The Tainted Relic

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘What was that you said about something of value? Could it have been a relic?’

  Bullock sighed, realizing that Falconer had not been listening to a word. A relic? There had been nothing of the kind, only a trick played on Yaxley that had badly misfired. But at least this was more like his old friend. Off on a sidetrack, when the obvious was staring him in the face. He went over his conversation with Yaxley again, asserting that no mention had been made specifically of a relic. This obviously did not put Falconer off, for now he had a request for Bullock.

  ‘It could be that you are right, Peter. But we need to go and talk to the abbot. Will you send one of your men to Oseney to ask the abbot if he will see us? There is something I must do first. Oh, and will you ask him to arrange for us to talk to the master mason, La Souch, also?’

  Bullock nodded in agreement, though he didn’t know why they needed to talk to a mason. Nor was Falconer forthcoming about the urgent errand he had to attend to first. Such mysterious behaviour was typical of his friend, and he had long given up trying to fathom him out. He turned to go down Pennyfarthing Street towards St Ebbe’s Church, and the castle postern gate, while Falconer turned the other way. His resolve momentarily reinvigorated, Falconer could not help having a final dig at his old friend.

  ‘You have discounted our mysterious Templar, then?’

  Bullock grunted in a non-committal fashion. In fact, he had forgotten all about him.

  If Peter Bullock had known that the Templar was already abroad, and had exited the town while Master Falconer was brooding over the fate of fishmongers, he might yet have included him in his reckoning. For the Templar was returning to Oseney Abbey, convinced it was the goal of his mission. When he had last spoken to the master mason, he had been sure that Eudo La Souch knew more than he was telling. He had mentioned the possible existence of a piece of the True Cross somewhere in the abbey, and the mason had all but screamed out he too knew of it. His face had paled, and sweat had broken out on his temple. La Souch had tried to mask his reaction by picking up his tools, and chipping away at the section of stone pillar he had been working on. But the new chiselling had been a mess compared to the work he had carried out before. His hands had trembled, and he couldn’t wait to be rid of his inquisitor. The Templar was sure he knew something. But did he know the actual location of the relic? Or, like himself, was he still searching?

  He had decided there and then not to press the man to reveal what he knew. With his skill at persuasion, learned from his old adversaries, the Assassins, he could easily have extracted what information the mason had. But then he might have found himself in another dead end like the one he had encountered with the monk, John Barley. Far better to let the man pursue his own searches, and uncover the truth. Then the Templar could intervene, saving himself a lot of work. Today, he was planning to find out how far the mason had got. The Templar strode cheerfully along the roadway towards Oseney Abbey, crossing the two streams that marked the edge of the water meadows. In passing it, he hardly gave the place of Brother John Barley’s murder a second glance.

  When William Falconer and Peter Bullock met up at Northgate, the Regent Master looked pleased, but was no more forthcoming about his errand. Instead, the two men walked in companionable silence towards Oseney. A trickle of pilgrims preceded them through the entrance to the cloisters of Oseney Abbey. Normally, no-one but the canons and lay brothers would be allowed access to this part of the abbey. But today the church entrance was blocked by a mesh of scaffolding that hung on the western façade. Eudo La Souch’s work was progressing despite the financial straits of the abbey. And because of that, the cloister was open to give access to the church for pilgrims. Bullock looked up and marvelled at the size of the new church. Over their heads rose flying buttresses topped with pinnacles, and the two magnificent towers, the western one of which housed the Oseney Ring of bells. He tipped his head back, and admired the soaring bulk of the tower. It was impressive, even clad as it was in wooden scaffolding, and it stood square and solid against the scudding clouds and pale blue of the morning sky. He thought he saw a bird swooping round the topmost pinnacle, and screwed up his eyes to identify it. It was large, and on reflection appeared to be diving hawk-like towards the earth rather than spiralling round the tower. Its wings were thin and flailed at the air, though, unlike those of any hawk that might stoop for its prey in this fashion. In fact, it was far too large for any bird. Bullock cried out and clutched at Falconer’s sleeve. The Regent Master turned his gaze up to what Bullock saw just as the figure resolved itself into the shape of a man.

  ‘God in Heaven!’ cried Bullock, just before the flying man crashed through the thatch of the master mason’s lodge, and thumped into the earth below.

  Falconer and the constable raced across the cloister, and through the scatter of pilgrims fleeing in the opposite direction. Inside the devastated lodge, lying flat out on the plaster pattern floor, lay the broken body of the master mason, Eudo La Souch. A thin trail of dark red blood leaked from the back of his head following the tracks of the templates scored in the floor. It slowly described the outline of a curved section of a clerestory window.

  The cloister suddenly seemed to fill with people. Those pilgrims who had fled the plummeting body were now drawn back inexorably. The gruesome sight of the broken mason was a sharp reminder of the frailty of the human body. And would no doubt act as an additional spur for the pilgrims seeking remission of their sins before the master mason’s fate became their own. Bunched together in the crowd was the gang of workmen and apprentices who until that moment had been employed by Eudo La Souch. Their faces were strained and pale. Unless another master mason was found, and quick, they were out of work. One older man among them, dressed in an apron and blue shirt flecked with spatters of lime mortar, stepped forward from the crowd to get a closer look at his erstwhile employer. He pulled a tattered brown hat off his head, crushing it in his calloused hands. After convincing himself that the body was indeed that of La Souch, and that he was without doubt dead, he turned to the tall, black-clad figure of William Falconer. As far as he could tell, this was a man of authority, who needed putting straight.

  ‘Impossible,’ he grunted, in an accent as thick as that of his dead master.

  ‘What’s impossible?’ Peter Bullock cut in quickly, asserting his own control of the situation. The man merely looked up at the tower, and down at the body. Then snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. It was Falconer who answered Bullock’s question, however.

  ‘I think our friend here is suggesting that it is impossible that the master mason could have fallen accidentally. And I would tend to agree. I saw La Souch shinning up the scaffolding when the bells were being replaced, and he was as nimble and sure footed as a squirrel.’

  Satisfied that his opinion had been heard, the builder nodded, stuffed his battered hat back on his head, and went back to his comrades to confer. Falconer saw Robert Anselm pushing through the crowd of pilgrims, some of whom were now on their knees praying. Whether for the soul of the dead man, or their own salvation, Falconer could not quite determine. For a brief moment he also thought he saw a familiar, sharp-featured dark face at the back of the crowd. Then Anselm stood in his way, and the face was gone. The monk gasped when he saw the state of the body, broken by the fall from one of the highest towers in the country. He crossed himself.

  ‘May God receive his soul. Poor man. There have been accidents before, of course. But nothing as…’ He waved his hand at the horrific sight, apparently unable to find words to describe it adequately. ‘…as this.’

  Falconer took the shocked monk’s arm, leading him away from the unpleasant sight.

  ‘I’m afraid, Brother Robert, that this was probably no accident. La Souch was a master mason, as at home at height as on the ground.’

  Anselm frowned, tapping at the earth nervously with his sandalled foot.

  ‘But wouldn’t that perhaps make him careless? If he truly regarded working at the top of the
tower as safe as working below, could he not have tragically misjudged his footing?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose, Brother Robert.’

  Falconer was reluctant to concede as much to the monk. But his mind was brooding on the thought that, just when he wanted to see the mason about a mysterious relic, Eudo La Souch had unfortunately plunged to his death.

  ‘And you think this relic is the key to what is happening here?’

  Falconer nodded in response to Peter Bullock’s question. The two men were sitting in the scriptorium of Oseney Abbey, currently devoid of the monks who would normally be taking advantage of the morning light to copy texts for the abbey library. The two rows of high stools stood unoccupied, though the burnished wooden desks were still scattered with papers, and the horn boxes filled with quills. The distant sound of plainsong was all that betrayed where the scribes had gone. A song for the soul of Eudo La Souch. Light streamed in from the scriptorium’s high windows, and across the floor to the men’s feet.

  ‘It has to be. Firstly, Brother John Barley is murdered after offering what we think may have been a relic to the feretarius of St Frideswide’s Priory, then…’

  Bullock interrupted.

  ‘Though that may have been a cruel jest on Barley’s part. We don’t know that for sure.’

  ‘If it was a prank, then it went horribly wrong. From Brother John’s point of view. No, I am inclined to think it was genuine. What else was the murderer doing, when John Hanny saw him, as he put it, “making passes” over the monk’s body? What else but searching for something.’

  ‘Then, do you think he found what he was looking for? If so, why did La Souch die? Unless…’ Bullock’s face suddenly lit up, as a thought struck him. ‘Unless La Souch killed Barley for the relic, took it, and was himself killed in his turn!’

  Falconer pulled a face, dousing Bullock’s enthusiasm with cold scorn.

  ‘Hmmm. I don’t think so, unless we have a string of relic thieves, all queuing up, and prepared to murder in turn for its possession.’

  Bullock was disgruntled by Falconer’s careless dismissal, and eager to defend his proposition.

  ‘Is that so far fetched? A holy relic is a worthy prize indeed, and many would give a fortune for possession of one.’

  Falconer suddenly bent forward at this point, tapping Bullock on the knee with a bony finger.

  ‘And that is what is worrying me about this whole affair.’

  Bullock reared back, brushing the offending digit away with the back of his hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If the holy relic–whatever it is–is so great a prize, then why do we not know of it? Why does the abbey not display it with joy and attract a multitude of pilgrims? And why did John Barley wish to offload it on to the feretarius of St Frideswide’s? With whom he did not have an exactly fraternal relationship.’

  ‘That is a very good question, Regent Master Falconer.’

  Another voice cut into the men’s conversation. Falconer looked over Bullock’s shoulder to see Peter Talam, the bursar of the abbey, entering under the soaring archway that led into the scriptorium. His bustling walk raised dust motes that sparkled in the shafts of light crossing the room.

  ‘I heard a whisper of just such a relic a number of years ago. Apparently the translation from Tewkesbury to the abbey was effected over thirty years ago. Well before my time, I might say.’

  Falconer invited Talam to sit on the stool next to himself and Bullock. But the restless bursar paced backwards and forwards, continuing to raise dust around his heels.

  ‘Being responsible for the funds of the abbey, I was of course intrigued by the story of a relic in our possession. Especially as it was said to be a piece of the True Cross with Christ’s blood on it. I even asked the abbot about it. This was more than ten years since. But he would say nothing. Neither confirming nor denying the story. And I could tell by his look that I was expected never to raise the question again. So I didn’t.’

  Falconer could well believe in Talam’s discretion. He was stiff, but a dedicated servant to the abbey.

  ‘But someone else did, and recently.’

  Falconer recalled the brief snatch of conversation between Abbot Harbottle and the master mason that he had overheard. La Souch had clearly heard the story about the relic himself. He had also got the same short shrift from Harbottle that Talam had received ten years earlier, when he had asked about it. But the effect on the abbot had been devastating, as Falconer himself had witnessed. He realized that Bullock was looking at him with curiosity etched on his face. It was Talam who spoke, however.

  ‘Eudo La Souch asked the abbot about the relic?’

  Falconer nodded.

  ‘So the mason did know about the relic, but did not possess it.’ Bullock was chagrined he hadn’t seen it. ‘Could he have known its location?’

  ‘I think not. Or he would not have still been here. He would have…what is the expression?…’ Falconer smiled contemptuously. ‘Translated it.’

  Talam pursed his lips in disapproval. The translation of a saint’s remains or any other such relic was in some people’s eyes a euphemism for theft. But those holy people who effected the removal of such relics, sometimes without the owner’s approval, were seen to be merely responding to the demands of the saint to be relocated. To be carrying out a furta sacra–a holy theft, or translation. But he had to admit there was truth in the man’s deduction. If Eudo La Souch had somehow located the relic’s hiding place during the rebuilding work, he would have disappeared as soon as he had been able to remove it. It did still leave the question as to why such a valuable relic had been hidden in the first place, though. The same difficulty had occurred to the constable too.

  ‘But why hide such a venerable object?’

  Talam sighed, and for a moment ceased his endless pacing.

  ‘Only the abbot knows that. And he’s not telling. If only we knew who the monks were who trans…’ He looked Falconer squarely in the eye, and chose his next word carefully. ‘…brought the relic here. Unfortunately, Brother John Barley was the last of that generation. Apart from the abbot himself.’

  Falconer suddenly recalled the abbot lamenting the deaths of several of his colleagues. Now it had a meaning. Sitting as they were in the vast room where texts were copied, and records of the abbey’s life were written, Falconer had an idea.

  ‘Tell me, Brother Peter, did all those of John Barley’s age die a natural death? I mean, due to advanced years?’

  Talam looked puzzled.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Master Falconer. Over the years, many canons have passed over to the Heavenly Jerusalem after a full life of prayer.’

  ‘But, in recent years, have there been deaths among the older canons not due to the natural process of time? Apparent accidents, perhaps?’

  ‘There have been some, of course. Just before I came here, I believe there was a brother who ate a poisonous plant accidentally. As for others, I cannot say. Brother Thomas was killed by robbers on the road returning from Glastonbury seven years ago. But these are perfectly normal occurrences in the dangerous and lawless world in which we live.’

  ‘Perhaps, Brother Peter. Perhaps. But if John Barley was killed for the relic, perhaps others have died because of it. Would you be so kind as to show me the abbey chronicles anyway?’

  ‘Going back how long?’

  ‘Let’s say twenty years. To start with.’

  Falconer was soon settled down with the records that Talam provided. But, though he seemed content to plough through them, Bullock could not face the thought of sitting with dusty tomes for hours on end. Reading old documents concerning past history was not his idea of pursuing a murder case. Future success required vigorous and decisive action. Besides, he still had his suspicions about Yaxley, the feretarius. He decide to return to Oxford, and winkle the truth out of the man.

  And if that didn’t work, there was always the Templar.

  It was taking Falconer a long tim
e, but a pattern was beginning to emerge. Starting with a monk twelve years earlier who had died as a result of falling masonry occurring during the building of a section of the great abbey church. The appropriately, if unfortunately, named Brother Benedict Mason had died instantly. One year later it was the turn of the monk Talam had recalled, who had died shortly after eating his dinner. Brother Ralph Durward had been found stone cold, and blue lipped, when he had failed to answer the call of the first bell of the day. The cook had been mortified when it had become apparent that an excess of digitalis had found its way into the monk’s food. He could offer no explanation for the error. And just as Talam had said, Brother Thomas Dyss had been killed on the road just west of Oxford, barely three miles from the sanctuary of his abbey. He had made the long journey to Glastonbury and back without mishap, only to be stabbed to death almost on his doorstep. Robbers on Standlake Common had been blamed. Between these three incidents six other canons had died, though most of old age or disease. The only other death that attracted Falconer’s curiosity was that of Brother William Hasilbech. He had been found on the road north of Oxford with the marks of horses’ shoes imprinted in the bruising on his body. His head was crushed, as if by the flying hoof of a horse. But this was during the lawless times, when the barons had fought the King. There had been much traffic of armies hurrying thither and yon. It could even have been the King himself, or his son Edward, who had carelessly ridden down the monk one dark evening. Both had been in the vicinity of Oxford at the same time. Falconer recorded it as a possibility in his search for a pattern of deaths.