The Tainted Relic (15 page)

Unaware of the unfortunate impression he had created on the watchman at the gate, the Templar returned to the Golden Ball Inn, where he was staying. He had been lucky to find a room at such a busy time, but then good gold coins had helped. He suspected the sour-faced merchant who now sat in the corner of the inn, atop his bags, had been evicted from his room owing to the Templar’s own generous offering to the innkeeper. The sight gave him a twinge of guilt as he sat down to a breakfast of bread and ale. After all, his monastic vows had included that of poverty. But then again, he had experienced a tiring journey, and his quest was at the behest of the Grand Master, no less. That it contained a secret and personal element too he had divulged to no one. Yesterday had supplied a promising start to his search. And this morning might have seen its culmination. His early morning errand had been unsatisfactory, however. Nevertheless, he relished the taste of the freshly baked bread the serving-maid had provided. Later, his body and mind refreshed, he would continue his search. Absently, he rubbed at a fresh brown stain on his sleeve.

Falconer left the constable, Peter Bullock, brooding over the corpse, and after telling the pasty-faced John Hanny to return to Aristotle’s and eat something from the Master’s own supplies, he carried on towards Oseney Abbey. Bullock had been unusually excited since seeing the face of the dead monk, but would not tell his friend what bothered him. Falconer knew better than to press him on the matter. He would find out soon enough, no doubt. For now, he had to break the news to someone at the abbey that one of their canons had been murdered in quite unusual circumstances. After that, he would unburden himself of the affair. He did not relish getting embroiled in the jurisdictional arguments that would ensue over who should prosecute the case. The monk had probably been killed by someone from the town, and Bullock would expect to play his part. But the land on which he was killed belonged to the abbey. Moreover, the monk probably taught at one of the university schools, so the Chancellor would no doubt become involved too. Falconer would be well out of this nightmare.

As he crossed the raised causeway leading to the abbey, he startled some magpies in the field to his right. They rose in a clatter of wings, their tails held stiffly behind them. They reminded him of the story of the founder of the abbey, Robert d’Oyly, whose wife, Editha, had seen some magpies chattering in the selfsame fields. Only she had seen them as souls in purgatory crying out for prayers. Her vision had resulted in the founding of the abbey. He counted these magpies as they flew up. There were seven of them.

Entering the abbey through its main gate, Falconer hesitated, pondering who to talk to first. As it was well past dawn, the abbot would no longer be in the chapter house. And the service at prime was over. In years past, the monks would now have been occupied with manual labour. But times had changed for the abbot and his fellows. The lay brothers did that sort of work, while the canons devoted themselves to prayer and contemplation. The old aphorism that the world divided itself into three classes–those who fought, those who laboured and those who prayed–had a great deal of truth in it. Especially within the walls of an abbey.

As he made his way through the cloisters, he saw a familiar figure approaching him. Brother Peter Talam was the bursar of Oseney, occupying himself with all its external affairs, especially the rebuilding work that was still in progress twenty years after its initiation. He was a large man with a severe mien, and his steps were as short and as stiff as his manner. This always gave him the appearance of someone in a hurry. Indeed, he was so preoccupied that he almost ran into Falconer, rearing back like a charging horse only at the last minute.

‘Master Falconer. I did not see you. It has been a long while.’

Falconer recalled that when they had last spoken some years earlier, he had been investigating the strange affair of the death of the papal legate’s cook. That had been an unpleasant time for the abbot and the bursar. It appeared that now he was in danger of being embroiled in a similar business.

‘Brother Peter. I imagine you are busy.’

Talam’s life was one of bustle, so it was no surprise when he averred that he was indeed so.

‘Yes, I am. La Souch is not in evidence, and his men are just sitting around awaiting his instructions.’

Falconer wondered whether this missing La Souch was the monk he had found in the meadows. But then, why would Talam refer to ‘his men’?

‘La Souch?’

‘La Souch. Eudo La Souch. He is the master mason in charge of our building works. A surly fellow from the Low Countries who thinks he can come and go as he pleases.’

Falconer saw the glint of battle in Brother Peter’s eyes. He felt sorry for this Hollander, if he thought he could best Brother Peter. Many a wily tradesman from the town had tried, and lived to rue the day. Still, if he was a master mason, then he was a person of no small intelligence, who had progressed through a training no less arcane than that endured by any master of philosophy at the university. And he would possess secret knowledge of formulae as complex as those of any mathematical savant. If anyone could give Talam a run for his money, maybe it was Eudo La Souch.

By now, the bursar was dancing on his toes, unable to contain his staccato little trot any longer. He was bothered by more than the missing master mason apparently.

‘What is more, Brother John Barley did not appear for prime this morning. The abbot, being charitable, is fearful for his health, seeing that he and Brother John are of an age. So I must seek out an errant brother, as well as La Souch.’

The bursar sounded exasperated at being required to run around tracking down missing canons who should know better. But Falconer thought that perhaps Brother John Barley had a very good reason for his non-attendance. Before Talam could race off about his errands, he grabbed the monk’s arm. He knew the abbot was quite elderly. So the missing John Barley would be so too.

‘Tell me, Talam. Brother John–is he bald? With little tufts of white hair at his ears?’ Falconer demonstrated the tufts he had seen on the corpse by bunching up his own fingers at the sides of his temple, and jabbing them back and forth.

Talam’s lips formed into a downturned curve. If Falconer had not known him, he would have thought it was a grimace. In fact it was Talam’s severe version of a smile. It was the closest he came to showing amusement.

‘That is Brother John. Let’s just say he has no longer any need of the barber to maintain his tonsure.’

‘Then I think I have some bad news for you.’

Oseney Abbey was soon awash with rumour. Including a scandalous suggestion of self-harm. Though how Brother John could have cut his own throat then lain impassively with his hands crossed on his chest was not fully explained by the instigator of that rumour. It served only to make Brother Robert Anselm more agitated, and he resorted once more to the little pilgrimage of the labyrinth. A turn into Evangelium to begin. Three turns and into Offertory. A turn and back into Evangelium. Three turns and into Offertory again. Two turns and into Consecration. Two turns and into Communion. The holy path led hypnotically back and forth, calming his soul. Until Brother Robert reached the Holy Jerusalem in the centre of the labyrinth, there to enter the second step of the threefold path.

Illumination.

As Falconer approached the abbot’s offices, he heard raised voices. Or more exactly, one raised voice interspersed with the weary tones of Ralph Harbottle, the abbot.

‘You must find more money, or the supplies of stone will run out. Then the work for my men will dry up, and I will be forced to find them work elsewhere.’

The foreign tones were guttural and peremptory, the talk of building work. It had to be Eudo La Souch, the master mason. In reply, Harbottle’s voice betrayed a man run ragged, and weary of the distraction.

‘In truth, Master, you should speak to Brother Peter about this. He is the bursar.’

‘And he tells me he cannot conjure funds from the air. He says you need to attract more pilgrims. The priory in the town not only has its saint, now it has the blood of St Thomas the Martyr too.’ The Hollander paused, then continued in more wheedling tones. ‘I was told my predecessor knew something about a relic…’

‘No!’ Ralph Harbottle’s voice was suddenly firm and peremptory. ‘No, I forbid you to speak of the matter. If we have to delay the work begun by Abbot Leech, then so be it. The new buildings have been twenty years in the making already, another twenty will not matter greatly. You have only been in charge for two years. There is plenty of time ahead of you.’

‘Not if you cannot pay me.’

Falconer stepped back as a stocky, well-built man stormed out of the abbot’s office. His weather-beaten face betrayed his outdoor occupation, as did the knotty muscles of his arms protruding from the rolled-up sleeves of his dark blue tunic. He scowled at the Regent Master in his path, and Falconer stepped aside. The mason pushed past, and stomped off down the passageway. It seemed Eudo La Souch was not a man to be crossed when he was in a temper.

‘Ah, Master Falconer. Thank you for coming. A bad business this.’

Falconer turned to look at the tired abbot, Ralph Harbottle, standing in the doorway to his inner sanctum. The man seemed even older than when Falconer had seen him last. His skin was ashen, and parchment thin, his grey hair hung lankly on his forehead, and in thin wisps over his ears. Falconer imagined that if he hadn’t been holding on to the door frame, the abbot might have collapsed.

‘The murder, I mean.’

Falconer hadn’t imagined it had been anything else that Harbottle was ruing. But perhaps his mind had still been on the row with the master mason, and the shortage of funds. Falconer was also curious about the reference to a relic, but he put it out of his mind owing to the pressing matter of the murdered canon. At Talam’s insistence, he had reluctantly agreed to see the abbot. Though unwilling to get involved, he agreed he should at least tell Harbottle face to face what he had seen.

‘Indeed, Abbot.’

‘I have arranged for the body to be brought back here. Though I have no doubt that the constable will want to interfere, and ask questions of all the brothers. You know the sort of thing. “Where were you last night?” and “Did you murder Brother John?”’

Harbottle threw his hands up in a gesture of disgust at the idea. Prompted by such thoughts of Bullock blundering in, Falconer spoke without further consideration. At the same time cursing himself for breaking his own resolve not to become involved.

‘You cannot think of a reason why anyone at the abbey should have had cause to envy or dislike Brother John Barley, can you?’

Harbottle looked shocked.

‘I knew it! Master Falconer, this is a house of God, a place of prayer and contemplation. There is no room for envy or hatred, nor any of the vices that might occasion such intemperate feelings.’

Falconer refrained from reminding the abbot of the scandalous murder that had previously taken place at the abbey, and who the perpetrator had been. It looked as though it would not take much more to crush the poor man totally. He was clearly at the end of his tether over the changing fortunes of the abbey. But Harbottle was also a perceptive man. He would not have risen so high in his order if he had not been so. And he could see the clouded look in Falconer’s eyes. For a man of uncommon piety, he was also a realist. He sighed, and flopped down on to the hard, wooden seat behind him.

‘I am sorry, Falconer. I am beginning to fear that being in charge of the abbey is getting beyond me. During my novitiate I never dreamed of having to face such complicated…secular issues. As a novice, my day was filled with labour and the contemplation of God. Now all I am allowed to think about is the difficulty of getting supplies of stone. And the passing of fellow canons of my generation. There have been too many of them of late, I fear. First there was Brother Benedict, then the unfortunate accident suffered by Brother William…’

Falconer interrupted the abbot’s ramblings.

‘Brother John. Was he a contemporary of yours too?’

‘Yes, we entered the novitiate together. Virtually on the same day. And I can assure you no one even disliked him, much less hated him enough to…to try and hack his head off. He was inclined to pranks, but never malicious.’

The abbot shuddered, and bowed his head in prayer. After a few moments, Falconer slipped silently out of the room. There appeared to be nothing to be gained by questioning the abbot further. He would return to Oxford, and see what Peter had dug up.

The bustle of St Frideswide’s holy day market was at its height. The environs of the church thronged with sellers of candles and insignia, pilgrim badges and tempting victuals. Many of the faces in the crowd belonged to robust young men. They were
peregrini
, professional pilgrims who hired themselves out for pay. They performed pilgrimages and penances on behalf of those rich enough to want to avoid the discomfort of wandering from shrine to shrine in the inclement weather England threw at them. Peter Bullock elbowed his way through the throng, his ears impervious to the blandishments of the stall-holders. He wanted to speak to Brother Richard Yaxley about his altercation with the dead canon before the murder became too widely talked about. He didn’t want Yaxley to have any time to prepare a story.

Mounting the steps of the church, Bullock ignored the mumbled complaints of the line of pilgrims waiting their turn at St Frideswide’s shrine. They probably thought he was trying to push in ahead of them. But when they turned round and saw his stony face, all their cavilling ceased. Instead, the pilgrims looked furtively at their feet, at the intricately carved stonework, at their neighbours in the queue. Anywhere to avoid the constable’s implacable gaze. Inside, the church was a blaze of light. Extra candles and tapers lit the interior, especially the rear of the high altar where the shrine stood. The scene did not inspire Bullock. In fact, it was an irritant to him. He knew the two chaplains who scurried back and forth, and that many of the tapers were paid for out of a grant forced on the Sheriff of Oxford by King Henry after his spat with the barons five years earlier. The town had favoured the barons, and when the King had ultimately triumphed, the town had paid the price. To the tune of one hundred shillings annually. The tapers burned night and day for the soul of the King, in an attempt to neutralize the curse said to fall on any monarch entering the confines of the town.