The Tainted Relic (3 page)

Geoffrey felt an acute sense of unease when he saw that the pile of rags was actually a second man in a brown robe, and that he was dead. He strode over to the grieving man and peered over his shoulder. Peter lay there, his face waxy white, and his blue eyes staring sightlessly at the darkening evening sky.

‘There is no blood,’ said Roger, inspecting the body with the professional eye of a man who had seen more than his share of corpses. ‘He must have had a seizure.’

‘He said he would die,’ sobbed Peter’s friend. ‘As soon as he rid himself of…’ He faltered, as if realizing that he should keep his silence.

‘The relic?’ asked Geoffrey, watching the man scramble to his feet and back away in alarm. ‘The piece of the True Cross?’

‘How do you know about that?’ He glanced around fearfully.

‘Peter asked me to carry it to Rome,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I declined, and someone else is taking it. But who are you?’

‘Marcus,’ whispered the man. ‘Peter and I belong to an Order called the Brotherhood of the Cross, and we devote ourselves to worship of the Holy Rood.’

‘Not to who actually died on it?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking their priorities were muddled.

‘The cross is a sacred thing, imbued with great power,’ said Marcus, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and sounding as though he was reciting something he had been taught by rote. ‘It is worthy of our complete devotion, just as some orders pay homage to a particular saint.’

‘How much of the True Cross exists in Jerusalem?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I was under the impression that there was only a fragment.’

Marcus glanced down at Peter and tears welled in his eyes again, but he answered the question anyway. ‘The fragment here, in the Holy Sepulchre, is more sacred than the rest, because it is stained with Christ’s blood. But there are other pieces in the city, too, and they are also worthy of our prayers and devotions.’

‘There is a huge lump in St Catherine’s Church,’ said Roger, gesturing with his hands to indicate something the size of a water butt. ‘Splinters are being broken off it and sold to anyone with five gold coins.’ He patted his purse in a way that made Geoffrey assume he had purchased one for himself.

‘That particular piece is not recognized by my Order,’ said Marcus, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve. ‘But it may be genuine, I suppose. However, it is not as holy as the one that was here.’

His statement made Geoffrey suspect that some unscrupulous cleric had hacked a piece of wood from a building, and was making his fortune from gullible buyers. He imagined that the splinters would make their way to churches and monasteries all over Christendom, where they would be revered and credited with miraculous cures. There was a lot of money to be made by religious foundations that possessed sacred relics, and most would give a great deal to own one. He sensed the business at St Catherine’s was probably the first in a long line of hoaxes that would result from the Crusade.

‘Poor Peter,’ said Marcus, beginning to cry again. ‘He said he would die, and he was right.’

‘Why did he say that?’ Geoffrey recalled Peter saying that Pichard would die, but he had not mentioned his own demise, as far as he could recall.

‘The curse,’ whispered Marcus. ‘Barzak’s curse.’

‘Curse?’ asked Roger, backing away quickly. ‘What curse?’

‘Barzak said that anyone who laid a finger on the relic would perish.’ Marcus sniffed miserably. ‘Peter touched it, in order to give it to a monk to take to Rome–and he claimed that as soon as he relinquished it from his keeping, he would die. I hoped Barzak’s curse would not work, but Peter was certain it would–which was why he would not let any of us touch the relic but him. He sacrificed himself to spare the rest of us.’

Geoffrey bent to inspect the body more carefully. There was no wound that he could see, and running his fingers across the man’s scalp revealed no evidence of a blow to the head. As far as he could tell, Peter had died from natural causes.

‘And he met his maker as soon as he passed the thing to Pichard?’ asked Roger, regarding his own scrip with its newly purchased splinter uneasily. ‘Lord save us!’

‘That was part of the curse,’ explained Marcus. ‘That once you have set fingers on it, you must keep it about you, if you want to live. Pichard will die, too, once he relinquishes it to the Pope. And the Pope will die after he places it in his vaults.’

‘Peter probably believed in the curse so strongly that when he gave the relic to Pichard he lost the will to live,’ said Geoffrey practically, knowing the power of the human mind in such situations. ‘It seems to me that he brought about his own death.’

‘He did believe,’ agreed Marcus. ‘But so would you, if you had heard Barzak’s curses. They came from a terrible grief, and a deep fury at his betrayal. That relic is tainted, and I am glad it will soon be gone from my city.’

The relic and its curse played on Geoffrey’s mind all evening, to the point where he abandoned Roger to his merry pleasures and left Abdul’s Pleasure Palace early. He thought about Peter’s belief that he would die as soon as he relinquished the relic to Pichard, and reasoned that the old man had perished simply because his heart had stopped beating. Such things happened to the elderly, and it was simple coincidence that he had died on the day he happened to give the relic to Pichard. Or he believed so strongly that he would die, he had frightened himself into doing so. When Geoffrey slept that night, however, it was uneasily.

He awoke the following day before dawn, disturbed by Roger’s thundering snores, and went to mass at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. There were few Crusaders present, because the religious fervour of the previous week was already a thing of the past. He wandered around the building with its many alcoves while the priests recited the office, and eventually discovered a small chapel devoted to the Holy Rood. He entered it quietly, not wanting to interrupt the prayers of the two brown-robed priests who knelt there.

Geoffrey looked at the altar, and saw that it was adorned with a substantial gold cross. In the middle of this splendid item was a recess, complete with a tiny glass window and a minute hinge. One of the priests, who seemed more inclined to talk than to complete his devotions, told Geoffrey that a piece of the True Cross had been kept in it–until Barzak had snatched it out and screamed his terrible curse. It was now empty, and the Brotherhood of the Cross was bereft of its most sacred relic. Some brave man, the monk whispered, had offered to carry it to Rome, where it was hoped the curse would be lifted by St Peter’s holy bones.

When the mass was over, Geoffrey went outside to a city that was coming awake. A cockerel crowed, and the sky was beginning to brighten. Within an hour the sun would have risen, and Jerusalem would bake under its scorching summer heat. Carts were starting to rumble along the narrow streets, carrying provisions to the marketplaces, and the few surviving citizens–spared either because they were Christian, or because they had managed to hide until the murderous slaughter was over–were hurrying nervously about their business. Knights swaggered here and there, victors in the defeated city, while a group of foot-soldiers reeled drunkenly towards the Citadel, their night of drinking and whoring done.

Since the gates were still closed, and anyone wanting to leave the city that day would not yet have been allowed to do so, Geoffrey decided to visit Pichard. He wanted to ask why he was prepared to take such a dangerous relic on the long journey to Rome, and had decided to tell him that he could do better in his choice of companion than the light-fingered Julius. He walked to the small inn near St James’s Church where Pichard was staying. A large Benedictine lounging lazily on a bench outside told him that Pichard had not left yet, but that he intended to do so within the hour.

Geoffrey climbed the uneven wooden steps to the upper floor and knocked on Pichard’s door. There was no reply, so he knocked again, harder this time. When a third hammering went unanswered, he drew a short dagger from his belt, grasped the latch and opened the door.

Pichard was inside, lying fully clothed on the bed. At first, Geoffrey thought he was dead, because he lay so still and his face was an odd grey-white colour. Then he detected a slight rise and fall in the monk’s chest. He glanced quickly around the room, to ensure that Julius was not lingering in the shadows with a weapon poised to strike, but it was empty. Two packs lay ready on a bench, and Pichard’s travelling cloak was folded neatly on top of them. Pichard, it seemed, had been on the brink of leaving.

Geoffrey strode to the bed and took the monk’s wrist in his hand, to feel the fluttering life beat under his fingertips. It was stronger than he had anticipated, so he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him firmly. The Benedictine opened eyes that were glazed, then licked his lips and managed a faint smile.

‘Geoffrey! I thought I would never see a living face again.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Geoffrey. ‘There is nothing wrong with you–no wound, no sickness. You were fit yesterday, and I know of no disease that can kill a man with quite such speed.’

It was not true. He had encountered several nasty sicknesses that could reduce healthy men to corpses within a few hours, but most were contracted in damp, unhealthy air or were caused by drinking poisoned water. Pichard was a seasoned traveller, and knew how to avoid such risks.

‘The relic,’ said Pichard in a soft voice. ‘I had it in a bag around my neck last night, but when I awoke this morning, someone had taken it. And now I will die.’

‘You will not,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Healthy men do not simply die.’

‘The curse,’ whispered Pichard. ‘Barzak’s curse. He said that anyone who touched the relic and gave it up would die.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Geoffrey, trying to pull the monk into a sitting position. Pichard was like a dead weight, and flopped back again. ‘Barzak may have made such a claim, but rational men of God cannot put faith in that kind of thing. The infidel cursed us all the way from Constantinople to Jerusalem, and we took no notice of them. Why should this Barzak be any different?’

‘Because of the True Cross,’ said Pichard. ‘I felt my strength ebb away as soon as the bag was taken. I was powerless to prevent it from going.’

‘If you believe all this nonsense, then why did you agree to take it to Rome in the first place?’ demanded Geoffrey, exasperated.

‘Because it was my sacred duty,’ whispered Pichard. ‘It belongs in Rome, where it can be placed somewhere it cannot be used for evil. I knew I would die if I undertook the mission–Peter was honest with me in that respect–but I thought I would be safe until I reached home.’

‘I suppose Julius robbed you,’ said Geoffrey, disgusted. He wished he had stayed with Pichard the previous night, and then invented some excuse to prevent Julius from going with the monk. But he had not believed Julius would steal the thing quite so soon.

‘It was not Julius,’ said Pichard. ‘It was Peter’s friend–Marcus. I saw his face quite clearly in the moonlight. I suppose the Brotherhood changed its mind, and decided to keep the relic here instead of sending it to Rome, as Peter wanted. I cannot blame them.’

‘I was under the impression that they considered the thing dangerous now, and better out of their city.’ Geoffrey thought about the talkative monk with whom he had chatted that very morning. He had certainly not seemed sorry to see the cursed relic gone.

‘Peter did, but perhaps not all his brethren agreed. Regardless, my role is over now. I was to have carried it, but now I am doomed.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘If you allow yourself to be overcome by this, then you may well die. But you can fight it. There is no reason you should not see Rome again.’

‘I should like to see the Tiber,’ whispered Pichard. ‘There is no river in the world like the Tiber.’

Geoffrey slipped an arm under his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. ‘Then come outside with me. See the sun and the sky, and you will feel better. Your time to die is not yet.’

He began to drag him across the room, staggering under his huge weight. He struggled down the stairs, and hauled him into the open air. Pichard raised his head and squinted up at the lightening sky, and a smile touched his lips. He took his arm from Geoffrey’s shoulders and leaned against the wall.

‘You may be right,’ he said. Geoffrey noticed that colour was returning to his cheeks. ‘I do feel better out here.’

‘Breathe deeply,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘And sit on the bench next to your colleague.’

The fat monk obligingly shifted along so Pichard could rest, muttering about those who drank more than was good for them the morning before long journeys. Pichard did not correct him, but sat with his eyes closed, savouring the rising sun on his face and the strength returning to his limbs.

Geoffrey soon grew restless, and wandered the short distance to the end of the lane, where he watched the sunlight slant in dusty shafts along the main road. Bells chimed across the city, and the streets were becoming busy. Suddenly, a cart thundered around the corner, spilling fruit in its wake. There was no driver, and a small crowd of people ran behind it, yelling for those ahead to bring it to a standstill. But there was little Geoffrey could do to halt a stampeding horse, and he was unprepared to risk life and limb leaping for the reins, when there was a danger of being crushed beneath hoofs or wheels. He flattened himself against a wall and the cart clattered past him. Then, just as it reached the bench where Pichard and the fat monk sat, an axle snapped.

The cart tipped, then fell to one side with a tearing scream of wood. The horse stumbled from the impact, and dropped to its knees, whinnying in pain and terror. Pieces of fruit bounced everywhere, and people raced towards them, aiming to gather as many as they could before the owner arrived to claim them. Geoffrey ran towards the bench, then stopped in horror.

Part of the cart had sheared off into a vicious spike, and this had been driven clean through Pichard as he had basked in the sun. Next to him, his fat friend sat in stunned shock, his mouth agape and his fleshy face covered in a sheen of sweat. Geoffrey quickly ascertained that he was unharmed, then turned his attention to Pichard.