The Tainted Relic (12 page)

The man ahead seemed to have forgotten his limp, as fear of inevitable death gave him wings, but the long legs of the coroner defeated him in the next hundred yards. With a final yell, de Wolfe threw himself at the man’s back and brought him down, with Gwyn hard on his heels to make sure that he stayed there.

Panting with exertion, John drew his dagger and held it at the fugitive’s throat as soon as Gwyn turned him over. The grotesque corrugations on one side of the man’s nose removed any doubt that they had caught Simon Claver, who stared up at them in abject terror and the firm expectation that he was about to die.

The coroner reached Exeter around noon the next day, having pushed his heavy warhorse as fast as he could, though Odin was no sprinter. In his haste to get back to secure Nesta’s safety, de Wolfe had left Gwyn to ride back more slowly, as he had Simon Claver walking behind his mare, his bound wrists roped to the saddle-horn. It would be another day before they arrived, but de Wolfe wanted to get his mistress out of custody as soon as possible. His task was not helped by the fact that Simon had stoutly denied killing Gervase, even though they had found the faded gilt relic box in a pocket of his mantle.

On arrival at the castle, he hurried to the keep and found Ralph Morin in the constable’s chamber off the main hall.

‘He’s in a foul mood, John,’ were his first words as the coroner entered. ‘Lady Eleanor must have given him a bad time and he’s highly incensed that we took a raiding party into the forest against his wishes. You’ll have a hard task persuading him to release Nesta.’

De Wolfe told him of their successful capture of the outlaw and the recovery of the holy relic. ‘But the bastard resolutely refuses to confess to killing Gervase–he says he met him after he had been to St Nicholas Priory and Gervase agreed to let him take the thing to Glastonbury to sell, whereupon they would split the proceeds.’

Ralph gave a cynical snort. ‘A likely tale! But de Revelle will seize upon it, never fear!’

He was right, for when John went down the hall to the sheriff’s chamber, he was met with a mixture of anger, sarcasm and sheer spite.

‘The man is to hang whatever happens, so why should he tell anything but the truth? I’ll certainly not release the prime suspect on such flimsy grounds. This Claver is obviously an outlaw and a thief, but that doesn’t mean he killed that man in the inn.’

Nothing would shift the resolve of John’s obdurate brother-in-law, and the coroner left in a towering rage, promising to get the whole truth from Simon when he arrived, even if he had to torture him to within an inch of his life. On his way back to Martin’s Lane, he met his friend the archdeacon, and he poured out his problems to John de Alençon.

‘In some ways, this could be considered to be a matter for the Church,’ said the priest gravely. ‘I have heard of this relic and, given the provenance offered by that letter from Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, it has a good claim to be a genuine piece of the True Cross.’ His hand automatically strayed to his head, heart and shoulders, reminding de Wolfe of his clerk’s almost obsessive habit. ‘Even though apparently tainted, it is still a part of our Christian heritage and this outlaw should be made to fully confess how he came by it.’

When John suggested that Simon Claver should submit to the
peine forte et dure
, even the usually compassionate archdeacon agreed. When he heard that the sheriff was reluctant to get at the truth for reasons of his own, de Alençon declared that he would call upon de Revelle and make his own ecclesiastical demand that they extract the truth from the outlaw.

The next day, when Gwyn tugged the exhausted and footsore Simon up the drawbridge into Rougemont and across to the stinking undercroft below the keep, he found that preparations were already in hand to persuade the outlaw to speak more eloquently.

Stigand, the evil custodian of the gaol, was waddling across from an alcove with some thick plates of rusty iron, each about a foot square. With a loud clatter, he dropped these into a pile in the centre of the dank cellar, panting with the exertion, as his grossly obese body was not meant for heavy work. When the coroner’s officer arrived with the new prisoner, Stigand shackled his wrists to the barred enclosure that led through into the half-dozen cramped cells.

‘They’re coming at noon to listen to this fellow sing!’ lisped Stigand through his slack, blubbery lips. He kicked the prisoner, who had sunk exhausted to the floor, and received a heavy clout across his head from Gwyn.

‘Leave the man alone, you evil sod!’ snapped the big man. ‘Give him some water and a couple of crusts.’

As he left, Gwyn wondered briefly why he should be at all solicitous to a man they were shortly going to torture, then hang in a few days, but there was something about the hopeless captive that reminded him of a beaten dog.

When the cathedral bell announced the middle of the day, a small crowd assembled in the undercroft to view the proceedings. The reluctant sheriff was there, as was the coroner, his officer and clerk, the constable, and the Archdeacon of Exeter. Sergeant Gabriel, who had returned from his fruitless search in the west, was in charge of a trio of men-at-arms brought to handle the prisoner. Now partly recovered from his trek across the countryside behind Gwyn’s horse, Simon was dragged to the centre of the large space, struggling and mouthing obscenities. Two soldiers manhandled him to the ground and shackled his outstretched arms and legs to rusty rings set in stones in the damp earthen floor.

As the sheriff stood aloof, with his arms folded under his bright green mantle, John de Wolfe took over the proceedings. Though he was no keen advocate of torture, it was part of the judicial process, and with Nesta’s freedom at stake he had no compunction in applying it to this evil man.

‘Simon, you have a last chance to tell the truth. You are well aware that as a captured outlaw, your life is already forfeit, so you have nothing to gain by being obstinate.’

All John got for his words was a further stream of curses and denials, so he nodded at the gaoler, who stood by expectantly. Stigand bent with difficulty over his fat belly and lifted a metal plate, clutching it to his stained leather apron as he turned to the prisoner, crucified on the floor. With much puffing, he bent and placed the slab of iron on Simon’s chest. His breathing restricted, the man began to wheeze, and his curses became muffled as he ran short of air.

‘Speak now and ease your suffering!’ pleaded John de Alençon, making the sign of the cross in the air over the man.

Laboriously, the gaoler lowered another plate, this time on the man’s belly, preventing him from using his stomach muscles to draw in air. His oaths and obscenities became mere gasps and his face began to turn purple.

‘Speak, man, you have nothing to lose!’ shouted de Wolfe, as the outlaw’s lips became almost black. ‘Nod your head if you submit!’

As Stigand puffed over with yet another plate ready to load on to the man’s chest, Simon’s stubborn wilfulness cracked. Blood spots had begun to appear in the whites of his eyes.

‘Relieve him, before he dies on us!’

Somewhat reluctantly, the sadistic gaoler pushed the plates from the sufferer’s chest and belly, then took a leather bucket filled with dirty water and threw it over him. A few moments later, after his ravaged face had returned almost to its normal colour, Simon Claver began to speak, still pinioned to the floor. He now admitted everything, his jealousy at Gervase having the best part of the chapman’s loot, his following him to Exeter, finding him in the Bush and cutting his throat.

‘I didn’t mean to kill him,’ he croaked. ‘But as I was pulling that golden box from his pack, he started to wake and I panicked!’

Leaving Thomas to crouch down and write the confession as a record for his inquest rolls, de Wolfe went across to his brother-in-law and confronted him.

‘Satisfied now, Richard? You arrested my woman out of sheer spite, damn you! You’ve heard the confession from this man, so I hope you’ll not only order her immediate release, but go and give her a personal apology. Then I may not need to write every aspect of the matter in my presentment to the royal justices when they next come to Exeter!’

Richard began to huff and puff, but he knew that he was beaten, and after a few more heated words, he turned on his heel and marched stiffly up the steps out of the undercroft.

‘And good riddance, I say,’ muttered Gwyn in his master’s ear, as they watched the sheriff vanish. Suddenly, there was a commotion behind them and the voice of Thomas squeaked above the hubbub.

‘He’s having a fit! What’s wrong with him?’

They turned and hurried over to the group around the staked-out prisoner. Simon’s back was arched and his arms and legs jerked spasmodically, rattling the chains that held him. As John dropped on to his knees beside him, he saw that the man’s eyes had rolled up so that only the whites were showing, then there was a final great convulsion and he sank down, immobile.

‘He’s bloody well dead!’ boomed Gwyn, in a voice that expressed more incredulity than concern. ‘Why should he corpse himself now, and not when he was being squeezed?’

Thomas de Peyne looked up, his face paler than usual as he crossed himself.

‘The fool must have handled the relic–it’s Barzak’s curse once again.’ His troubled eyes rested on his master. ‘Crowner, for the Blessed Virgin’s sake, don’t open that tube, whatever you do!’

During the following week, life gradually returned to normal for the coroner’s team and the folk at the Bush. Nesta seemed none the worse for her sojourn in Rougemont, though climbing into the tavern’s darkened loft at night made her uneasy for a while. The sheriff remained distant and aloof, never referring to the matter again in John’s presence. His sister was as surly and resentful as ever with her husband, ignoring his halting thanks for keeping Nesta out of Stigand’s clutches.

The matter of the tainted relic still had to be settled. After John had taken it from Simon Claver, he had left it on the ledge in his chamber in the gatehouse, where Gwyn kept his bread and cheese. Though still sceptical about Barzak’s curse, he thought it as well to humour Thomas’s concerns and leave the tube unopened.

After a day or two, he decided to give the thing to John de Alençon to dispose of as he thought fit. The archdeacon seemed to take a more serious view of the relic’s powers, and at a meeting of the cathedral chapter, following which Bishop Marshal granted his consent, it was decided to offer it free to Glastonbury Abbey. This venerable church always seemed keen to collect relics and the pilgrims that they attracted. Letters were exchanged with the abbot, but the generous offer was gracefully declined. It seemed that Glastonbury was equally aware of the sinister history of the relic and decided not to risk taking a viper to its bosom. More letters passed across the country and eventually a home was found for the suspect relic at Tewkesbury Abbey, whose abbott apparently considered the holiness of his institution more than a match for an ancient curse.

John de Alençon could not resist a sigh of relief when he watched the gilded box and its sinister contents vanish into the scrip of a pilgrim travelling to St Cuthbert’s shrine at Lindisfarne, who had promised to deliver it to Tewkesbury en route.

He said as much to his friend the coroner, as they sat over a jug of Anjou red that evening.

‘Let’s hope they hide it away securely,’ replied John de Wolfe sombrely. ‘I’d hate to think that some other poor devil reawakens Barzak’s curse.’

‘Amen to that!’ replied the archdeacon, raising the cup to his lips.

ACT TWO

Oxford, 1269

When the fat boy was found huddled inside the sanctuary of St Frideswide in Oxford, there was a furore. Discovered by Brother Richard Yaxley, the feretarius or guardian of the shrine, in the early hours of Sunday, it was at first thought he was dead. Brother Richard’s immediate concern was that there would be disastrous consequences for the earning potential of the priory. And right at the start of St Frideswide’s Festival as well. He concluded that rival establishments in the competition for the attention of the pilgrims had somehow contrived to sully the sacred location. Outraged, he hurried out to raise the alarm. Soon the stone shrine was surrounded by worried monks, who peered in disbelief through each of its six narrow apertures, three set evenly in each side. The prior, Thomas Brassyngton, looked in through one of the apertures, which was in the shape of an ornate cross carved within a circle. He expressed the thought on everyone’s mind.

‘How on earth did he get in there?’

There was a buzz of conversation as the brothers mulled over the puzzle. The apertures were very small, and the body inside the shrine was very large. Brother Richard was by now beginning to look embarrassed. As feretarius, it was his responsibility to keep watch over the shrine during the feast period, when the public were to be granted access. The shrine was located in the feretory–the area behind the high altar–on a raised stone platform. The previous night Brother Richard had been elsewhere, and did not wish his prior to know where. Staring at the huddled form draped across the gilded coffin housing the bones of the saint, he gave voice to the next obvious thought.

‘And how are we going to get him out?’

At that moment, a voice piped up from within the sacred spot.

‘Hello, Brother Richard. What am I doing in here?’

A puffy, round face emerged from the bundle of rags that formed the impediment to the monks allowing pilgrims into the shrine that morning. There was a look that was a mixture of puzzlement and simple joy on the unlined features. Richard Yaxley gasped, recognizing the miscreant for the first time.

‘Will Plome! What are you doing in there?’

The fat boy giggled.

‘I said it first. You tell me.’

‘Will!’

Plome may have been a simpleton, but he recognized when someone meant business. He had once been part of a troupe of jongleurs and players, and had learned to distinguish the different tones of voice which actors such as John Peper and Simon Godrich used. The feretarius’s voice was now very like the one Simon used for God. Or sometimes the Devil. He screwed his face up in a way he hoped would convey contrition.