The Tainted Relic

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘And tell me the location of the relic,’ added Michael. ‘I do not want anyone else to die because they inadvertently handle the thing.’

  Kip snarled a refusal, but John scrabbled at his brother’s neck to reveal a purple pouch. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Take it.’

  Michael regarded it warily, and made no attempt to oblige, while Bartholomew certainly had no intention of doing so and Tomas was more concerned with the dying man’s soul. Kip ignored the friar’s exhortations to confess his sins, and his groping fingers found the purse and began to open it, each movement slow and laboured.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Michael, watching cautiously. ‘It is not a decoy? You have not hidden the real one elsewhere?’

  ‘Why not look?’ suggested Kip tauntingly, waving a small splinter in the monk’s face. He smiled when the monk leapt backward. ‘To be certain.’

  They were his final words. He closed his eyes and, after a few moments, his breathing slowed then stopped, although the splinter remained firmly clutched in his fingers. Tomas began to intone a final absolution. At the sound of the Dominican’s voice, Kip’s eyes flew open and he hurled the relic from him. It hit the startled friar square in the middle of his chest. His prayers faltered and Kip went limp for the last time.

  ‘Lord!’ whispered Michael in horror. ‘Tomas has touched it.’

  ‘I do not think we have ever made so many mistakes and erroneous assumptions with a case before,’ said Michael the following day, as he sat with Bartholomew in the little orchard at the back of their college. ‘We thought we had three murders, but there were only three accidents–four, if we count Kip. First, there was Witney, a fanatical hater of Holy Blood relics, who would stop at nothing to destroy one. He died when the trap he had set for Andrew sprung early, and stones dropped down the chimney to stun him and then smother him with soot.’

  ‘Witney’s death may have been accidental, but Andrew’s and Urban’s had a human component. John insists Kip did not mean to kill Urban when he tripped him, and I think he is telling the truth, but Kip was responsible for the death nonetheless. Meanwhile, Andrew’s demise was a clear case of self-murder.’

  ‘He deliberately walked on to the unstable pier, and he had dosed himself with a sedative to ensure he would not swim. There is also the way Urban says he fell–with his legs rigid and straight, as though he intended to plunge as deep as possible. He probably thought he would never rise.’

  ‘But there is a drought, and the river is low,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Fortunately for him, the syrup did its work, and he simply slipped into unconsciousness and drowned. I think he staged his suicide to be perceived as an accident, because he wanted to make a point to Tomas. He knew he would not live long anyway, and decided to use his death to ensure Tomas took Barzak’s curse seriously.’

  ‘And fulfil his last wishes. All friars are trained to obey their masters, and Tomas would be no different, despite their rift. I wonder why he elected to use Tomas, rather than Urban. Was it because he was fond of Urban, and hoped to spare him an early death?’

  ‘I can think of no other reason,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Urban had hesitated when he was offered the relic earlier, and Andrew saw that, for all his protestations of loyalty, Urban was not ready to die. But Andrew should not have killed himself before making sure that the relic was in Tomas’s hands, and that Tomas agreed to do what he asked. All manner of things could have gone wrong–did go wrong.’

  ‘Not really. I have just told you that Tomas would obey his former master’s dying wish–and that is exactly what he is doing. He left Cambridge this morning, with the relic around his neck. It will be in Norwich in a week. You were right about him, and I was wrong. It is a pity he will die, because the Dominican Order needs more men like him–open minded, mild, tolerant. ’

  ‘I do not think he will die,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I was not right about him: you were.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tomas killed Kip.’

  Michael stared at him. ‘No–Kip killed Kip. Tomas pointed out the severed twine that held the rack to the ceiling, remember?’

  ‘I remember that is what he said. However, when Kip snatched the knife from the ceiling, Tomas grabbed one from the table. Then he flew across to the wall, where the rope holding the rack was secured to a hook. The rack dropping on Kip looked like divine vengeance, but it was just Tomas, cutting the rope that held the pulley. Besides, the situation Tomas described–with Kip slicing the twine as he took aim at you–is quite implausible.’

  Michael gazed at him. ‘Are you sure?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘I saw exactly what happened.’

  ‘Then why did you say nothing?’

  ‘Because he saved you, and I was grateful to him. But he is a liar. He lied about his real purpose in visiting Cambridge–gaining the trust of good men like Prior Morden in an attempt to discover treachery in the Holy Blood debate is hardly an honourable duty–and he was not honest with us about his former acquaintance with Andrew.’

  Michael continued to stare. ‘Then perhaps it is just as well he has gone.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘You compared him to the fish-head John Roughe left on your shoulder at the Dominican priory, before we had ever heard of this relic. You were right: he is the kind to sit unseen, waiting for others to harm themselves with their own careless tongues.’

  ‘A stinking, malevolent presence with all-seeing eyes,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘Like Barzak’s curse.’

  Tomas had been travelling since dawn, when he had taken his leave of Prior Morden and the Cambridge Dominicans, promising to deliver the relic to Norwich as Andrew had requested. He glanced at the man who sat in the cart next to him, and they exchanged yet another grin of satisfaction.

  ‘The monk and the physician were so easily fooled,’ crowed Seton. ‘They believed it was the real relic Kip hurled at you. They all did.’

  ‘I might have been dead if it were,’ said Tomas. ‘It was fortunate you were to hand when Urban died, to find it and hide it until we could spirit it away.’

  ‘Our Minister-General will be pleased,’ said Seton, delighted with his success, ‘although it is a pity Witney grew impatient and tried to act too soon.’

  Tomas nodded. ‘I am sorry he died.’

  ‘This venerable object does not belong with Benedictines in Norwich, but in the hands of the Order that is making a stand for the sanctity of Holy Blood against the vile ravages of fanatical Dominicans. It belongs with us Franciscans–true believers, like you and me.’

  Tomas smiled. ‘It will be a relief to don the habit of a Grey Friar again. I hate the Dominican garb–I have done ever since I changed my allegiance after hearing Andrew’s flawed ramblings in Pécs all those years ago. I owe him a great deal–it was his inadequate grasp of theology which convinced me I was in the wrong Order.’

  Seton laughed. ‘You played your part well–perhaps too well. Brother Michael still believes you are a Dominican inquisitor, and did not suspect for a moment that we had been watching Andrew all the way from Exeter, waiting for an opportunity to wrest his treasure away from him. But you should not have played with Michael. It was not kind.’

  ‘I was bored among all those dull-witted Dominicans, and needed something to amuse me.’ Tomas fingered the pouch at his neck.

  Seton glanced at it uneasily. ‘I will be glad when we pass that to our Minister-General. What do you think he will do with it? Display it, so common folk can come and pay homage? Or will he keep it in a secure vault, to ensure the Dominicans never seize it for their pyres?’

  ‘It is worth a fortune,’ replied Tomas. ‘And London is the place where fortunes are made.’

  Seton gazed at him in alarm. ‘You mean he will sell it? But it might fall into the hands of someone unscrupulous!’

  Tomas nonchalantly drew a knife from his belt and hugged Seton to him as he slipped the blade into his companion’s stomach. Seton’s eyes bulged, and he struggled for a moment before
going limp. The friar shoved him off the cart and watched the body bounce into a ditch.

  ‘You will never know what happens to it,’ he murmured. ‘And neither will your Minister-General.’

  Historical Note

  Blood relics were controversial items throughout the Middle Ages, and they gave rise to a complex scholastic debate. This concerned not only whether such relics could exist and, if so, whether they should be venerated, but also touched upon such topics as the definitions of death and resurrection, transubstantiation and the mass, and the precise nature of the kind of blood that may or may not have been involved. Since contemporary medical science was of the belief that there were several kinds of blood in the human body, the specific type alleged to have been contained in blood relics, such as the ones at Hailes or Ashridge, was extremely contentious, and had all manner of theological implications.

  There were two peaks in the polemic. One occurred in the 1350s, when the Franciscan Francis Bajulus of Barcelona declared that the blood of Christ’s Passion had become separated from His divinity; he based his claim on the writings of the Provençal Franciscan Francis de Meyronnes (died c.1325). The claim might not sound particularly significant today, but in the 1350s it created an uproar. The implication was that if blood and body had indeed become separated, then the blood was unworthy of veneration–which raised questions about the veneration of Christ’s blood in the mass. This in turn had profound implications for fundamental tenets of Christian orthodoxy. Bajulus’s theory was referred to the nearest Dominican inquisitor, and it is no surprise to learn that it was deemed heresy. Thus began yet another chapter in the long series of disagreements between White and Black friars.

  The second peak in the debate came a century later, with the Franciscans vociferously arguing that Holy Blood relics were sacred, and the Dominicans furiously seeking to suppress the claims. The battle lines between the two Orders over these issues remained in place until well into the seventeenth century.

  Norwich Cathedral was one of several English foundations said to possess a portion of Holy Blood. It came from Fécamp in the 1170s, and may have been an attempt to attract pilgrims who might otherwise have gone to the shrine of Thomas á Becket in Canterbury. It was still there in 1247, and may explain why it was the Bishop of Norwich who was invited to give the sermon when Henry III gave his portion of Holy Blood to Westminster in that year. Norwich Cathedral was ravaged by fire in 1272 and, despite attempts to save it, the crystal vase in which the blood was kept cracked and the reliquary was damaged by flames. The blood was removed from the split vessel, and the monks were amazed by the ‘miraculous’ suspension of most of the blood in the upper part of the vase (it had probably dried).

  Adherence to one or other side of the argument can be seen in the world of Renaissance art: the slab on which the dead Jesus lay was either painted red, showing an affinity with the Franciscans’ beliefs, or grey, indicating a preference for the Dominicans’. Presumably, a multi-coloured one indicates a hedging of bets.

  ACT FIVE

  London, 16??

  Although the interior of the tent was dim, making it difficult to see clearly, there could be no doubt about it. The man was dead. Ulysses Hatch, publisher and dealer in books, was lying flat on his back. His arms and legs were splayed out and his eyes stared sightlessly at the faded stripes of the tent fabric overhead. He was a large man and the hummock of his belly almost reached to our knees. There wasn’t much doubt either that he’d died by violence. A great splotch spread out like a bloody flag across the incline between his triple chins and his chest.

  The dead man and his lumber took up so much space there wasn’t much room for the three of us who were still alive and upright. All around was the clutter of his trade, piles of books, bundles of pamphlets. There were in addition a couple of trunks, stuffed with bolts of cloth, with parcel-gilt plates and goblets and other things, for Ulysses Hatch had not restricted himself to bookselling. I knew this because barely an hour earlier I’d been gazing at the interior of the smaller trunk while Master Hatch carefully withdrew from it a little box that was swaddled in coarse woollen cloth and jumbled, apparently carelessly, among other items. When he told me what the box contained, my vision swam and my legs almost gave way. Moments later, the wooden box was once again tucked among the jumble inside the trunk, which was in turn padlocked by its owner. Now the lid of this same trunk lay open while Ulysses Hatch was spreadeagled on the ground near by. I hadn’t checked yet but I would have bet half a year’s pay that the little box had gone.

  The interior of the tent was generously proportioned but a heavy brown curtain almost divided it in two, cutting off the area by the entrance where the book vendor had set out his table and making a private chamber behind. At that moment I was very thankful for that thick fustian curtain. Beyond it, the sounds of the fair proceeded as though nothing had happened. Against the background hum of the crowd, we could hear the cries of ballad singers and confectioners and horse coursers. Within the tent the only sounds were the buzzing of a pair of flies and the slow-drawn breath of three baffled and frightened stage players. The smells that I’d been aware of on my first visit to the tent–the smell of summer’s end and of musty fabric and unwanted paper–were now overlaid by a bitter, burnt odour.

  Not one of us had bargained on this development. And it had seemed such a straightforward errand. I was only doing a favour for a man whom I was proud to consider my friend, and the others were here to keep me company. Early that morning we’d been in good spirits. And now look at us, standing over the corpse of a fat publisher and wondering what to do next…

  They say that Saint Bartholomew’s Fair is the biggest in the whole world, and who am I to contradict them? Certainly it sometimes seems as though the whole world flocks to the fair for a few days in August, all for the pleasure of being crammed into a couple of acres of land in Smithfield.

  It was a hot morning at the back end of summer. Behind us the London walls were visible above a jumble of rooftops while before us the fair was bubbling away like a cooking pot. The hazy air was filled with the cries of the traders and ballad-mongers and the smell of roasting flesh. Smithfield is the place where animals are sold for slaughter, and it’s hard to avoid the idea that the same fate awaits plenty of the Bartholomew visitors. Not slaughter maybe but a good fleecing. At least, that’s what might occur to your average Londoner as he surveys the simple country folk picking their way across the green fields of Hoxton and Islington.

  I don’t know whether this thought was in the minds of my two companions as we watched the crowds flowing towards the encampment of stands and booths, each flying their banners and signs like an army before battle. Maybe my friends were preoccupied with less cynical notions: a sort of London pride that we lived in a place that was great enough to bring the world to its door. And a sort of London pity for those unfortunate enough to have to dwell somewhere else.

  Needless to say, neither my two friends nor I were Londoners by birth.

  A word about the three of us.

  We–Abel Glaze, Jack Wilson and I, Nicholas Revill–are members of the King’s Men, formerly the Chamberlain’s Men, based at the Globe theatre in Southwark. We are players, at your service. Or at the service of King James I, to be precise. Jack Wilson was the longest-serving player among us three and Abel Glaze the most recent, but we’d all notched up a good few years by now with London’s premier acting company.

  Jack and I had set our hearts on playing from quite early days, but Abel had joined us by an odd route. He had once made a good living–a very good living, much better than the wages he earned on the stage of the Globe playhouse–by trickery. As a counterfeit crank, he had regularly tumbled down in the public highway, foaming at the mouth (the foam produced by a sliver of soap tucked into his gob) and with eyeballs rolling upward in his head. The outskirts of a town were the best place, he said. Abel would wait until the road was clear and a well-dressed party was picking its way along. Younger women we
re the softest marks and sometimes middle-aged men, he claimed, because girls were naturally tender hearted (unless they were very well dressed) and prosperous middle-aged men generally had something to atone for. Abel once defended this practice to me by saying that, when he’d succeeded in parting these gullible spirits from their money, he was sure that they went on their way with a lighter heart than his own. His practices were an incentive to charity, weren’t they? But now Abel Glaze had gone straight, or as straight as a life in the playhouse would permit.

  At the moment I could see Abel’s tapering nose almost quivering while he gazed across the crowd milling round the stalls of Bartholomew Fair.

  ‘Looking for likely marks, Abel?’ I said.

  ‘Those days are well behind me, Nick.’

  ‘Smell that,’ said Jack Wilson. ‘That is Ursula’s smell if I’m not mistaken.’

  He sniffed appreciatively and gestured towards the source of the smell, a nearby stall which was advertising its wares with a pig’s head stuck on a pole. I couldn’t help recalling the traitors’ heads which are displayed at the southern end of London Bridge. But those blackened, wizened objects looked less human than that of the pig on the pole, which to my eyes had something beseeching about it. Beneath it was a sign saying: ‘HERE BE THE BEST PIGS. THE PIG’S HEAD SPEAKS IT’.

  I’d had breakfast not so many hours earlier but I felt a sudden hunger at the sweet, crisp aroma of roasting pig. Later, I promised myself, we would visit Ursula’s stall for a taste of her wares. Later, after we’d concluded our business at Bartholomew Fair.

  ‘And look there,’ said Abel. ‘You mentioned marks, Nick…there’s a whole crowd of ’em.’

  From our position by the railings that edged the fair, I looked. On an open patch of ground was standing a handsome ballad singer with fair, curled hair surmounted by a red cap. He’d just finished a song and was nodding and smiling at a little gaggle of spectators who, by their own smiling and scattered applause, showed that they appreciated him almost as much as he appreciated himself. He raised his hands placatingly as if they were compelling him to offer one more number. Oh, very well…if you insist. He tossed his red-capped head like a frisky colt before bending once more over the lute that was strung round his neck.