The Tainted Relic (13 page)

‘I’m sorry, Brother Richard. I just wanted to get close to her blessed presence. I came late last night, and as you weren’t here…’

Will missed the piercing look of disapproval that the prior gave Brother Richard at this revelation. And Richard’s downcast glance. He was too simple to know he had got the feretarius into trouble. He went on with his story.

‘I knelt before the shrine, and prayed. I prayed for good weather for the sheep, because they have to be out in the fields. And I prayed for the fish because they have to be in the ponds where it’s wet all the time. And I prayed…’

‘Let’s not go through all the beasts you prayed for, Will Plome.’ Brother Richard’s words were sharply rebuking. A reflection of the difficulty in which he found himself.

‘Oh, and I prayed for you too, Brother Richard.’

The assembled group of brothers sniggered at the simpleton’s unintentional association of the feretarius with the beasts of the field. Brother Richard’s face reddened. The prior took over the gentle encouragement of the progress of the fat boy’s story.

‘And did you pray for the saint to make you thin, Will? So that you could climb inside her shrine?’

Will Plome giggled.

‘No, Father Prior. That would be silly.’

It was Thomas Brassyngton’s turn to blush.

‘Then how did you get in there?’

‘That’s what Brother Richard just asked me.’

The prior saw this was going to require patience, a commodity he had little of at present. The day was progressing, and the pilgrims outside the church would soon be clamouring for access. Not only had he the saint’s bones to display, but more recently he had acquired a phial of St Thomas Becket’s blood. That would be an added attraction. After all, he could not rely on old saints ad infinitum. Their attraction and efficacy would inevitably wane, and he needed to add new vigour occasionally. New blood–literally so in this case. He noted with approval that Brother Richard had at least remembered to put out the large oak collecting boxes at the entrance to the shrine. The church was in need of improvement and repair, and the pilgrims’ contributions were a valuable source of revenue. But the fat boy was stopping it all from flowing. The prior put on his severest voice.

‘Will Plome. Unless you come out of there immediately, I shall bar you from all the sacraments of the church.’

‘Oh, all right, Father. You only had to ask,’ grumbled the simpleton. He slid round behind the saint’s coffin and disappeared from view. A miracle in its own right for one so large. The prior stared in astonishment at the trick. Then he felt the stone slab under his feet start to move. He stepped back sharply in alarm, thinking the very foundations of the church were crumbling. Then he watched in trepidation as the grey slab rose an inch or two, and slid sideways. From the mouth of the dark space below the slab emerged the round and hairless head of Will Plome. The prior laughed at his own gullibility.

‘Of course, I had forgotten about the Holy Hole.’

In years gone by, pilgrims had been allowed closer proximity to the saint by crawling from the retro-choir under the reliquary and into the shrine itself through a so-called Holy Hole in the shrine’s floor. It had been eighty years since its usage had been stopped owing to the damage caused to the saint’s coffin. Too many hands rubbing away the gilded ornamentation. The closest veneration available now was by putting a hand through the pierced apertures in the sides of the shrine. The apertures through which everyone had thought Will Plome had inserted his obese body. Whereas the simpleton had merely found the old access, and used it. Perhaps the saint had spoken to him after all. Thomas could not be sure. So it was with a little more respect that the prior took Will Plome’s arm, and helped him out of the gloomy pit.

The rest of the day passed well enough for the feretarius and the prior. Freed of its encumbrance, the shrine welcomed its numerous visitors, and the coffers started to fill. Beyond the press of the entertainers, pardoners and memento sellers who milled around the close in front of St Frideswide’s Priory, the town too benefited from the swell of pilgrims. Running north–south through Oxford, Fish Street was far busier than normal. The towers of St Michael’s at Southgate, and St Martin’s overlooking Carfax, marked the two ends of the busy street. In all, they were but two of some thirteen parish churches within the walls of bustling Oxford town. At the bottom end of the street, around South Gate, the firewood sellers were soon replenishing their wares. Farther along, the fishmongers rolled out more stout, stinking barrels of salted fish. Then, closer still to Carfax–the central crossroads–the stalls of the tanners and glove-makers, their narrow shop frontages hiding the tradesmen’s workshops behind, drew crowds like flies on meat.

By the early evening, the bustle at the heart of Oxford had died down somewhat. And as darkness fell, the tradesmen were deserting the streets, and securing their narrow shop frontages with shutters and bars. Honest English citizens retired behind their stout oaken doors. As did the equally honest members of the considerable Jewish community living on the eastern side of Fish Street, whose good sense told them to avoid confrontation by staying off the streets at night. For as night descended, another population stirred. The first to invade the streets was the army of rats and mice that fed off the leavings of the humans. But these scurrying denizens of darkness were comparatively harmless. Unfortunately, they did not have the night to themselves. The long winter evenings dragged on interminably for the young men studying at the university that formed the heart of the town. Boredom and the easy availability of drink provided a heady combination for those seeking to keep warm on a cold night before the curfew bell rang. Half the householders of Oxford brewed and sold beer, and drinking appeared to be an inevitable accompaniment to each step in a university man’s career.

That night, the watch, led by the town constable, Peter Bullock, plodded wearily along the broad aspect of the High Street. As they passed St Mary’s Church, Bullock saw a man he recognized as the feretarius of St Frideswide’s in earnest conversation with an Augustinian canon. In fact, it looked as though the conversation was getting a little heated, as Yaxley began waving his fist at the canon. The latter was a short, fat man with a lined face and little hair, and was unfamiliar to the constable. The monks of Oseney Abbey were not frequent visitors to the town. Bullock tensed, expecting to have to prevent an altercation. Then he was distracted by a group of raucous students in fine, but somewhat dishevelled, attire who burst from the church doors. Bullock shook his head in disdain as the youths staggered across the path of the watch, obscuring his view of the altercation, and down Grope Lane opposite. Guen’s bawdy-house was obviously in for some drunken customers, he opined. Straight from the sacred to the profane. The refrain of a familiar, taunting song drifted back up from the narrow alley.

Juvenes sunt lepidi,

Senes sunt decrepiti.

Bullock could not help but grin, taking in the wrinkled faces of his fellows. He himself was a squat man, with a bent back and a permanent scowl for a face. He was also well advanced in years–as were his colleagues of the watch. The students’ ribald song was appropriate. Youth is all charm, old age decrepitude. If his time as a foot-soldier had taught him one thing, it was the eternal truth that life was brief, youth exhilarating, old age a burden, and death a certainty.

‘Enjoy it while you can, boys,’ was his muttered benediction. When he looked back at the steps where the two monks had stood, they were gone. So he put the incident out of his mind. The watch proceeded towards East Gate, the last gate it had to secure to make the town safe for the night.

Just as they were swinging the gate closed, a figure on horseback slipped through the narrowing gap. The man, sitting astride a jaded palfrey, was tall and well built. He rode straight backed despite the signs of a long journey shown by the lather on the horse’s flank, and the splashes of mud on the man’s cloak. Bullock reckoned him to be a soldier of some sort from his bearing. But he could not see his face because of the hood that was pulled well forward to protect the traveller from the cold of the winter’s evening.

‘You are just in time, my friend,’ called the curious Bullock.

As he passed, the man eased round in his saddle, placing a gloved hand on the well-worn bags that hung across his thighs.

‘I hope so,’ was his enigmatic reply.

Bullock saw a flash of sharp, steadfast eyes set in a bronzed face that suggested the man had recently lived under hotter skies than the soft, misty climate of southern England. He had a feeling he knew the man, but could not place him. Then the rider was spurring the tired horse on. Bullock was left with the sight of a broad back, the clatter of hoofs on the stones of the street, and a sense of impending danger.

The second day of the festival was, if anything, even busier than the first. But all this activity created an unpleasant taste in the mouth of Brother Robert Anselm of Oseney Abbey. The tall, rangy monk with his gaunt face was every inch an ascetic. His dark, worn robes hung badly on his spare frame, as though he had lost a lot of weight lately. Which in fact he had, as he worried incessantly about the worm he saw boring into the soul of the abbey that had been his home for more than thirty years. This was the year of Our Lord 1269, the fifty-third of the reign of King Henry III. And despite the King’s virtuous translation of the body of St Edward the Confessor into a golden shrine for the greater glory of God, evil was rampant in England.

By the afternoon, the mayhem in the grounds of St Frideswide’s had got too much for him. It was not that the rival establishment to the abbey was drawing greater crowds, and therefore more income than his own Augustinian foundation. That mattered little to him. In fact he was glad that the current Abbot of Oseney, Ralph Harbottle, was elderly and reluctant to indulge in the unseemly battle for vulgar approval of the mob–the
plebis frequentatio
. No, what truly appalled him was the unholy marketplace full of sellers of wax effigies–used as offerings–purveyors of souvenirs, pilgrim badges and foodstuffs operating right at the doors of the church. Had not the Lord Himself driven the money-changers from the Temple? What was happening in the grounds of St Frideswide’s was a mockery of His actions. St Augustine’s own words came to his lips. ‘Business is in itself an evil, for it turns men from seeking true rest, which is God.’

Muttering, he turned up Northgate Street, past the weavers and corn merchants, and out through the gate where the Bocardo prison was incorporated into the walls of the town. Some unfortunate wretch hung his arm out of the narrow slit of a window in the prison, begging for food. Anselm ignored him. Outside the walls, the taint of sin was even worse than around St Frideswide’s. The ramshackle buildings there housed the
sordidissimi vici
–the stews of loose women, and the thieves’ kitchens of Broken Hays. Robert Anselm was glad finally to be free of it all, and hurried over the two bridges that crossed the fast-running streams that fed the Thames to the west of the town. The second bridge was rickety, without a handrail, and he walked over with caution. Once over, however, he strode out more certainly along the westerly causeway towards the abbey.

Oseney Abbey was one of the glories of Oxford, perhaps of all England. Even from the outskirts of the town, the pinnacled buttresses and stately towers of its new church dominated the water meadows above which the abbey stood. On cold, damp days such as this October one, its yellow stone fabric rose out of the bone-chilling mists that hung low over the marshy ground, criss-crossed with the narrow channels of water that ran into the Thames. Behind its imposing gateway lay the world of court and cloister, infirmary and dormitory. The fine lodgings of the abbot and the canons could not be bettered anywhere in the region. And in the abbey grounds stood mill and tannery, orchards, arbours, dove-houses and fish-ponds.

But it was the church which was its centrepiece. An earlier abbot had begun rebuilding it and the monastic buildings some twenty years previously. The church was nearing completion, but elsewhere building work continued. Brother Robert Anselm had to skirt around the master mason’s crude lodge in the centre of the unfinished cloister court, trampling over the residues of stone-cutting. He ignored the lime mortar dust that clung to the folds of his robe. A building site was a noisy place, and he was eager to seek the quiet sanctuary of the church.

At three hundred and thirty feet long, it was one of the largest churches in England, with a central and western tower and twenty-four altars. But it was more particularly the carefully wrought pattern on the tiles that decorated the floor at the core of the church which attracted him. A series of twelve apparently concentric circles was divided into four quarters representing the four Gospels and the four stages of the mass. Closer examination revealed that the circles were actually a single serpentine pathway with seven abrupt turns in each quarter, leading to the central rose, which bore six bays or petals. Seven, if the very centre was included. This pattern mirrored the great rose window in the western wall of the abbey church, and was the same distance horizontally from the main entrance as the window was vertically above it. So, if the base of the wall had been a hinge, the bright and colourful window would have folded perfectly over its darker image on the floor. Numbers and symmetry mattered to Brother Robert in ways he could not fully explain. And the pattern on the floor tiles was his sanctuary and his contemplative conduit.

It was a holy labyrinth, and for the rest of the day, after his unpleasant experience in a festive Oxford, Anselm sought calm in its serpentine pathways.

‘So, you don’t know who the man is, but you think his arrival in Oxford bodes ill?’