by Paul Doherty
‘Was this genuine silver thread?’
‘From which mill?’
The priest could not make his mind up. He moved backwards and forwards. Laus Tibi edged closer. At one stall offering cloth from the looms of Brabant, the priest put down his cloak and moved his belt slightly so the purse which had been hanging on his side was now pushed round to the back. Laus Tibi drew a needlelike knife from the leather sheath strapped to his arm beneath his battered jerkin. The priest was haggling with the stall owner. This was the time! The priest was about to make a purchase, he was oblivious to everything except beating the trader down to accept his price.
Laus Tibi was no longer aware of the chatter and babble of the marketplace, the raucous shouting of the apprentices, the smells from the middenheap, the fragrances of the cookshops and bakeries, the bells clanging or the faint sound of singing from a nearby church. Like a hovering hawk he studied his prey. He quickly stared round: no one was watching him, he could see no bailiff. Laus Tibi decided to close with his victim. He stealthily walked across the mud-grimed cobbles, knife at the ready. One quick cut to sever the thongs holding the purse, he would take that, grab the cloak and escape amongst the crowds in the space of a few heartbeats. . . .
Laus Tibi rose from the Mercy Chair, walked to the entrance of the rood screen and stared down the nave. He could still see the two Franciscans kneeling on their prie-dieus before the Chapel of St. Michael and All the Angels. One of the brothers had taken him down to inspect the chapel and Laus Tibi had marvelled at its beauty. The chantry chapel was really a church within a church. Built against the wall of the north transept, it was screened off from the nave by three intricately carved oaken screens with small windows on either side. The front of the chantry chapel soared up to meet the roof of the transept; it had two oval-shaped windows above a narrow, wooden door, now locked and bolted. Brother Simon the sacristan had let him peer through the grille at the sacred relic hanging in its receptacle from a silver chain.
‘According to legend,’ Brother Simon had whispered, ‘this is the Lacrima Christi, an exquisite ruby formed when our Good Saviour was scourged by the Romans: tears of blood fell to the ground, and these miraculously congealed to form this brilliant stone.’
Laus Tibi had just nodded and peered openmouthed. Oh, to seize such a prize! The ruby was the size of a large pigeon’s egg. The good brothers had placed it in a blood-red, golden receptacle: this, in turn, hung on the end of a long silver chain which stretched from the concave roof of the chantry chapel to hang between the door of the chantry and the altar built against the far wall. The receptacle was three-sided, in the shape of a square C so as much as possible of the relic could be viewed; a metal loop on top of this receptacle was used to attach it to the stout silver hook on the end of the chain.
‘Why is it here?’ Laus Tibi had whispered.
‘It belongs to Sir Walter Maltravers.’
The garrulous sacristan had explained while chomping on his gums; he’d felt sorry for this poor felon who had sought sanctuary in his church. When Brother Simon glimpsed him standing so forlornly at the entrance to the rood screen, he’d invited him down. The other Franciscan had not been so friendly but gone and knelt on his prie-dieu, bony face hidden in his hands as if he wished to hide all signs of Laus Tibi.
‘You know Sir Walter Maltravers?’ the sacristan whispered.
The fugitive thief shook his head.
‘He owns Ingoldby Hall on the south side of Canterbury, a very rich lord, a close friend of the King. As a young man,’ the sacristan gabbled on, ‘Sir Walter was a member of the Emperor’s bodyguard at Constantinople.’
Laus Tibi screwed his eyes up and nodded as if he understood, though he had no knowledge of any Emperor or the city with the long sounding name.
‘The Lacrima Christi?’ he grated. ‘How did it get here?’
‘Oh, the Empress Helena,’ Brother Simon had chattered on, ‘mother of the great Constantine, found the Lacrima Christi in Palestine and took it to her son’s city. However, when the Turks captured the city over forty years ago, Sir Walter was forced to flee. Rather than allow such a precious relic to fall into the hands of unbelievers, he took it with him.’
‘But what’s it doing here?’ Laus Tibi had insisted.
‘Sir Walter bought Ingoldby Hall over three years ago, just as the war between Lancaster and York drew to an end. Prior Barnabas heard about the relic and begged Sir Walter to loan it to the priory for public veneration.’
Aye, Laus Tibi reflected, and so fleece the pilgrims even more than I did!
‘Is it safe here?’
‘Look around.’
Brother Simon’s sharp reply clearly revealed how he mildly regretted inviting Laus Tibi to view the treasure. The jewel was a temptation but well guarded. The chapel was very secure, its high wooden screens were of thick polished oak, its roof had no aperture, the only way in was through the heavy oaken door, secured fast by both clasp and lock. A desperate thief might try and enter through the stained glass window, just above the chantry altar, depicting Michael casting Satan into the fires of Hell, yet the window was held in place by reinforced lead and who would break such beautiful glass? The sound would certainly alarm the priory, and the thief might be able to get in but find it more difficult to get out. Burly lay brothers, armed with stout cudgels, patrolled the cloister garth which the window overlooked; not even a mouse could squeeze into that chantry chapel. Two members of the community were constantly on vigil nearby, either kneeling at the prie-dieus not far from the chantry door, or standing in front of it, allowing the pilgrims to process by, taking their coins for a peep through the narrow grille. Oh no! The Lacrima Christi was secure. . . .
Laus Tibi sighed and leaned against the rood screen door. The sun was beginning to set, Vespers had been sung and the church closed for the day. Nevertheless, the brothers would sustain their vigil until the bell tolled for Compline. Laus Tibi sniffed. Two friars still knelt on their prie-dieus. The felon squinted down the nave to see that one was Prior Barnabas, a sinewy, harsh-faced man with the eyes of a hunting mastiff. The other was Ralph the infirmarian. They would stay until the appointed hour when the Lacrima Christi would be stowed safely away. Laus Tibi felt tempted to go down and have one more look. The brothers had turned the chantry chapel into a gorgeous shrine: thick red turkey rugs covered every inch of the chapel floor. Even the altar cloths, candleholders and candles were of the same ruby red so the entire chapel seemed to glow with some unearthly light. Laus Tibi prided himself on having an eye for beauty, and could have stared through that grille for as long as the brothers had allowed him. The chantry chapel of St. Michael represented everything Laus Tibi had missed in his life: comfort, opulence and luxury. The very air was fragrant with incense and beeswax candles as well as the herb-scented oil used to polish the gleaming woodwork.
‘I wonder how much the ruby’s worth?’ Laus Tibi whispered to himself. ‘But where could one sell a jewel such as that?’
Brother Simon had explained how the Lacrima Christi would stay at Greyfriars for the duration of the pilgrim season. Laus Tibi stared down at his battered boots and groaned. The pilgrim season! He felt the brand mark on his shoulder. Where would he be at the end of the pilgrim season? He walked back to the Chair of Mercy in the sanctuary niche, sat down and picked up the wooden platter, absentmindedly drawing the crumbs together. If it hadn’t been for that priest – no, no, that wasn’t correct: the thief had been greedy and walked into a trap! . . .
Laus Tibi’s intended victim wasn’t a priest but a market bailiff in disguise. He and his companions had been watching Laus Tibi for days and so the hunter had become the hunted. Laus Tibi had just been about to cut the purse from his quarry’s belt when he heard the horn sound behind him, the alarm being raised.
‘Harrow! Harrow!’ a voice shouted. ‘A thief! A thief!’
The false priest had swerved round, a smile on his face, and gripped Laus Tibi’s arm, forcing him to drop the k
nife.
‘I have you, sir,’ he rasped, his fat, ruddy face laced with sweat. ‘I arrest you in the King’s name!’
Laus Tibi gave a vicious kick to his shins. The man loosened his grip and, quick as a weasel, Laus Tibi had run, not away from the crowds, but into them. All around horns were blaring, the cry of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ being raised. Laus Tibi had knocked people aside. He’d grabbed a cleaver from a flesher’s stall, threatening anyone who tried to block his way. He’d run like the wind, slipping and slithering on the cobbles, whilst behind him a posse of bailiffs followed like a pack of yelping hounds. Panting and gasping, heart pumping, his body wet with sweat, Laus Tibi had broken away from the marketplace, but he was a marked man. He had been through such an ordeal before and recognised the signs. People instinctively drew away from him, marking him down as a lawbreaker. A number of apprentices came dashing out from a side street but the sight of the raised cleaver and Laus Tibi’s mad, staring eyes forced them to draw back.
‘Harrow! Harrow! A thief! A thief!’
Laus Tibi had fled on down alleyways and runnels, the sweat blinding his eyes, the pain in his left side becoming more and more sharp. He could not be taken! Not for him the journey in the hanging cart to the gallows outside the city. He turned blindly, ran down an alleyway and through a half-open gate into a fragrant garden. At first Laus Tibi thought it was some merchant’s house but, as he sank to his knees and stared around, he realised he was in the grounds of a priory or convent. Laus Tibi knew the law. He had been caught in York four years earlier and been able to quote the opening lines of Psalm 50: ‘Have mercy, Oh God, have mercy, and in your compassion blot out my offence.’ He had managed to recite this quotation, the infamous ‘hanging verse’ which allowed him to claim benefit of clergy. Laus Tibi had been handed over to the church courts for punishment. If he was arrested now, the bailiffs of this great city would make diligent search. He had claimed benefit of the clergy once and escaped scot-free; he could not do so again.
Exhausted to the point of desperation, Laus Tibi had staggered to his feet and begun to run. He felt dizzy, light-headed. He’d knocked a lay brother aside, reached the door of the church and thrown himself inside its cool, welcoming darkness. Pilgrims were milling about; a hand caught at his shoulder, but Laus Tibi shoved this away and staggered up the nave through the rood screen into the sanctuary. He could have cried with relief. At the far side of the sanctuary built into a recess in the wall was a heavy Mercy Seat. Laus Tibi had crawled on all fours towards it, pulled himself up and pressed his hot cheek against the cold stone of the alcove. Simon the sacristan had appeared, eyes wide, toothless mouth gaping in astonishment.
‘Do you claim sanctuary?’ he’d gasped in Latin.
Laus Tibi had shaken his head.
‘Do you claim sanctuary?’ Brother Simon leaned over him so the thief could smell the altar wine on his breath.
‘I claim sanctuary,’ Laus Tibi stuttered. ‘I seek the protection of Holy Mother Church!’
He had performed the ritual just in time. The door of the rood screen filled with angry-faced bailiffs, staves in their hands; one even jangled a set of manacles. They jabbed their fists in Laus Tibi’s direction but none dared to cross the sanctuary and lay hands on him. Laus Tibi had sprawled like a dog until Prior Barnabas appeared. Severe and haughty, shoulders back, the Prior had swept out of the sacristy accompanied by a crucifer and confronted the bailiffs.
‘You know the law!’ Prior Barnabas intoned. ‘This man . . .’
‘This thief!’ the chief bailiff bawled back.
‘This child of God,’ Prior Barnabas interrupted, ‘has, according to statute, and the law of Holy Mother Church, sought sanctuary. If you break that law, you will not only incur the anger of the King but the wrath of Holy Mother Church. Excommunication by bell, book and candle, to be cursed in your eating, your drinking, your sleeping and waking!’
‘I know the law!’ the chief bailiff rasped.
‘Then abide by it!’ Prior Barnabas snapped. He brought up the cowl of his brown habit to cover his balding head, slipping his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his robe. Exhausted as he was, Laus Tibi could see the good Prior enjoyed his power, and that there was little love lost between this proud churchman and the city bailiffs.
‘Then abide by the law!’ Prior Barnabas repeated. ‘This man can stay here for forty days. He then has a choice: to surrender himself to your power or take an oath to abjure the realm. I doubt,’ he added sarcastically, ‘that he will surrender himself, so I will give him a crucifix, two coins, a pannikin of wine, some bread and meat wrapped in linen, then he will have safe custody to Dover.’
‘If he ever reaches it!’ a bailiff yelled.
‘That is not my concern,’ Prior Barnabas retorted. ‘Now, sirs, this is the House of God. We have pilgrims waiting to see the Lacrima Christi.’
‘We all know about that!’ the chief bailiff jibed.
‘Good!’ the Prior remarked. ‘In which case you will know of the generosity shown to this church by Sir Walter Maltravers, lord of Ingoldby Hall, close friend of our King.’
The bailiffs decided to retreat. Laus Tibi received some dark glances but the hunting pack withdrew. The thief knew he was safe and settled down to plot what he should do next. . . .
The thief broke from his reverie and turned to stare towards the sanctuary chair. Seven days had passed. He had been given a clean pair of breeches and the friars had been kindly enough, though Laus Tibi suspected the source of this generosity was more antipathy towards the city bailiffs than any compassion for himself. He rubbed his eyes. Prior Barnabas was right. He would have to leave here. But how could he get to Dover? What guarantee did he have that the bailiffs would allow him safe passage? Laus Tibi wandered back across the sanctuary, now awash in gold-red colours as the rays of the setting sun poured in brilliant shafts through the stained glass windows. The marble altar steps glowed in the resplendent light which dazzled in the golden pyx holder. Yet this brought little comfort to Laus Tibi. Night would soon be here. The felon shivered and rubbed his arms. Darkness was already creeping in like a mist. The gargoyle faces at the tops of pillars appeared to spring to life, grotesque images shifting in the twilight. Laus Tibi stared up at the central window displaying Christ in judgement; the late evening breeze, piercing some crack or vent, sent the candle flames dancing.
Laus Tibi returned to his post near the door of the rood screen. The two friars were still kneeling at their prie-dieus. Soon the vigil would be over, the Lacrima Christi would be taken down and ceremoniously locked in its iron coffer. Prior Barnabas shifted on his prie-dieu and whispered something to Brother Ralph the infirmarian, who struck a tinder and lit the sconce torches with a taper on the end of a long pole. Laus Tibi was glad of this light. No matter how beautiful the church was in daytime, at night it became another place, of shuffling sounds and moving shadows. Hadn’t the sacristan told him how the nave was haunted by a friar who had committed suicide, hanged himself from an iron bracket down near the corpse door? Brother Ralph, still holding the lit taper, was glaring up at him, gesturing with his hand for the felon to withdraw. Laus Tibi knew the Prior wanted him to stay away from the door so he walked back across the sanctuary and, for a while, stared up at the pyx case carved with its strange symbols. Laus Tibi could not understand the Greek. Brother Simon said that it stood for: ‘I am the beginning and the end of all things.’ He was about to stretch up and caress the beautiful gold when a cry from further down the nave made him jump. He hurried back to the rood screen door. Brother Ralph was staring through the grille, gesturing with his hands for Prior Barnabas to join him.
‘The Lacrima Christi!’ he shouted. ‘The Lacrima Christi has gone!’
Laus Tibi stared in horror.
‘Nonsense!’ Prior Barnabas scoffed. He hurried over to join his colleague, and even from where he stood, Laus Tibi heard his groans of despair.
‘Quick! Quick!’ Prior Barnabas shouted, almost pushing Br
other Ralph away. ‘Rouse the community!’
The infirmarian hurried off. Prior Barnabas glanced up the nave.
‘And you, sir.’ He gestured at Laus Tibi. ‘Go back to your chair. You are in sanctuary. Stay in sanctuary!’
Laus Tibi retreated into the shadows. Somewhere deep in the priory a bell tolled, followed by the sound of feet slapping against the hard stone floor, doors being thrown open. Friars thronged down the nave. Laus Tibi returned to the Chair of Mercy in the sanctuary recess. He heard shouts of disbelief, Prior Barnabas giving orders, then the noise faded.
‘I hope they don’t blame me,’ Laus Tibi moaned to himself. ‘I had nothing to do with it. How could the ruby be taken from such a place?’
The chantry chapel was sealed; the only way in was through the door, yet that had been bolted and locked. Laus Tibi could hardly wait for Brother Simon to bring his evening meal of bread, cheese and strips of smoked bacon and a leather blackjack of ale. The sacristan was all agog with the news even though he gazed suspiciously at Laus Tibi.
‘The Lacrima Christi,’ he whispered, ‘has truly gone!’
‘Gone?’ Laus Tibi exclaimed.
‘Taken off its hook,’ Brother Simon whispered, eyes all fearful. ‘The ruby and its holder.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Gone like that but with no sign of forced entry.’ He leaned closer. ‘They say Christ has come back to claim his own!’
The following afternoon, Friday, the eve of the feast of the Transfiguration, Sir Walter Maltravers, Lord of Ingoldby Hall, was about to perform his weekly penance. He had entered the great maze. He knelt down in the shadow of its thick, high hedges and crossed himself. Sir Walter was a vigorous man in his early sixties who prided himself on having the wits and physique of a man thirty years younger. A proud man, Sir Walter, a lord of the soil, confidant and friend of King Edward IV at whose side he had fought in the recent struggle against the House of Lancaster. Maltravers was Dominus of Ingoldby and its surrounding estates, meadowlands, woods, streams full of fat fish, land under the plough, granges and barns. He also owned tenements in Canterbury and a number of houses in Paternoster Row in the shadow of St. Paul’s in London. Ingoldby Hall boasted a library which would be the envy of any monastery or abbey. Oh yes, a man rich in the things of the world, Sir Walter had invested money in the Merchants Adventurers and other companies plying the Northern and Middle seas. The Crown owed him money and, even in Rome, Sir Walter’s name was held in the highest regard: a man of property, a good friend of the Church. Sir Walter’s lined, grim face broke into a sardonic grin.
