The Deadliest Sin

by The Medieval Murderers

He beckoned Oswin to the altar and, taking his hand, pressed it against a small gap beneath the altar slab, which was invisible in the shadow. ‘Put your fingers in there if you don’t believe me. Can you feel the little wooden box? Earth taken from St Guthlac’s grave. Not as valuable as a saint’s bone or teeth or cloth from his cloak, I grant you, but it is a relic none the less.’

  ‘Satisfied, are we?’ Giles sneered. ‘Then let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Anxious to part with your money, Giles?’ Oswin retorted.

  ‘Like the rest of us, he’s anxious to return to a warm bed,’ Eustace grumbled.

  ‘Not before I get that cross back where it belongs,’ Robert said. ‘I came far too close to being caught, taking it from the chest. The Treasurer has the eyes of a falcon. I’m sure he suspects me of stealing something. You’ll see – come morning, he’ll be making those poor clerks of his check every candle and spoon in the entire Cathedral against the inventory. If he finds the cross missing, not even my uncle will be able to defend me. In fact, knowing Uncle William, he’ll be the first to suggest I should be exiled to some barren rock in the middle of the sea to spend the rest of my life as a hermit. He more or less threatened as much when I was caught with that girl in my bed. Probably have me flogged round the Cathedral for good measure, as well,’ he added gloomily. ‘I don’t know why I allowed you to talk me into this.’

  ‘Because,’ Oswin said, with a humourless smile, ‘you want to see me fail as badly as Giles does. But you are both going to be sadly disappointed.’

  Robert bleated that it was a gross slander and he had no such desire, but it was apparent he couldn’t think of any other convincing reason for agreeing to do this.

  ‘Describe the cross,’ Oswin said, cutting through his protests.

  ‘Silver.’ Robert held his hands about a foot apart. ‘This tall. With blood garnets marking the places of the five wounds and in the centre, a piece of rock crystal covering three strands of hair from Bishop St Hugh.’

  ‘You addlepated frogwit!’ Giles exploded. ‘What in the name of Lucifer possessed you to take anything so valuable? If they discover that’s missing, they won’t just lock you up, they’ll wall you up for good and leave you to starve to death.’

  Robert raked the stubble of his tonsure distractedly. ‘Oswin said he needed something holy, and I thought if I just took a candlestick, he could claim he couldn’t find it because it wasn’t powerful enough to cry out. Besides, they put the cheap stuff out on display and they’d notice any gaps immediately. They check those night and morning to make sure the pilgrims haven’t stolen anything, but the valuables are kept in the chests. They’re only brought out for the big festivals, so they won’t know the cross is gone.’

  Oswin laid his hand on Robert’s shoulder. ‘And it will be back before anyone discovers it’s missing, trust me. But I must prepare. And I need silence, absolute silence.’

  The other four backed away from him, retreating as far as the small chapel allowed. Oswin kneeled and then prostrated himself before the altar on the dirty, wet tiles, his chin resting on the floor, his eyes fixed on the dim outline of the altar that covered the reliquary of St Guthlac.

  He had been certain that he could do this, but now that the moment had arrived, his confidence leeched out of him like the heat from his body into the cold ground. He’d fasted all day, prayed and bathed. Now he tried to clear his mind, calling on the powers of St Guthlac, St Hugh, the saints and all the Holy Virgins to prove as much to himself as to his brothers that he was worthy, that he had the skills denied to other men, skills that he swore before all the saints he would dedicate to the service of the Holy Mother Church.

  ‘If that which is holy is lost or stolen it will cry out like a child for its mother, calling out to the priest of God and guiding him, until it is found and restored.’

  That is what was written. All he had to do was to believe it. He rose to his knees and taking the flask of holy oil from his scrip, anointed his head, hands, feet, ears, eyes, lips and breast, drawing on each the sign of the cross with the chrism. He moved closer to the lantern and, pulling a bottle of water and a tiny bowl from his scrip, he poured the water into the bowl and carefully tipped three drops of the oil into it, watching the pattern of the oil as it swirled in the water.

  ‘Hair of the blessed St Hugh, call out to me, cry to me, that I may find you.’ He murmured the words over and over again in a fever of prayer.

  Finally, Oswin bowed his head to the altar, then clambered to his feet, turning slowly to face the four men. Even though they couldn’t read his expression in the dim light, there was no mistaking the confidence in his stance.

  ‘I know where the cross is hidden,’ Oswin announced, triumph ringing in his voice.

  Giles exchanged an anxious glance with John, ‘Where?’

  But already Oswin was making for the door.

  The wind, if anything, seemed to have strengthened, hurling them back into the chapel as they tried to force their way out. It seemed to take Robert longer to lock the door than it had to unlock it and Oswin impatiently seized the lantern and strode away into the darkness, with the others scuttling after him. Eustace trailed along behind, sniffing like a bloodhound, as the bitter wind brought tears to eyes and set his nose streaming.

  Giles hurried to catch up with Robert.

  ‘Is he heading in the right direction?’ he whispered, though he was forced to repeat the question several times, almost shouting into Robert’s ear as the wind snatched up the words.

  Robert shrugged. ‘It’s not the route I would have taken,’ he said cautiously, ‘but it might lead us there.’

  Oswin was out ahead, the feeble light of the lantern bobbing up and down at his side, but even he kept turning his head to make sure the others were following. No one wanted to find himself alone in the darkness on a foul night like this. The trees on either side of the path bent and groaned in the wind, creaking like gallows’ ropes, and somewhere in the distance a dog was howling. Behind them lay the massive city walls. A flickering red glow was just visible above them, from the torches that burned on the walls of its streets, as if the great gate was the entrance to Hell itself.

  Ahead of them, Oswin’s tiny lantern light had stopped moving and then it suddenly vanished.

  ‘He might have waited for us to catch up,’ Giles said indignantly. ‘I can’t see the hand in front of my face. Is he deliberately trying to give us the slip? I knew the cheating—’

  But his words were cut off abruptly as John slapped a great hand across his mouth, almost suffocating him.

  ‘Get off the track. Horses!’

  They didn’t hesitate, but scattered and forced their way through the tangle of old undergrowth into the cover of the bushes, smothering curses as hose, cloaks and skin alike tore on brambles. Almost at once they heard the striking of iron on stone and the creak of leather harnesses. Two riders were trotting down the track, heading for the town. Their faces were muffled in hoods and their cloaks billowed behind them.

  Each of the clerics crouched lower in his separate hiding place, his ears straining to hear if there were more riders following. Finally, when all seemed quiet, the Black Crows emerged one by one, dragging themselves free of the snagging brambles, and lumbering back onto the road.

  ‘Messengers?’ Eustace asked, jerking his head back in the direction the riders had taken.

  ‘Or robbers,’ Giles said. ‘I wasn’t going to stop them and ask. More to the point, where is Oswin?’

  ‘Behind you!’ a voice shouted into his ear, and Giles jerked round so violently, his foot slipped and he found himself grovelling on his knees in the dirt.

  Oswin stood over him, laughing. ‘Why thank you for your obeisance, Giles. I always knew you’d bow to my superior talents one day.’

  John hauled the cursing Giles upright, dumping him on his feet as if he was a small child.

  ‘Where to now?’ John asked.

  ‘Through here. I’ve found the place,’ Oswin
exclaimed.

  He plunged back into the grove of trees and they followed, and presently above the wind, they heard the sound of running water. Oswin held up the lantern. They were standing in a small clearing, at the centre of which a spring bubbled up into a pool before trickling away into a stream. They caught a glimpse of something flapping in the wind. As the light fell on it, they saw it was a thorn tree, leafless in winter, but not bare, for it was covered with hundreds of strips of faded rags, teeth strung on cords, locks of hair bound in coloured threads and strands of sheep’s wool, all fluttering wildly in the wind.

  Next to it stood a small beehive-shaped shrine made of rough stone. The wooden statue that stood on the shelf inside was protected by iron bars, but that hadn’t prevented other offerings being stuffed through them, mostly crude little dolls in the form of swaddled babies, like the model of the infant Jesus placed in the crib at Christmas, except these were no more than an inch or two long and fashioned from cloth or wood.

  ‘What is this place?’ Eustace said, eyeing the tree with disgust.

  ‘St Margaret of Antioch’s well,’ Robert replied. ‘Folk come here to ask her aid.’

  They all nodded. Margaret was a popular saint. It was said that any who lit candles to her would receive anything good they prayed for. She could also shield the dying from the Devil if they called on her name and protect women from the many dangers of childbirth too.

  ‘The cross is here?’ Giles demanded, looking from Oswin to Robert.

  All eyes turned to Robert. He nodded slowly. ‘And you have to admit it’s not the most obvious hiding place. I only found it with difficulty and then only because I heard my uncle talking about it a while back.’ He gestured towards the thorn tree. ‘The locals say the tokens they tie there are to ask the saint to intercede for them, but the priest here in these parts reckons they’re offerings to the old goddess, says its pagan. He wanted to chop it down, but his parishioners got wind of it and threatened to chop him down, if he did.’

  ‘All very interesting, I’m sure,’ Giles said impatiently. ‘But we’re here to find the cross, so where is it?’

  Oswin pointed to the shrine.

  ‘He’s right,’ Robert said. ‘At the back there’s a loose stone. The base of the shrine is hollow.’

  All of them crowded round behind the shrine. Oswin placed the lantern close to it, then, pulling the knife from his belt, slid the blade between two of the stones and gently prised the stone forward, first on one side, then the other, until he could get enough of a grip on it to drag it from its resting place. He reached in, a look of undisguised elation on his face, but as the others watched his expression changed to a frown.

  ‘It was a snug fit,’ Robert warned. ‘You’ll have to tilt it backwards to get it out and in the name of the Blessed Virgin whatever you do, don’t damage it.’

  But when Oswin’s hand emerged, it was clutching only a wad of sheep’s wool, tangled in a piece of cord. ‘There’s nothing there. It’s empty!’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Robert cried. ‘You can’t be reaching in far enough. You’ve pulled the wrappings off, that’s what you’ve done, and left the cross in there. Here, let me.’

  He almost flung Oswin aside and kneeled on the wet grass. Pulling up his sleeve, he reached into the shrine, twisting and turning his arm as he groped his way over every inch, his expression becoming ever more frantic.

  ‘It’s gone. It’s gone,’ he shrieked.

  John hauled him out of the way and stuck his great fist inside and flailed around, bringing down a shower of dirt and small stones, but he could find nothing. Eustace followed, methodically working over every surface, but in the end he also was forced to withdraw empty-handed.

  ‘It’s not there,’ he announced, as if there could be any doubt in the matter. ‘That space would only just have contained it, as Robert says.’

  ‘Could some stones have fallen down on top and buried it?’ Giles asked, the only one not to have tried feeling for it.

  ‘It’s just bare earth on the bottom, nothing fallen, as far I could feel,’ Eustace said, ‘apart from what John brought down, of course. Besides, any fall would have covered the wrappings too. He pointed to the wool and cord still gripped in Oswin’s hand. ‘That is what you wrapped it in, Robert?’

  He didn’t answer. He was sitting on the wet ground, his head clutched in his hand, groaning and rocking.

  ‘Someone must have watched you put it there and taken it,’ Eustace said.

  ‘But I was so careful,’ Robert wailed. ‘I waited until it was dark this evening and searched round thoroughly to make sure I was alone. What am I going to do? If it isn’t back by morning . . .’ He buried his head in his hands again, muttering what might have been either a prayer or a curse.

  ‘You told us this was a pagan place,’ Oswin said. ‘Witches and sorcerers use familiars in the form of hares, cats or ravens to bring them word. Was there an animal or bird close by?’

  ‘What would a witch want with a cross?’ Giles said. ‘It’d burn her if she touched it.’ His eyes narrowed as he stared at Oswin. ‘But you, on the other hand, you knew where the cross was and you disappeared with the lantern while we were hiding from the two riders. When you came back to find us you admitted you’d already been here. You had plenty of time to take it.’

  ‘And why, in heaven’s name, would I do that?’ Oswin demanded. ‘The whole point of the wager was for me to prove to you I could find it.’

  Robert’s head jerked up. ‘Maybe being necromancer isn’t enough for you.’

  He scrambled to his feet to face Oswin, his face contorted in anger. ‘You want to ingratiate yourself still further by discovering a thief. That would certainly get you noticed, wouldn’t it? You always said you’d be a bishop before you were thirty. What are you planning to do? Wait until they discover the cross is missing, then produce it before the whole Cathedral Chapter, claiming you’d divined where the thief had hidden it? It’s not enough for you to have us humble clerics admire your talents. That won’t help you advance. No, you need the bishop and every priest in Lincolnshire to know just how clever you are. Maybe if you’re lucky, word might even reach the Archbishop of Canterbury himself.’

  Oswin fumbled with the buttons fastening his cloak and wrenched it from his shoulders, throwing it on the ground between him and Robert. He held his arms out wide.

  ‘Come on then,’ he taunted. ‘If you really believe I have the cross why don’t you search me? Want me to strip naked to make it easier?’

  He whipped round to face Giles. ‘As for me having time to take it when the riders were passing, that applies to every one of you. Any of you could have slipped to the shrine while the others were hiding and taken it. And unlike me, you all had good reason. You all wanted me to fail to find it, so I’d lose the wager. You most of all, Giles, and you, John, because neither of you could afford to pay. You both admitted as much in the tavern. And with your fondness for gambling, you’d find the money very useful, if I had to pay you, wouldn’t you, John? So let’s search everyone, shall we?’

  John pushed his way in front of Giles, his huge fists clenched. ‘Are you calling me a swindler, you steaming pile of pig shit?’

  Before Oswin could reply, Eustace had stepped between them. ‘You claimed to have found the cross once already tonight, Oswin, so why can’t you tell where it’s gone now, or was that just a lucky guess? After all, you too dine with the subdean, so you could just as easily have heard about this place as Robert did.’

  ‘I’ve heard about a hundred places, how would I know which Robert would choose?’ Oswin said indignantly.

  ‘Unless you two are in collusion,’ Giles said. ‘Brothers of the glorious Cathedral are bound to stick together against us mere scullions who labour in the common churches. But Eustace is right. Here’s your chance to prove your talents to us once and for all. Go on, find the cross now!’

  Oswin was almost white with rage. ‘I told you,’ he said, through gritted teeth.
‘The rite can only be performed on consecrated ground. Why do you think we went to that pigpen of a chapel? Because, unlike a shrine, it has a relic. I could go back there, but the time that would take would give the thief ample opportunity to whisk the cross far away. Or is that the idea, Giles? Get us out of the way, so you can carry it off ?’

  Oswin was breathing hard, trying to control his temper. ‘Look, if one of us took it, he would have had to conceal it somewhere nearby, under some fallen leaves or in a hollow tree, with the intention of returning for it later,’ he added, glaring pointedly at Giles. ‘There wouldn’t have been time for any of us to carry it far and return to the track again. So I suggest we search for it.’

  The Black Crows eyed each other with hostility, but since no one else seemed to have a better solution, they reluctantly agreed to separate and search, drawing lots with dice as to who should go in which direction. After further heated argument as to who should get the lantern, it was decided to leave it in the centre of the clearing where its light could guide them back.

  They disappeared into the trees. The whining of the wind in the branches mingled with the sounds of shoes shuffling through fallen leaves, of sticks poking under sodden vegetation, and the occasional cry of hope as they struck against something hard, only to find it was a stone or a rusting horse-shoe. In front of them, the wind-whipped bushes and trees loomed out of the darkness as assassins waiting to trip and tear, scratch and strike. Like sailors in a storm, they kept glancing back towards the clearing, fearful of losing sight of the faint yellow glow that appeared and disappeared behind the swaying bushes.

  A shriek tore through the darkness, freezing every man in his tracks. They held their breath, listening, frantically trying to decide which direction it had come from, but the cry had been too brief and the wind distorted every sound. So, they turned, stumbling back towards the fragile safety of the clearing, the blood pounding in their ears, as if the Devil’s black horse was galloping behind them.

  One by one, they burst out of the trees, staring at each other. What was that? Who was that? Where did it come from? Did you hear? It took several minutes before they realised that only four men stood in the clearing. Where is he? Which way did he go? Come on! Hurry!