by Paul Doherty
‘Why, Colum?’
‘Why what, Kathryn?’
‘Why did they take the receptacle?’
‘Perhaps that, too, was precious. Perhaps the thief thought it was easier?’
They heard a door open further up the church. Prior Barnabas, Brother Ralph hurrying behind, padded softly down the nave towards them. The Prior had his hands hidden up the sleeves of his voluminous grey gown which flapped around him. Both friars were clearly not pleased at their unexpected visitors.
‘If you had told us you were coming, Mistress Swinbrooke.’ Prior Barnabas stopped and bowed. ‘However, I understand you have been at Ingoldby Hall. A hideous business. More deaths, I understand?’
He explained how Lady Elizabeth’s retainers had visited the church a short while earlier to see what progress had been made in recovering the Lacrima Christi.
‘And has there been?’
The Prior’s dark eyes in his lined, leathery face remained flint hard. He shook his head.
‘How can there be?’ Brother Ralph spoke up, his pasty face all tight with annoyance. ‘If we knew where the Lacrima Christi was . . .?’ He let his words hang in the air.
‘Can you open the chantry chapel?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Yes, I hold the key now.’
Prior Barnabas unlocked the door. Kathryn entered, her boots sinking deep into the thick, soft red carpet. She felt as if she were entering a different world; the red carpet seemed to glow as well as deaden all sound. She walked up the altar steps and closely examined the silver chain. She gave it a slight tug to find that it was strong and held fast. The same was true of the hook; one end went through the chain while the other was used to hold the precious relic.
‘Was this chain specially bought?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ Prior Barnabas retorted. ‘Brother Crispin, our almoner, ordered it specially from a craftsman in the city.’
‘And the relic-holder?’
‘Again, Brother—’
‘Crispin purchased it.’ Kathryn finished the sentence for him. ‘I was wondering,’ she continued, ‘why the thief simply didn’t take the ruby out from its receptacle?’
‘It was held secure,’ Prior Barnabas explained. ‘The thief would have had to pull.’
‘So.’ Kathryn tapped the hook. ‘It would have been easier just to unhook both container and ruby?’
‘Of course,’ Prior Barnabas hurriedly agreed.
‘And Brother Ralph?’ Kathryn looked round the Prior at the infirmarian; he stood in the doorway, peering back down the nave as if anxious to go. ‘Do you or any of your brothers have any idea how this ruby was taken?’
‘Such questions should be directed to me,’ Prior Barnabas declared pompously. He moved slightly as if to avoid Kathryn’s searching gaze.
‘Prior, I mean no offence. A precious relic, a costly ruby has been stolen. I believe Brother Ralph kept the vigil with you. I would like to have words with him, about the theft, and with Brother Simon the sacristan about the disappearance of your sanctuary man, Laus Tibi.’
Prior Barnabas’s face relaxed. ‘A wily rogue, Mistress. Somehow or other he slipped from the church. Brother Ralph!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Ask Simon to join us.’
A short while later the fussy, bleary-eyed sacristan came hurrying down the church, his loose sandals flapping against the flagstones. He still carried a candle knife used for trimming the wax.
‘What is it now? What is it now?’ he exclaimed.
‘I wish to refresh my memory.’ Kathryn sat down on the altar steps and stared up at these three friars. ‘The Lacrima Christi was in this chapel, barred and locked, secure against any thief. On the day it was stolen it was taken down for a while,’ she pointed to the iron-bound coffer in the corner, ‘and placed in there. Later on Prior Barnabas rehung both the container and its precious burden.’ She pointed at the silver chain. ‘It hung there like a pyx does before the altar. Prior Barnabas locked the door to the chantry chapel, the bars were pulled across, and the keys were handed to you, Brother Simon. Prior Barnabas and Brother Ralph maintained their vigil until it was discovered that the Lacrima Christi was stolen. What actually happened, Brother?’ She pointed at the infirmarian.
‘Oh, quite easy. I have been through it many times.’ Brother Ralph almost chanted his words. ‘Father Prior was at the prie-dieu, I was kneeling behind him. My knees were beginning to ache so I rose for a short walk. I passed the door and peered through the grille. I could see the chain and the hook but nothing else. I thought my eyes were deceiving me so I called over Father Prior. He immediately—’
‘I immediately,’ the Prior intervened, ‘sent Brother Ralph to raise the alarm and fetch the keys.’
‘I brought them.’ Brother Ralph raised a hand. ‘I watched you unlock the door and pull back the bolts, and so did the other brothers.’
‘I went inside,’ the Prior continued. ‘Well, the chantry chapel was as you find it now.’
‘And the sanctuary man?’
‘Ah,’ Prior Barnabas replied. ‘He was standing near the door to the rood screen, eyes popping, mouth gaping. I told him to go back.’
Kathryn rose to her feet; the friars stood aside as she walked up the nave. The choir had stopped singing and dispersed. Kathryn walked up through the screen door and across the broad sanctuary. The Mercy Chair was built into a recess in the wall on the left, just behind the high altar. She went across and sat down in the chair as the others followed her in. Kathryn watched the incense haze and recalled the legend that these were really angels passing through the church.
‘Did Laus Tibi have a hand in that robbery?’ she asked.
Prior Barnabas genuflected towards the pyx and sat on the bottom of the altar steps, head slightly turned as if distracted by something else.
‘That’s what they say.’ Brother Simon spoke up. ‘He must have been a cunning rogue, Mistress. I brought him his food last night: bread, cheese and some wine. He was sitting there all forlorn and miserable. I served him food and locked the church.’
‘You are sure every door was secured?’
‘At the end of Compline,’ Prior Barnabas explained, ‘the doors are already locked, except for those which lead through to the sacristy and to the priory, two thick oaken doors, Mistress, locked and barred from the other side. When we rose at dawn the next day to sing the Divine Office the doors were still locked and bolted.’ The Prior pointed down to the choir stalls on either side of the approach to the sanctuary. ‘The brothers had filed in, the singing had begun. Brother Dominic the Subprior whispered he couldn’t see the sanctuary man. Once Divine Office was finished I ordered the church to be searched, but there was no trace of Laus Tibi. The bailiffs outside had kept strict watch; their anger can only be imagined.’
‘They even stopped brothers leaving the church,’ Brother Ralph explained, ‘just in case the thief had stolen one of our cowled robes. It wasn’t till midday they realised the bird had flown its nest.’
Kathryn shook her head.
‘And you searched the entire church?’
‘Mistress, if a sparrow was hiding we’d have discovered it.’
Kathryn turned to the sacristan. ‘Brother Simon, I would be grateful for your help. I need to talk to your colleagues on another matter.’
The sacristan looked at the Prior who nodded. Kathryn sat picking at a loose thread on her gown.
‘Well, Mistress?’
‘Were you ever in Constantinople?’
Prior Barnabas blinked. ‘I was, and so was Brother Ralph and a number of brothers in our community. You must remember, Mistress Swinbrooke, before it fell to the Turks, Constantinople held great shrines. I wager at least six score men and women in Canterbury, of a certain age, visited that fabulous city.’
‘So, you both went there as pilgrims?’
‘Not together,’ Brother Ralph attempted to joke. ‘I wanted to be a physician. The hospitals of Constantinople, their leeches and apothecaries were famous.�
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‘And you, Father Prior?’
‘A wandering troubadour.’ The Prior tried to be offhand. ‘Once I was an armourer.’ He shrugged. ‘Like carpenters, glaziers, free men with skills.’ He emphasised the words. ‘Or mercenaries.’ He glanced quickly at Colum. ‘We follow our path wherever it leads.’
‘Have you seen the Lacrima Christi before?’
‘No,’ Prior Barnabas retorted.
‘Or met Lord Maltravers?’
‘Not until I came here.’
‘Brother Ralph, you tended Sir Walter last winter, when he had stomach gripes?’
‘I did,’ the infirmarian agreed. ‘He suffered blood in his stools, vomiting and retching. I treated him with certain herbs and regulated his diet. After a number of weeks the symptoms ceased.’
Kathryn smiled at this pasty-faced infirmarian who, despite his nervousness, was probably a very good leech and a skilful physician.
‘How did you treat him?’
‘As I said, different herbs, camomile, peppermint . . .’
‘Was it an infection?’
Brother Ralph shook his head. ‘Mistress, I cannot say. In my studies I have found the humours of some people are hostile to certain foods. You’ve read the same?’
‘I’ve heard of the theory,’ she replied.
‘Certain foods,’ Brother Ralph continued, immersed in the subject he loved, ‘disturb the balance of humours in specific individuals. Surely, Mistress, you have met people who take one goblet of wine and suffer mawmsey?’
‘I have met many who have taken ten cups and suffered the same symptoms.’ She smiled.
‘Sir Walter’s belly may have been hostile to certain foods,’ Brother Ralph continued. ‘I told him to fast for three days, drink clear spring water and, in the future, avoid milk, cream and certain breads. Sir Walter followed my diet and claimed he was much better.’
‘But the blood?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Perhaps a fistula in his anus?’
‘And the day Sir Walter died?’ Colum intervened.
‘That was my responsibility,’ Prior Barnabas replied. ‘I was so embarrassed at the loss of the Lacrima Christi, I despatched Brother Ralph to Sir Walter, to offer him our apologies.’
‘But he refused to see you?’
‘I’d heard of his Friday penance.’ The infirmarian shrugged. ‘But I had forgotten. I must have arrived at Ingoldby Hall just before noon. I was met by Thurston and Father John; they were courteous enough, though they showed their displeasure at the loss of the sacred ruby.’
‘Did you notice anything untoward,’ Kathryn asked, ‘in your journey to and from Ingoldby or whilst at the hall?’
‘No.’ The infirmarian went and picked up a small stool from the far side of the sanctuary, came back and sat down. ‘A beautiful morning, Mistress. I took a cob from the priory stables. The roads were empty, the hall peaceful and quiet, servants going about their duties. I went round to the rear door; Lady Elizabeth was in the arbour of flowers. Sir Walter was out in the great meadow. Father John was most insistent that he should not be disturbed.’
‘Ah yes, Father John.’ She glanced up at the Prior. ‘Did Sir Walter ever come here to be shriven?’
‘I absolved him on two occasions. But, as you know,’ the Prior added hastily, ‘the seal of confession means I cannot discuss what he told me in the sacrament.’
‘So, he told you something?’
‘Sir Walter was a very worried man. He suffered dark thoughts.’
‘Did he ever discuss the Athanatoi?’
‘I’ve heard the rumours but Sir Walter was . . .’ The Prior paused. ‘Certain people, Mistress Swinbrooke, have a melancholic disposition. Brother Ralph talked of an imbalance of the humours. I used to urge Sir Walter to pray more, put his trust in Christ.’
‘But you had heard of Sir Walter’s reputation?’ Colum asked. ‘Were you at Towton, Father?’
‘Yes and no,’ the Prior replied. ‘That’s where I met Brother Ralph. Leeches and armourers follow armies. I would say we were on the fringe of the battlefield. Neither he nor I could give a fig for the House of Lancaster or York.’
‘Did you know each other then?’
‘It was only when we came here that we shared our experiences, but I saw the battlefield. The dead piled high.’ The Prior blew his lips out. ‘Men groaning and shrieking, the wounded being despatched. Men hanging from the branches of trees. It was Palm Sunday. I could never forget those hideous sights on such a holy day. I journeyed to London and decided to enter the Order. Brother Ralph had travelled on to Carlisle and made the same decision. The good brothers in London let me stay for a while. I proved to be a good scholar so they sent me to our Mother House in Italy. I returned and served in a number of our communities. Eighteen months ago I came here.’
‘Brother Ralph, did Sir Walter ever talk to you?’
‘Oh, gossip and chatter. Sir Walter was a closed book: you only saw the covers and the edge of the pages lying within. I liked the man, even respected him, but I no more knew him than I do you, Mistress Swinbrooke.’
‘Father Prior, did you buy that pyx?’ Kathryn pointed to the round silver casket holding the sacred host. ‘I noticed the Greek symbols on it.’
‘No, that was a gift from Sir Walter. Now, Mistress, we do have other . . .’
The door leading into the sanctuary burst open and Brother Simon came through, cloak flapping.
‘Father Prior! Father Prior!’ he gasped. ‘You must see this!’
‘See what?’
‘Come on! Come on!’ Brother Simon turned and called to someone in the sacristy.
A burly, thickset man came shuffling into the sanctuary. He was dressed in a costly cote-hardie, though this was buttoned wrongly in an attempt to hide the rather grimy shirt and hose beneath.
Kathryn got to her feet.
‘Yes?’ Father Prior asked. ‘What is so urgent?’
The man opened his leather bag and took out a shiny red piece of plate formed like a square C with a clasp on the top. Kathryn recognised what it was even as the Prior took it from the man’s hand.
‘It’s the receptacle,’ Brother Ralph exclaimed, ‘which held the Lacrima Christi!’
The Prior was turning it over and over in his hands. He passed it wordlessly to Kathryn. It felt heavier than it looked. A piece of red, precious metal, fashioned by craftsmen, it would encase the Lacrima Christi and hold it in place on three sides, allowing the sacred ruby to be seen in all its beauty. The receptacle was about five inches long and three inches broad. The clasp at the top was a thickset circle of red bronze from which it could hang on the silver hook.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘I trade in precious metals, Father.’ The man’s lower lip jutted out, his fat face red and fiery. ‘I didn’t know what it was. . . .’
‘So, how did you find out?’
The man picked up the edge of his cloak and mopped his face.
‘I am trying to be honest.’
Brother Simon hurried away and came back with a pewter cup of water. The trader drank this greedily; when Father Prior offered him Brother Ralph’s stool, he sat down gratefully.
‘I own a shop near St. Thomas’s Hospital. Early this morning a well dressed man came in. Well, he looked well dressed: good leather jerkin, hose pushed into his boots, he wore a cloak, its cowl half pulled over his head. I can’t truly recall what he looked like but he offered this for sale. He claimed he’d been given it in Dover in payment for work done. The metal’s quite precious, and I thought that if I couldn’t resell it perhaps I could refashion it. I gave him two silver pieces.’
‘In which case you would have made a very good profit,’ Father Prior intervened.
‘Oh, I was very proud of my purchase. Then into my shop came this clerk, pixie-eared and bright-eyed. He saw it in my scales and asked for a closer look. I let him see it and the fellow began to laugh. He explained how he’d gone to Greyfriars to view the Lacrima Christi.
Didn’t I know it had been stolen and that this was the receptacle in which it was set?’
‘When was this?’ Kathryn asked.
The trader looked at her keenly. ‘You are a strange friar, Mistress . . .?’
‘Answer the question!’ Colum barked.
‘I’ll answer it for him,’ Kathryn replied. ‘You realised it had been stolen yet you’d paid good silver for it.’ Kathryn came across and patted the man’s arm. ‘Eventually, your conscience told you to do the right thing?’
The trader looked at Kathryn lugubriously.
‘Two silver pieces,’ he mumbled mournfully.
‘Brother Simon will take you to our almoner,’ Prior Barnabas ordered. ‘We will give you half of what you paid as well as remember you and yours in tomorrow’s Mass.’ He sketched a blessing in the air.
The trader looked pitifully at Kathryn, then longingly at the receptacle.
‘Next time,’ Kathryn advised, ‘pay more attention to strangers who sell you precious metals. Could you describe him?’
‘As I said, not very well; lean-faced, balding, well attired though shifty-eyed.’
‘Shifty-eyed?’ Prior Barnabas asked. ‘And you never wondered . . .?’
The trader just stared back. ‘I’d best get my money.’
He followed Brother Simon out of the sanctuary.
‘Well, well, well.’ Kathryn smiled. ‘Laus Tibi will be giving praise to God. He managed to escape from sanctuary and, somehow or other, got hold of the receptacle which held the Lacrima Christi.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t find any logical reason to explain his good fortune. Father Prior, you are sure that Laus Tibi had nothing to do with the chantry chapel of St. Michael’s?’
‘As God lives,’ the Prior replied, ‘no.’
‘At night,’ Colum remarked, ‘he could have wandered this church at will.’