The Lazarus Vault Page 9

  ‘It’s good.’ Doug frowned. ‘Really good. I had a letter last week, totally out of the blue. A guy up in Scotland, reclusive millionaire or something. Apparently he’d read one of my papers on early medieval romance and wanted to talk to me.’

  Ellie glanced at him. ‘In Scotland?’

  ‘We met in London. At his club.’ An ironic emphasis. ‘Huge place off Pall Mall, lots of Victorian busts and deep leather chairs and not a woman to be seen, except the one taking your coat. Anyway, he was waiting for me. An old man in a wheelchair, strapped in to some sort of respirator. He never said a word. He laid out this leather folder on the table. He had a minder with him, a tall guy in a long black coat. He looked like an undertaker. The first thing he did was make me sign a confidentiality agreement – which I’m breaching, telling you this, by the way. The minder said that the old man had found something in his attic recently and thought it might be interesting.’

  ‘What was in the folder?’

  ‘A sheet of A4 paper.’ Doug smiled at the anticlimax. ‘But there was a poem on it written in Old French. Twelfth or thirteenth century, you’d think from the style. The minder said it was a transcription of this piece of parchment they’d found in the attic. I read through it – I’d never seen it before.’

  He said it lightly, but Ellie knew what he meant. If Doug didn’t recognise the poem, the chances were it had never been published.

  ‘Obviously I wanted to see the original, but he said it had been put in a bank vault for safekeeping. I asked if anyone else had looked at it. He said not since it came out of the attic. He didn’t know how long it had been there. They gave me the printout to study and asked me to let them know what I thought.’

  They were approaching the weir at Sandford lock. A red sign on pilings in the river warned DANGER AHEAD. Despite the sun and her snug coat, Ellie shivered.

  Doug checked his watch. ‘We should head home. I’ve invited Annabel and Mark for supper.’

  Ellie tried not to look disappointed. She squeezed his hand. ‘I thought we could be on our own tonight.’

  ‘I invited them ages ago. It’ll be fine.’

  Annabel was a wispy woman who always seemed vaguely surprised to find herself in the twenty-first century. Mark was the sort of man who came to Oxford with certain stereotypes and did everything he could to live up to them. He was the only person Ellie had met who wore a cravat. He had also been her doctoral supervisor.

  ‘Mark’ll be a nightmare. He still hasn’t forgiven me about the bank.’

  ‘He’s looking out for you. He wants the best for you.’ Doug stared at a bird’s nest couched among the willows. ‘We all do.’

  ‘I’ve got what’s best for me.’

  ‘I just thought – the way they packed you off to Luxembourg like that, no word of warning. You didn’t seem very happy there. I thought maybe …’

  His voice trailed off. He snapped a twig in two and threw the pieces in the water.

  ‘Maybe I would come running back to Oxford?’ A cold fury was building inside Ellie. ‘I’ve just helped decide a deal worth seven hundred million euros. I’m earning more in a year than you and Mark and Annabel combined.’

  ‘There’re others ways to value what you do,’ Doug said quietly. ‘You’re a great researcher. Don’t waste it as a cog in some great money-making machine.’

  ‘So I can waste it gathering dust in a library?’ She remembered her first meeting with Blanchard. Academia is an echo chamber, a hall of mirrors. ‘I’m out in the real world, doing real things and earning real money.’

  ‘Numbers on a computer. It’s not real.’

  She was trapped in a nightmare, reliving all the arguments they’d had that summer, the ones she thought she’d buried when she went to London.

  ‘You can’t change this,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s who I am.’

  ‘It’s not –’

  The nightmare always ended the same way. Hot tears and rushed steps and Doug calling after her, too late. Leaves and twigs squelched underfoot. She didn’t look back until she’d rounded a bend. She knew Doug wouldn’t follow. He’d wait at the house, and eventually she’d go back. They’d skirt around each other like wary dogs, until eventually they’d pretend they’d forgotten. Until next time.

  Except there was someone coming after her. A short man taking long, hurried strides, his face flushed from the effort. He wore green rubber boots and a green jerkin, whose numerous pouches and pockets bulged with all manner of reels and bright flashes of fabric bound onto hooks. He didn’t carry a fishing rod.

  The path was narrow and overgrown; Ellie stood aside to let him pass. But he didn’t. He stopped a few feet away and half-lifted a hand, almost as if he recognised her.

  Ellie froze. She’d never seen the face before, but his pose was utterly familiar.

  ‘Ellie Stanton?’

  She couldn’t run: the towpath was too muddy. Branches and brambles blocked the way. There was no one else in sight.

  ‘Who are you?’ She sounded faint and terrified, a little girl lost in the woods.

  Metal flashed as he pulled something out of the pouch at his side. Ellie steeled herself to scream – but it was only a hipflask. He unscrewed the cap and offered it to her.

  ‘You look like you could use a drink.’

  ‘No thanks.’ She couldn’t keep the trembling out of her voice.

  He took a swig and refastened the cap. He didn’t look dangerous. He was short and tending to fat; he had tousled sandy hair and bright blue eyes and ruddy cheeks that fitted his fishing gear perfectly. He seemed to have genuinely enjoyed the drink.

  ‘You’re a hard woman to track down.’

  A motor launch droned by. Ellie thought about calling for help, but the engines were so loud they’d never have heard. A little girl sat on the bow and waved at her.

  Keep him talking. ‘Was it you in Luxembourg?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You took the lift to get up the hill in front of me.’

  He glanced down at his stocky frame and short legs. ‘I wasn’t going to overtake you on foot.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me at the hotel, if you wanted to speak to me?’

  ‘Too difficult. They were watching it.’

  His easy manner had let Ellie begin to relax; now she snapped back into reality. She looked at the barbed row of hooks looped onto his jerkin. Was he insane? Dangerous?

  ‘I know I must sound mad.’ Didn’t all mad people say that? ‘But you’re in tremendous danger at Monsalvat.’

  You aren’t safe here. Ellie peered closer, wondering if he had been the man at the demonstration in London as well. She didn’t know what to think any more.

  ‘Why do you think they let you use your phone for personal calls? They’re listening, Ellie. All the time. Watching as well, as often as they can.’

  ‘Why –?’

  ‘They’re not what they seem. Underneath all that twenty-first century capitalist veneer, there’s a medieval heart that’s all darkness and malice. Look in their vaults sometime. They want something, and they’re using you to get it.’

  Ellie thought she’d be sick. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because–’

  ‘Ellie!’

  While he’d been speaking, Ellie’s world had shrunk into a tiny sphere bounded by mud, water and wood. A place out of time. Now the barriers receded as Doug came running around the bend in the path, his long coat flapping around his legs.

  ‘I’m so sorry. You’re right – I shouldn’t have said any of that. I’ve rung Mark and Annabel to cancel tonight. Let’s just go home, open a bottle of wine and curl up on the couch.’

  He looked at her again, misreading the anguish and confusion written all over her face. Drops of blood beaded on his hand like a string of pearls where brambles had torn the skin.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ellie.’

  She kissed him, but only to stop him talking. Her eyes sidled over his shoulder down the path. The fisherman had
vanished.

  Doug had followed her gaze. He pulled back a little. ‘Who was that man you were with? He wasn’t giving you any trouble was he?’

  ‘He just wanted directions.’

  He accepted the lie. Ellie let him take her arm and escort her back towards Oxford, pretending that the fight was all that had upset her. Delicate ridges of pink clouds furrowed the blue sky; an owl hooted from somewhere in the thicket.

  She’d never felt so lost.

  XIV

  Normandy, 1135

  GORNEMANT CAN TELL I’m on edge. He says I show too much anger on the practice field. When we spar, I fight wildly and lose often, which only makes me angrier. Gornemant thinks it’s impatience. He’s seen it happen to all squires left kicking their heels too long, waiting for their spurs. He thinks I need a war to lift me. But God smiles on his people that year: all Christendom is at peace. I could take the Cross and go to fight for Jesus in the Holy Land, but I don’t have enough money for the journey.

  And the truth is, I want to stay in Hautfort. All the hours of drudgery are worth it for my glimpses of Ada. To leave her would be desolation. At dinner, I can stand behind my lord Guy’s table for hours, just to be close to her. If she speaks to me, I carry her words with me like a treasure boxed in my heart. If she ignores me, I despair. I recall everything I have ever said or done to her, wondering what might have offended her. I tear my mind out wondering if she’ll ever forgive me. And the next morning she gives me a smile, or her hand brushes mine as I help her mount her palfrey, and I’m insane with hope again.

  I know I’m deluding myself. Ada has no idea: she’d be horrified if she knew what I’m thinking. Neither of us would ever betray Guy: my lord, her master. But I’m trapped in a dream, an enchantment, and for the moment I have no will to break it.

  An August day, a cloudless sky. The whole world is limp with the heat. Gornemant had us in the lists all morning in full armour, charging and skirmishing until we were ready to drop. My hair’s as wet as a dog’s; my hands are sticky with the pine resin I rubbed on so my damp hands wouldn’t drop my sword. I stink of sweat, horse, leather and oil. If I don’t cool off soon, I think I might boil away.

  I strip off my clothes and dive into the stream by the apple orchard. The first fruits are beginning to ripen on the trees, but there’s no one here to pick them. The labourers are all in the fields bringing in the harvest. Guy’s gone to inspect the new mill he got with Ada’s dowry. Apart from the birds, I might be the only person alive.

  When I’ve washed, I haul myself out and lie naked on the grass. The sun dries me quickly; bees and hummingbirds flit about over my head. Black spots dance in front of my eyes.

  I’m hungry. I pull on a clean tunic and walk along the stream, looking for an early apple, or perhaps some mushrooms. I haven’t gone twenty paces when I see her, sitting alone at the edge of the water in a plain green dress. I didn’t notice her arrive; I wonder how long she’s been there. Did she see …?

  To hide my embarrassment, I study the undergrowth on the far side of the stream. I see a hazel and a honeysuckle, their stems and branches twined and knotted together, and I say, ‘Do you know the story about those?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘They grew on the graves of Tristan and Yseult. King Mark burned them down three times, but the hazel and the honeysuckle always grew back.’

  She rolls over on her stomach and peers at her reflection in the water. ‘That sounds like the end of the story. Tell me from the beginning.’

  I might as well not have bothered with the swim. I’m sweating into my clean tunic more than I ever sweated under my armour. I should go, plead some chore that Gornemant has for me. I can’t trust myself.

  I sit down on the bank, what I hope is a respectful distance away.

  ‘Long ago, when Arthur was king …’

  The words are a key, unlocking my anxiety. They relax me; I find I can go on. My mother never told me the tale, but I have heard it many times in Guy’s hall. I’m surprised Ada doesn’t know it.

  None of the troubadors I’ve heard entirely agreed with each other, and mine is changed again.

  ‘Tristan was a knight from Lyonesse, who served his uncle, King Mark of Cornwall.

  In my mind, uncle Mark is a fat oaf in a vair-fur cloak that leaves powder on the table.

  ‘Mark sent him to Ireland to fetch his bride, Yseult the Blonde. Yseult was the fairest maid in all Britain.’

  From the corner of my eye, I see Ada winding a lock of her golden hair around her finger. Is she seeing Yseult as I do, with soft blue eyes and a dimple on her chin, lying on a riverbank among the camomile?

  ‘Yseult’s mother was a sorceress. To ensure a happy marriage, she concocted a love potion and gave it to Yseult’s maid for the wedding night. But on the ship from Ireland, Tristan grew thirsty. He found the bottle and thought it was wine; he drank it. Yseult found him in the cabin and asked to share his drink. She didn’t know what it was.’

  ‘Where was the maid?’ Ada asks archly.

  ‘The story doesn’t say. Tristan and Yseult stared into each other’s eyes, and at that moment they fell headlong in love. The walls of the boat seemed to melt away and all they knew was each other.’

  I don’t know where Ada’s looking. At that moment, I am very deliberately not staring into her eyes. I’m dizzy; the sun is hot on my skin; I drank too much beer at lunchtime. I’m desperate to make her understand, to tear down the cautious walls of protocol and speak truthfully.

  Ada pulls the petals off a daisy and tosses them onto the water. ‘It must have been a strong potion.’

  ‘When they reached Cornwall, Yseult was married to King Mark. But on her wedding night she crept away from the marriage bed to be with Tristan. She had her maid take her place with the King. In the dark, he didn’t know the difference. Before dawn, Yseult stole back.’

  ‘It sounds horrible. So dishonest.’

  ‘She was in thrall to the potion. They both were.’ I’m quick to defend them. In the stream, a brown trout noses against the current. He doesn’t move; he barely twitches his fins. I’m the same, forcing myself to be still in the face of the vast currents swirling about me.

  ‘Eventually, the lovers grew careless. Rumours circulated. King Mark’s advisors went to the king and warned him he was being cuckolded by his nephew. So Mark set a trap. When Yseult went to bed, he had his servant scatter flour on the floor. He thought it would show up any footprints left in the night.’

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘Yseult saw the trap and warned Tristan. But his love was so strong he couldn’t resist her. He leaped from the doorway and landed on Yseult’s bed in a single bound.’

  ‘Was that love?’ Ada’s sceptical. ‘It sounds more like plain lust.’

  I blush. I’m furiously aware that she’s far more experienced than I am in this area. Suddenly my story of the lovers seems false, like an ill-tuned harp. Embarrassment ties my tongue. I turn away.

  ‘Go on,’ Ada says gently. ‘I want to hear how it ends.’

  ‘In his leap, Tristan had opened a wound he was carrying from his last battle. He cleared the flour, but three drops of blood fell and landed in it. When Mark found them next morning, he had the two lovers arrested for treason.

  ‘He imprisoned Tristan in a tower on the edge of a high cliff. But Tristan managed to pull open the bars on the window and leap down onto the beach. Because he was innocent, God made sure he was unhurt.’

  Ada raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t think Tristan was innocent.

  ‘His squire found him and fetched his horse. Just as Mark was about to set the pyre under Yseult, Tristan galloped into the courtyard. He cut Yseult free from the stake and pulled her onto his saddle. They rode away into the forest where King Mark’s men couldn’t find them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they lived happily ever after.’

  She throws a pebble at me. ‘Cheat. That’s not the ending I know.’

  It’s not
the ending I know either. That has a poisoned wound; Tristan lying in agony waiting for a ship with white sails to announce Yseult has come to heal him; Yseult dying over his corpse as she arrives too late. But I don’t want that ending on a summer’s day that smells of honeysuckle.

  I throw the pebble back at her. ‘If you’re the storyteller, you get to choose how it ends.’

  XV

  London

  ‘TALHOUETT HOLDINGS SA owns a thirty-five per cent stake in a Romanian mining operator which is currently on trial accused of massive arsenic spillages into the Danube basin.’

  Ellie sipped her water. Her mouth felt dry as dust. In the conference room in front of her, a dozen men stared at her from around an oval table. These were the board of Monsalvat Bank: a monochrome conclave of white men and black suits, grey hair and hard grey faces. Blanchard’s tie, deep crimson, was the only colour in the room, as if a vandal had splashed paint across an ancient photograph. Some watched from behind hooded lids, half closed; others pored over the table and wrote indecipherable notes. Several eyed her as if she were something on a menu.

  ‘The stake doesn’t appear anywhere in their published accounts because, under Luxembourg law, it isn’t considered a controlling stake. But under Romanian law, as the largest shareholder, they’re liable for any damages.’

  ‘Do the other bidders know this?’ demanded a balding man with liver spots on his skull. Flecks of spittle flew as he talked.

  ‘I don’t think so. The only reference I found was a letter in an unopened personnel file.’

  ‘The letter is no longer there,’ Blanchard added. Ellie cringed. She remembered the hard corners of the paper tucked in the waist of her skirt, the terror it would rustle or fall out as the data-room guard looked her over. If the men in the room guessed what she’d done, they didn’t seem troubled by it.

  ‘What are the chances of a conviction?’ fired in a hatchet-faced man on the other side of the table.

  ‘Romania’s under a lot of pressure from Europe to prove that they’re getting serious about environmental regulation. A high-level prosecution team from Germany have flown out to help them secure a conviction. If they find out Talhouett’s involved it’ll make a politically attractive target. It’s not a local firm, and it’ll send a message internationally.’