The Lazarus Vault Part 40

He veered off the path and led her up a steep slope through the trees. The scar in her side pulsed, but she didn't complain. They crossed a field and came to a barbed-wire fence. There was no gate or stile: Doug held the strands apart for Ellie to squeeze between.

'Are we trespa.s.sing?'

'It's not the worst thing we've done.'

They re-entered the trees. After the glare in the field, Ellie's eyes took a moment to get used to the dappled light. Walls began to emerge from out of the undergrowth. An ivy-clad column she'd thought was a tree turned out to be the corner of a ruined tower, twenty feet high. Rough-coursed brown stones stuck out of the broken masonry like branches. Gnarled trees sprouted everywhere: further along, a chunk of wall lay tilted on its end, twined in the roots of a large old yew.

She turned to Doug. 'You knew this was here.'

'It's in the register of historic Welsh buildings. I found it online.'

'If only Sir Perceval had had the Internet.'

They walked across the site, picking their way among the trees, tracing the outlines of the old buildings that now barely poked above the forest floor.

'It dates back to the twelfth century, but it's been ruined for ages,' Doug was saying. Ellie wasn't really paying attention. 'If you look at the remains, you can see it was oriented east-west. A lot of people thought it might have been a chapel.'

'Do you think ?'

Ellie heard a rustling in the leaves behind her. She turned, drawing a sharp protest from the bullet wound, and stared.

A bearded old man had come up behind them. He wore green rubber boots and a quilted jerkin, with a flat tweed cap over his woolly white hair and an ash walking stick in his hand. He could have been any farmer or fisherman out in the country or the landowner whose fence they'd crossed but there was a gravity in his eyes that was neither curious nor angry.

'I thought you might come here.'

'Who are you?' Ellie asked. She'd almost stopped breathing, though she wasn't afraid.

He leaned on his stick. 'You can call me George. That's how Harry knew me your father, too. He would have been very proud of what you've done, Ellie.'

He walked around a cl.u.s.ter of crudely mortared stones, tapping at them with his stick. 'If you're looking for the lance, I'm afraid you're a few hundred years too late.'

'Did Chretien hide it here?'

'He did. He tried to hide it from us, thinking that would hide it from Saint-Lazare as well. He forged a replica and gave it to us, which had us fooled for a number of years. When we realised he'd written Le Conte du Graal, we followed the same clues you did.'

'Where's the lance now? The real lance.'

'Somewhere safe.' He picked up an acorn and rubbed it in his hand. 'Every few hundred years, we have one of these aberrations and someone outside the Brotherhood rescues one of the treasures in our charge. They always think it'll be safest hidden from us, but in the end, we get it back. It is best that way.'

He looked pointedly at Doug's bag. Doug backed away, a fierce look on his face.

'You could join us, you know. Both of you. You've certainly earned your spurs.'

'Join what?' Doug demanded. 'An organisation that can't protect its own members? That uses innocent people and then cuts them loose? You'd happily have seen Ellie buried under a French hillside to get to Saint-Lazare.'

Pain clouded the old man's face. 'We'd been stalemated with Monsalvat for eight hundred years. Unwilling to wield the weapon we had, unable to heal the wounds they made. You can't imagine how debilitating it became. Perhaps, in the end, we lost sight of who we are.'

'Then perhaps losing this is the price you pay.'

'Give it to him,' Ellie said quietly. Doug rounded on her.

'You're the one who got it out of the bank you carried it across Europe and kept it safe. It should be yours.'

'If it has any power at all, if it can do anything good, it's better with him.'

Doug resisted for a moment longer, standing his ground and staring defiantly into her eyes. Then, with a sullen glare, he handed over the bag. Though she hadn't touched it, Ellie felt a great weight pa.s.s from her body and knew she'd made the right decision.

The old man nodded gravely. 'Thank you.'

A random thought struck Ellie. 'What do you call it? Can you tell me that?'

To her surprise, the old man actually blushed. 'Even we can't completely escape Chretien's spell. We call it the Grail.'

They hiked back to the car in silence. At first Doug walked ahead, alone and stiff-backed, but gradually he slowed enough for Ellie to catch up. She slipped her arm in his and tilted her head against his shoulder. They walked up the hill together, parting only to cross the stile.

They reached the car, but didn't get in. They lingered on the roadside, unwilling to go. Doug leaned against the side of the car, and she hugged herself to him, burying her head against his chest.

'Do you feel it too?' she asked. 'That we'll never be able to come back to this place?'

Doug nodded slowly. 'In Chretien's stories you have the staid world of the court, full of laws and customs and protocols; and the wild world of the forest, where the quests and battles and magic happen. I think we're about to leave that place. The story's over.'

'Some stories end,' she said firmly. 'Ours isn't finis.h.i.+ng any time soon.'

But something still troubled her. She wanted to say it now, before the enchantment broke irrevocably. She pushed back so she could look Doug in the eye.

'About what Blanchard said that night, in Annelise Stirt's bas.e.m.e.nt ...'

Doug silenced her with a kiss.

'I don't want to know.'

Bruges, 1184.

The candle has burned low. I sit in a room in a high tower, scribbling myself blind. Over the years I've told many tales of men and women trapped in their towers. In the stories it's a challenge, an obstacle to be escaped. The reality is different.

I have outlived myself. My story finished forty years ago, but I've lingered on, a singer on the stage long after his audience has left. I served the Count of Blois, and his son the Count of Champagne both are dead. The man I serve now, Philip of Flanders, wasn't even born when my story happened. He pays my stipend and I flatter him: I write that he is more worthy than Alexander the Great. He pretends to be embarra.s.sed, but secretly he wants to believe me. I praise his wisdom, his love of truth, justice and loyalty. I praise his generosity, particularly when my pay is due.

Bruges is a strange place. The men here are dour and humourless and care for nothing except commerce. Instead of roads they have ca.n.a.ls harder for walking, but easier for transporting their goods. The city exists because of sheep, but you never hear the bleat of lambs, or screams from the slaughterhouse. The sheep live elsewhere, beyond the walls, beyond the sea. Here they only exist in ledgers. They come here as sacks of raw wool; as bales of cloth, dyed and fulled; as skins for the tanners and hides sc.r.a.ped clean for vellum. All the Flemings shepherd here is money.

I'm no different. I stay in my tower, keeping the world at bay; I keep up with life through gossip and hearsay. I write secondhand accounts of second-hand lives, when Count Philip insists, but mostly I write my own story. Written and rewritten for forty years. I don't know any other. Not one hour goes by that I don't think of the stone, and of the spear that makes wounds that never heal. I thought if I surrendered it I could be free of its power. Instead, it haunts my imagination.

I've taken some of those vellum pages and written my story, but the last pages are blank. When you're the storyteller, you can choose the ending. But I don't know how to finish it. I write and rewrite, but the final page remains incomplete.

A woman on the balcony heard the lamentations and ran down to the hall. She went straight to the Queen and asked her what was wrong.

What is wrong?

The story doesn't end. The quest isn't finished. All I can do is tell the tale, as far as I know it.

I put down my pen. A blot of ink spreads darkness across the parchment, but it doesn't touch the words.

I pinch out the candle.

NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

Chretien de Troyes is arguably the perfect artist: unknowable, except through his work. All that survives of him are the five Arthurian poems he wrote in the second half of the twelfth century, which laid the foundation for the entire genre of Arthurian romance. Without Chretien's imagination there would be no Camelot, no Lancelot and his illicit love for Queen Guinevere and no Holy Grail.

It's almost impossible, now, to imagine a world where the Holy Grail didn't exist. Such was the power and mystery of Chretien's elusive vision that within a generation his readers had begun a process of expanding, adapting and confusing it that continues to this day. Looking backwards, scholars have expended huge energy and ingenuity in trying to trace the Grail's mythic antecedents. For all their efforts, it's clear that while the life-giving vessel is a recurring archetype in human mythology, the specific instance of the Holy Grail belongs to Chretien alone.

All the businesses featured in this novel are entirely fict.i.tious and any similarities to actual companies or their employees are either wholly coincidental, or the result of a far deeper conspiracy than I can fathom.

Like Chretien, I've drawn together my story from a ma.s.s of pre-existing material. I'm very grateful to everyone who gave me insights into the workings of the City of London, especially Mark Kleinman, Sophie and Marcus Green, Nick, Edward Sawyer, Don Simon Wapping and Mark Hallam. I've also benefited hugely from resources in the Bibliotheque Nationale de France, the British Library, the York Minster Library and the University of York library. The Tristan und Isolde described in chapter fifteen is based on an actual production at the Royal Opera directed by Christof Loy and designed by Johannes Leiacker.

At Random House, I'd like to thank the three editors who worked on this book Oliver Johnson, who commissioned it; and Kate Elton and Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, who saw it through as well as all the people who've helped design, produce and promote the book. In changing times one of the constants has been my agent, Jane Conway-Gordon, who continued her indomitable tradition of good cake and good advice.

Like my fictional Chretien, I began writing to impress the woman I was in love with. My stories might not measure up to his, but my romance has been happier: my wife Emma is still the cornerstone of everything I do. Our son Owen accompanied me on a long, tiring research trip with astonis.h.i.+ng good humour, and only the occasional croissant and moules frites by way of compensation.

ALSO AVAILABLE IN ARROW.

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Sam Grant is a disgraced ex-SOE soldier and an adventurer by trade. But he has a secret: six years ago, a dying archaeologist entrusted him with his life's work transcripts of mysterious writing found in a hidden cave on Crete. Deciphered, it could lead to one of the greatest prizes in history. But the treasure is as dangerous as it is valuable. The CIA wants it; so does the KGB. Helped by a brilliant Oxford professor, and a beautiful Greek archaeologist with her own secrets to hide, Grant is plunged into a labyrinth of ancient cults, forgotten mysteries and lost civilizations. But time is running out.

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Nick Ash does research for the FBI in New York. Six months ago his girlfriend Gillian walked out and broke his heart. Now he's the only person who can save her if it's not too late. Within hours of getting her message Nick finds himself on the run, delving deep into the past before it catches up with him.

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The Mosaic of Shadows Tom Harper Byzantium, 1096. When a mysterious a.s.sa.s.sin looses his arrow at the emperor, he has more than a man in his sights; the keystone of a crumbling empire, he is the solitary figure holding its enemies in check. If he falls, then the mightiest power in Christendom will be torn apart. Aware of the stakes, the emperor hires Demetrios Askiates, the unveiler of mysteries, to catch the would-be killer.

But Demetrios is entering an unknown world, a babbling cauldron of princes, slaves, mercenaries, pimps and eunuchs. From the depths of the slums to the golden towers of the palace, and from the sands of the hippodrome to the soaring domes of Ayia Sophia, he must edge his way through a glittering maze of treachery and deceit before time runs out. Nor are all the enemies within the city walls. With the Turks rampant across Asia, the emperor has sent to the west for mercenaries to reinforce his position. He gets more than he bargained for, however, when a great army, tens of thousands strong, appears before the gates. The first crusaders have arrived, intent on making their fortunes in war, and they have no allegiance to an empire they eye with jealousy and suspicion. As the armies of east and west confront each other, and the a.s.sa.s.sin creeps ever closer to his prey, Demetrios must untangle the golden web of intrigue which surrounds the emperor before the city and the empire are drowned in blood.

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Knights of the Cross Tom Harper 1098. The armies of the First Crusade race across Asia minor, routing the Turks and reclaiming the land for Christendom. But on the Syrian border, their advance is halted before the impregnable walls of Antioch.

As winter draws on, they are forced to suffer a fruitless, interminable siege, gnawed by famine and tormented by the Turkish defenders. The entire crusade is on the verge of collapse. His lord, the ruthlessly ambitious Bohemond charges Demetrios Askiates to find the killer. But as Demetrios investigates, the trail seems to lead ever deeper into the vipers' nest of jealousy, betrayal and fanaticism which lies at the heart of the crusade.

Praise for Tom Harper: 'Tom Harper writes with strident clarity in this epic tale of murder and betrayal, bloodshed and romance. Gripping from the first page, the reader is swept up in this colourful and convincing portrayal of an Emperor and his realm, under siege. Well-researched, and cinematic in its imagery, this is a fast-paced and exciting debut.' Ink 'Harper effortlessly draws the reader into the court intrigues and conspiracies of 11th-century Byzantium in his outstanding debut.' Publishers Weekly 'Scholarly but speedy narrative, steeped in medieval horrors ranging from flogging to famine, all anch.o.r.ed in what feels like a pa.s.sion for history and spelling out the way things were.' Literary Review ALSO AVAILABLE IN ARROW.

Siege of Heaven.

Tom Harper.

August, 1098. After countless battles and sieges, the surviving soldiers of the First Crusade are at last within reach of their ultimate goal: Jerusalem. But rivalries fester and new enemies are ma.s.sing against them in the Holy Land.

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From the plague-bound city of Antioch to the heart of Muslim Egypt, Demetrios must accompany the army of warlords and fanatics to the very gates of Jerusalem where the crusade climaxes in an apocalypse of pillage, bloodshed and slaughter.

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Also available by Tom Harper.

The Mosaic of Shadows.

Knights of the Cross.

Siege of Heaven.

Lost Temple.

The Book of Secrets.