The Tainted Relic

by The Medieval Murderers

  John resisted the temptation to punch him on the nose, as he had suffered this particular provocation many times before.

  ‘My officer and clerk are about the town now, trying to find out more about him,’ he replied stonily. ‘There may be a connection with the murder of a chapman yesterday–probably by outlaws.’

  De Revelle was more concerned about the man being a cleric, not out of any particular concern for the welfare of priests, but because he was a political ally of Bishop Henry Marshal in their covert campaign to put Prince John on the throne in place of Richard the Lionheart. De Revelle was always on the lookout for any opportunity to further ingratiate himself with the prelate, so he felt it might be worth stirring himself to catch the killer, if it raised his stock with the bishop. He demanded to know the details of the crime and John explained the circumstances of both deaths, but held back Thomas’s suggestion about the cursed relic.

  Richard leant back in his chair and stroked his neatly pointed beard thoughtfully. He was a small, dapper man, with a foxy face. Fond of showy garments, today he wore a bright green tunic with yellow embroidery around neck and hem, with a cloak of fine brown wool trimmed with squirrel fur thrown over his shoulders against the chill of the cold, dank chamber.

  ‘A gang of outlaws could hardly have cut the man’s throat in the upstairs of a city alehouse–even though that Bush is a den of iniquity!’ he sneered, determined to taunt his sister’s husband with reminders of his infidelity. ‘Far more likely that your doxy turned a blind eye to some local robber who preys on her guests.’

  Once again, John refused to rise to the bait and suggested that a squad of soldiers should be sent to clear the outlaws from the woods around Clyst St Mary. De Revelle dismissed this idea with a wave of his beringed hand.

  ‘A waste of time! Every bit of forest in Devon is crawling with these outcasts. Trying to find them is like looking for a needle in a haystack. But I want to catch the killer of this priest, for the bishop will be on my neck as soon as he hears about it.’

  John decided to keep Thomas’s doubts about the genuineness of the priest to himself for the moment, else Richard’s interest would rapidly evaporate. With a muttered promise to keep the sheriff up to date with progress, he left his brother-in-law to continue his embezzlement of funds from the county’s finances and went back to his own bleak office in the gatehouse.

  With both his assistants out on the streets, de Wolfe felt obliged to occupy himself and reluctantly turned back to his reading lessons, slowly tracing the Latin script with a forefinger and mumbling the words under his breath. An east wind whistled through the open window slits and he huddled deeper into his cloak as the morning wore on. In spite of the discomfort, which he had learned to endure after twenty years’ campaigning in a range of climates from Scotland to Palestine, he eventually fell asleep from the sheer boredom of his lessons, and jerked himself awake only several hours later when Thomas de Peyne limped up the stairs and pushed through the sacking over the doorway.

  ‘I’ve found who he was, master–and where he came from!’ squeaked the little ex-priest excitedly, proud of himself for being able to be of help to this grim man to whom he owed so much for giving him a job after his disgrace. John, still half asleep, glared bleary eyed at his clerk. ‘Tell me about it,’ he grunted.

  ‘I went first to the cathedral and made enquiries among the vicars and secondaries, but no one had any news of such a priest. Then I went down to St John’s Priory on the river, but again they had seen no one like that. I tried a couple of the city churches with no result, then ventured into Bretayne to call at St Nicholas Priory.’

  John groaned. ‘You’re getting as bad as Gwyn for spinning out a tale! Get to the point, man!’

  Unabashed, Thomas dropped on to his stool and gesticulated as he spoke. ‘One of the younger brothers there told me that a rough-looking priest had called yesterday and had talked with Prior Vincent. I asked to see the prior, but he refused to talk to me. However, his secretary told me that the man said he was Gervase of Somerset and that he tried to sell a valuable relic to the prior, but wanted far too much money for it.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going after leaving St Nicholas?’ demanded the coroner.

  The clerk shook his head ruefully. ‘No, but he muttered something about other great abbeys being glad of the offer, like Buckfast or Glastonbury.’

  De Wolfe reached out a long arm and clapped Thomas on the shoulder.

  ‘Well done, young man! I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  The clerk glowed with pride at such rare praise from his master.

  ‘The secretary didn’t tell me how much the man wanted for the relic, sir–but it must have been many pounds, by the indignation in his voice. Well worth killing for, I’m sure.’

  The coroner jumped up from his table and strode to a window slit, staring blankly down over the city as he pondered. ‘But where is it now? And who the hell knew that this Gervase possessed it? And who is this priest, anyway? Where did he get the relic?’

  Eager to please, Thomas applied his sharp mind to the problems. ‘If he really was a priest! I’ve got my doubts, he looked much too rough. And as to where he was going, then the two abbeys he spoke of seem the most likely places to raise money on a religious relic.’

  De Wolfe turned from the window. ‘Well, he’s not going anywhere now, other than a pauper’s grave! But his killer must be trying to sell the thing in his place.’

  He was interrupted by Gwyn lumbering into the chamber, to report that he had found a score of men who were in the Bush the previous night and had warned them to assemble as a jury in the back yard of the inn later that day. Thomas proudly repeated his story for the Cornishman’s benefit, and the coroner’s officer tugged at his long ginger moustaches as an aid to thought.

  ‘Then we’d best get those monks from St Nicholas down to the inquest,’ he suggested. ‘At least they can identify the dead ’un.’

  De Wolfe agreed and told Gwyn to go up to the priory after his dinner and summon them to the Bush. ‘Better take Thomas with you, he might be more tactful with a bunch of Benedictines than you. They can be an awkward lot, if they’re not handled right.’

  His warning was all too prophetic, for when he came back to the gatehouse after a silent meal with Matilda in Martin’s Lane, a glowering Gwyn reported that Prior Vincent had refused point blank to come to any inquest and forbade any of his monks to attend. ‘He said you had no authority over men of God and if you didn’t like it, you could appeal to the Pope!’

  John cursed all intransigent monks, but failed to see what he could do about it. He was not sure how far a coroner’s powers stretched, as the whole system had been set up on the strength of one paragraph in the Articles of Eyre at Rochester in September.

  For once Thomas, usually a fountain of knowledge on all matters ecclestiastical, was unable to help him. ‘I know the cathedral precinct is outside the jurisdiction of both the city burgesses and the sheriff, as well as yourself, master,’ he offered. ‘But the Lord Bishop has voluntarily handed over his rights in respect of killings or other serious crimes of violence within the Close.’

  ‘I know, but that doesn’t help us in respect of monks inside a closed community like St Nicholas,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘I’ll have to seek the advice of your uncle.’

  Half an hour later, he was sitting in the house of the Archdeacon of Exeter, one of the row of canon’s dwellings that formed the northern boundary of the cathedral Close. John de Alençon was a thin, ascetic man with wiry grey hair around his shaved tonsure. His face was lined and care-worn, but relieved by a pair of bright blue eyes. The two Johns were good friends, though de Wolfe had little love for many of the other twenty-four canons, who, like the bishop himself, tended to be supporters of Prince John. De Alençon was fervently loyal to King Richard, as was the coroner, and this contributed to the bond between them. De Wolfe explained the situation, as they sat over two cups of good Poitou wine.

&
nbsp; ‘So can I insist that this prior and his secretary appear at the inquest? They are the only ones who met the fellow before he was killed.’

  The lean canon rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Like you, I have no idea of the powers of this new office of coroner. It seems to have been dreamed up by Hubert Walter to squeeze more money out of the populace for our sovereign’s benefit.’

  Hubert Walter was the Chief Justiciar and virtually ruler of England, now that the King had gone back to France, never to return. Hubert was also Archbishop of Canterbury and had been second-in-command of the King’s armies when John was in the Holy Land.

  ‘If they were your vicars in the cathedral, would you order them to attend?’ persisted the coroner.

  De Alençon shook his head. ‘That’s a different matter, John. St Nicholas is not only a priory, outside the control of this cathedral–it’s also a daughter establisment of Battle Abbey in Sussex, a powerful institution. Only their abbot could decide the issue–and it would take you the best part of a fortnight to get an answer there!’

  De Wolfe swore under his breath. ‘Is there nothing we can do?’ he asked testily.

  The archdeacon smiled and downed the last of his wine, before rising.

  ‘We can both take a walk up there and try a little gentle persuasion. I should leave that big sword at home, John–this requires diplomacy, not brute force!’

  As the cathedral bells tolled for the late afternoon vespers, a crowd began assembling behind the Bush tavern in Idle Lane. The muddy back yard was big enough to accommodate them between the cook-shed, the brewing hut, the pigsties and the privies. Gwyn made them shuffle into a half-circle around one of the trestle tables brought from the taproom, on which lay an ominously still figure covered with a couple of empty barley sacks.

  The big Cornishman used his stentorian voice to formally open the proceedings, as he bawled, ‘All ye who have anything to do before the King’s coroner for the county of Devon, draw near and give your attendance!’

  As de Wolfe waited at the head of the makeshift bier, he noticed that the sheriff had just arrived with Canon Thomas de Boterellis, the cathedral’s precentor, whose duties were to organize the many daily services. John tried in vain to think of some reason why they should have taken an interest in a lowly tavern death. The pair, one gaudily dressed in a bright green tunic and a cloak, the other in a cowled black cassock, pushed their way through the onlookers to stand alongside the prior’s secretary from St Nicholas. When John and the archdeacon had gone to the priory, they had received a frosty reception from Anselm, but after some placatory words from de Alençon, he had softened enough to come to a compromise. He still refused to leave the priory himself, but agreed that his secretary, Brother Basil, could attend to confirm the identity of the victim.

  Now de Wolfe stepped forward to begin the inquest and glared along the line of jurors, who were as much witnesses as judges, as they were the ones who were in the alehouse the previous night.

  ‘We are here to enquire into the death of a man thought to be Gervase of Somerset, though that may or may not be true. Anyway, it’s certainly true that he’s dead!’

  There were a couple of dutiful titters at his attempt at levity, which brought another fercious scowl to the coroner’s face. Then he called forward the maid Lucy, who was the First Finder of the body. She briefly described how she had come across the corpse and had screamed out for the potman and the landlady. Strictly speaking, the First Finder was supposed to raise the hue and cry, by knocking up the nearest four households and starting a hunt for the killer. That might be possible in a village, but in a city it was impracticable.

  ‘The man had been dead for some hours,’ declared de Wolfe. ‘The body was cold and stiff when I examined it early this morning, so there would be no point in seeking the killer, who would have been long gone.’

  John noticed that the sheriff’s eyebrows had risen in a supercilious smile and he had the uneasy feeling that de Revelle was there to make trouble. He had to press on, however, and deal with the next issue, that of identity. He asked Brother Basil to step forward, and the thin young man, enveloped in a black robe too large for him, came hesitantly to the front. At a sign from John, Gwyn whisked one of the sacks off the corpse and, to a chorus of gasps and oaths from the audience, exposed the upper half of the body. The white face contrasted ghoulishly with the dark red blood clot that filled the gaping wound in the neck and spread over the adjacent skin and clothing.

  ‘Brother, is this the man who came to the priory of St Nicholas yesterday?’

  The young monk took a few tentative steps nearer the cadaver and stared at the face, then moved slightly so that he could inspect the ragged tonsure on the top of the head. With a face as pale as that of the corpse, he nodded, and replied in a tremulous voice.

  ‘That’s the man, Crowner. He gave his name as Gervase and said he was a parish priest from Somerset, returning from his pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.’

  He explained about the offer of the relic of the True Cross and the rather unusual fact that he had a genuine letter of authentication signed and sealed by a crusading knight.

  ‘Were you satisfied that this man was truly a priest?’ demanded de Wolfe.

  The monk hesitated. ‘It was hard to decide, sir. He wore a cassock, as you see, but it was in a poor state, even for one who had endured the hardships of a pilgrimage. And his tonsure was strange, though again, he may have just restored it after having been on such a long journey.’

  ‘You seem doubtful, Brother. What did Prior Anselm think?’

  The young secretary shuffled his feet uneasily. ‘He shared my concerns, he told me later. But the man could read the parchment he brought and he spoke some Latin to one of our brothers in the garden. Who else but a priest could have done that?’

  Nesta was called to confirm that the dead man had arrived at the tavern the previous evening and had paid for a meal and lodging for the night, but could add little else.

  ‘Did you think it strange that a priest should need to stay at an inn?’ asked John, trying to keep his voice as gruff as with the other witnesses, though everyone present was well aware of his relationship with the landlady of the Bush.

  ‘It was a little unusual, though I have had travelling clerics lodge here before, when all the cathedral accommodation was full. He said that the morrow he was promised a bed at Buckfast Abbey and just needed a mattress here for the night.’ She further agreed that she had noticed nothing suspicious going on in the loft the previous night and said that people lodging there came up and down the ladder at will, so she would have no reason to take notice of them on a busy evening.

  There was no other evidence to be gained, so de Wolfe made the jury file past the corpse to inspect it more closely. Some were hesitant, others avidly curious, and when they had finished the coroner barked his instructions at them.

  ‘You must come to a verdict about this yourselves, but I see no alternative to you declaring that this man, said to be called Gervase of Somerset, was unlawfully slain by a person or persons unknown.’

  He glared along the line of sheepish men and boys, as if challenging them to contradict him–and a moment later, after some hurried murmuring among themselves, one stepped forward and mumbled their agreement. John was just about to wind up with a final formal declaration for Thomas to write on his parchment roll when an unexpected and unwelcome interruption took place. Richard de Revelle strode forward and officiously held up a hand to halt the proceedings.

  ‘Not so fast, Coroner! There’s a witness you’ve not heard.’

  His thin, foxy face wore a smug expression which he failed to restrain, as de Wolfe glowered angrily at this intrusion.

  ‘What are you talking about? This is my inquest, you’ve no right to interrupt.’

  ‘I am the sheriff! I can do what I please when it comes to the administration of justice,’ sneered de Revelle. ‘You claim this was a killing by persons unknown, but I see little effort on your
part to discover who it was.’

  He swung round and beckoned to someone at the back of the crowd. Reluctantly, a thin, middle-aged man came forward; John recognised him as a patron of the Bush, a servant from one of the canons’ houses in the Close.

  ‘What can this man tell us that we don’t already know?’ demanded de Wolfe, glowering at his brother-in-law, who stood with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

  The sheriff ignored the question and addressed himself to the man, who stood before them, obviously ill at ease.

  ‘You are Martin Bedel, a servant of Canon de Boterellis?’

  The older man, dressed in a plain brown tunic over cross-gartered leggings, bobbed his head. ‘Yes, sir. I am the precentor’s bottler.’

  This was the servant that attended to the drink in the house.

  ‘And you frequent this inn?’ snapped de Revelle.

  ‘Aye, I often come for company and a gossip, when my duties allow. Sometimes I come to break my fast in the morning, for their cooking is the best in the city.’

  There was a snigger from the crowd, quickly suppressed when the sheriff glared around at them. De Wolfe frowned across at Gwyn, who shrugged to indicate that this must be one of the customers he had failed to round up for the inquest.

  ‘And were you here last evening–and again this morning?’ persisted Richard.

  The coroner’s impatience and foreboding got the better of him. ‘What is the point of these questions? If he knows anything, he should have come forward before.’

  ‘Well, he’s coming forward now, thanks to the orders of his master, the precentor,’ replied the sheriff complacently. He turned back to the bottler. ‘What did you see last night?’

  ‘Well, it was as usual, sir. Many people inside, comings and goings up the ladder to the loft. Some I knew, some I didn’t. Mistress Nesta herself climbed up a few times.’

  ‘What of it?’ snarled de Wolfe. ‘She has her sleeping-room up there.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re well aware of that!’ said de Revelle, sarcastically, this time ignoring the suppressed snigger from the audience. ‘But Martin, you were also here this morning for your breakfast, so what did you see then?’