The Tainted Relic

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Strange men, the Black Friars,’ the monk mused. ‘I enthral them with my incisive comments pertaining to the holiness–or otherwise–of blood relics, and all they do is point out that some of my ideas came from Franciscans. Still, Tomas of Pécs seemed a cut above the rest of them.’

  Bartholomew agreed. ‘I could tell from the expression on his face that he followed your arguments, and the speed of his reaction when that fish-head sailed towards him was very impressive. I suspect there is more to him than a mere student of angels, no matter what he would have us believe.’

  ‘Perhaps he is here to spy on his fellows over the Holy Blood debate,’ suggested Michael. ‘It is becoming very heated in places like Spain, with accusations of heresy screeched from all quarters. After all, he did know all about the visiting Oxford Franciscan and his chosen subject of study.’

  Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Someone pointed out that Oxford friar–Witney–to me the other day. He is here with a companion, also from Grey Hall.’

  ‘Why should Witney be singled out for comment and identification?’

  ‘Because, at the time, he was engaged in a vicious and very public squabble outside King’s Hall. Everyone was looking at him, and Chancellor Tynkell, who had cornered me for a remedy for indigestion, told me who he was. He said we are honoured to have him in Cambridge, although Witney’s language during that particular quarrel could hardly be described as scholarly.’

  ‘With whom was he arguing?’ demanded Michael, peeved that the information had not been shared with him. He was Senior Proctor, and should have been the first to know about eminent academics arriving in his town.

  ‘With Big Thomas, although it is an unlikely pairing–an eminent theologian and a one-time thatcher. Thomas and Witney were bawling at each other like fishmongers, and Witney’s companion was powerless to stop them. Thomas seems to like screaming at people: he just hollered at Morden in much the same way.’

  ‘Fighting in public places is against university rules,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You should have mentioned this sooner.’

  ‘They were quarrelling, not fighting–about thatching, would you believe? But then Little Tomas arrived, and he succeeded in quietening them. The incident ended peacefully enough.’

  They arrived at St Bernard’s, which stood opposite the recently founded Bene’t College on the High Street. It comprised three houses that had been knocked into one, providing a hall with two teaching chambers on the ground floor, and several smaller rooms above in which visiting scholars were accommodated.

  A servant answered the door, and ushered Michael and Bartholomew into the smaller of the two lower-floor rooms. It smelled of wood smoke and the oil that had been used to make benches and tables shine. At the far end, by the hearth, stood three men. As Bartholomew approached, he was immediately aware of a tension between them. One stood apart from the others. He was tall, his grey hair was neatly trimmed, and he wore the habit of a Franciscan. He held himself stiffly, clearly furious. He was Witney’s companion, the man who had been unable to calm his colleague during the spat with the loud-mouthed thatcher.

  The other two were a Carmelite and his apprentice. The White Friar was elderly and frail, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen more haunted eyes. His novice was burly and young, with thick yellow hair and the kind of face that did not seem made for priestly solemnity.

  There was a fourth man in the room, too, whom Bartholomew had not immediately noticed, and who looked as though he was about to climb up inside the chimney. His head and shoulders were out of sight, while his body and legs, clad in the robes of a Franciscan, were stretched across the floor. It was Witney. As the physician drew closer, he saw soot had cascaded downward, leaving a dirty black residue over the fine wooden floor. Horrified, he hurried forward and grabbed the prone legs, hauling the body out of the fireplace. Dust billowed in all directions, causing the three onlookers and Michael to jump back, in order to avoid being coated in filth. The Oxford scholar became angrier still.

  ‘Have a care!’ he shouted, brushing himself down. ‘You should have removed him gently, so you did not scatter grime over the rest of us.’

  ‘He might have been alive,’ objected Bartholomew, although he could see that Witney’s rescue from the choking embrace of the hearth had come far too late. The open eyes were clotted with powder, which also clogged his nose and mouth. Blackened though the face was, Bartholomew could still make out an unnatural blueness there. He also noticed blood at the back of the skull, where something heavier than soot had landed on it.

  ‘He would not have been alive,’ said the novice. ‘Not after what he did.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael. ‘And who are you, anyway?’

  ‘Urban,’ replied the youngster. He gestured to his elderly companion. ‘And this is Father Andrew, my teacher. We travelled here from Devonshire.’

  ‘Speak when you are asked,’ said Andrew sharply. The novice’s pained grimace indicated he was used to such admonitions but that he had not yet learned to bear them with grace. ‘It is not for you to make introductions.’

  ‘My name is John Seton and I am Master of Grey Hall in Oxford,’ said the Franciscan, in the kind of voice that indicated he considered himself superior to mere Carmelites. He gestured to the body. ‘And this is my colleague, Peter of Witney. He has been murdered.’ His cool glance in Andrew’s direction made it clear whom he considered his prime suspect.

  ‘And I am the university’s Senior Proctor,’ said Michael coolly. ‘It is for me and Dr Bartholomew to determine your colleague’s cause of death.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Has he been murdered? I see a cut on his head.’

  ‘That was caused when this stone struck his skull,’ replied Bartholomew, holding up the offending piece of masonry for the monk to see. He demonstrated how its square edge fitted perfectly into the jagged gash on the dead man’s head, although neither Michael nor the other three paid close attention to the grisly illustration.

  Seton pointed an accusing finger at Andrew. ‘That stone was wielded by him. He has been hostile towards poor Witney ever since we arrived. It is clear what happened here, Brother. Arrest the Carmelite and let us make an end of this unhappy business.’

  ‘There are questions I want answered first,’ replied Michael, raising one hand to stall the litany of objections that started to burst from Urban. Andrew made no attempt to deny the accusations, and merely stood regarding the dead man dispassionately. ‘This is Cambridge, not Oxford. We are rather more civilized here, and do not go around arresting men before we have properly examined the evidence. Matt: what can you tell me?’

  ‘The stone probably dropped down the chimney,’ replied Bartholomew, peering up the dark funnel and noting that it was not in good repair. ‘But the injury is not serious enough to have killed him outright. I imagine he breathed his last inhaling the soot that came with it. In other words, he was stunned by the blow, and was insensible to the fact that the soot was choking him.’

  ‘Someone did not hit him, then shove him and the stone up the chimney to make it look as though the death was an accident?’ asked Michael.

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘From the juxtaposition of stone, soot and body, there are only two possibilities: either Witney was looking up the chimney when it collapsed, or someone climbed on the roof and dropped the stone when he happened to be underneath. You will agree that it would have to be a very patient killer for the latter to be true.’

  ‘Witney was not in the habit of peering up chimneys,’ said Seton angrily. ‘He was a scholar, like me. He was here to study, not to prod about inside hearths.’

  ‘He was not always devoted to his studies,’ said Andrew softly. ‘He spent a lot of time walking around churches, looking at relics.’

  ‘So?’ demanded Seton, outraged by what sounded like an accusation. ‘He was interested in them. It is not a crime.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied Andrew non-committally. ‘But perhaps not.’

  ‘
Now you listen to me,’ began Seton hotly. ‘You cannot—’

  ‘Wait for me in your chamber, Master Seton,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I will see your colleague is removed to St Botolph’s Church and decently laid out. Then I will hear your complaints.’

  Seton scowled at the Carmelites before snatching up his hat and stalking away.

  Father Andrew smiled wanly after Seton had gone. ‘Divide and conquer: that is one of the first lessons I learned when dealing with unruly lads–I once held a post similar to yours, Brother. Separate the factions and speak to them apart. Of course, sometimes it is wiser to let them argue, so that one may make a fatal slip and reveal himself a villain.’

  ‘Is there a villain here?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘Or just a case of a man being in the wrong place at the wrong time?’

  ‘There is a villain,’ replied Andrew with considerable conviction. ‘But it is not a man.’ He fumbled with something tied around his neck with a leather thong. It was a pouch made of ancient purple cloth, and looked like the kind of amulet carried by peasants too superstitious to place their faith entirely in the Church. Thinking it was being proffered to him, Michael reached out to take it, but the friar drew back sharply.

  ‘You must not touch it,’ explained Urban. ‘If you do, you will die–just as Witney has done. Father Andrew’s relic is the reason for our long journey: we are taking it to the abbey at Norwich, where similar holy items are held.’

  ‘Urban!’ snapped Andrew. ‘What have I told you about speaking before you are asked?’

  Urban sighed, and pulled the kind of face that indicated he thought the story would be told sooner or later anyway, and that he had just saved everyone a good deal of trouble. He went to stand near the window, making Bartholomew wonder whether he craved distance from his difficult teacher or from the corpse that lay next to the hearth, eyes still gazing sightlessly at the ceiling.

  ‘A relic?’ asked Michael, regarding the pouch uneasily. ‘You are wearing a relic around your neck? That is unwise: real ones do not like being used like charms.’

  ‘You are right,’ replied Andrew. ‘And this is an especially powerful one that comes with a curse for all those who dare to lay hands on it.’

  ‘Relics cannot be cursed,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘They are holy. A malediction would render yours unholy, which means it cannot be a relic. What you are saying is a theological impossibility.’

  Andrew ignored him. ‘An Arab called Barzak set the spell after the first of the Crusades. I saw its power thirty years ago in Devonshire, while Urban will tell you a story about a long-dead coroner called John de Wolfe and how death surrounded him when he encountered its power.’

  ‘And there was Master Falconer, the Oxford philosopher,’ added Urban eagerly. ‘He saw it—’ He fell silent as Andrew’s stern gaze settled on him again.

  The old man’s glare shifted to Bartholomew, who was looking openly sceptical. ‘Barzak’s evil oath has been active for centuries, and anyone who touches the sacred wood contained in this vial will die.’

  ‘You have touched it,’ Michael pointed out, although he made no attempt to move closer to the friar. He was not a superstitious man, but it was not unknown for relics to be dangerous, and it seemed a pity to end a glorious university career for the want of a little caution. ‘But you are not dead.’

  ‘I will be,’ replied Andrew calmly. ‘As soon as it leaves my possession–either when I deliver it to Norwich, or when I am obliged to entrust another man to take it there.’ He gestured to Urban, to indicate that the novice could speak if he liked.

  ‘Evil men are killed quickly,’ elaborated Urban obligingly. Michael edged away, unsure of how he stood in respect of his virtue in the eyes of God and His saints. ‘But good ones are permitted to carry it to a place where it will be safe. It has rested with Father Andrew for nigh on three decades, mostly in Exeter.’

  ‘Then why choose now to move it?’ demanded Michael. ‘And why inflict it on Cambridge first?’

  ‘It was not our intention to bring trouble to your town,’ replied Andrew apologetically. ‘And you are right to question my timing: I waited too long, and should have carried it to a safe place years ago. But I was happy in Exeter, and the relic was safe enough, lodged in the altar of a priory within the city’s great walls, and it is difficult for a content man to decide to end his life.’

  ‘But then a new prior was appointed,’ continued Urban. ‘And Father Andrew is afraid he might destroy it. We do not want it burned, and nor did we want Prior John de Burgo to die trying to demonstrate that it has no power.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘This is quite a tale. And what is this relic, exactly? We had a lock of the Virgin’s hair once, but it disappeared.’

  ‘It is a fragment of the True Cross, stained with Holy Blood.’ Andrew opened the pouch and withdrew two pieces of parchment. He proffered them to the monk, but Michael gripped his wrist and moved it into the light, taking great care not to touch the documents himself.

  ‘This says it was found in Jerusalem,’ he said, scanning the meagre contents of the first. ‘In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and it is authenticated by Geoffrey Mappestone, Knight. The second is a warning by Guillaume de Beaujeu, who says the relic was bought with innocent blood and is utterly cursed. “Any man who touches the fragment of Holy Cross will die as soon as the relic is relinquished.”’

  ‘Guillaume de Beaujeu was a Grand Master of the Knights Templar,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the sorry history of that order. ‘It must be genuine, then.’

  ‘It is genuine,’ said Andrew quietly. ‘I have an ancient wound that pains me, and I feel myself becoming weaker with every day that passes. I must leave for Norwich tomorrow. I do not want to press my burden on Urban.’

  ‘I do not mind, Father,’ said Urban bravely.

  Bartholomew glanced at him, wondering whether he was a little too eager. Did he believe in Barzak’s curse? Or did he see Andrew’s weakness as a means to gain hold of something that was obviously valuable? Many abbeys and priories were willing to pay veritable fortunes for relics, and the crumbling parchments indicated that this one was as authentic as most. Even if it had not performed miracles when it was first purchased, he knew it was only a matter of time before unscrupulous or malleable men started to spread stories to the contrary. And then there would be pilgrims; pilgrims left donations, and they needed inns, food and clothes. Many people would grow rich once a relic had produced a few timely cures.

  ‘I know, Urban,’ said Andrew kindly. His expression became wistful. ‘I had that honour in mind for another man, but he betrayed me years ago.’

  Michael waited, expecting him to elaborate, but the Carmelite merely sat on a bench and began to put his relic away. The monk moved the discussion along, to mask the fact that he did not know what to think about the curious tale.

  ‘All this is very interesting, but what does your relic have to do with Witney?’

  ‘He tried to steal it,’ replied Urban. ‘He discovered what Father Andrew carries so close to his heart, and he was determined to have it for himself. He weaselled his way into our confidence, and when Father Andrew showed it to him, he tried to grab it.’

  ‘He used a knife to slice through the thong,’ explained Andrew, showing Michael a bright new cut across the dark leather strap. ‘He was almost out of the door before Urban wrestled him to the ground. While they struggled, I managed to retrieve it. However, before I did, the stopper came loose and the relic fell out. It brushed Witney’s arm when he and Urban were rolling across the floor.’

  ‘Are you saying Witney died because he touched a relic?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing the direction in which the explanation was heading. He had witnessed enough murder and mayhem since qualifying as a physician to know that people were capable of all manner of vile acts, and he was always sceptical when suspects tried to blame suspicious deaths on supernatural phenomena.

  ‘Of course,’ said Andrew. ‘And now I
must take it to Norwich before anyone else pays such a high price for his greed or his curiosity. You cannot arrest me–although I accept responsibility for Witney’s death–because more people will die if I do not fulfil my obligations.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘You will stay here until I am satisfied no crime took place. Perhaps this relic did take Witney’s life because he dared lay profane fingers on it, but perhaps his sudden demise has a more earthly explanation. Either way, I intend to find out.’

  ‘Why did Witney want it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To sell?’

  ‘He is–was–a Franciscan, and if you know about the Holy Blood polemic, then you will be aware of the stance the Grey Friars have taken on the matter. No doubt he saw one in the hands of a poor Carmelite, and was afraid I would destroy it–or worse, give it to the Dominicans.’

  ‘I do not think he believed us when we said we were taking it to the Benedictines for safe-keeping,’ added Urban. ‘Personally, I think he intended to sell it and keep the profit for himself. You can tell from his expensive habit that he was a worldly sort of man.’

  ‘Where were you when he died?’ asked Michael, turning to more practical matters. ‘And where was Seton?’

  ‘We were in our sleeping chamber on the floor above–my old wound was aching, and Urban was reading to me while I rested,’ replied Andrew. ‘Then we heard a hissing sound, followed by a thump. We came to investigate, but we were not surprised to find Witney dead. He had touched the relic, so it was only a matter of time before Barzak’s curse claimed him.’

  ‘He died from a lack of timely help,’ countered Bartholomew tartly. ‘If he had been pulled from the chimney immediately, he would not have choked.’

  ‘Then Seton should have done it,’ said Urban. ‘He was here first. When we arrived, he was standing over Witney’s body like a crow over carrion. Then he accused us of killing him, when it was God.’

  ‘God,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It is astonishing how often He is blamed for things men have done.’