‘What about the servants? Kip and John Roughe?’
‘They are more intelligent than the men they serve,’ agreed Michael. ‘But they are untrustworthy. I do not see Andrew putting his faith in such low fellows.’
It was already past dusk, and Bartholomew was tired from a day of teaching, seeing patients, scrambling over roofs and inspecting bodies. He was ready for bed, and did not want to wake himself up by speculating further on the mysteries. When they reached Michaelhouse, he went to his chamber. He removed his tabard and boots in the gathering darkness, rinsed his hands in a bowl of fresh water, and lay on his bed, expecting sleep to claim him immediately.
The room was stifling, so he rose to open the window. After he had lain down again, he found he was too hot in shirt and leggings, so stood to remove them. By the time he was comfortable, the Franciscans in the room opposite had embarked on a noisy debate, and their strident voices roused him from the edge of a doze. He climbed to his feet a third time, to close the window. But the friars’ discussion was an intense one, and their clamour carried on the still night air. They were just loud enough for him to make out some of the words, so he knew they were arguing about the Holy Blood and its place in the mass. He returned to his bed but found himself straining to catch what they were saying, so pulled the blanket over his head to block out the sound. But the hot night made many scholars restless. There was a constant procession across the yard for drinks or visits to the latrines, and someone was playing a lute. Bartholomew slept fitfully, and by the morning he felt wearier than when he had retired.
He joined his colleagues in the yard as they assembled to process to the church, breathing in deeply the slightly cooler air that whispered in from the east. After the mass, he remembered that it was Saturday, and that he had arranged for his students to study with another master, which meant he was free. Normally he used any spare time to write the treatise on fevers that took most of his free hours, but he could not settle to it that day. He was not sure whether the problem was the heat or the odd business surrounding the relic.
Since there was no point in staring at blank parchment all morning, waiting for inspiration, he went in search of Michael, who was enjoying an illicit second breakfast in the kitchens. The monk waved to a stool, inviting the physician to join him in a small repast comprising oatcakes smeared in white grease and heavily sprinkled with salt. Bartholomew declined, knowing they would only make him thirsty. The monk had just started to outline again some of the facts they had uncovered about the deaths of Andrew and Witney when there was a tap on the door and one of his beadles sidled into the room.
‘You are needed, Brother,’ he said, eyeing the oatcakes longingly. ‘You too, Doctor.’
‘Is it Prior Lincolne of the Carmelites?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought his fever was over.’
‘It is Urban, the novice. Hurry, though. I am no physician, but I can tell he does not have long for this world.’
‘Where?’ demanded Michael, making for the door.
‘St Andrew’s Church,’ replied the beadle, standing aside to let the senior proctor go first, so he could steal an oatcake before he followed.
Bartholomew and Michael hurried along the streets in the early morning light. Carts and people were already out, indicating that few were sleeping long when the heat was so intense. Even before the sun had fully risen, the town was sticky and humid, and Bartholomew felt himself become breathless as he walked, as though there were not enough air to go around. Michael panted next to him, complaining vociferously about the wretched furnace of a sun.
Urban had been stricken in the churchyard, and he lay in the long grass near the porch. Both scholars stopped dead when they saw they were not the first to arrive: Tomas was there, kneeling next to the novice and giving him last rites. Bartholomew was aware of Michael’s tense anger, but he could hardly object to a friar’s prayers for a dying soul, and so was obliged to hold his tongue until the ritual was finished. It was some time before Tomas packed away the chrism and the stole he wore around his neck; the Dominican took his duties seriously.
‘What happened?’ asked Michael in a whisper to Bartholomew while they waited. ‘Can you see?’
‘It looks as though Urban has fallen on top of something,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I can see a spike protruding from his stomach, and he is lying awkwardly.’
‘Fell or was pushed?’ asked Michael.
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is impossible to say–not from this distance and without having inspected the wound, and probably not even then. You will have to ask him. Tomas has finished now.’
Bartholomew dropped to his knees, assessing the young man’s injury, but making no attempt to touch it. As he had surmised, Urban had toppled on to a metal spike that had pierced him clean through. It was an ugly wound, but Urban did not seem to be in pain, although his hands were stained red with his own blood. Bartholomew suspected it had damaged his spine and deprived him of feeling. There was nothing he could do to save him, and there was no point in moving him when it would only cause him discomfort in his last few moments.
While Michael spoke gently, identifying himself and telling Urban what he needed to know, Bartholomew studied the object that had killed the lad. At first, he saw only that it was an unusual shape and seemed to be attached to the ground. Eventually, he realized that it was the shoe-scraper that stood outside many churches, so parishioners could remove the worst of the muck from their feet before entering. Urban had dropped, fallen or been pushed on top of one that was particularly ornate, and it had speared him like a fish.
‘Dr Bartholomew is here,’ said Michael softly, when the lad’s eyes seemed to focus on him at last. ‘Do you want anything to ease the pain?’
‘There is no pain,’ whispered Urban. ‘Only cold.’
Bartholomew removed his tabard and laid it over him, although he doubted it would make much difference. Without a moment’s hesitation, Tomas hauled off his habit and wrapped it around the lad’s legs, revealing a light shift that was unusually clean for a garment that was probably never seen by anyone else.
‘Did Andrew take any medicines?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps something for the ache in his back–his old wound?’
‘Poppy syrup–but only when it became very bad,’ replied Urban. He gave a sudden, heart-broken sob. ‘I cannot believe he so suddenly decided he would not complete his journey. I would have helped him, no matter what the cost. I lied for him, too. Seton was not in St Bernard’s Hostel when Witney died. We said he was with the body when we found it, because we knew he was going to accuse us of the crime, and it was the only way to make sure you knew we were innocent.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Michael softly. ‘Did someone push you on to that spike? Tell me his name.’
Urban shook his head. ‘No one pushed me. I am dying because of Barzak’s curse. I touched the relic, you see.’
‘I thought you hesitated,’ said Bartholomew, not sure he wanted to hear about another death for which the relic was deemed responsible. ‘And that Andrew had second thoughts about your—’
Michael silenced him with a glare. ‘We believe your master may have been murdered,’ he said, as gently as such grim news could be imparted. ‘It is possible that the man to whom he gave the relic was also the villain who killed him. As far as I am concerned, this releases you from your promise to Andrew. You are dying, but I will avenge you and him if you tell me this fellow’s name.’
‘Thomas,’ said Urban in a whisper. Bartholomew could tell by the glazed look in his eyes that he could no longer see Michael.
‘Thomas?’ asked Michael, looking up at the friar, who appeared to be astonished by the claim.
‘Andrew took it to the Dominican priory, and gave it to Kip Roughe with orders that he was to pass it to Thomas,’ breathed Urban. ‘He put it in a box, so Roughe would not touch it and become a victim of Barzak’s curse, too. He was careful. I touched it, though, when Roughe gave it to the wrong Thomas.’
&
nbsp; ‘What do you mean?’ pressed Michael, confused by the disjointed explanation.
Urban swallowed. ‘Andrew told me he had arranged for the relic to go to his old student, but it was clear that had not happened yesterday: Tomas did not have it. I was jealous at first, but then I came to my senses–if that was what Andrew wanted, then it was my duty to see his wishes fulfilled. I asked Roughe about the box, and I realized why it was not in Tomas’s possession.’
‘Because Roughe had stolen it for himself?’ guessed Michael.
‘Because he had given it to Big Thomas, not Tomas of Pécs,’ said Bartholomew, quicker on the uptake. ‘Andrew is a stranger here: he did not know that there is more than one Thomas at the Dominican priory.’
Urban nodded. ‘I had to put matters right. I persuaded Big Thomas to give it back–told him it was cursed and he yielded it eventually…’ He trailed off with a weak cough that brought blood to his lips.
Michael waited until Bartholomew had wiped the boy’s face. ‘Then what? Did Big Thomas change his mind and demand it back, so he would not die from this curse, too?’
Urban did not seem to hear. ‘I wanted to give it to Tomas secretly, without anyone else seeing. So I hid among those bushes, and waited for him to attend prime. Roughe said Tomas keeps all his religious offices–Andrew taught him well. When I was safely hidden from prying eyes, I opened the box to make sure the splinter was inside its vial. But the night was dark and I could not see, so I was obliged to identify it by touch.’ His eyes became dreamy. ‘It it so small. It should be bigger, after all the lives it has claimed.’
‘What happened next?’ urged Michael as Urban’s eyes closed. ‘Did you fall?’
‘I dropped it,’ said Urban in an agonized whisper. ‘The hot wind blew dust in my eye. It hurt, and the relic slipped from my hand as I tried to rub it out.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, leaping up and lifting his feet to make sure he was not treading on it. ‘Are you saying that it is here somewhere?’
Urban shook his head. ‘I put it back in the box, and hid again. But…’
‘Yes?’ asked Michael urgently. ‘But what?’
‘Someone came…he tripped me,’ said Urban weakly. He became agitated. ‘Where is it now? Did I give it to the right Thomas? I cannot recall.’
‘I have it,’ said Tomas, kneeling next to the lad, while Bartholomew held his head and soothed him by stroking his hair. ‘It is safe, so do not despair. You have done your duty to Andrew and to Christ’s Holy Blood.’
‘Thank God,’ breathed Urban. And then he died.
‘Do you have the relic?’ asked Michel, watching Tomas don his habit, while Bartholomew covered Urban’s face with his tabard. ‘Where is it?’
‘I do not,’ said Tomas, indicating that there was nowhere for it to be. There was nothing but a wooden cross around his neck, while he carried no purse or scrip at his side. ‘The boy was distraught, so I told him what he needed to hear in order to die in peace. I lied, Brother, although doing so gave me no pleasure. It was simply the right thing to do.’
‘Lying to dying men is right?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.
‘On occasion,’ said Tomas. ‘What good could have come from telling him he had sacrificed his life for nothing?’
‘Who tripped him? Who forced him on to that scraper?’ Michael was looking at Tomas in a way that made it clear he was the prime suspect.
‘I attended prime with several other Dominicans,’ said Tomas. ‘I did not see Urban when we arrived–although I confess I did not look in the bushes–and he was lying here when we came out. You must look elsewhere for your murderer, Brother–and for your thief, too.’
‘Have you searched for the relic?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it flew from Urban’s fingers as he fell, and it is still here.’
‘Your beadles did that after I raised the alarm and told them what had happened,’ replied Tomas. ‘I did not, because I was absolving a dying boy. Besides, I have no wish to take possession of something so dangerous. If Andrew had asked me to take it, then it would have been hard for me to refuse him, a man to whom I owe a great deal. But I would not have accepted it from Urban.’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘You are a Dominican, and they renounce the efficacy of relics containing Holy Blood.’
‘Perhaps we do, but there is no need to ignore the warnings of centuries,’ said Tomas tartly. ‘The cold fact is that people who touch this thing die–whether from accidents, murder or just driven to take their own lives. I want none of it.’
‘Very courageous,’ remarked Michael.
‘Would you touch it?’ demanded Tomas, finally angry. ‘If I found it here, in the churchyard, and handed it to you, would you take it?’ Michael had no reply. ‘No! I did not think so.’
‘This is not the place for such a debate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One of you needs to anoint Urban, and then we can carry him inside.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Tomas, glaring at Michael as he knelt again. ‘I became distracted with earthly concerns when I should have been performing my priestly duties.’
Michael moved away, pulling Bartholomew with him, and assessed the Dominican through narrowed eyes. ‘I cannot make him out, Matt. However, I do not like the fact that he was here when a grisly murder took place–and one most certainly did. You heard Urban say someone tripped him and flung him down on to that sharp implement.’
‘I heard him say he was tripped,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘He did not say it was to fling him to his death. There is a big difference.’
‘Really? Then where is the relic, if the objective was not to kill him and steal what he possessed? You are too willing to protect that priest, and I am tired of it.’
‘You are exasperated because you have no evidence,’ said Bartholomew, knowing the real cause of the monk’s anger. ‘And you are appalled that people are dying and you have no idea why or how. It is nothing to do with Tomas.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, sounding weary. ‘But I do not like his connections to our three victims–Andrew, his old master; Urban, who took his place; Witney, with whom he discussed the Holy Blood polemic.’
‘Do not forget the Roughe brothers,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They had possession of the relic, albeit briefly, when they passed it to the wrong Thomas. Andrew might have put it in a box to protect them, but I am willing to wager anything you like that they looked inside it before they did as they were asked.’
‘And probably touched it. So, we may be looking for two more corpses.’
Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘They are missing, but I do not think they are dead–yet. However, we must not forget Big Thomas, either. He may have looked at the relic, too.’
Michael groaned. ‘We shall visit him today and ask about it. But look at Tomas, kneeling and praying so diligently over a lad who may be his latest victim. I do not believe his presence here is coincidence, Matt. I really do not.’
When they arrived at the Dominican priory to ask Big Thomas about the missing relic, Prior Morden hurried to greet them, his elfin face creased with worry.
‘Little Tomas told me what happened this morning,’ he began, wringing his hands as he stared up at Michael’s monstrous bulk. ‘It is a dreadful business, but I hope you do not think a Dominican brought about this death. A number of friars–and some were Franciscans, so you can be certain they would not lie in our favour–were with Tomas when Urban met his end, so he is not your culprit.’
‘It is not Tomas I want to see, but his namesake,’ said Michael.
‘He did not dispatch Urban, either,’ squeaked Morden in alarm. ‘And you must not make that accusation publicly. Can you imagine how it will look, to have one of our Order accused of killing a Carmelite?’
Michael shrugged. ‘If he has done nothing wrong, he has nothing to worry about. Where is he?’
‘Unwell,’ replied Morden. ‘He was unable to attend church this morning.’
Bartholomew felt a pang of unease. Was Barzak’s maledict
ion working its ugly magic on Big Thomas, too? Or was he allowing an overactive imagination to run away with him? He had heard so many people say the curse was real that he was slowly beginning to believe it. ‘What is wrong with him?’
‘We do not know. Some ailment brought on by the heat, perhaps.’
Without further ado, Morden led them to the dormitory where his friars slept. It was larger than the one used by the novices, but it was a more pleasant chamber. Large windows flooded it with light and it boasted immaculately polished floor-boards, spotless walls and cobweb-free window sills. Several friars were there, sitting in companionable silence as they read or knelt in quiet contemplation. Tomas of Pécs was on the pallet nearest the door, but was engrossed in a psalter and did not look up as Morden trotted to the far end of the hall, where Big Thomas lay. Bartholomew advanced cautiously, aware that even if the ailment was something within his powers to treat, he might die regardless: the mind held a powerful sway over the body.
‘Here is Dr Bartholomew to tend you, Brother,’ said Morden loudly, as if he thought illness rendered the sufferer hard of hearing, too. ‘Sit up, so he can make his examination and calculate a horoscope for your recovery.’
‘No!’ shouted Thomas, making several men jump. ‘Make him go away.’
‘Why?’ asked Morden, startled. ‘He is here to help you.’
‘He cannot,’ cried Thomas. ‘No one can. Go away.’
So, the relic’s curse would work yet again, thought Bartholomew unhappily. Thomas would die simply because he believed he was beyond earthly help, and there was nothing a mere physician could do to prevent it.
‘You look well enough to me,’ said Morden. His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you telling the truth? You have not fabricated this illness as an excuse to stay in bed?’
Big Thomas looked furtive. ‘No,’ he said, clutching the blanket to his chin.
‘Perhaps we could speak alone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A physical consultation is a very private thing, and I do not usually conduct them with an audience.’
The Tainted Relic Page 33
