The Tainted Relic

by The Medieval Murderers

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘I am not sure,’ admitted Bulmer. ‘I am not given to flights of fancy, being a practical fellow, but my feelings about him are strong, and I felt the need to act. Prior Morden is a good man, but overly inclined to see the good in people. I do not want him harmed because of the likes of Little Tomas.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’ asked Michael, raising his hand when Bartholomew started to point out that the suspicion probably arose from the fact that Tomas was a foreigner, and such men often excited negative emotions in English towns.

  Bulmer played with the compress against his injured face. ‘He says he is from a university called Pécs, but I have never heard of it, and I do not believe it exists. I am afraid he is here to spy on us, to see where we stand over this Holy Blood business. None of us really understands the wretched affair, and Prior Morden is too open for his own good–I think he may even believe the Franciscans are right, and might confide in the wrong people. I do not want the Cambridge community excommunicated when I am about to take my final vows–I should like to be a prior one day, and that will not happen if I am deemed a heretic.’

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Michael. ‘You do not like Tomas because he is from an unknown university and you think he may be part of an inquisition?’

  Bulmer nodded. ‘And because he asks questions. I detest Kip Roughe, as you know, but even he is uncomfortable with Tomas, and that is why we fought. I was watching Tomas, but it was Kip who was about to thrust a knife between his shoulder blades. I cannot condone murder, not even of someone like Tomas. I ordered him to put down his weapon, and he punched me.’

  Michael’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why not mention this sooner? We assumed you were gawking at prostitutes, but now it seems you averted a crime. Why did you keep your noble actions to yourself?’

  ‘Because I would have had to admit to following Tomas,’ replied Bulmer resentfully. ‘Although I suspect he probably already knows–as I said, he is clever. Besides, this is not the first time Kip and John have tried to kill him, but he is too cunning to be dispatched by mere servants. It is the Roughes who will die if they continue to stalk him, not Little Tomas.’

  As soon as he emerged from the Dominican priory, Bartholomew was summoned by the Carmelites, whose prior had taken a turn for the worse, obliging the physician to spend the rest of the day with him. By the time he returned to Michaelhouse, it was too late to speak to Michael and the lights in almost every room were doused. Exhausted, he slept soundly, despite the stifling heat, and woke only when the bell chimed for prime. He waylaid the monk before breakfast, and learned that Kip Roughe had confirmed Bulmer’s tale–and had been proud that he had raised the courage to take a stand against a man of Tomas’s obvious wickedness. Michael had warned him not to do it again, and fined him heavily to make his point.

  Both scholars spent the morning teaching, and it was well past noon before they were able to meet again. Michael, whose classes were smaller and less demanding, had gone a second time to warn the Roughe brothers against murder, only to learn that neither had been seen since the previous evening. Both Bulmer and Morden informed him that it was not an uncommon occurrence for the pair to disappear on business of their own, and neither seemed concerned about their untimely absence.

  ‘I am worried, Matt,’ said Michael as they walked towards the High Street. He wanted to visit Seton. ‘I do not want the Roughe brothers dead at Tomas’s hand.’

  ‘It is they who are trying to dispatch him, not the other way around. And if they are killed, Tomas can quite legitimately claim self-defence. I do not know why they have taken against him: he has done nothing wrong, other than to be an intelligent foreigner.’

  Michael was not so sure, but did not want to argue when he knew they would not agree, while Bartholomew also dropped the matter and looked across the road to where two men in Carmelite habits walked, deep in conversation–or rather, Andrew talked while Urban listened. Bartholomew could not be certain, but he thought Urban was sobbing, and supposed the master was admonishing him for some infraction. His own, albeit brief, observations had told him that Andrew was a hard and exacting taskmaster, difficult to please. He recalled him mentioning a previous novice, who had been all a master could desire, but who had ‘betrayed’ him by seeking more knowledgeable teachers. He supposed Urban was lacking in comparison, and felt sorry for the lad: competing with ghosts was a grim and unrewarding business.

  Michael knocked briskly on the door to St Bernard’s, and paced back and forth while he waited for it to be answered. Bartholomew watched Andrew sink gratefully on to the low wall surrounding the churchyard opposite, while Urban perched next to him. The old man was weary, eager for rest, while Urban appeared to be unsettled and restless. When a greasy scullion arrived to ask Michael’s business, the monk did not reply; he pushed past the man and strode inside, aiming for the smaller of the two chambers on the ground floor, where Seton was enjoying a solitary meal.

  ‘You are alone?’ asked Michael. ‘Where are the Carmelites?’

  ‘Out,’ said Seton, before Bartholomew could say they were sitting in the sun outside. ‘They have been gone much of the day, which suits me. I am here to study, and it is difficult to read when they chatter all the time.’

  ‘They talk a lot?’ enquired Michael, helping himself to bread.

  ‘Andrew does,’ replied Seton, grimacing when Michael took the last piece of chicken. ‘He is always telling that stupid novice something he will forget within an hour. Carmelites accept anyone into their ranks, and more often than not their wits are inferior. I am afraid the same is also true of my own Order. Still, at least the Franciscans have men like me to present an intelligent face to the world. Witney did so, too, before that pair murdered him.’

  ‘Witney was interested in Andrew’s Holy Blood relic,’ began Michael. ‘Are you sure he did not try to take it from him? Your Order is intent on preserving such items from destruction by the Dominicans. Perhaps he tried to seize it in a misguided attempt to protect it–to take it from a feeble old man who would be unable to repel the determined advances of single-minded Black Friars.’

  Seton sighed. ‘I was not going to bother you with irrelevant detail, but Witney was not an adherent of my Order’s teachings–he did not accept the validity of such relics. But why do you ask? Have you come around to my way of thinking: the Carmelites killed him?’

  ‘Did you like Witney?’ asked Michael, declining to reply.

  Seton was taken aback. ‘I have known kinder, more gracious men, but I did not kill him, if that is what you are asking. I heard what you found on the roof, but I am not a man to scramble up buildings, Brother. That sort of agility is for the likes of young Urban.’

  ‘Did you see Urban by the chimney?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or covered in bits of thatching to suggest he had been climbing?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Seton. ‘But I paid little attention to him or his master, because I considered them beneath my dignity. It was Witney who engaged them in conversation. But, now I think of it, Urban did climb a ladder at one point. There was a pigeon’s nest near our window, and the constant coos and flaps were disturbing Witney, so Urban offered to knock it down for him. There! I have proved your case, Brother: Urban is an experienced user of ladders and happy on roofs.’

  ‘I hardly think—’ began Bartholomew, but Seton was not to be deterred.

  ‘And whoever murdered Witney was a man with exactly those skills. Urban is the villain, just as I predicted.’

  It was clear they would learn no more from Seton, so Bartholomew and Michael took their leave.

  Bartholomew followed Michael out of the hostel into the intense glare of the afternoon sun. Michael gasped at the sudden heat, then insisted they visit the Brazen George for cool ale while they discussed what they had learned. Although scholars were not permitted in taverns, Bartholomew felt the humidity was unpleasant enough to warrant some rule-breaking. He followed the monk into a peaceful room at the back of the inn, whe
re they were served ale that had come directly from one of the deeper cellars. It was clear, cold and refreshing, and he began to feel somewhat revived. The same could not be said for their progress on the case, however, and although they discussed it at length, neither had anything new to add. They were staring disconsolately into the dregs of their ale when the door opened, and Little Tomas walked in.

  ‘Your beadles said I might find you here,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I understand you have been looking for me–to ask about the fact that the Roughe brothers have been trying to kill me.’

  If Michael was disconcerted by the bald pronouncement, he masked it. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You are aware of what Kip and John have been doing?’

  Tomas smiled as he took a seat. ‘It is difficult not to notice a crossbow bolt that misses you by the length of a finger, or a horse that tries to ride you down. They also shook the ladder when I climbed it yesterday–endangering Bartholomew into the bargain. Of course I have noticed.’

  ‘And what have you done about it?’ demanded Michael.

  ‘Nothing. Their attempts are clumsy, and I am never in real danger–although the crossbow bolt was a little close for comfort.’

  ‘Why are you so sanguine about it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Most men would confront their would-be assassins and demand to know what they are about.’

  ‘I do not need to ask; I know exactly why they have taken against me. None of the other Cambridge Dominicans is a scholar, and neither they nor their servants understand why I devote my life to books. Also, I am from a university in a country they have never heard of, and I look, speak and behave differently from them. I am a stranger, a foreigner, and therefore suspect. Their dislike of me is simple ignorance, no more and no less.’

  Bulmer had admitted as much and so had the Roughe brothers, and Bartholomew supposed that, even in a university town, it was possible for advanced scholarship to be considered an unnatural vice. Also, the Black Friars tended to be local–even Welsh and Irish scholars were regarded as aliens, so someone from the mysterious-sounding Pécs would be an obvious target for their petty hatreds. Michael was not content with Tomas’s explanation, however.

  ‘They think you are an inquisitor. Are you?’

  ‘There are Dominican inquisitors who report incidents of heresy to our Master-General, but they are Englishmen, who blend in with the host community. They are not foreigners whom no one will trust. Such a ploy would be pointless.’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’ pressed Michael.

  ‘It is a no,’ replied Tomas, a little impatiently. ‘I am just a scholar and a priest.’

  Michael was about to ask him more about his interest in Witney’s death–and his stance on Holy Blood relics–but there was a knock on the door and one of Michael’s beadles entered.

  ‘You are asked to go to the river, near the quays, Brother,’ he said breathlessly. ‘There has been an accident, and the dead man is said to have been staying in St Bernard’s Hostel.’

  Bartholomew jumped to his feet. ‘Who? Seton?’

  The beadle shook his head. ‘An old man wearing a White Friar’s habit.’

  ‘Do you mean Father Andrew?’ asked Tomas in an appalled whisper. ‘Dead?’

  Bartholomew glanced at him, startled by his sudden pallor. Afraid he might swoon, he leaned forward to take his arm. Tomas did not notice, and fixed his dark, intense eyes on the beadle as he waited for a reply.

  ‘I did hear his name was Andrew,’ acknowledged the beadle.

  ‘God save us!’ breathed Tomas. When he raised his hand to cross himself, it shook so much that he was barely able to complete the motion.

  ‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew, certain there was more to his shock than hearing about the death of a man he had, by his own admission, never met. As proctor of Pécs, he would have seen death on a daily basis–assuming he had been telling the truth about his previous vocation, of course.

  ‘I have not been entirely honest with you,’ said Tomas, accepting the remains of Bartholomew’s ale and taking a tentative sip. ‘You were right: I do have more than a passing interest in this case. I am one of many Dominicans scattered across the country whose task it is to listen for information about Holy Blood relics and their movements. And Andrew’s sounded particularly important.’

  ‘An inquisitor?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘You just denied that.’

  ‘Not an inquisitor,’ said Tomas. ‘An observer. It is not the same thing.’

  ‘It is,’ declared Michael. ‘Remember that fish-head John Roughe left on me at your priory? It sat on my shoulder without my knowledge and surveyed us all with its flat, watchful eyes. Well, that is what your kind is like, Tomas. A fish-head perched on the shoulders of honest men.’

  Bartholomew and Michael hurried towards the quays with Tomas at their heels. Michael had tried to dissuade the Dominican from coming with them, but the man was insistent. His face was grim as they walked, leading Bartholomew to wonder whether they had learned all there was to know about his connection to the relic and its carriers.

  Because it was the end of a market day, the streets were choked with carts, and people and animals were everywhere. Cattle lowed as they were driven towards Slaughterhouse Row, while chickens flapped and geese strutted in hissing gaggles. A dog barked furiously at a herd of sheep, and a donkey brayed its displeasure at the cacophony. The smell of animal dung and urine was overpowering, so strong under the baking summer sun that Bartholomew felt himself become breathless from want of clean air.

  It took some time to make their way through the crowds and reach the riverside quays. These were a series of ramshackle piers, used to unload goods brought on the flat-bottomed boats that traversed the fens. The active ones in the southern part of the town were in better repair than the disused ones behind Michaelhouse, and it was to the dilapidated set that the beadle led them. The jetty Michaelhouse owned was among those that were virtually derelict, and anyone venturing on to it was taking his life in his hands. The area surrounding it was seedy and abandoned.

  Tomas looked around. ‘I do not like this place. It feels eerie.’

  ‘Only because it is quiet after the hubbub of the main roads,’ said Bartholomew, who was used to it. ‘It can be quite pleasant on a balmy summer evening.’

  ‘Well, it is not pleasant now,’ retorted Tomas sharply. ‘On a blazing afternoon with the sun at its hottest and more flies than leaves on the trees.’

  Because July had been so dry, the river was considerably lower than usual. Stripes of dried black slime on the jetty’s legs showed it was down by half the height of a man. The beadle pointed, and Bartholomew saw someone standing in the chest-high water at the end of the pier. The figure was leaning forward, so its head was just below the surface. A group of people had gathered to gawk at the spectacle, and Bartholomew saw Urban among them, sitting on a discarded barrel with his head in his hands. He appeared to be crying.

  ‘We left the body where it was, so you could see for yourself,’ said the beadle to Michael. He frowned. ‘It is an odd way to die. If he had stood up straight, his head would have been above the water, and all he would have had to do was call for help. There was no need for him to drown.’

  Before the monk could reply, Tomas darted forward and began to wade towards the corpse. The river shelved quickly, and water soon reached his waist. In his haste, he stumbled and disappeared completely. Bartholomew tensed, half expecting to be looking for a second body. The river was not deep, but its bottom was foul, and it was not unknown for a man’s legs to become entangled in weeds or mud and for him to find himself unable to reach air again. But Tomas burst spluttering to the surface, and continued to make his way to the pathetic figure that bobbed up and down in the waves he created.

  Bartholomew inched his way along the pier, aware that the boards had become very much more rotten since he had last ventured on to them. He warned Michael to stay where he was, suspecting the whole thing might collapse if too much weight was placed on it.
When he reached the end, he knelt, noting that some of the planks had recently snapped off. The new breaks were bright, contrasting starkly with the dark green of the weathered ones. Tomas was just below him, struggling to lift Andrew’s face above the surface. It was already far too late, but Tomas urged him to breathe anyway.

  ‘There is nothing you can do,’ said Bartholomew, leaning down to touch his shoulder. ‘He has been dead too long.’

  ‘His feet are stuck,’ said Tomas in a voice that held a hint of panic. ‘I cannot pull him out.’

  ‘Mud,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘It is notoriously sticky in this part of the river, which is why no one is swimming here, even though the day is hot. Folk know to bathe elsewhere.’

  ‘Andrew was a stranger,’ said Tomas bitterly. ‘He did not know to avoid this stretch of water. Besides, the mud is not as thick as you think. I am standing next to him, but I can still extricate my feet.’

  Bartholomew regarded him intently. ‘What are you saying? That something else is holding him there?’

  Tomas rubbed a shaking hand over his eyes. ‘I do not know. However, I can tell you one thing: the pouch containing his relic has gone.’

  ‘Perhaps it was washed off during his death struggles. He told us Witney had damaged the cord that held it around his neck.’

  ‘He would not have been that careless–not when he knew its loss would mean his death.’

  ‘Give me his hands,’ instructed Bartholomew. He saw where the Dominican was going with his assumptions, but was loath to accept that the relic had claimed another victim. ‘I will pull him up.’

  Tomas obliged, and Bartholomew took the frail arms and braced himself to haul. It was harder than he had imagined, and he was beginning to think he might have to enlist help when the river finally yielded its prize with a sticky plop and a gurgle of thick, black mud. He pulled the body on to the pier and knelt to examine it.

  There was little to see. There was no wound on Andrew’s head to indicate he might have been stunned before he entered the water, and no marks on hands or arms to suggest he had been involved in a struggle. He leaned on the old man’s chest and watched frothy bubbles emerge from his mouth, leading him to suspect drowning as the cause of death. The only odd thing was that Andrew’s pupils had contracted to tiny points, no larger than the hole made by a needle. While Tomas waded out of the river, Bartholomew carried the old man to the bank, where Urban was waiting. Michael took Bartholomew’s arm and tugged him to one side.