under the heavy duvet. Her head sank into the pillow – when Doug joined her ten minutes later, she was already almost asleep. He curled around her and wrapped her in his arms.

‘That Knight’s Tour …’

‘I know …’

‘I’ve got it in the bag. We could …’

‘Shhh …’ She didn’t want to think about it.

Ellie woke in darkness. The luminous hands on the bedside clock glowed quarter to four. She lay there a moment, remembering where she was, savouring the dark peace of the night. She was safe and warm; she had nowhere to go. She listened to Doug’s breathing soft and even beside her, like a mother with her sleeping child.

She needed a pee. She slid out of bed and padded across the wooden floor. The toilet was at the end of the corridor, dark except for spandrels of moonlight coming through the window. She couldn’t find the light switch.

I feel like a ghost
, she thought.
A pale figure, flitting through the old house
. It was hardly more fantastical than anything else that had happened.

She fumbled for the flush. The toilet had an old-fashioned chain to pull, dangling somewhere in the dark. As she swiped for it, something outside the window caught her eye. She looked out.

Lights were coming up the driveway.

Vale of the White Horse, England, 1143

The spear quivers in the mud, a hair’s breadth from Jocelin’s face. Blood flows from a scratch on his cheek. It went very close. Even as I let it fall, I didn’t know which way I would go.

His eyes are so wide I think he might have died of fright. For the first time, he looks at me properly.

‘Where did you come from?’ he whispers.

There’s nothing to say. Now that I’ve made my decision, I never want to see him again. I stumble into the shadow of one of the houses and puke into the mud. Anselm watches me – he can’t understand why I did it. I don’t understand myself. All I can point to is a feeling, a glimmer in my tangled emotions that one wound won’t heal another. Perhaps mercy will.

Five miles up the road we find the farm where Jocelin’s keeping the village women. The guards leap to attention as we approach, but when they see their lord being led by a rope they quickly throw down their weapons. Anselm breaks down the
door with an axe. The women who hobble blinking into the light are pitiful: their hair loose, their dresses untied and so threadbare they hide nothing. Their necks are gaunt, their faces pale from hunger. And yet their fingers drip with gold – golden yarns they’ve been stitching into dresses for noblewomen to wear at court. Each thread must be worth more than Jocelin spends in a month on keeping them alive. It makes me almost wish I’d killed him after all.

Anselm cuts Jocelin loose. ‘If I ever hear you mistreat your vassals again, I’ll stuff that thread down your throat until you choke on it.’ He jerks his thumb towards me. ‘I’m not as forgiving as my friend.’

We leave them in the farmyard. Jocelin looks as dazed as the women. None of them knows what to do now they’ve been freed.

It’s late afternoon, the sun already touching the horizon, when we find the court. It’s at the frontline of a war, but there’s not much fighting going on. Looking down from a ridge, we can see a patchwork of red and green tents dotting the fields, all the way from the forest to the edge of a river. A siege is in progress: on the riverbank, the army’s set up a mangonel. Every ten minutes or so, it quivers like an insect and a rock sails towards the town on the opposite bank. Some fly over the walls to disturb someone’s dinner; some splash into the water. A few hit their target, though with no urgency.

Half a mile back from the river stands a manor house. Two flags flutter from its tower: the two lions of England, and a gold banner beside it.

‘Stephen gives his queen equal standing,’ Hugh says. There’s admiration in his voice, though not for Stephen.

‘At Winchester, it was Queen Matilda who directed his
army into battle and routed the Empress Maud,’ says Anselm. ‘Strange times, when women lead armies against women.’

‘Strange times,’ I agree.

We ride through the sprawling camp. There’ll be no winter grain from these fields. An army moves like a giant: wherever it steps, it presses its boot into the ground and crushes it. These giants have been marauding across England for years now. The imprint will remain long after they’re gone.

We reach the manor house. A peg-legged man sits on the grass outside the gate, whittling a piece of ash. The yard is busy with all the business of a court – so busy, no one thinks to challenge us. We dismount and walk straight into the hall.

I’ve never seen a king before. If Anselm didn’t point him out, I probably wouldn’t have recognised him. In a long wide hall a dark-haired man sits dejectedly at the head of the room, while the knights at the tables gossip among themselves. They don’t make nearly as much noise as they should. Even without hearing what they’re saying, I can sense the conversations are sullen and disheartened.

‘He used to be the most powerful monarch in Christendom,’ mutters Anselm. ‘Now look at him.’

Hugh murmurs something to an attendant, who disappears through a serving door. A few moments later, he returns with a man in a vivid blue robe and long fur coat.

‘Henry, Bishop of Winchester and Abbot of Glastonbury,’ the servant announces.

‘A friend of ours,’ Anselm whispers to me.

The bishop looks like an older and plumper version of the man on the throne. His fingers are almost invisible under the quantity of rings he’s wearing – gold and silver, set with stones that are all the colours of a summer garden. They tinkle like bells whenever he moves his hand.

He recognises Hugh and greets him, then gives me a pointed look. ‘Who’s this?’

‘One of Malegant’s men who changed his ways.’

‘Can they?’

Hugh answers with a nod. ‘Malegant’s coming here. We need to warn the king.’

The bishop glances over his shoulder. The King is still slumped in his chair, staring into the golden cup in his hands. A king should be the heartbeat of his kingdom, the locus of all its energy. There’s something dreadful about seeing him so alone.

‘You’d be better speaking to the Queen. My brother isn’t himself today.’

We find the Queen in a cold, square room facing the river and the siege. She’s more regal than her husband, with creamy skin and hair so fair it’s almost white, hanging in long tresses to her hips. She’s wearing a white silk gown, delicately woven with golden flowers.

She listens as Hugh outlines his fears. He doesn’t mention objects of power or incurable wounds: he just tells her that a man is coming to kill the King. She plays with the clasp of her bracelet, but otherwise she doesn’t show emotion. From the moment she became queen of England, people have been questioning her husband’s right to the throne – usually with the weight of an army behind them. What’s one more man?

And Hugh’s story confuses her. When he’s finished, she asks, ‘But how can they kill him? He’s the King.’

It’s a sensible question. Last year, the Empress Maud captured Stephen at the battle of Lincoln and held him captive for months, until Matilda captured Maud’s brother and forced a swap. I’m not party to an Empress’s inner life, but I’d bet Maud never dreamed of murdering Stephen.

‘Caesar wasn’t so great that Brutus couldn’t stab him.’

The Queen’s an educated woman – she understands the allusion. ‘But that was in pagan times. To kill a monarch consecrated by God …’ She shakes her head. It’s not that the idea’s abhorrent – just unthinkable.

‘These men aren’t nobles,’ Hugh presses her. ‘They’re godless brigands. They killed the Comte de Pêche; now they want to plunge the whole kingdom into anarchy.’

‘Killing a king is not the same as killing a count.’

Hugh acknowledges the point.

‘And have you seen the state of our kingdom?’ She gazes out the window. Night’s fallen, but a crimson glow patches the horizon where someone’s house or field is burning.

‘Crops fail, barons menace their tenants, bodies go unburied and every son turns against his father. Some priests say Christ and all the angels have abandoned England for good.’

Hugh nods soberly. ‘And if King Stephen dies, those same priests will look back on this as a blessed time – a golden age compared to what came afterwards.’

There’s something close to despair in his voice that cuts through the Queen’s composure. She turns to Bishop Henry. ‘You know these men? You trust them?’

The Bishop nods.

‘Then fetch me William.’

Hugh and I withdraw to an antechamber. There are still onions hanging from the rafters – it must have been a storeroom, before the manor became an impromptu palace. Hugh paces the room, while I stare out the window. More fires have sprung up – the whole kingdom seems to be burning.

A golden age.

The door opens. William of Ypres, the captain of the army, sweeps in and strides through to the Queen’s chamber. We
follow. He’s a tall, handsome man, with strong features and a commanding gaze. The grey that feathers his dark hair adds to his air of authority, while a lopsided smile makes you want to gain his confidence. I know him by reputation – for years, he was the most feared mercenary captain west of the Rhine. Now he’s captain to a king. Strange times.

‘These men have come from London,’ the Queen tells him. ‘They claim a one-eyed merchant is coming after them to attack the King.’ A royal shoulder gives a discreet shrug, disclaiming authorship of this ludicrous tale. ‘Can you review the arrangements and make sure the King is well protected?’

She’s speaking as much to Hugh and the Bishop, for their benefit: she doesn’t notice William’s reaction at first. The handsome confidence drains away; his face goes grey.

‘The one-eyed man arrived an hour ago. He had a letter from our backers in London – and a sack full of gold for our cause. He wanted to help.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He asked for an audience with the King.’ At that moment, William looks as frightened as a ten-year-old squire. He almost whispers, ‘I thought it would cheer him up.’

Guards are summoned; lamps lit. The whole manor is turned inside out. It takes fifteen minutes to establish the crucial fact.

The King’s gone.

Near Troyes, France

Two cars, black Mercedes, coasted up the gravel drive. They pulled up in front of the house, boxing in the Nissan. Doors opened; half a dozen men got out. One was tall and commanding, with a silver head of hair that shone in the moonlight.

Ellie ran back to the room and shook Doug awake.

‘Blanchard’s here!’

‘How –?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Ellie was pulling on her clothes. The stink of mud and sweat that she’d so gratefully scrubbed off in the shower closed around her again. Doug jumped out of bed and started getting dressed.

‘How would she have known to call Blanchard?’

‘You can ask him yourself if we don’t get out now.’

Ellie checked their window. At the back of the house, all was still – long lawns and box hedges bathed in moonlight. Below her, the wall was sheer and bright, unbroken by any drainpipe or decoration.

‘Can we jump?’

Ellie shook her head. ‘We might not break our necks, but we wouldn’t be able to walk away.’

She grabbed the backpack and slipped out on to the landing. A light had come on at the bottom of the stairs. Low voices drifted up from the hallway; shadows swayed on the flagstones, though the staircase hid the people who made them.

Doug joined her. Three floors down, Ellie heard a stair creak.

‘We’re trapped.’

A bleak desolation overwhelmed her. To have come so far, only to be caught so easily. She should have known it would end like this.