The Tainted Relic

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘You would not want to touch what’s in here, master,’ he said. ‘This is what gives Wapping Doll the goose bumps.’

  What in God’s name was he talking about? I was on the point of saying that this was not the item I’d come in search of when Hatch raised a hand to silence me. He was still kneeling on the ground, and when he looked up again there was an odd mixture of fear and calculation on his sweaty face.

  ‘You are working for Philip Henslowe, aren’t you?’ he said.

  Just as I’d earlier nodded to deny that we were with ‘Shakespeare’s lot’, so I now gave a rueful smile to indicate that he’d got this right too. I felt happier not delivering an outright lie, yet not altogether happy.

  ‘I knew it!’ said the bookseller. ‘That man has got his hand in plenty of plackets. Playhouses, bear pits, pick-hatches, you name it, and Philip Henslowe will be there, turning a penny. But let me tell you, Nicholas Revill, your employer should beware of this item.’

  He gestured at the wooden box. Now it was his turn to read my face. What he read was confusion.

  ‘You don’t know what it is, do you? Old Henslowe’s sent you to purchase something without telling you what it is.’

  ‘No, I don’t know what it is,’ I said, ‘and that’s no more than the truth.’

  ‘Why, man, this object which is secure in its glass case…is a fragment of the True Cross. It is marked with the blood of Our Lord.’

  At first I thought I’d misheard him or that he was joking. Then I studied Ulysses Hatch’s expression more carefully and understood that it was no jest. My eyes swam and my legs almost gave way beneath me.

  Of course, like everyone, I have a glancing acquaintance with the business of relics. I’ve heard of the vial of Christ’s blood which they keep in Walsingham, and of saints’ bones that are stored elsewhere. Yet in these latter days such items are somewhat discredited as being associated with the old religion. My parson father, for example, would refer to them as popish gewgaws. He’d say that those who looked for salvation from old bones would do better to seek God’s grace directly rather than gawp at what were most likely the remains of sheep and swine. But it’s one thing to hear this from the pulpit and quite another to be confronted with such an object in the flesh, as it were.

  Perhaps the bookseller didn’t believe he had done enough to convince me, for he once again unwrapped the wooden box, opened it and extracted not the glass vial but a strip of folded parchment. This he handed to me, telling me to take care.

  There was some lettering on the parchment, but very faded. The skin was also so torn and frayed that I feared it might crumble in my hand. In the uncertain light of the tent I struggled to read the words but was able to make out only a handful, which appeared to be in Latin, among them sanguis and sancta. There was what looked to be a signature underneath, although I could not decipher any more than isolated letters, together with a small raised area like a scab, the remains of a seal perhaps. All this time Hold-fast the raven paid close attention to what we were doing, as if he were capable of reading better than either of us.

  After a moment I returned the parchment to Hatch.

  ‘I have this in English,’ said the publisher and bookseller. ‘It confirms the wood in the vial to be a piece of the True Cross, rescued from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. It is signed and sealed by Geoffrey Mappestone, Knight. It is very old.’

  ‘How…how did you come by it?’

  ‘They say that a friar had it in the old days. It passed from his hands to others–and so to mine.’

  He made it sound like a natural process, but I would bet a week’s wages that he had acquired it less than honestly.

  ‘You are willing to sell this thing?’

  ‘It is not to the seller’s advantage to say it, but I will be glad to be rid of this “thing”, as you call it,’ said Hatch. ‘What Master Henslowe does with it is his business, but I’ve had enough of it. Good fortune does not follow the possessor, though I did not know that until after I’d…obtained it. They say that to touch it is death.’

  This might have been so much seller’s talk, perversely heightening the attraction of something by drawing attention to its dangers, but I felt the nape of my neck crawl.

  ‘You might give it away.’ I paused and chose my next words with care. ‘There must be many who would be glad to receive such an object.’

  ‘Give it away? I have a living to make, Master Revill. Why shouldn’t I turn an honest penny? No one will get their hands on this unless they have first paid me an honest price.’

  And also from the trunk he produced a battered pistol. It was a rusty old gun, with a bulbous handle and a blunt muzzle.

  ‘I keep this primed and ready,’ said Ulysses Hatch, toying with the flint-arm. ‘The world is full of rogues.’

  ‘Master Hatch,’ I said, tired of this and not a little frightened by the sight of the pistol. ‘It’s time to get one or two things straight. It’s true that I have been sent here to obtain something from you but not…whatever is contained in that vial. I know nothing of any cross, true or otherwise.’

  At this Hatch replaced the box inside the trunk, which he fastened with the padlock. The pistol, however, he did not replace, but positioned it carefully on top of the chest, as though he might want to use it at any moment. Everything he did, he did slowly, but I had the impression that he was taking even longer over this sequence of small actions so as to give himself time to think. I glanced at the bird on the perch. Hold-fast was now so interested in the proceedings that he was pretending to be looking in the opposite direction.

  ‘Then you’re not a player?’ said Hatch eventually.

  ‘I’m a player all right. And I’m here about playing matters. In brief, I have heard that you possess the foul papers of a play by William Shakespeare which is called Domitian. I have been commissioned to buy them off you.’

  By now Ulysses Hatch had struggled to his feet. The mixture of expressions that had played across his fat features while we were discussing the relic–fear and calculation–had been replaced by a guarded look.

  ‘By Henslowe?’

  ‘I never said so, whatever you may have thought,’ I said, growing hotter and more uncomfortable, then moving rapidly on before he could rebuke me for misleading him. ‘I can offer a fair price for these foul papers of WS. William Shakespeare, I mean.’

  ‘Shakespeare, pah!’ He almost spat out the word. Then added, more calmly, ‘The foul papers of Domitian? I may have what you are after. What do you mean by a fair price?’

  ‘Three pounds, shall we say?’

  ‘Let us say six pounds.’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Done,’ I said.

  For the first time a smile broke out across Hatch’s face. ‘You’ll never make a buyer and seller, Master Revill, agreeing so quick. Come back in an hour. The item you require I have somewhere among other papers but I need time to hunt it down. Five pounds, now. No going back.’

  ‘No going back,’ I said.

  ‘You may give me a pound now as an earnest of your good intentions.’

  I reached for my purse and extracted two angels, part of the money that WS had given me when we’d talked the previous evening. Altogether it was a large sum–I don’t think I’d ever had so much in my purse at one time–and it was a mark of his trust that he should hand it over. Still, I told myself, the Globe shareholders were prosperous men (certainly in comparison to mere players). When the bookseller had hold of the money, his attitude changed. He smiled again. I took advantage of his change of mood.

  ‘Give me one thing in exchange for the coins, an earnest of your good intentions,’ I said. ‘A piece of information.’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘Why do you dislike Shakespeare so?’

  ‘Jump to it!’ said Hold-fast the raven.

  Ulysses Hatch sighed. Then he glanced at the trunk where Wapping Doll had been seated.

  ‘We had a f
alling-out over her once.’

  ‘Over her?’

  ‘Why so amazed, Master Revill? She was a fine piece of goods in her day, even if she’s somewhat price-fallen now.’

  There must have been some surprise still showing on my face for Hatch said, ‘Oh, you regard Master William Shakespeare now as a fine upstanding fellow, ever so respectable. But let me tell you, when he first came to this city of ours, he was young and hardy and full of fire. That was a long time ago. Why, I was thin in those days. It was just the time when Hold-fast adopted me. The raven looks no older but I have grown somewhat.’

  ‘And after all these years, Master Hatch, why do you still…?’ I said.

  ‘Still what?’

  ‘Feel resentful?’

  ‘Some things that happen in youth you don’t forget–or forgive,’ said Hatch. ‘Shakespeare won my Doll with words. She opened her ears to him and his words.’

  ‘So now you are in possession of some of his words,’ I said, guessing at the hidden truth. ‘You like having hold of his foul papers.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘Yet you are willing to sell them.’

  ‘I’ll sell anything to anyone at the right price.’

  ‘Even a piece of the cross?’

  ‘Our first talk you should forget,’ said Hatch, looking uneasy and gesturing over his shoulder at the other trunk and its strange contents. ‘Tell no one of that item.’

  ‘Shut your gob!’ said Hold-fast.

  ‘The bird knows best,’ said Hatch. ‘I expect it’s a fake. There are many such sham objects.’

  This was absolutely at odds with his tone and manner while he’d been describing the cross fragment, but I said nothing, only too glad to have the chance to escape from the stuffy tent, and glad above all to escape the company of the raven.

  When I was outside, I looked around for Abel and Jack but there was no sign of them. No doubt they’d grown tired of waiting and gone off to taste the other delights of Bartholomew Fair. As I went in search of them, I debated whether to tell them about what Hatch had shown me, despite his warning. And other questions came to mind too. Was that a real fragment of Christ’s cross? With the instinct of the canny salesman, Hatch had permitted only the briefest glimpse of the thing. I was not so gullible as to trust Ulysses Hatch without some additional proof, and it was quite likely he didn’t believe his own words either. Why, there must be enough pieces of the ‘true’ cross in existence to rebuild Noah’s Ark!

  But Hatch was evidently expecting someone to come and purchase the item, and so had assumed I was that person. I suddenly remembered the glimpse of Tom Gally just after we’d arrived at the fair. Now, it was well known that Philip Henslowe employed Gally as a go-between for enterprises that were dubious or underhand. Wasn’t it possible that Henslowe had dispatched his agent to collect the relic? If so, what could he possibly want with it? Even as I asked myself this, Hatch’s own description of Henslowe suggested an answer. Henslowe had his finger in many pies. He put money into playhouses and bear-baiting and, less respectably, into houses of pleasure. He was a businessman, none too scrupulous about how and where he made his wealth. It might well be that he’d regard the relic as a good investment, perhaps a long-term investment to be sold on when the market was right. Or perhaps he would treat it as a kind of talisman, to give him power or bring him luck. Yet hadn’t the bookseller claimed that the fragment brought ill fortune?

  Anyway, it was nothing to do with me. All that was necessary for me was to return to Hatch’s tent in an hour, collect the Domitian foul papers, and hand over the rest of the money.

  I felt rather than saw someone keeping company with me on my left hand. I looked round. It was Tom Gally. When he saw I’d observed him, he screwed his head sideways and smiled. His black hair hung unkempt and tangled. I didn’t particularly want to talk to him and so walked faster.

  ‘Master Revill, I hope I find you in good health,’ said Gally, keeping pace with me.

  ‘Well enough,’ I said. I nearly added that I would be even better without his company.

  ‘You have business at Bartholomew Fair?’

  ‘Just looking.’

  ‘I noticed you visiting Master Hatch’s emporium.’

  ‘That’s a grand word for a tent,’ I said, wondering what the man was after.

  ‘He has some…interesting wares,’ said Tom Gally. He had a disconcerting habit of pointing with his forefinger at the person he was addressing and squinting down the finger as if taking aim with a pistol. Even as we were walking side by side, he sighted at me when he said ‘interesting wares’.

  ‘I dare say,’ I said.

  ‘Odds and ends he has. Books and papers…’

  ‘Well, he’s a bookseller.’

  ‘…and other stuff.’

  I stopped and faced Tom Gally. I had learned from experience that the best way to deal with him was to be direct.

  ‘Master Gally, if you have anything to say to me then say it straight out. Otherwise, I have business to pursue at the fair.’

  ‘Business? I thought you were “just looking”, Master Revill.’

  Seeing the expression on my face, he quickly added, ‘I was merely going to ask if you had seen some of Master Hatch’s more, ah, specialized wares.’ He pointed his finger-gun at me and smirked. ‘Hatch has a book called Venus Pleasure–with pictures. Or The Wanton Wife. That’s a good one. And another called Rape of the Sabine Women. I thought that a youngish man like you might appreciate such salty items.’

  ‘I expect I am less in need of them than you are, Master Gally.’

  ‘As you please. I will leave you to your business at the fair, or to your pleasure.’

  He walked off. Feeling a bit priggish, I watched his black fleece bouncing on his shoulders. He’d obviously been concerned to discover what I was doing with Ulysses Hatch, the comment about the bookseller’s salty items being a blind. I remembered WS saying that Henslowe would be glad to get his hands on the Domitian foul papers. Was it those which Gally was after? Or was he interested in the relic of the True Cross, as I’d thought a moment before?

  Only half aware of the direction I was going in, I found myself heading towards the stall selling roasted pork. Perhaps I was following my nose. But as I drew closer I saw that there was more exciting fare on offer than cooked meat. A crowd of people was gathering to watch an argument that was threatening–or promising–to tip into a fight. Furthermore it was between two women, always an attraction. They were standing close to the roast-pig stall. The pig’s head was looking on discreetly. I recognized one of the women, since it was Wapping Doll, the person from Hatch’s tent. The other woman was her equal for size. Were all the inhabitants of St Bartholomew’s Fair so large? She was brandishing a greasy roasting-spit like a sword. This fact, together with her red, greasy countenance, caused me to think that she might be Ursula the pig woman. This was no great deduction. From her look, she was a cook, and it is well known that all those who work in kitchens are short tempered and usually foul mouthed. It’s the fires which do it, you know.

  On the other side, Wapping Doll had no weapon, although she held out the leathern drinking flask as if she might do damage with it. But my money was on the roasting-spit.

  At that moment the women were happy enough exchanging insults and gestures. ‘Turd in your teeth’ and the Spanish fig and so on. The crowd was split between urging them on to better things and glancing round to see whether any constable from the Pie-Powder Court was about to intervene. I might have known that Abel Glaze and Jack Wilson would be among the watchers.

  ‘What’s this all about, lads?’ I asked.

  ‘What do women ever fight about?’ said Jack. ‘They are as ready to go to blows over men as we are to go to blows over women.’

  ‘I wish someone would fight over me,’ said Abel, who was not lucky in love.

  And suddenly it came to me. Hadn’t Ulysses Hatch said to his doxy when they were bantering in the tent, Go ask at the pig
stall? Was it possible that these two were scrapping over the publisher of spicy wares?

  Wapping Doll and Ursula–if it was indeed the pig woman–circled each other like two dogs, one jabbing with the roasting-spit and the other flapping her flask, but each reluctant to make the first move. The crowd kept quiet, unwilling to break the spell. But before the women could get down to fighting, a pair of constables pushed their way through the throng and, in a practised manoeuvre, placed their staffs of office on the ground. These were long heavy poles, intimidating in appearance and tough enough to break an arm or crack a skull. If they’d been dealing with men they might have employed the staffs. But, with women, they preferred a more personal touch.

  They laid hands on the pair. They were big fellows with beetling brows, a regular Gog and Magog. One wrapped his arms round Ursula while the other seized hold of Wapping Doll’s flask. For an instant it looked as though the women were going to turn their fury on the constables, but I also sensed a kind of relief in the pair, as though they’d been honourably relieved of the requirement to fight it out.

  Then, as a late arrival on the scene, there appeared a diminutive man with a trim beard. By chance I recognized him. He was an alderman and a justice, Walter Farnaby by name. A year or more earlier I’d witnessed him sealing up a plague house in Kentish Street. He was a precise individual, not to be gainsaid. He was evidently acting as the St Bartholomew’s Fair Justice. A number of the crowd recognized him too, to judge by their groans and whispers. At Farnaby’s gesture, the two constables released their charges. The men obeyed but they looked as though they might have enjoyed grappling with the women for a few moments longer. I don’t know what the Justice said to the two women–he went to each and spoke softly in her ear–but it was enough to cause them to turn round and go off in separate directions, Ursula back to her pig stall and Wapping Doll towards the area of the fair where I’d just come from.

  There was general disappointment at the Justice’s intervention. I heard some comment about the authorities interfering with people’s innocent amusements while proper criminals roamed free about the place. Thinking of Nightingale the ballad singer and his accomplice, I couldn’t help agreeing.