The Tainted Relic

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘We leave at dawn tomorrow,’ said Pichard, after the customary greetings were exchanged. ‘I have been away for three years now, and I doubt the Pope can manage without me much longer.’ He gave the two knights a genial wink, clearly looking forward to going home.

  ‘God speed,’ said Roger, reaching out to grasp the monk’s shoulder affectionately. ‘Ride light and fast, and do not drink any water your horse will not swallow. My mother told me that, and it is advice that has always served me well.’

  ‘Are you going to Rome too?’ asked Geoffrey of Julius, thinking uneasily that he would not make an ideal travelling companion for Pichard, especially if the monk had acceded to Peter’s request to take the cursed relic with him. Julius was secretive and unreliable.

  Julius shrugged, and a crafty expression crossed his face. ‘Part of the way, perhaps. It depends on what opportunities arise as we go.’

  Roger was disparaging. ‘Not many, I imagine. We looted the best of it on the way here, and I doubt there is much left for the return journey.’

  ‘I have no time for such diversions, anyway,’ said Pichard soberly. He lowered his voice confidentially, glancing around him as he spoke, to ensure he was not overheard. ‘I have been charged with taking a relic to the Holy Father in Rome. I do not want charge of such a thing longer than absolutely necessary, and intend to travel as fast as possible.’

  ‘A relic?’ asked Julius in a way that made Geoffrey uncomfortable. ‘I heard a lock of the Virgin’s hair is still unaccounted for, and we all chipped a bit off Abraham’s Rock in the Temple Mount.’ He tapped his scrip, to indicate he carried his piece with him.

  ‘Not all of us,’ said Geoffrey pointedly.

  ‘I have a piece of the True Cross,’ said Pichard softly. ‘One that is stained with the most precious blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ.’

  Julius’s interest quickened visibly. ‘Does such a thing exist?’

  ‘It exists,’ said Roger, confidently knowledgeable. ‘My father is the Bishop of Durham, as you know, and he told me about the True Cross. For many years, no one knew what had happened to it, and it was assumed it rotted away on that hill over there.’ He indicated where he thought the site of the crucifixion might be with a vague wave of his hand. ‘But then it became known that the Virgin Mary had taken it home, chopped it into pieces, and given each of the disciples a lump.’

  ‘On her own?’ asked Julius sceptically. ‘These crosses were said to have been very large.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Roger carelessly. ‘She was a strong lady.’

  ‘I am not sure that is right,’ said Geoffrey, wondering whether the Bishop of Durham had really told Roger such a story, or whether he had heard something quite different and had embellished it to make it more interesting. ‘No one knows what happened to the cross, but the Emperor Constantine was said to have had a piece.’

  ‘My order has known for centuries that a part of it was here in Jerusalem,’ said Pichard. ‘Therefore, I was not surprised when I was asked to take a fragment to Rome.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Julius curiously.

  ‘Safe,’ replied Pichard. ‘In a place that only I know.’

  Julius looked disappointed, and Geoffrey wondered whether he should advise Pichard against taking the man with him when he travelled. But Pichard was no fool, and Geoffrey supposed he knew what he was doing.

  ‘I am glad we met, Geoffrey,’ Pichard went on, ‘because I want you to do something for me. I am clumsy with a pen, but your writing is clear and neat. Will you act as scribe for me?’ Without waiting for an answer, he rummaged in his scrip for parchment, ink and quill, which he laid out on a low wall.

  Geoffrey stepped forward obligingly, and took the proffered pen, dipping it in the ink and raising his eyebrows questioningly as he waited for Pichard to begin the dictation. It was not the first time he had been asked to write letters on the Crusade. A literate knight was unusual and, although most of his military comrades considered his education anathema, some nevertheless demanded his help on occasion. He bent over the parchment as Pichard started to speak in a low voice.

  ‘This is a fragment of the True Cross, stained with the blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, which was preserved for safe-keeping in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem…’

  Roger leaned over to watch the words forming on the parchment. ‘Aye. A relic needs a bit of writing with it, so everyone will know it is real. Sign it with your name, too, to make it look official.’

  ‘And include the date,’ added Julius helpfully. ‘That will tell everyone it was found after the rescue of the Holy City from the infidel. No one will question its authenticity then.’

  ‘And a seal,’ suggested Roger. ‘It needs a proper seal.’

  ‘I do not have one,’ said Geoffrey, whose hands were devoid of the heavy rings many men used to imprint the letters they had composed. He finished writing the Latin words in his neat round-hand, and waited for the hot evening sun to dry the ink.

  ‘Use mine, then,’ offered Roger, pulling the massive ring from his middle finger. ‘My father gave it to me after he bought himself a larger one.’

  Roger could not write, and had never needed to append a seal to any kind of document, but the ring was gold so he was fond of it. It comprised a disc similar in circumference to a silver penny, and was decorated with a cross surmounted by a mitre, to represent the Bishop of Durham’s office as prelate. Geoffrey took it and jabbed it in the middle of the heavy wax that Julius was dripping on to the bottom of his parchment.

  ‘There,’ said Julius in satisfaction. ‘Now it carries the seal of a powerful Norman bishop. No one will ever dare question its authenticity.’

  Geoffrey was not so sure, given the dubious reputation of many bishops–and Roger’s father in particular–but he held his tongue, and concentrated on waving the parchment until the wax had set. He handed the completed document to Pichard, who took it and secured it in his scrip. The compline bell jangled again, and Pichard began to move towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The others followed.

  ‘Did you hear what happened here?’ asked Roger, gazing up at the church’s odd mixture of towers and domes as he walked. ‘Miles of Clermont, who was in charge of subduing this particular area, came across an Arab who claimed he was a faithful servant of our Church–and who demanded that he and his family should be spared because of it. But Miles taught him what happens to infidels who soil our sacred things with profane hands. What did the priests imagine they were doing, allowing an Arab inside such a place?’

  ‘Tradition,’ said Pichard softly. ‘Barzak’s family had looked after the relic for years. He was a loyal servant of the Church, and Miles should not have killed him.’

  He nodded a farewell to Geoffrey and Roger, and entered the building. Julius scurried after him, and Geoffrey watched them with a troubled expression. He wished Pichard had not told Julius about the relic, and wished even more that Julius was not travelling with the monk the following morning. He also wondered whether he had been right to tell Peter that Pichard was someone who could be trusted, fearing that Pichard’s willingness to take the relic to Rome might bring him a great deal of trouble.

  He watched the two monks aim for the chancel, then followed, intending to cut through the building to reach his temporary lodgings in a lane on the other side. The evening office was already under way, and the heady scent of incense wafted along the nave. The priests clustered around the high altar, chanting a psalm, and their voices echoed through the various chapels that comprised the complex little church. It was cool inside, after the heat of the day, and Geoffrey wanted to linger, to savour the peace, but Roger had other ideas, and began regaling his friend with descriptions of a new brothel he wanted them to visit that evening. He tugged on Geoffrey’s sleeve when the knight paused, urging him to hurry.

  They left through the back door, heading for the narrow alley where their room was located, with Roger waxing lyrical on the delights to be sampled at Abdul’s Ple
asure Palace. Geoffrey listened with half an ear, more concerned with Pichard and Julius than with Roger’s analysis of Abdul’s prostitutes. He was jolted from his worries by an expletive from Roger as they were elbowed roughly out of the way by someone wearing a brown habit. Geoffrey’s first thought was that the fellow was Peter, but this man was younger and had more hair. He watched him dart towards a pile of rags, where he dropped to his knees and began a low, keening moan of distress.

  Geoffrey felt an acute sense of unease when he saw that the pile of rags was actually a second man in a brown robe, and that he was dead. He strode over to the grieving man and peered over his shoulder. Peter lay there, his face waxy white, and his blue eyes staring sightlessly at the darkening evening sky.

  ‘There is no blood,’ said Roger, inspecting the body with the professional eye of a man who had seen more than his share of corpses. ‘He must have had a seizure.’

  ‘He said he would die,’ sobbed Peter’s friend. ‘As soon as he rid himself of…’ He faltered, as if realizing that he should keep his silence.

  ‘The relic?’ asked Geoffrey, watching the man scramble to his feet and back away in alarm. ‘The piece of the True Cross?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ He glanced around fearfully.

  ‘Peter asked me to carry it to Rome,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I declined, and someone else is taking it. But who are you?’

  ‘Marcus,’ whispered the man. ‘Peter and I belong to an Order called the Brotherhood of the Cross, and we devote ourselves to worship of the Holy Rood.’

  ‘Not to who actually died on it?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking their priorities were muddled.

  ‘The cross is a sacred thing, imbued with great power,’ said Marcus, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and sounding as though he was reciting something he had been taught by rote. ‘It is worthy of our complete devotion, just as some orders pay homage to a particular saint.’

  ‘How much of the True Cross exists in Jerusalem?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I was under the impression that there was only a fragment.’

  Marcus glanced down at Peter and tears welled in his eyes again, but he answered the question anyway. ‘The fragment here, in the Holy Sepulchre, is more sacred than the rest, because it is stained with Christ’s blood. But there are other pieces in the city, too, and they are also worthy of our prayers and devotions.’

  ‘There is a huge lump in St Catherine’s Church,’ said Roger, gesturing with his hands to indicate something the size of a water butt. ‘Splinters are being broken off it and sold to anyone with five gold coins.’ He patted his purse in a way that made Geoffrey assume he had purchased one for himself.

  ‘That particular piece is not recognized by my Order,’ said Marcus, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve. ‘But it may be genuine, I suppose. However, it is not as holy as the one that was here.’

  His statement made Geoffrey suspect that some unscrupulous cleric had hacked a piece of wood from a building, and was making his fortune from gullible buyers. He imagined that the splinters would make their way to churches and monasteries all over Christendom, where they would be revered and credited with miraculous cures. There was a lot of money to be made by religious foundations that possessed sacred relics, and most would give a great deal to own one. He sensed the business at St Catherine’s was probably the first in a long line of hoaxes that would result from the Crusade.

  ‘Poor Peter,’ said Marcus, beginning to cry again. ‘He said he would die, and he was right.’

  ‘Why did he say that?’ Geoffrey recalled Peter saying that Pichard would die, but he had not mentioned his own demise, as far as he could recall.

  ‘The curse,’ whispered Marcus. ‘Barzak’s curse.’

  ‘Curse?’ asked Roger, backing away quickly. ‘What curse?’

  ‘Barzak said that anyone who laid a finger on the relic would perish.’ Marcus sniffed miserably. ‘Peter touched it, in order to give it to a monk to take to Rome–and he claimed that as soon as he relinquished it from his keeping, he would die. I hoped Barzak’s curse would not work, but Peter was certain it would–which was why he would not let any of us touch the relic but him. He sacrificed himself to spare the rest of us.’

  Geoffrey bent to inspect the body more carefully. There was no wound that he could see, and running his fingers across the man’s scalp revealed no evidence of a blow to the head. As far as he could tell, Peter had died from natural causes.

  ‘And he met his maker as soon as he passed the thing to Pichard?’ asked Roger, regarding his own scrip with its newly purchased splinter uneasily. ‘Lord save us!’

  ‘That was part of the curse,’ explained Marcus. ‘That once you have set fingers on it, you must keep it about you, if you want to live. Pichard will die, too, once he relinquishes it to the Pope. And the Pope will die after he places it in his vaults.’

  ‘Peter probably believed in the curse so strongly that when he gave the relic to Pichard he lost the will to live,’ said Geoffrey practically, knowing the power of the human mind in such situations. ‘It seems to me that he brought about his own death.’

  ‘He did believe,’ agreed Marcus. ‘But so would you, if you had heard Barzak’s curses. They came from a terrible grief, and a deep fury at his betrayal. That relic is tainted, and I am glad it will soon be gone from my city.’

  The relic and its curse played on Geoffrey’s mind all evening, to the point where he abandoned Roger to his merry pleasures and left Abdul’s Pleasure Palace early. He thought about Peter’s belief that he would die as soon as he relinquished the relic to Pichard, and reasoned that the old man had perished simply because his heart had stopped beating. Such things happened to the elderly, and it was simple coincidence that he had died on the day he happened to give the relic to Pichard. Or he believed so strongly that he would die, he had frightened himself into doing so. When Geoffrey slept that night, however, it was uneasily.

  He awoke the following day before dawn, disturbed by Roger’s thundering snores, and went to mass at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. There were few Crusaders present, because the religious fervour of the previous week was already a thing of the past. He wandered around the building with its many alcoves while the priests recited the office, and eventually discovered a small chapel devoted to the Holy Rood. He entered it quietly, not wanting to interrupt the prayers of the two brown-robed priests who knelt there.

  Geoffrey looked at the altar, and saw that it was adorned with a substantial gold cross. In the middle of this splendid item was a recess, complete with a tiny glass window and a minute hinge. One of the priests, who seemed more inclined to talk than to complete his devotions, told Geoffrey that a piece of the True Cross had been kept in it–until Barzak had snatched it out and screamed his terrible curse. It was now empty, and the Brotherhood of the Cross was bereft of its most sacred relic. Some brave man, the monk whispered, had offered to carry it to Rome, where it was hoped the curse would be lifted by St Peter’s holy bones.

  When the mass was over, Geoffrey went outside to a city that was coming awake. A cockerel crowed, and the sky was beginning to brighten. Within an hour the sun would have risen, and Jerusalem would bake under its scorching summer heat. Carts were starting to rumble along the narrow streets, carrying provisions to the marketplaces, and the few surviving citizens–spared either because they were Christian, or because they had managed to hide until the murderous slaughter was over–were hurrying nervously about their business. Knights swaggered here and there, victors in the defeated city, while a group of foot-soldiers reeled drunkenly towards the Citadel, their night of drinking and whoring done.

  Since the gates were still closed, and anyone wanting to leave the city that day would not yet have been allowed to do so, Geoffrey decided to visit Pichard. He wanted to ask why he was prepared to take such a dangerous relic on the long journey to Rome, and had decided to tell him that he could do better in his choice of companion than the light-fingered Julius. He walked to the small inn near St Jam
es’s Church where Pichard was staying. A large Benedictine lounging lazily on a bench outside told him that Pichard had not left yet, but that he intended to do so within the hour.

  Geoffrey climbed the uneven wooden steps to the upper floor and knocked on Pichard’s door. There was no reply, so he knocked again, harder this time. When a third hammering went unanswered, he drew a short dagger from his belt, grasped the latch and opened the door.

  Pichard was inside, lying fully clothed on the bed. At first, Geoffrey thought he was dead, because he lay so still and his face was an odd grey-white colour. Then he detected a slight rise and fall in the monk’s chest. He glanced quickly around the room, to ensure that Julius was not lingering in the shadows with a weapon poised to strike, but it was empty. Two packs lay ready on a bench, and Pichard’s travelling cloak was folded neatly on top of them. Pichard, it seemed, had been on the brink of leaving.

  Geoffrey strode to the bed and took the monk’s wrist in his hand, to feel the fluttering life beat under his fingertips. It was stronger than he had anticipated, so he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him firmly. The Benedictine opened eyes that were glazed, then licked his lips and managed a faint smile.

  ‘Geoffrey! I thought I would never see a living face again.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Geoffrey. ‘There is nothing wrong with you–no wound, no sickness. You were fit yesterday, and I know of no disease that can kill a man with quite such speed.’

  It was not true. He had encountered several nasty sicknesses that could reduce healthy men to corpses within a few hours, but most were contracted in damp, unhealthy air or were caused by drinking poisoned water. Pichard was a seasoned traveller, and knew how to avoid such risks.

  ‘The relic,’ said Pichard in a soft voice. ‘I had it in a bag around my neck last night, but when I awoke this morning, someone had taken it. And now I will die.’