[Sir Richard Straccan 01] - The Bone-Pedlar

by Sylvian Hamilton

  Straccan turned it over in his hands. An old, very old, reliquary—cylindrical, bronze, green with age. A spiral ribbon of worn symbols in no language he recognised was engraved round it and on the lid was a device somewhat like a starfish.

  ‘Do you know what it is?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s very old.’

  ‘Look inside,’ she said.

  He tugged off the close-fitting cap. Inside was another cylinder, this one of stiff rolled cloth tied with a cord threaded through a lead seal. He slid the cord down and gently unrolled the material. Colour sprang up from the surface, not cloth as on the outside, but long narrow strips of ivory pierced and stitched side by side to make a smooth surface from which the intense colour seemed to bleed into the air. A painted face, a woman’s, not young, not beautiful but utterly compelling. Dark, unmistakably eastern, with great black eyes full of such grief that it made him uneasy. Full lips, compressed. A red veil hiding all hair, fastened under the chin with a fish-shaped gold and gemmed clasp.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ He heard the suppressed excitement in her voice.

  ‘The portrait is from Egypt, or perhaps Syria,’ he said. ‘Brought back by a crusader, probably. This must have been a holy woman, perhaps an early martyr.’

  ‘Saint Luke, they say, was artist as well as physician,’ Mother Rohese said eagerly. ‘He painted from life the divine features of God’s Mother.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Straccan thoughtfully. ‘If this was mine, I should like to believe that. But there is nothing to say so. Unless you know whose it is, you can only make guesses.’ He turned the cylinder, angling it to the light to see the inscription, but the strange glyphs were like nothing he had ever seen. ‘This case isn’t Egyptian,’ he said, ‘nor Byzantine, nor from anywhere I know of. It’s much older than the picture and they don’t belong together. Someone just found the case convenient to keep the picture in.’ He rolled it up and slipped it back in the cylinder. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I hoped that you might know the picture,’ said the Prioress.

  ‘These precious things are your …’ She paused and actually looked embarrassed.

  ‘My line of business,’ Straccan smiled.

  ‘Exactly. I hoped that this might be known to you, that you could tell me whose it is.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The dead man also carried this letter.’ It was written in an angular cramped non-secretarial hand and bore neither salutation nor signature. It simply said: ‘Do as I ask, for my soul’s sake.’

  ‘What should I do?’ she asked. ‘With someone’s soul at stake, how do I find out where the man was going?’

  ‘Easier to find where he came from,’ said Straccan, who was wondering that himself. ‘That will lead to the answer. Do you have an intelligent man among your servants: someone you could send back along the road to make enquiries?’

  ‘Our bailiff’s son is a man of some sense,’ she said.

  ‘See what he can discover. Meanwhile, if you wish, I will make some enquiries. See what I can find out.’

  ‘That is what I meant to ask of you. Thank you.’

  ‘At your charges,’ said Straccan.

  ‘Of course,’ said the prioress with a wintry smile. ‘You will give us your accounting.’

  Chapter 4

  Straccan’s house was built on four sides of a square, in the style and on the site of an old Roman villa. Roman-worked stone still formed part of the walls, and red roof-tiles, hypocaust tiles and multicoloured mosaic tiles turned up everywhere the ground was dug. The roofs were now of furze and thatch and much of the building was new wood. Straccan’s office was at the back, and there he sat at a table, checking items on a long list while his clerk opened and sorted oddly-shaped packages taken from a small hide-covered chest. This mild late-March morning the shutters were off, letting in light and noise unhindered. In the yard a supply cart was unloading, men and women going back and forth with sacks and bundles, shouting, laughing, whistling.

  ‘Item,’ said Straccan. ‘Six threads from the chemise of Our Blessed Lady.’

  ‘Here,’ said the clerk.

  ‘Item, rib of Saint Cecilia.’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Item, dust from the tomb of Saint Thomas Becket.’

  ‘Yes, about half a pound of it in a leather bag. I’ll put a new label on, this one’s too hard to read.’

  ‘Item, bone fragment from the arm of Saint Mary Magdalene.’

  ‘No. Cross that off. The Prior of Winchelsea bought that while you were away. And you remember he wanted that foot of Saint Martin?’

  ‘He couldn’t afford it.’

  Right. But he’s come up with a bright idea. He suggests borrowing it, just for two or three years. Reckons it’ll rake in enough offerings in that time for him to be able to buy it.’

  ‘Fat chance,’ said Straccan, drawing a line through the Magdalene’s fragment. ‘Some of Becket’s dust has got in my throat. Let’s have a drink, Peter.’

  The clerk poured beer from a jug into two pewter cups. Straccan walked to the window, leaned through and shouted, ‘Has anyone seen Bane?’

  ‘Gone to the village, Sir,’ someone called back.

  ‘I want to see him as soon as he gets back.’ He picked up the list again. ‘Ready? Item, jawbone of Lazarus.’

  ‘Here. Looks more like a woman’s jawbone. Oh well, never mind.’

  ‘Item, ear of Saint Marcellinus.’

  ‘Can’t find it. An ear? Haven’t had an ear before, have we?’

  Peter turned over several small boxes, pouches, bundles. ‘No. Oh is this it?’ He held up what looked like a withered blackened folded scrap of leather. ‘I suppose it might be an ear.’ Both men stared doubtfully at it. ‘Who was Marcellinus, anyway?’

  Straccan consulted his list. ‘It says here, an early blessed martyr. Let’s have a look.’ He turned the darkened scrap over in his fingers, sniffed it, shrugged and handed it back. ‘Keep it dry. It’ll stan to smell if the damp gets at it.’

  ‘What else is supposed to be in this lot?’ Peter poked about in the sheep’s wool packing.

  The sound of hooves cut through the cheerful racket outside. Straccan glanced over the rest of the list. ‘We should have the Virgin’s binder, a swaddling band of the infant Christ and two of his milk teeth, a thorn from the crown, a kneecap of Saint Peter, three hairs of Saint Edmund, a splinter of the true cross, sundry bloody clouts from sundry martyrdoms, an arrow that pierced Saint Sebastian, oh, and three teeth of Saint Apollonia.’ An ugly gap-toothed face frowned round the open door. ‘Sir, a man to see you.’

  ‘Who is it, Cammo?’

  ‘Him,’ said Cammo, with obvious disapproval. ‘From that Master Wotsit.’

  ‘Master Gregory?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well put him in the solar. Have his horse seen to. Tell Adeliza to wait on him and I’ll see him as soon as I’ve put this lot away.’

  Master Gregory’s messenger sat at his ease on the cushioned window seat, dipping his hands in and out of the bowl of warm water Adeliza held for him. He had been doing this for some time, apparently absorbed in letting the water run and drip from his fingers. Adeliza looked unhappy, and her arms had begun to tremble with the strain of holding the bowl. After a few more moments it shook sufficiently to spill a little water into the man’s lap. He smiled at her.

  ‘Clumsy slut,’ he said very softly and pinched the back of her hand sharply. His nails were very long. ‘Pretty, but a clumsy slut. Calls you his housekeeper, does he? Keep his bed warm, do you?’ Tears gathered in her eyes and she stepped back.

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ he said.

  ‘Yes you have,’ said Cammo from the doorway. He leaned against the door frame, huge hands hooked into his belt, staring at the man. ‘Take the bowl away, Liza. I’ll wait on him.’ As she hurried out of the room he snatched the towel from over her arm and threw it at the seated man.

  ‘Your master is ill served,’ the man sa
id, still smiling. ‘Clumsy cattle and insolent serfs.’

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’ Cammo asked, lumbering forward and looming over him.

  ‘No. Wait … Yes.’

  Outside the window, a little girl had run into the yard and was talking to one of the carters, who laughed and swung her high on to the driving seat of the cart, behind the four great oxen whose heads were well tucked into nosebags, tails swishing at flies and glossy hides twitching occasionally.

  The messenger watched the child and licked his lips. ‘Whose brat is that?’ he asked. Cammo ignored the question and plonked a beaker of beer on the seat beside the man, resuming his stance by the door. Outside, Gilla chattered happily and gee’d up the oxen until she was lifted down and taken to meet each beast in turn, her clear voice repeating their names—Dumpling, Blackbird, Belly-wise and Bracken—until Adeliza appeared from the kitchen and scooped her back into the house.

  Peter came in. ‘Master says sorry to keep you waiting, will you come with me now?’ The messenger pushed past Cammo without a glance.

  ‘Good day to you, Sir Richard,’ he said. ‘My master has another commission for you.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He requires a relic of Saint Thomas.’

  ‘Then he should apply to Canterbury.’

  ‘No, not Becket. Thomas the disciple. Thomas Didymus.’

  ‘Doubting Thomas?’ Straccan looked thoughtful. ‘His remains are said to be in India.’

  ‘As you say. But the King of France has the skull, or part of it, in his Halidom.’

  Straccan took a large thick book from the table beside him and began riffling through its pages. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Saint Thomas. The Pope has a finger. But he won’t sell anything for less than a kingdom, and trying to deal with his agents can take years. King Philip, well, just possibly he might, if the price was right.’

  ‘My master trusts that you will negotiate on his behalf, as you have done before. Funds can be drawn in Paris from the Jew, Rohan, or in Rome from the banker, Tolomei.’

  ‘I’ll make enquiries,’ said Straccan. ‘My fee is one hundred gold pieces, half before I go, and mine whether I succeed or not. The other half on delivery.’

  ‘One hundred? Your charges have gone up, Sir Richard!’

  The cost of living’s gone up. It’s the Interdict, you know. Everything’s dearer: travel, inns, food. Besides, it’s always costly dealing with royalty. Palms to grease, friends to buy, favours to spread around.’

  The man unbuckled his belt and upended it over the table. Gold coins fell out, one after another. Straccan counted twenty.

  ‘Present yourself at the house of the Jew Eleazar in Nottingham, and give him this.’ He took a roll of parchment from his pocket. ‘It is my master’s authority to pay the rest.’

  The messenger’s escort, two men-at-arms, was ready and waiting when his horse was led from the stable. A boy held its head while he mounted. He sat in the saddle for a moment, gazing round the yard at the various doors and windows. From an open door came the sound of a child singing. The man smiled. ‘Who is the little wench?’ he asked. ‘I saw her earlier, sitting in the cart.’

  ‘That’s our Gilla,’ said the boy, beaming. ‘The master’s little girl. Don’t she sing pretty?’

  ‘Like an angel,’ said the messenger, and listened a moment more before touching spurs lightly to his horse and trotting under the arch out of the yard.

  I’ve got a job for you,’ said Straccan when Bane returned. He recounted the story of the dead man at Holystone while Bane listened, whistling softly. ‘The nuns sent their bailiff’s son to try and backtrack this fellow and find out anything about him. When Gilla came home, the prioress sent word with her their man came back with no success. I want you to have a go. Find out where he came from and who sent him, where he was going, and what that picture is.’

  ‘Right. When?’

  ‘Tomorrow will do.’

  ‘I met that Gregory’s man and his escort as I came back. What did he want?’

  ‘He wants a relic of Doubting Thomas,’ said Straccan. ‘Have you ever seen one of these?’ He offered Bane a gold coin. It was small and very thick. On one side was some unknown script and on the other the image of an ugly little tentacled creature.

  ‘Some sort of octopus,’ said Bane. ‘No, I’ve never seen one. Where’s it from?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I thought I’d seen all monies, especially eastern. D’you think this is eastern?’

  ‘Probably. But it’s strange to me. Where’d you get it?’

  ‘Gregory sent it. Up-front money for his relic.’

  ‘Just so long as it’s true gold,’ said Bane.

  ‘Oh, it’s gold right enough.’ Straccan held up one of the coins which bore his testing teeth-marks.

  Chapter 5

  Straccan knew very little of Bane’s previous life. He had a story but how much of it was true was anybody’s guess. Various more-or-less colourful adventures were let slip from time to time.

  Apprenticed to a physician, he had run away and joined the army—been wounded in a skirmish in France—survived and gone pilgrim to Saint James at Compostella, come home penniless and turned beggar, tried thievery and joined a band of wandering players.

  Straccan first saw him in the pillory in the market square at Evesham where a small crowd had gathered, not to pelt, but to laugh at the prisoner’s jokes, songs, and facial contortions. Towards curfew folk drifted away to their homes and a couple of large young oafs started throwing rubbish. Straccan, watching from the alehouse door, saw the prisoner’s head jerk and his body suddenly slump, hanging from the neck and wrists like a sack, and realised that a stone had been flung. Just then the sherrif’s underdog came to open the pillory, letting the man fall like a dead thing into the mud. The two youths had fled, the sun was sinking, the curfew began to ring and three or four people hurried past, ignoring the huddled body.

  ‘What was he in for?’ Straccan asked the alehouse keeper.

  ‘His mates buggered off without paying their score.’

  ‘Why did he stay?’

  ‘Pissed.’

  Straccan hauled him up, so light a weight that he staggered back, braced as he was for something more substantial. He carried the body to the alehouse, laid it on a bench, fetched water and a rag, and wiped the blood and muck from the face. A darkening lump was swelling from the edge of an eyebrow up into the hair. The man groaned, tried to sit up and was violently sick. It was a couple of days before he could stand again, and meanwhile he lay on straw in the stable-loft at Straccan’s charges.

  When Bane emerged from the nightmarish vertigo that had kept him, kitten-weak, on his back, Straccan packed him on his led mule and rode to Peterborough. At the abbey gate he said, ‘This is as far as I go.’

  ‘I’m in your debt,’ Bane said.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I’d like a chance to work it off.’

  ‘I don’t need any help,’ Straccan said curtly.

  ‘Roads aren’t safe. Two’s less like to be set upon than one.’

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Expect you can, Master. So can I, when I’m sober.’

  ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t want a piss-artist around.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Bane, stung. ‘It was rotten bad beer!’

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ said Straccan. He took the mule’s leading-rein, rode in under the arch of the abbey gates and didn’t look back.

  His business there took longer than expected, for His Reverence the Abbot, abed with gout, would see no one until he felt better. Three days later when Straccan rode out again, an insubstantial figure detached itself from the mud-splashed wall and limped barefoot after him. Near the town gate the rider stopped and let the man catch up. The swelling over his eye had gone down but that side of his face was all bruise, the same yellowing purple as the threatening morning sky which promised storm.

  ‘What are you called?’ Str
accan asked.

  ‘Hawkan Bane.’

  ‘Well, Hawkan Bane, you don’t owe me anything.’

  ‘No? Reckon you owe me, then.’

  ‘What?’ Straccan laughed. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘You saved my life. I’d’ve probably died. They’d’ve let me lie in the mud and drown, if I didn’t freeze first. So it’s up to you to look after me now! On Tuesday I ate my coat and yesterday I ate my shoes. Now all I’ve got left’s this shirt, and if I sell that for food too, I’ll go bare-arsed. So I’m your responsibility!’

  ‘I never heard such crap in my life,’ said Straccan, ‘but I admire the cheek of it, I suppose. What use could you be to me?’

  ‘I can do things. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘I can cook. I can mend, tend livestock. I’m skilled with wounds, fevers and such. I can read and write a little, and reckon. I can kill your enemies and entertain your friends.’

  Straccan snorted. ‘Sounds like a reference for a wife! Can you really read and write?’

  Bane bent and wrote in the mud with his finger: God, Kynge, Engelond. Straccan peered at the words as the mud absorbed them into itself again. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. He nudged his horse gently with his knee and it walked on slowly, with Bane holding the stirrup and limping beside. ‘So what did you do before you were brought to such straits?’

  ‘I’ve travelled,’ said Bane. ‘I was a soldier.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘France. I was with King Richard at Gisors. I was left for dead there. The night-frost stopped me bleeding to death and a woman helped me—one of the scavengers that loot the dead after any battle. But she took a fancy to me. She was all right.’

  ‘I was there,’ said Straccan. ‘My horse was badly hurt: I thought he’d die, but he didn’t. I took a pike-thrust through the thigh. It’s still stiff in foul weather.’