The Book of Whispers Read online

One demon in particular catches my interest. It can only be the demon of the book, drawn in great detail. Its large ears, long nose and something about the angle of its face suggest that it’s cleverer than demons I’ve met before. Beneath it, there’s a cluster of words. Some look like the images the Egyptians used, and others like clusters of dashes and swirls. The Roman letters of my own Latin script are used to write words in a strange language.

  I run my fingers over the page. The vellum is odd. The ink looks raised, like my mother’s embroidery, as if the words haven’t quite soaked in.

  In Latin script, the word beneath the demon reads Tutivillus.

  ‘Tutivillus,’ I murmur.

  The demon of the book moves closer. With its approach, the air warms and the stench of sulphur and rotting fruit intensifies. The demon’s lips glisten.

  I remember the exorcism rite. Monsignor Ramberti named the demons he said possessed me. Knowing their names, he said, gave him power to command those demons.

  I know the name of the demon of the book. Tutivillus. The book’s ancient vellum gave me that information. Will it tell me how to use it?

  Tutivillus stops repeating my name.

  The next page displays a series of alluring, dark-haired, fair-skinned women lying near turbulent water. Men aboard a storm-tossed ship gaze longingly at them while powerful waves force their vessel towards dangerous rocks.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ I breathe.

  Father laughs. ‘They’re sirens. You’re meant to find them irresistible. Legend says they lure sailors to their deaths.’

  I understand how these sailors could be lured. An intense feeling of yearning sweeps over me, just looking at the images.

  Although the book’s first half is decorated with bright illuminations, as detailed as in the Bible at the Collegiata di Santa Maria Assunta in town, many pages in the second half are blank.

  I reach out to turn the pages, but Father nudges my hand away. ‘I won’t pretend to understand it, Luca, but this book is a powerful thing. Seeing too much of it at once has sickened stronger minds than ours.’

  As soon as the leather covers are closed, the clasp snaps shut. Father rewraps it in the scarves. I suppress the urge to stop him. That’s not an argument we need to have right now. The book will be here forever. But I have only a short while to convince him to let me go with him.

  ‘I’ve heard other legends about the book,’ he says. ‘I was told one member of our family will read it.’

  ‘They’d have to learn the language.’

  ‘The story is they’ll know it without lessons.’ Father replaces the book and closes the cabinet door. ‘A further legend says the book can’t be stolen while its owner lives. It can only be given.’

  ‘Has anyone tried?’

  ‘Many people. They died.’

  ‘How?’ I watch Father closely. He’s looking at Tutivillus. Not in the direction of Tutivillus, but at Tutivillus. Father can see the demon.

  He blinks and shakes his head, as if he’s just remembered something.

  ‘Father!’ I say, stepping forwards. ‘You see…’

  Tutivillus is listening.

  Father frowns. ‘I see what?’

  I shrug, to throw Tutivillus off the scent.

  ‘Luca, you need to remember what happens to people who claim to have visions,’ Father says.

  I realise it then: Father sees demons, but won’t admit it. Certainly not to me. Maybe not even to himself.

  Tutivillus retreats to the corner and the shadows. I climb the ladder first and wait for Father to follow, then lower the trapdoor into place. In silence, we kick hay over the top.

  After we have closed the stable gate, I ask, ‘Why have you never mentioned this to me?’

  ‘I abhor the fashion for collecting relics,’ Father says.

  I nod. I’ve heard him say this before, shaking his head at the bone fragments and discarded saints’ robes venerated both at the Collegiata and in our neighbours’ private chapels.

  ‘Collecting such things is a pastime for fools,’ Father continues. ‘The book is not a relic. It is more than nail clippings from a saint, Luca. My father gave it to me and his father gave it to him. St Marco, I was told, brought it here from Venice. But we’re nearly home. I don’t want Anna and Gemma to hear about this. They have enough worries.’

  At the kitchen door, he continues, ‘I’m glad I have a son I can trust.’

  I need to disappoint Father in order to save him. But I have to turn away so he can’t see the shame on my face.

  Narlo lurks in a bend in the staircase leading to our sleeping chambers. ‘You can enjoy your little secrets,’ he sneers, ‘while you’re stuck here pretending you deserve your privileges and I’m riding to the Holy Land.’

  I hear a strange tinkling at his feet, tiny footsteps, and look down. Narlo has spurs he wears all the time, as if he’s afraid people will forget he’s a knight. Now I see there’s a demon attached to his left spur. Skinny, sickly green and barely reaching his knee, it has some female body parts. Like an insect, it walks on six legs, each tipped with a sharp talon. It digs one of these into Narlo with each word he says.

  For the first time, I feel sympathy for my cousin. If this demon is attacking him all the time, no wonder his behaviour seems so poisonous.

  I brush Narlo off and climb to my chamber. My room’s demon lurks in the corner, beside the relic of St Geminianus I was given when I learned to ride. It also looks fully materialised. Has opening that book changed how I see demons? Will they be visible all the time?

  In bed, I try to clear the image of those red eyes from my mind. I need rest. Tomorrow, my tutors will expect me to perform well.

  In the morning, I realise just how much everything has changed. Gazing around my chamber, I see virtually every valuable object has a demon attached. I’ve always seen my sword with two shadows: the normal one moves in opposition to the light, but another one hangs from the hilt. And now I see that the second shadow is a demon the size and length of an eel. Long, narrow wings, like a dragonfly’s, run down its scaly, segmented back. Its eyes gleam red. It’s attached to the sword with a cord, the way just-born sheep are attached to their mothers. I force myself to look away, only to see small demons attached to family portraits hung near the arched doorway. My door is open. Other demons dance in the hall beyond, attached to objects stored in an oak chest.

  Looking at the book has affected my vision. I’m used to seeing demons by now but these aren’t creatures of shadows. Not any more. These ones look as physical as the stable cats. They look as physical as every demon has looked since I first opened the book beneath the stable. My eyes are open.

  For the next few days, I try to talk to Father, again, about the pilgrimage. He has to let me go! But he is constantly busy. Meanwhile, my curiosity about the book continues to grow.

  One evening after vespers, Father retreats to his study with a group of vassal knights making plans for their farms while they’re away, and curiosity finally gets the better of me.

  I sneak out of my chamber and back down to the stable. Overhead, stars of the Via Lactia are a splash of creamy brilliance. I find an oil lamp that Desi has left behind. I take it and make my way to the deserted stall and concealed trapdoor.

  The chamber beneath looks just as we left it. I hold my hand between the flame and Tutivillus, hoping the demon won’t waken. Very slowly, I open the cabinet door. It doesn’t creak. Perhaps Father has oiled the hinges since our last visit. I take the parcel out and unwrap the scarves. The book opens easily for me. I see again the demon images and the words that, frustratingly, I can’t read. I find the poem repeating the number thirty. On the vellum opposite, a map shows places I know: San Gimignano, Rome, Constantinople, Jerusalem. I touch my finger against the city drawn there, feeling guilty but determined to go.

  What was that? A noise in the stable?

  I close and rewrap the book, returning it and heading back towards the rope ladder. I’m less careful with noise
now. Tutivillus wakes and watches me lazily from the corner. I climb into the stall above and shut the trapdoor, then run. When I reach the stable door, Narlo is standing there, smirking.

  ‘He won’t let you go, you know,’ he says. He must think I’ve been staring resentfully at the pilgrimage preparations.

  I push past him and walk back to my chamber. I can’t check on the book again. I need Father to believe I’ve changed, that I’m trustworthy, mature, responsible and will do what I’m told. Maybe then there’s a chance he’ll change his mind.

  Two sevennights pass in a kind of limbo. On the morning of the planned vow-taking at the Collegiata, I dress in silence. Pushing my arms through my heavy jack, a waistcoat with quilting thicker than my finger, I slide my double-edged sword into its scabbard and tie it to my waist. I imagine my father in his own distant chamber, also climbing into his hose, tying the laces around his legs, pulling on his linen tunic, searching for matching leather slippers. Until now, he must have thought the greatest tragedy of his life was having an heir influenced by demons and possibly unfit to run his family estate. Until now, all I wanted to do was convince him that I deserve to be the future Conte de Falconi. I hurt for him.

  After matins we go to the front hall, where a manservant waits, holding our cloaks. Narlo turns up late, complaining he can’t find the brooch that keeps his cloak closed. ‘A servant must have taken it!’

  Father sighs. ‘It’s not the right day to accuse people of sin, Narlo. Borrow one of mine.’

  The brooch Father lends him is far finer than any Narlo has owned before. Narlo has a satisfied gleam in his eye as he pins the gold falcon into place. I know it will never be returned. But what disturbs me most is that now I see the brooch has a demon too, the shape of a small lizard. Like the demon of the book, this demon’s eyes radiate, as if it’s proud of itself, like Narlo is proud of the brooch.

  Two grooms bring our horses to the villa and Father, Narlo, Gemma and I ride uphill to the gates of San Gimignano. We ride quietly. Behind us, the grooms are also quiet. Today, at the Collegiata di Santa Maria Assunta, they too will take their pilgrimage vows.

  Our town has frequently been at war with nearby Siena and Volterra, and has high stone walls for protection. Today, the gates are open. There will be no more local strife, everyone says, now all Christendom has the Holy City as a common goal. Near the church, we meet a couple of knights, vassals owing loyalty to Father. They have also agreed to go.

  ‘Good morrow,’ Father says.

  ‘Is your sword sharpened and ready?’ asks Sir Bottiglio. He’s close to my age, newly married and inclined to be very proper.

  Sir Bottiglio’s wife, Bianca, has come with him. A small blond woman, she shakes her horse’s reins with tiny hands, making her jewelled rings sparkle as she rides closer to Orestes.

  ‘Have you heard from Serafina lately?’ I ask her. Serafina, my oldest friend, is Bianca’s sister. She and the rest of their family followed Peter the Hermit out of Tuscany some moons ago, to travel overland through the Holy Roman Empire.

  ‘Not lately.’ Bianca gives me a meaningful look that I don’t like. Neither Serafina nor I ever shared our families’ hopes that we would marry. ‘I’m sorry, Luca. I’ll tell you as soon as I do.’

  We pass through the open town gate and make our way down narrowing streets to the Collegiata, a colossal church built of simple honey-coloured stone. It was designed, Father once told me, so the plainness of the exterior, when compared to the glories inside, would remind us that to God the soul matters more than the body. I pass Orestes’ reins to Desi, who will see him stabled before returning to the church.

  At the Collegiata’s arched doorway, I freeze.

  The cavernous church interior that I’ve known all my life has become a foreign place—a world overtaken by demons. Soaring walls are dotted with niches filled with oil lamps, candles and religious relics. These include the preserved heads and feet of saints, vials of saints’ blood and scraps of cloth from dresses reputed to have been worn by the Virgin Mary. Now I see for the first time that a demon is attached to each relic. These demons seem to exist in species, as different from one another as sheep are from cows. Some are feathered, others scaly, green-skinned or nearly human in shape. When people pass, oblivious, demons bare sharp teeth. Some breathe little puffs of flame. Their monstrous forms are attached to every painting, every relic, some even to bags people carry.

  Father walks ahead, after the merest pause. Since our visit to the book in the cellar, I’ve been sure he sees demons. I’ll ask him sometime, but now we have another conflict to face.

  We stand together near a semicircle of stone pillars that support the nave’s high arch. The nearest relic is the dried head of an ancient nun. When we were very young, Gemma and I called her St Horror. Now I see a shadowy cord falling from St Horror’s mouth, leading to a crouching demon, the shape of a poor woman, bent with age. Raised wings cover its head. Its chest seems damp as though from uncontrolled tears. A small child passes it and the demon sobs, baring a set of broken fangs that, fortunately, the child doesn’t see.

  Father pauses and turns to face me. Unlike other knights, who enter with much excitement and barely repressed laughter, Father wears a grim expression. He soon loses himself in quiet thought and prayer.

  Gemma leans against a vividly coloured fresco showing demons ripping two women apart as they descend to Hell. ‘They go to fight Saracens and we stay here to fight…accounts on wax tablets,’ she complains.

  I gaze around the Collegiata, trying to feel brave rather than guilty. All sins are to be forgiven for members of God’s army, marching to Jerusalem. All sins. Perhaps even mine.

  A bell tolls and the church’s heavy doors swing wide open. Preceded by two small altar boys, the priest enters. Monsignor Dragonus Ramberti. My torturer.

  Ramberti usually wears a peaked biretta for a hat, along with a simple black cassock, covered with a plain brown cloak to keep out the cold. But today he’s donned white vestments heavily embroidered with pearls and other jewels. He has reddish-brown hair flecked with strands of silver, teeth as crooked as a broken fence and a prominent beak-like nose. He’s so tall, elders claim our city’s planned towers are designed to honour him.

  Dark creatures trail him as he approaches the altar. I’ve always seen him in a crowd of shadows, but now I see their demonic faces. Each ring he wears is connected to a demon, some the size of cats, others as small as moths. The pearls edging his train drag tiny creatures that squirm and squeal. Many demons tethered to his belongings look like young men and women, with seemingly beautiful faces that require only a shift in the light to be revealed as sharp, angry, starving. They hold their chins high with pride.

  Ramberti reaches the front of the church and, still facing the altar, begins to speak. Few in the congregation understand Latin. The service must be very dull to everyone else.

  Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei,

  novi et aeterni testamenti: mysterium fidei.

  ‘The blood and the sacred cup from which we can drink to cleanse ourselves of sin,’ says Ramberti, ‘as we prepare for this pilgrimage to cleanse the earth of Saracen infidels.’

  As we prepare?

  Ramberti is coming too?

  I avoid Father’s eye as we stand, as we kneel. I receive communion with a fear that the body, the blood of our Lord will poison my tongue for the sin of deception. It tastes of bread and watered-down wine. The demon draping the cup is as dark as the one in the cellar beneath the stable. Growths the size of grapes protrude from its chest.

  After communion Ramberti turns to face us all and raises his hands to speak. ‘Among us are men and women ready to join me in fulfilling Pope Urban the Second’s command to rescue the Holy Sepulchre Church in Jerusalem,’ he says. ‘Within the next two moons, they begin their journey. Those people are invited to the altar. Stand.’

  Whispers echo around the cathedral. The stained-glass saints and the painted angels look on, benignly. Demon
s scurry and titter.

  Father stands. Narlo stands.

  I take a deep breath…then stand too.

  Father turns, hand raised. ‘No! Luca, you stay here.’

  I clench my jaw and remain standing.

  Other men and women from our parish, including Sir Bottiglio and Bianca, have already gone forwards to the altar. Father rests his hand on my arm.

  Monsignor Ramberti coughs meaningfully.

  ‘Luca?’ Father asks.

  This is it. This is the moment. I clear my throat. ‘Father,’ I murmur.

  Knowledge of what I mean to do passes over Father’s face like a shadow behind stained glass.

  ‘I go with you,’ I say.

  ‘Luca!’ hisses Gemma. She leans towards me, her brown curls all but obscuring the demons on the wall. I shake my head at her.

  ‘I have to do this,’ I whisper.

  I know what I’m doing. I know Father won’t make a scene here and, afterwards, can’t force me to break a vow I have made before a priest and before God.

  Father closes his eyes for a long moment, during which he seems to accept what he cannot change. When he opens them, he nods without looking at me.

  Together we walk to the altar and kneel before the priest, as others also come forwards.

  ‘Onorato, the Conte de Falconi,’ says Monsignor Ramberti as he draws a cross in the air over Father’s head. ‘Sir Luca de Falconi.’ He draws a cross above mine. ‘Narlo de Falconi. God has chosen you and we give thanks for the blessings you’ll each suffer as you earn your place at the table of saints.’

  Ramberti crosses to our side and also kneels. An altar boy steps forwards. From the altar he lifts what looks like a white apron, stitched with a large red cross. He walks in front of us and passes the garment to Ramberti, who removes his vestments and lays them on the altar before slipping the simple cotton tunic over his cassock. When he kneels again, the altar boy passes a tunic to Father, and others to Narlo and me. These are our pilgrimage uniforms. First, for many moons, we will wear them with the large red crosses facing the front. Only once Jerusalem is saved will we reverse them, so the red crosses decorate our backs as we ride homeward. In this way, the crusader cross will always face the Holy City.