The Tainted Relic

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘You will not,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Healthy men do not simply die.’

  ‘The curse,’ whispered Pichard. ‘Barzak’s curse. He said that anyone who touched the relic and gave it up would die.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Geoffrey, trying to pull the monk into a sitting position. Pichard was like a dead weight, and flopped back again. ‘Barzak may have made such a claim, but rational men of God cannot put faith in that kind of thing. The infidel cursed us all the way from Constantinople to Jerusalem, and we took no notice of them. Why should this Barzak be any different?’

  ‘Because of the True Cross,’ said Pichard. ‘I felt my strength ebb away as soon as the bag was taken. I was powerless to prevent it from going.’

  ‘If you believe all this nonsense, then why did you agree to take it to Rome in the first place?’ demanded Geoffrey, exasperated.

  ‘Because it was my sacred duty,’ whispered Pichard. ‘It belongs in Rome, where it can be placed somewhere it cannot be used for evil. I knew I would die if I undertook the mission–Peter was honest with me in that respect–but I thought I would be safe until I reached home.’

  ‘I suppose Julius robbed you,’ said Geoffrey, disgusted. He wished he had stayed with Pichard the previous night, and then invented some excuse to prevent Julius from going with the monk. But he had not believed Julius would steal the thing quite so soon.

  ‘It was not Julius,’ said Pichard. ‘It was Peter’s friend–Marcus. I saw his face quite clearly in the moonlight. I suppose the Brotherhood changed its mind, and decided to keep the relic here instead of sending it to Rome, as Peter wanted. I cannot blame them.’

  ‘I was under the impression that they considered the thing dangerous now, and better out of their city.’ Geoffrey thought about the talkative monk with whom he had chatted that very morning. He had certainly not seemed sorry to see the cursed relic gone.

  ‘Peter did, but perhaps not all his brethren agreed. Regardless, my role is over now. I was to have carried it, but now I am doomed.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘If you allow yourself to be overcome by this, then you may well die. But you can fight it. There is no reason you should not see Rome again.’

  ‘I should like to see the Tiber,’ whispered Pichard. ‘There is no river in the world like the Tiber.’

  Geoffrey slipped an arm under his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. ‘Then come outside with me. See the sun and the sky, and you will feel better. Your time to die is not yet.’

  He began to drag him across the room, staggering under his huge weight. He struggled down the stairs, and hauled him into the open air. Pichard raised his head and squinted up at the lightening sky, and a smile touched his lips. He took his arm from Geoffrey’s shoulders and leaned against the wall.

  ‘You may be right,’ he said. Geoffrey noticed that colour was returning to his cheeks. ‘I do feel better out here.’

  ‘Breathe deeply,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘And sit on the bench next to your colleague.’

  The fat monk obligingly shifted along so Pichard could rest, muttering about those who drank more than was good for them the morning before long journeys. Pichard did not correct him, but sat with his eyes closed, savouring the rising sun on his face and the strength returning to his limbs.

  Geoffrey soon grew restless, and wandered the short distance to the end of the lane, where he watched the sunlight slant in dusty shafts along the main road. Bells chimed across the city, and the streets were becoming busy. Suddenly, a cart thundered around the corner, spilling fruit in its wake. There was no driver, and a small crowd of people ran behind it, yelling for those ahead to bring it to a standstill. But there was little Geoffrey could do to halt a stampeding horse, and he was unprepared to risk life and limb leaping for the reins, when there was a danger of being crushed beneath hoofs or wheels. He flattened himself against a wall and the cart clattered past him. Then, just as it reached the bench where Pichard and the fat monk sat, an axle snapped.

  The cart tipped, then fell to one side with a tearing scream of wood. The horse stumbled from the impact, and dropped to its knees, whinnying in pain and terror. Pieces of fruit bounced everywhere, and people raced towards them, aiming to gather as many as they could before the owner arrived to claim them. Geoffrey ran towards the bench, then stopped in horror.

  Part of the cart had sheared off into a vicious spike, and this had been driven clean through Pichard as he had basked in the sun. Next to him, his fat friend sat in stunned shock, his mouth agape and his fleshy face covered in a sheen of sweat. Geoffrey quickly ascertained that he was unharmed, then turned his attention to Pichard.

  The Benedictine was quite dead. He sat as Geoffrey had left him, with a smile of contentment on his face and his eyes closed. The knight backed away, his thoughts reeling. Was it just a terrible coincidence? Or was Barzak’s curse really working? He rubbed an unsteady hand across his face, not sure what to believe. Pichard was dead. Peter was dead. But the relic was gone, back into the care of the Brotherhood, and Geoffrey hoped they would keep it safe, so it would never blight the lives of good men again.

  In a small house in what had been the Jewish Quarter of the city, Marcus took a small leather bag from around his neck and handed it to Julius. Julius accepted it with a smile, and loosened the strings of the pouch so he could look inside. He shook it gently, and a piece of wood about the length of his middle finger dropped into the palm of his hand.

  ‘I will ensure this reaches Rome,’ he said, slipping it back into the bag and placing the whole thing inside his scrip. ‘Pichard was greedy and corrupt, and would have sold it to the first unscrupulous relic dealer who offered him a bargain, but I am not subject to such weaknesses.’

  ‘Be sure you are not,’ warned Marcus, sinking to his knees as a curious lethargy came over him. The relic was about to claim its third victim, and he knew that unless Julius could take it to Rome and ensure it rested in the Vatican’s deepest vaults with the bones of holy men, then more would follow. Barzak’s curse was to be taken seriously, and Peter had been right to organize its removal from the city. He had simply chosen the wrong man, and it was fortunate that Julius was on hand to advise and help. ‘Leave now.’

  ‘I am already gone,’ said Julius, taking up his travelling pack and heading for the door. ‘Finish the wine I brought before you go to tell your brethren of our success. It will fortify you, and you are looking pale.’

  Julius took the proffered cup and drained its contents. By the time he had finished, Julius had slipped out of the door and closed it behind him. Marcus was rather startled to hear the sound of a key in the lock. He pulled himself to his feet and staggered towards it, pulling ineffectually until he realized that it would not open. He wondered why Julius had done such a thing, when he had just instructed him to tell his brethren what he had done. He swayed uneasily, feeling dizzy and a little sick, and went to the table, where Julius’s goblet of wine stood untouched. And then he understood.

  Julius had poisoned him, and had locked him inside this remote hovel so that no one in his Order would know what had been done. But why? Marcus had given Julius the relic in good faith and willingly. Why had it been deemed necessary to kill him? He slumped to the floor as his legs became rubbery and unable to hold his weight. The answer to that question was clear, too: it was not Pichard whose motives and character were questionable, but Julius’s. Julius intended to use the relic for his own ends.

  Shadows clouded Marcus’s vision, and he could not feel his legs. Would he have died anyway, if Julius had not killed him? He had touched the relic–to make sure it was the right one when he had stolen it back from Pichard–and had resigned himself to his fate. But would it have happened? Barzak’s curse could have nothing to do with Julius’s decision to commit murder. Or could it? As he closed his eyes for the last time, Marcus wondered how many more people would die before the relic reached Rome. He smiled. Julius would be one of them, because he had laid his profane fingers on it. But how ma
ny more?

  Then darkness claimed him.

  ACT ONE

  Devonshire, 1194

  The cargo boat glided up the last half-mile of the mirror-calm river, its single sail tightly furled, the flood tide being sufficient to drift it to its mooring against the quay. Short and stubby, the Mary and Child Jesus sat low in the water, her hold full of casks of wine from Anjou and kegs of dried fruit from Provence. The weather on the return voyage from St-Malo had been kind, unlike the outward trip, when the master had wondered whether he would ever reach harbour alive, with his load of Devonshire wool and Exeter cloth. Thorgils the Boatman, who owned the vessel, as well as being its captain, swore that this was going to be the last trip of the season. November was really too late to be risking the long Channel crossing from the mouth of the Exe to Brittany. After they had discharged their cargo at Topsham, he would take the Mary back the few miles to Dawlish and haul her out on the beach for a refit, then spend the time until Easter in his fine new house with his young blonde wife. The thought warmed him in spite of the cold mist that hung over the river, though the ache in his joints told him that he was getting old–twenty years older than the delectable Hilda.

  The boat rode sedately along on the tide and Thorgils leaned on the steering board to make sure that her bow would nudge against the quay at exactly the right spot. He glanced to port and saw the flat marshland stretching away to the low hills in the distance. If he were to look back a little, he would almost be able to see Dawlish, the better to imagine Hilda’s warm embrace.

  Ahead was the river, which rapidly narrowed to reach Exeter five miles upstream. A few yards to starboard was the village of Topsham, with its welcoming alehouses and brothels, though he had no need of the latter.

  The master looked down into the well of the boat, where his crew of six were assembling along the bulwark to sing the traditional hymn of thanksgiving to the Holy Virgin for deliverance from the perils of the sea, this time joined by their solitary passenger.

  This Robert Blundus was a strange fellow, mused Thorgils, as the singing reached its crescendo when the blunt prow of the Mary nudged the quay. He had arrived at the last moment, just before they sailed from St-Malo. The shipmaster had noticed that Blundus kept looking over his shoulder at the bustling throng on the quay-side and seemed relieved when a widening gap began to appear between the ship and the shore. Thorgils suspected that he was either a fugitive from the law or had unpleasant acquaintances who were hunting him down. But it was none of his business, and the coins of mixed English and French silver that Blundus offered as his passage money were genuine enough for the master to accept him aboard without any questions.

  The stem-post bumped against the wharf and willing hands ashore lashed a bow-rope around one of the tree stumps buried along the quay-side. Thorgils let the incoming tide push the stern of the Mary right around in a half-circle, so that the port side came to rest against the rough stone wall, the steering board left safely out on the starboard side. As the stern ropes were thrown ashore, the passenger moved to stand impatiently at the gap in the bulwarks where the landing plank would be pushed through. His large pack was already strapped to his shoulders, and Thorgils assumed that he was a chapman, one who hawked goods such as thread, needles and ribbons, around towns and villages. It was unusual, though not unknown, for one to cross the Channel in pursuit of such trade, and the shipmaster wondered whether he had family in Brittany.

  The moment the gangplank was slid ashore, the traveller hurried down it with only a perfunctory wave of farewell to the crew. The quay-side of Topsham was a short length of stone wall, with muddy banks stretching away on either side. Ships could ride upright at high tide to discharge their cargo, but the rest of the time they lay canted over on the thick mud that extended for miles down to the sea at Exmouth.

  Robert Blundus had never been here before, and he surveyed the little port with some disdain, being more used to large harbours such as Southampton or King Richard’s new creation at Portsmouth. He saw a line of buildings straggling down the east bank of the river, ending in huts and sheds on the quay. A church tower in new stone rose above the centre of the long main street, and where there was a church, there was always an inn or two.

  This turned his mind to the need for a meal and a bed for the night, as the short November day was coming to a close. He humped the heavy pack higher on his shoulders and set off through the cold mud of the wharf towards the high street. An icy east wind made his cheeks tingle and reminded him that he had left the warmer climes of France far behind. At least his ears were warm, as he wore a woollen cap pulled down over his forehead and neck, the pointed top flopping over to one side. His leather jerkin was bulky, belted over a pair of thick serge breeches, cross-gartered above wooden-soled clogs. As he strode purposefully towards the village, a dew-drop formed on the end of his fleshy nose and his rather prominent blue eyes watered as they scanned the motley collection of buildings. Some were stone, but the majority were either wood or cob, a mixture of mud and straw plastered over a wooden frame, with roofs of reeded thatch.

  The narrow street was busy, especially with porters lugging large bales of wool or pushing handcarts laden with goods from the quay-side. The usual throng of loungers and tradesmen mixed with wives and grandmothers around the striped canvas booths that lined the edges of the muddy street. Beggars and cripples hunched against walls, and at the gate of the churchyard a leper swung his rattle and hopefully held out his bowl for alms. Some more permanent shops were open behind the flimsy stalls, their shutters hinged down to form counters displaying their goods.

  But Robert Blundus was not looking to buy anything except a night’s lodging, and his gaze was turned upward to seek the icons of the local inns. Given that only one person in a hundred could read, the taverns advertised themselves by signs hung over their doors. Looking along the street, he picked out several familiar devices–there was a Bush, an Anchor and a Crown. He chose the latter as looking slightly less dilapidated than the others and, ducking his head under the low lintel, went inside.

  The large room that took up the whole of the ground floor was lit only by the flames from a large fire burning in a pit in the centre, a ring of large stones embedded in baked clay separating it from the rushes strewn over the floor. A bench ran all around the walls and a few stools and more benches were scattered around the hearth. The room was filled with men, though in one corner he heard raucous laughter coming from a pair of whores who were cavorting with some travellers. The air was thick with wood-smoke, sweat and spilt ale, the normal atmosphere of a busy tavern.

  Blundus made his way towards the back of the taproom, ignoring the blasphemous abuse of a young serving-maid who bumped into him with a tray of ale-pots. He found the innkeeper, a surly man with a face badly scarred by old cow-pox, and negotiated for accommodation and food. For a penny, he was promised supper, two quarts of ale and clean straw in the loft. The landlord pointed to a wide ladder in the corner and Blundus shrugged off his pack and manhandled it up the steps. Here he found a dozen hessian bags stuffed with bracken or straw, laid out in rows under the rafters of the thatched roof. He chose one nearest to a dim tallow-dip that flickered on a shelf and dumped his backpack alongside it. The loft was deserted at that time of day, but the pedlar was wary enough to remove a small package wrapped in kid leather and put it for safe-keeping in the scrip on his belt.

  Downstairs, he was served his promised meal on a rough table under the ladder, alongside a row of casks of ale and cider. An earthenware bowl of mutton stew was banged down in front of him by the foul-mouthed serving-maid, together with a thick trencher of stale bread on which was a slab of fat boiled pork. A spoon crudely carved from a cow’s horn was supplied for the stew, but he used his own dagger to attack the pig meat. A half-loaf of rye bread and a lump of hard cheese followed, and he considered that the food was adequate in quantity, if not quality–though after days of shipboard tack, he was in no mood to complain. After two large pots of pas
sable ale, he felt ready to sleep, as it was now dark outside.

  Climbing back up the ladder, Blundus felt both his advancing age–he was almost fifty–and the effects of three days rolling across the Channel on a small boat, so he was glad to flop down on to his bag of straw. He opened his pack again to pull out a woollen cloak to serve as a blanket, then could not resist another look at his most prized acquisition. In the dim light, he groped in his belt pouch and unwrapped the soft leather bundle, revealing a small wooden box, small enough to lie across his hand, intricately carved and partly covered in gold leaf, though much had worn off to reveal the dark rosewood underneath. Blundus opened the hinged lid and looked again at the glass vial that lay inside. He took it out, pulled off the gilded stopper and tipped the contents into his palm. Though he had examined it several times before, the thing still intrigued him–a grey stick-like object, a few inches long, composed of dried wood, as hard as stone. The surface was dark brown in places, which he assumed was the alleged staining with the blood, though Blundus neither believed nor cared whether it had genuinely come from the cross of Jesus Christ. As a connoisseur of relics, however, he knew that it must have considerable value, given its unusual authentication.

  Cynically, but realistically, he knew that if all the alleged fragments of the True Cross revered in abbeys, priories and cathedrals across Europe were assembled together, they would not reconstitute a cross, but a small forest! Similarly, most of the bone fragments of the saints and martyrs owed their origin to sheep, swine and even fowls. Still, no religious establishment that wished to attract the lucrative pilgrim trade could afford to be without a relic or two–and the more extravagant the claims of origin, the more valuable they were.

  Robert Blundus slipped the relic back into its tube and replaced the wooden plug. Though ostensibly he was a common chapman, this was a cover for his real trade, as a dealer in religious relics. He travelled the roads of England in his search and often went to France, Spain and even Italy to seek sanctified artefacts. He prided himself on dealing in a better class of relics than the many pedlars who hawked homemade or obviously spurious objects about the countryside, and he had built up a reputation for procuring good material. This particular relic was such a prize addition to his stock because it had a certificate of provenance. He felt in the little box and took out a folded strip of parchment, bearing a short sentence in Latin. He could not read it, but for a silver coin a clerk in Fontrevault Abbey had translated it for him. 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. It was signed by Geoffrey Mappestone, Knight–and, most important of all, bore a small wax seal carrying an impression from his signet ring over the date, July 1100.