The Tainted Relic (21 page)

‘Not exactly. Unless La Souch was felled by avenging angels, or the ghost of this murdered Arab…’ He held his hand up to ward off De Beaujeu’s incipient protest at his flippant remark. ‘Unless some supernatural power is at work here, La Souch was killed by someone other than the six errant monks, who by then were all dead themselves. So someone else knows about the tainted relic, and thought that the master mason had uncovered its whereabouts. That was a secret this person thought worth keeping. And I have an idea how to find out who it is.’

Bullock hurried through the night, hoping he might be in time. His failure to find Yaxley had driven him to seeking out Will Plome. It had occurred to him that the simpleton may have been aware of the feretarius’s absence when he made his late night visit to the shrine. Even Will could have assumed that Brother Richard would stop him climbing down the Holy Hole to gain such close proximity to the saint. The boy had lodgings in Sleying Lane outside the town walls, charitably provided by no less a person than the Jewess Belaset. It was no more than a simple room, but Belaset charged nothing for it. Getting Will’s eager, if unreliable, services in return. Businesslike she might be, and better at it than her husband or son, but she was also a mother. And she could not bear to see somebody’s son reduced to begging in the street. Few were aware of her kindness to the simpleton, as she cared for none to know. But Peter Bullock knew, and though it was late, he called on Belaset. He wanted her help when he confronted Will.

Belaset agreed to accompany him, though she was herself worried about her absent son, Deudone. He had gone off into the night about some mission of his own. Belaset was afraid he would get himself into trouble, and hoped he had merely gone to press his suit with Hannah. But in the meantime, she couldn’t refuse to help the constable coax the truth out of Will. So, having roused the sleeping guardian of South Gate, and berated him for his laxity, Bullock, along with Belaset, slipped quietly through the wicket gate set within the massive town gates proper.

It did not take long to rouse the bewildered Will Plome, and soon he was lighting a cheap tallow lamp to illuminate his quarters. The yellow glow revealed a little room that was surprisingly neat, though spartan. The furniture amounted to no more than a low bed, a stool and a table. On the table lay some gaming boards, one a circular tablet with holes bored in it in a sort of pattern. Most of the holes were filled with pegs. Bullock recognized it as a board to play the Solitary Game on. The other board he couldn’t figure out. It looked like two chessboards linked together, and on it were arrayed gaming pieces, some of which were circular, some triangular and some square. Bullock took it for a child’s toy, to pleasure Will’s simple mind. The boy saw him looking, and explained.

‘It is a game I was taught by Master Falconer. He calls it the Philosopher’s Game. He gets angry when I beat him at it.’

Bullock smiled, imagining his friend allowing the simpleton to win, and feigning annoyance as part of the game. But Belaset put him right.

‘Will is very good at the game. And I suppose William Falconer is annoyed at Will’s skill because it requires a high understanding of mathematics, such as the Regent Master fancies is only reserved for himself. Will has the beating of me at it too.’

Bullock coughed in embarrassment, not understanding how a simpleton could have a greater mind than both this clever Jewess and his best friend. It didn’t make sense, unless the woman was having fun at his expense. He would have to ask Falconer later. But first he needed to know all about Yaxley, and his nocturnal activities.

‘Will Plome, you must tell all you know about what Brother Richard at St Frideswide’s has been doing these last few nights. You do know something, don’t you?’

Will looked anxiously at his friend, Belaset. ‘Brother Richard committed a mortal sin…’ He faltered. The olive-skinned woman looked deeply into the boy’s soul with her big brown eyes.

‘Tell him the truth now, Will.’

The truth, when it came out, did not surprise the constable one morsel.

Falconer stood at the edge, contemplating the pilgrimage before him. He knew he would find enlightenment in the labyrinth. The path was tortuous, twisting back on itself, taking him through the four stages of the mass. He stepped forward and entered into Evangelium. Three turns and he was in the segment representing Offertory. A turn back on himself and it was Evangelium again. Then three loops and back into Offertory. Two loops and he was walking Consecration. Like any pilgrimage, any seeking for purgation, the route was never straightforward. Two more turns and he was in the final segment. Communion. He stood right in the centre of the labyrinth, surveying the six petals at its core. And the seventh point under his feet at the centre of the labyrinth. He knew that here lay Illumination. Under a slab with a carving of God represented as a master mason. The perfect hiding place for a cursed relic. The slab under him rocked slightly.

‘Has it been vouchsafed to you yet?’

The voice was quiet, and deliberately held low. But Falconer could detect the tremulous undercurrent in it.

‘Illumination? Yes, it has.’

He looked across the void that was the labyrinth to where the figure stood, tall and angular, between the pillars at the back of the nave. The rose window hung over his hooded head, lit only by the cold rays of the full moon. The colours were dulled and leaden.

‘We all touched it, you know. The relic. And so our fates were sealed on that day so long ago.’

‘There was nothing inevitable about the deaths of your fellow monks, Brother Robert.’ Falconer was still clinging to the idea of his rational world. ‘That was in your hands, not fate.’

‘In one sense you are right, Regent Master. But there was some inevitability about how they died, don’t you think?’

‘No, Brother Robert. You arranged that yourself to fit into your little world of the labyrinth.’ Falconer slowly circled the central core of the maze, listing each of the contemplative elements around its edge. ‘Mineral–Brother Benedict Mason killed by masonry. Plant–Brother Ralph Durward poisoned by a herb. Animal–Brother William Hasilbech trampled by a horse. Human–Brother Thomas Dyss killed, apparently by a robber, though that was you too, wasn’t it?’ Falconer stared through the gloom at the hooded figure. Robert Anselm did not move a muscle, so Falconer continued his litany. ‘Angelic–Brother John Paston suffocated by a scroll as in Revelation. And finally, the Unnameable–Brother John Barley reaped by a sickle, just like the actions of our Lord in Revelation.’

Anselm nodded with apparent satisfaction at the symmetry of the deaths. But Falconer had not yet finished. He began to wind his way out of the labyrinth, walking first directly towards the monk, but then turning left into Communion. A complete about-turn then brought him back on his outward track, only for him to turn left again around the rim of the labyrinth. He talked as he circumnavigated the course to Union. Action in the world.

‘What I don’t understand is how you fitted into this group. They were all old men, and had brought the relic here a very long time ago. You could only have been a boy at the time.’

‘I was seven. I worked in the kitchens here, and the canons were so used to seeing me around that they didn’t see me any more. If you know what I mean. When the six canons–Mason, Durward, Hasilbech, Dyss, Paston and Barley–came back with a piece of the True Cross, I overheard their conversation. I crept into the chapter house where Hasilbech was showing Abbot Leech their
furta sacra
. It seemed nothing at first sight. Just a small wooden box. Then Brother Thomas Dyss opened it up, and removed something. It seemed to shine of its own accord, though no doubt it was just a reflection of the light shining on it through the windows. It was a glass bottle. For some reason Brother Thomas opened it, and slid the contents out on to his palm. The canons passed it around. Only the abbot refrained from touching it. It was only later I knew how lucky he had been. He was reading a small strip of parchment that had lain at the bottom of the box. When he finished reading, his face drained of blood, and he urged Ralph Durward, who was holding the contents of the bottle in his hand to return it to the vial immediately. Then he commanded the canon to put the bottle back in the box, which lay on the seat of his chair. Finally, in the face of all the protests from his six canons, he ushered them from the chapter house. It was only when they had gone that I realized they had left the box behind. I could not resist it.

‘Risking being caught in the act, I sneaked over, and opened the box. Inside lay an old glass vial with a gilded stopper. It was difficult to see what was inside because the glass was clouded. So, like Brother Thomas, I picked the vial up, and unstoppered it. As I tipped the vial, a greyish piece of wood slid out on to my palm. On its surface was a dark brown stain. Somehow, I knew immediately what it was, and I was awestruck. I cannot describe the feeling to you, even now.’

As the monk spoke, Falconer’s progress out through the maze was leading him inexorably to Anselm. He could see how the monk’s eyes glittered in the darkness at the recollection of holding the True Cross stained with Christ’s blood in his hand.

‘Of course, then I did not know of the curse on those who touched the relic. That only emerged in rumours at the abbey the following day, when the relic, so newly acquired, disappeared, never to be seen again. Abbot Leech had read the warning enclosed in the box, and enjoined the community not to mention its existence. He hid it away himself, then later had it immolated by the mason rebuilding the abbey. No-one knew that the kitchen boy had touched it also. The dire consequences of the curse filled me with horror. I was only a boy, yet my careless curiosity had apparently doomed me. In the same way it had doomed the six canons.’

Falconer now faced Anselm at the very exit to the labyrinth.

‘But you later also learned that those who touch the relic only die when they relinquish it from their possession, didn’t you?’

Anselm’s hooded head dipped in acknowledgement.

‘Yes. And that is why it must remain in the abbey. The others couldn’t see that. But they were very old, and had no reason to fear death. John Barley would have given it to Yaxley merely to be rid of it, if I had not stopped him. He felt he could sacrifice what was left of his life to rid the abbey of the cursed thing. But I still wanted to live.’

‘And Eudo La Souch?’

‘The mason had discovered where his predecessor had finally hidden it at Abbot Leech’s behest. The other day, I came upon him rocking back and forth on the slab. He pretended to be just checking on the security of the tiles, but I knew what he was doing. So when he next ascended the tower to check the bells, I pushed him off. You see, the relic cannot leave the abbey, or I will die.’

‘That’s nonsense. You of all people must see that. It was you who killed your six fellow canons, not the relic. Or its curse.’

The hooded figure shook its head, and lifted a trembling hand up.

‘Then by what agency am I afflicted with what plagues me?’ He swept the hood away from his head, and Falconer gasped at seeing how gaunt and grey Anselm’s features had become. The man was wasting away before his eyes.

‘It is as if a rat gnaws at my vitals, giving surcease neither night nor day. I don’t think I will stand it much longer.’

Indeed he looked like a living skeleton already, consumed from the inside out. But he was a spectre with a purpose. He pulled a knife from under his robe and, summoning all his failing energies, sprang at Falconer. But he was too weak already. He almost fell into de Beaujeu’s arms as the Templar stepped out of the shadows, where he had been hiding. Despite his failure to achieve his aim, the monk’s face still bore a beatific smile.

‘I have lost, then. But if I were to have the chance once again to hold the True Cross in my hand–to touch Christ’s blood–I would take it willingly.’

Abbot Ralph Harbottle lifted the small wooden box out of the exposed hole in the floor at the centre of the labyrinth. Seeing for the first time what the abbot before him had taken such care to hide away. It was made of rosewood, carved and gilded, though the gilding was largely worn away. Cautiously, he lifted the hinged lid to reveal the contents to the three men standing with him. William Falconer and Peter Bullock peered into the box, where lay a small glass vial atop two battered strips of parchment. It seemed far too insignificant to be such a powerful and revered relic, with such a weighty and gloom-ridden history. Bullock was disappointed. As disappointed as he had been to discover from Will Plome that Brother Richard Yaxley’s only crime was to have become enamoured of Matthew Syward’s wife. On learning the truth, the constable had rushed from Will’s hovel to catch the two adulterers in the act. In the end, his only satisfaction had been to see the pompous feretarius turned into a grovelling penitent. Belaset had returned home to find Deudone moping over his rejection by Hannah. It had still been Falconer who had uncovered the real murderer.

Harbottle touched the two pieces of parchment. One averred the authenticity of the relic. The other, slightly less ancient document warned of the curse. It was the latter Abbot Leech had read on the fateful day the box had been brought to Oseney. Harbottle closed the lid of the rosewood box, and passed it to the third man. The Templar, Guillaume de Beaujeu, hesitated only a moment before taking it from the abbot. Possession of the box represented the culmination of a long and tortuous pilgrimage for him.

‘I promise to keep it safe, and henceforth prevent it harming anyone else. What my ancestor, Miles de Clermont, brought about, I will bring to an end. No more deaths will be occasioned by this relic.’ But then he realized the implications of his actions. He looked up to meet Harbottle’s lugubrious stare. ‘What of Brother Anselm?’

The abbot shook his head. Anselm was not yet dead, but it was inevitable anyway, whether the relic was removed from the abbey or not. His end was not far away, and his dying would be a painful journey. There were many deaths besmirching his immortal soul. De Beaujeu took a deep breath.