The Tainted Relic

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Risking being caught in the act, I sneaked over, and opened the box. Inside lay an old glass vial with a gilded stopper. It was difficult to see what was inside because the glass was clouded. So, like Brother Thomas, I picked the vial up, and unstoppered it. As I tipped the vial, a greyish piece of wood slid out on to my palm. On its surface was a dark brown stain. Somehow, I knew immediately what it was, and I was awestruck. I cannot describe the feeling to you, even now.’

  As the monk spoke, Falconer’s progress out through the maze was leading him inexorably to Anselm. He could see how the monk’s eyes glittered in the darkness at the recollection of holding the True Cross stained with Christ’s blood in his hand.

  ‘Of course, then I did not know of the curse on those who touched the relic. That only emerged in rumours at the abbey the following day, when the relic, so newly acquired, disappeared, never to be seen again. Abbot Leech had read the warning enclosed in the box, and enjoined the community not to mention its existence. He hid it away himself, then later had it immolated by the mason rebuilding the abbey. No-one knew that the kitchen boy had touched it also. The dire consequences of the curse filled me with horror. I was only a boy, yet my careless curiosity had apparently doomed me. In the same way it had doomed the six canons.’

  Falconer now faced Anselm at the very exit to the labyrinth.

  ‘But you later also learned that those who touch the relic only die when they relinquish it from their possession, didn’t you?’

  Anselm’s hooded head dipped in acknowledgement.

  ‘Yes. And that is why it must remain in the abbey. The others couldn’t see that. But they were very old, and had no reason to fear death. John Barley would have given it to Yaxley merely to be rid of it, if I had not stopped him. He felt he could sacrifice what was left of his life to rid the abbey of the cursed thing. But I still wanted to live.’

  ‘And Eudo La Souch?’

  ‘The mason had discovered where his predecessor had finally hidden it at Abbot Leech’s behest. The other day, I came upon him rocking back and forth on the slab. He pretended to be just checking on the security of the tiles, but I knew what he was doing. So when he next ascended the tower to check the bells, I pushed him off. You see, the relic cannot leave the abbey, or I will die.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. You of all people must see that. It was you who killed your six fellow canons, not the relic. Or its curse.’

  The hooded figure shook its head, and lifted a trembling hand up.

  ‘Then by what agency am I afflicted with what plagues me?’ He swept the hood away from his head, and Falconer gasped at seeing how gaunt and grey Anselm’s features had become. The man was wasting away before his eyes.

  ‘It is as if a rat gnaws at my vitals, giving surcease neither night nor day. I don’t think I will stand it much longer.’

  Indeed he looked like a living skeleton already, consumed from the inside out. But he was a spectre with a purpose. He pulled a knife from under his robe and, summoning all his failing energies, sprang at Falconer. But he was too weak already. He almost fell into de Beaujeu’s arms as the Templar stepped out of the shadows, where he had been hiding. Despite his failure to achieve his aim, the monk’s face still bore a beatific smile.

  ‘I have lost, then. But if I were to have the chance once again to hold the True Cross in my hand–to touch Christ’s blood–I would take it willingly.’

  Abbot Ralph Harbottle lifted the small wooden box out of the exposed hole in the floor at the centre of the labyrinth. Seeing for the first time what the abbot before him had taken such care to hide away. It was made of rosewood, carved and gilded, though the gilding was largely worn away. Cautiously, he lifted the hinged lid to reveal the contents to the three men standing with him. William Falconer and Peter Bullock peered into the box, where lay a small glass vial atop two battered strips of parchment. It seemed far too insignificant to be such a powerful and revered relic, with such a weighty and gloom-ridden history. Bullock was disappointed. As disappointed as he had been to discover from Will Plome that Brother Richard Yaxley’s only crime was to have become enamoured of Matthew Syward’s wife. On learning the truth, the constable had rushed from Will’s hovel to catch the two adulterers in the act. In the end, his only satisfaction had been to see the pompous feretarius turned into a grovelling penitent. Belaset had returned home to find Deudone moping over his rejection by Hannah. It had still been Falconer who had uncovered the real murderer.

  Harbottle touched the two pieces of parchment. One averred the authenticity of the relic. The other, slightly less ancient document warned of the curse. It was the latter Abbot Leech had read on the fateful day the box had been brought to Oseney. Harbottle closed the lid of the rosewood box, and passed it to the third man. The Templar, Guillaume de Beaujeu, hesitated only a moment before taking it from the abbot. Possession of the box represented the culmination of a long and tortuous pilgrimage for him.

  ‘I promise to keep it safe, and henceforth prevent it harming anyone else. What my ancestor, Miles de Clermont, brought about, I will bring to an end. No more deaths will be occasioned by this relic.’ But then he realized the implications of his actions. He looked up to meet Harbottle’s lugubrious stare. ‘What of Brother Anselm?’

  The abbot shook his head. Anselm was not yet dead, but it was inevitable anyway, whether the relic was removed from the abbey or not. His end was not far away, and his dying would be a painful journey. There were many deaths besmirching his immortal soul. De Beaujeu took a deep breath.

  ‘Then let him be the last that dies because of this curse.’

  ACT THREE

  South Witham, Lincolnshire, June 1323

  It was twilight, and the rough door scraped on the packed earth of the floor. The sudden gust of wind made the cheap candle gutter. It sparked and hissed malevolently on the table.

  Luke peered inside and had to quash the urge to recoil when he caught sight of the corrodiary’s1 eyes. In the gloom Luke thought they they had filled with blood, as though old Johel had died of a fit. The flame’s reflection glittered balefully in them. Brother Johel looked like a demon, squatting there on the other side of the chamber, his elbows leaning on the bare boards of the table while he glared fixedly at the doorway.

  Luke had to force himself to cross the threshold, his knowledge of the man’s crimes making his progress reluctant.

  ‘Godspeed, Luke.’

  Well, his voice hadn’t changed. Still powerful, with a rough edge; like that of a man who’d spent his life bellowing at others. Which he had, of course.

  Under his threadbare and stained tunic, once white, now filthy grey, the corrodiary was ancient, with swollen and arthritic joints looking out of place on such withered limbs. He was probably sixty to five-and-sixty years old, and each of those years had taken its toll. Tracks of pain were carved about his brow and into the flesh on either side of his slit-like mouth. His flesh was so lean that, although it was leathery from long days in the saddle in the Holy Land, it yet showed the tracery of fine veins underneath. Livery blotches marked his face and his crabbed hands. Scrawny jowls dangled from his jaw; his cheeks were prominent, but served only to add to the impression of gauntness.

  He would soon be a corpse. His eyes alone held remnants of the vitality that had once set the seal on his character. The near-madness gleamed in them still.

  When Luke had first met Brother Johel, they had been as sharp as a falcon’s, but over the last four years they had lost much of their brilliance. Forced to accept that he could never avenge his slaughtered comrades or the destruction of his life’s efforts, there was little softness left in them. His own torture was one stage of his suffering, but more poignant to him was the failure of his dream of a fresh Crusade to free the Holy Land. Only misery remained–and fear. Johel knew as well as any that he was dying, and Luke felt sure that it was this knowledge which had turned him into an old man in a matter of days. Luke should feel sympathy, but compassion was scarce in these terribl
e times. God had forsaken the realm, and all must look to themselves.

  The candle was one of the manor’s own: small and thin, made of foul-smelling mutton fat that burned slowly and unevenly. It illuminated a scant few feet, and in Luke’s eyes it made the room hellish. All about was dark, but in the middle of the room the reeking flame made the monk’s face appear still more awful than Luke had expected. It could have been the face of a tormented soul.

  ‘You came.’

  Luke nodded and cleared his throat. Stupid comment, it was obvious, wasn’t it?!

  ‘Why, though? Just because an old corrodiary called for help.’

  Luke felt a spark of irritation. ‘If you don’t want me…’

  ‘I do. Come closer.’

  ‘Just tell me what you want, old man.’

  ‘I want you here, where I can see you.’

  The voice was weaker; the devil was not long for the world, Luke told himself. He should respect a man like this, one who had commanded earls and lords. He might seem feeble, but he was entitled to respect. Probably his mind was going. Luke felt a fleeting sadness to think that Johel would soon be gone.

  Reluctantly he stepped forward. ‘Well?’

  A hand snaked up and gripped his rough habit, hauling Luke forward fiercely. ‘Don’t treat me like an imbecile, boy!’

  Luke felt dazed with shock. The man was supposedly close to death, aye, but he had power in those wretched hands. The suddenness of the attack made Luke dizzy; nausea washed through him, and he felt close to puking.

  Johel continued in a malevolent whisper, ‘You can shit yourself now, boy, and you can laugh at me when I’m dead, but for now you have only me here. And I have only you!’

  The contempt was like poison. It trickled through Luke’s pride, eating it away. He wanted to defend himself, but couldn’t. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Shut up! You know who I am?’

  ‘Johel of Acre.’

  ‘And what was I?’

  ‘A brother in the Order.’

  ‘Yes. The Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon,’ Johel said with grave emphasis. He coughed, the spasm making his fingers twist in Luke’s tunic. ‘Remember that name, boy, if you value your soul! And serve the Order.’

  ‘What do you want with me, old man?’ Luke asked. Anger was beginning to flare, and he added snidely, ‘The Order’s gone, you remember? The Pope declared it…’

  ‘We answer only to God, then!’ Johel looked at him fiercely, but gradually slouched and released Luke. His hand fell to the table as though lifeless. ‘But you’re right. I have a request to make of you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  My God! Johel thought again, peering at the lad, aware, so aware, of his own impending doom. This was a matter too weighty for a dying man, but he had a last duty to perform for the defence of all. He was a Templar, a proud warrior-monk in the service of God, but he was so weak. Yet this matter was too important to be left unresolved.

  Christ Jesus, why have you done this to us?

  Johel let his eyes drop. All they had tried to do was perform God’s will on earth. They had ignored all the snares and politics of the secular world, and that omission had brought them down. Many were already dead, and he would soon join them. Yet there was still a task that he had to complete.

  He reached under his tunic and brought out a small box. And then, as Luke’s eyes widened, he explained about the marvellous relic within.

  Bishop’s Clyst, Devonshire, November 1323

  The famine was over, true enough, but that wasn’t much help to a body. Not when a man had an empty belly and no money in his purse to fill it. Not that Will Hogg was unused to that. He had plenty of experience of hunger. Everyone did.

  This was a busy little vill. He was standing by the trunk of a great beech whose upper branches reached out over the trackway and shaded it. To his left was a gurgling little river, quite fast flowing just here, between steep, muddy banks, while behind him lay the long and damp path that led to the city.

  It was a good spot here, at the ford. The rain had poured down recently and the River Clyst had swollen and burst its banks, flooding the whole plain. Even in the height of summer the boggy ground here was sodden, but today it was much worse. People would have had to have tramped through the soggy marshland to get here, feet already soaked and chilly, and their senses would be as numbed as their toes by the time they reached the bank. And here they’d have to contemplate crossing the river itself, and would pause while they sought the best route. Although the passage of many feet had tramped a ramp into the bank just here, that was no proof that the best route was straight through the water to the other side. A traveller must spy out the shallowest passage. That was when they would make their attack.

  There were plenty of ruts in the damp soil to show how many carts had come this way to go to Exeter’s market. The great city sat safe behind its massive red walls some two miles west and a little north. They were hidden from view down here in the Clyst Valley, but Will knew that they would be gleaming up there in the morning sunshine over the bend in the River Exe. He stared up that way with a strange sense of longing. He was aware of a curious wistfulness as he brought to mind the picture of the great city walls, dwarfed by the two massive towers of the Cathedral of St Peter within. There was safety in there.

  Exeter was full of wealthy people who lived in comfortable houses drinking wine from silver or pewter goblets with their friends. If his father hadn’t died for the King, Will could have had a life like that himself. It wasn’t his fault he was like this, a broken-down man with no occupation, making do as best he could. At least he had a small corner to sleep in, out of the rain and away from the cold. After the last few years it felt like a palace to him, especially with winter approaching. He’d had his share of sleeping under hedges in winter.

  The others were spread about. Andrew had some space at the inn; Rob had his in Elias’s stable, just over the way from his brother. Those two were often the source of news about travellers, essential in this work.

  Adam was more reliable. That was why Will had agreed to share his room with him. The others were good companions, but Will wasn’t so sure about them. Andrew was bright enough, and he had that edge of hardness, but Rob was a fool. Always worried about the risks. He was the one who counselled caution when the others wanted to try their luck.

  If it was up to him, they wouldn’t be here now, sod him. He wanted them all to wait. Said it was too soon after their last attack. Feeble cretin! They wanted money, and the way to get it was by boldness.

  There was a low whistle, and he dropped to his knees as he heard voices, a jingling of chains, a creaking of harness, and he made out two figures, one slumped man on a large rounsey1, one younger-looking fellow on foot. Both were clad in black, the walker appearing to be wearing clerical garb, a heavy-looking satchel over his shoulder, the rider looking more like a down-at-heel knight. God alone knew, there were enough of them just now, since the King had taken his revenge on the barons who’d threatened his authority. With their lords executed, the men-at-arms had to seek new masters. A man was nothing without patronage.

  The horseman was tired, head nodding, perhaps asleep already. Yes: these two should be easy targets.

  The outlaw rode along slowly, jogging easily in his saddle. At the sound of a bird by the roadside, his head snapped around. He stared, gradually relaxing as the noisy clattering of wings disappeared into the distance. It was only a wood pigeon, he saw, and that was cause for comfort. No pigeon would stay if there was a man about the place. There would be no ambush here if a pigeon was roosting.

  A fugitive must always be on the lookout for danger. Any man could make an attempt on his life now, capture him and remove his head, declaring him to be outlaw without fear of punishment. He had to be on his guard at all times. It was fortunate that he was at least a knight and used to seeking out ambushes. He’d learned his skills well when he lived at my Lord de Courtenay’s household as a
child and youth. That was four-and-thirty years ago. Much had happened since. He had travelled the world, seen the destruction of so much that had been good–and finally renounced his past life of service and hope. Now all he had was his oath, and he would be damned before he broke that.

  His chin rested on his breast again. Yes, he had learned to be alert when it was necessary, but here in the sleepy flatlands on the outskirts of Exeter, there was less need. He wasn’t in France evading the King’s damned officers, nor in the Holy Land, where an ambush was to be expected at any moment. He was in England, in one of the most peaceful parts of the kingdom, and God’s Wounds, but he was tired. His head moved with the horse’s steady amble, and he felt his eyes closing once more. The journey had been long, and they were nearly at their destination.

  There was a change in the gait of his mount, and he opened his eyes to see that the beast was favouring his front right hoof.

  ‘Wait!’ he called.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My horse is lame.’

  The clerk nodded, but then looked ahead again. ‘You can catch me up, Sir Knight. I’ll get on. I am so desperate for ale I think my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.’

  The outlaw nodded. There was surely no danger up here. He jerked his head and the clerk continued. Meanwhile the outlaw swung himself down, lifted the offending hoof, and saw the large pebble caught there. He pulled out his dagger and inserted it, twisting it gently, all the while talking to the beast to keep it calm. If you could keep them quiet and confident, they were twice the animals.