The Tainted Relic (16 page)

Bullock spotted Yaxley standing at the side of one of the many large, iron-bound boxes strategically placed along the pilgrims’ route to the shrine. He was glowering at an elderly, lame man in rags who had had the temerity to pass without making an offering. Yaxley bent down, and whispered in the cripple’s ear. The man gulped, and extracted a small coin from his battered purse. It was probably all he had to buy a scrap of food later. No doubt Yaxley had advised him that miracles did not come cheap. And that hunger was temporary.

‘Brother Richard, might I have a word?’

Bullock was pleased that his unremarked approach surprised Yaxley. In fact, a guilty look flickered across the monk’s features before he could wipe it out with feigned anger.

‘I am doing God’s work, Constable. There is no time for idle chit-chat.’

Bullock snorted in contempt.

‘I am sure God will not begrudge a few pilgrims remission from their sins without charge.’

He grabbed Yaxley’s elbow firmly, and propelled him away from the cripple, who gratefully slid the coin back into his purse. He led Yaxley into a quieter side chapel away from the main hustle and bustle. The monk’s face was ashen, but still he preserved his façade of aggrieved innocence.

‘Really, you should speak with Prior Thomas first. I will not be bullied in this way. You have no jurisdiction over me.’

‘Shall I then get him to ask where you were last night? And the night when Will Plome found his way into the shrine?’

Yaxley began to shake, and his bluster disappeared.

‘How do you know about that?’ He and the prior thought they had kept the incident with Plome quiet. Bullock just smiled wolfishly, forcing Yaxley to speak first. ‘Look, what is all this about? I…fell asleep when I should have been alert. That is all.’

‘And last night?’

‘I was here all night. You don’t think I would be so foolish as to fall asleep again, do you?’

‘Presumably, there is no one who can verify that?’

‘Why should there be any need to be?’

Bullock could tell from years of experience that the monk was being evasive. He didn’t believe his excuse that he had fallen asleep the night that Will Plome had gained access to the shrine. Moving the slab at the entrance to the Holy Hole would have made a dreadful noise in the stillness of the church. Yaxley had definitely not been carrying out his duties as feretarius that night. The question was, where had he been? And had he been absent last night also, when Brother John Barley had been murdered? Bullock decided on an all-out attack to keep the man off balance.

‘Why? Because Brother John Barley was murdered either last night, or in the early hours of this morning.’

The feretarius looked horrified.

‘And you think I killed him? Why?’

‘Why? Because I saw you arguing with him two days ago. What was that all about?’

Yaxley went pale, then tried to cover his discomfort with a sneer. ‘Because I am certain it was he put Will Plome up to sneaking inside the saint’s shrine in order to discomfit the priory. The simpleton could never have found the old entrance without help, and Barley is of an age to recall stories of its use. The canons at Oseney are jealous of the shrine’s popularity, and would stop at nothing to spoil that.’

‘And why blame Brother John specifically?’

‘Because he…’ Yaxley paused, framing his words carefully. ‘Because I had heard tell that Barley was claiming he would soon do something to the great benefit of Oseney Abbey. That he had a rare gift to give. When I asked him about it that day, he laughed and just asked about Will Plome. I could see that was his “rare gift” to the priory–a cruel prank. If he had not been the instigator, how would he have known about the incident?’

‘Maybe he knew the same way I did. From Will Plome himself. Will has been telling everyone that the prior thought he had become miraculously thin in order to gain access through the viewing holes. He thought that very funny. As for the slab, anyone who treads on it can see it rocks. Will was probably just curious, and investigated what was underneath. If you had been there, you might have seen that.’

Yaxley ignored the implication that Bullock doubted his claim of being asleep at his post. He merely stuck to his story.

‘As for last night, I was here attending to my duties. Now you must forgive me, as I must attend to them now.’

Bullock knew that as yet he could do nothing to undermine Yaxley’s assertion. Though he did wonder whether John Barley had really had something to offer the feretarius. If so, what could it have been? Without any more information, however, he would have to let the feretarius go. For the time being.

Falconer had got no farther than the open yard of the cloister in Oseney Abbey. In its centre stood the timber-and-thatch affair that was the master mason’s lodge. More than just a shelter, underneath which the mason carved his stone, it stood as a symbol of the man’s arcane skill. Scattered on the table underneath the thatch were La Souch’s instruments. With a mason’s square, compass and straight edge, he mapped out the geometry that defined the symbolism of the church. The floor plan was based on three squares set in diamond formation, each overlapping the other. Three squares–Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Where the two outer squares overlapped, at the centre of the central square, was the most sacred place in the church. Ultimately, the whole building was a symbolic rendition of the Heavenly Jerusalem. But equally a master mason was a practical man, and used mathematics to calculate the strains and stresses of the construction. La Souch was architect, structural engineer, mystic and building contractor rolled into one.

At the moment, he was preoccupied with restoring the Oseney Ring of bells to the new west tower. He was scrambling like a monkey up the rickety framework of timber, rope and pegs that surrounded the tower, giving out orders as one of the bells began its precarious ascent on the end of a rope pulley. Falconer wondered which one it was. The bells were named Hauteclere, Douce, Clement, Austyn, Marie, Gabriel and John. There were seven in all. At one point the bell caught on a projecting timber, and La Souch swung out over the void, maybe forty feet in the air, to free it. Falconer held his breath. He himself was fearful of heights. But La Souch seemed oblivious to the danger. He freed the bell, and swung back nonchalantly on to the scaffolding. Falconer looked away as the man clambered ever higher.

That was when he saw the oddest sight. Inside the church, by the dappled light of a stained-glass window, a tall, skinny monk described a weaving path in the centre of the nave. His movements veered arbitrarily left and right, and sometimes the monk turned back on himself, appearing to retrace his path. Gradually, though, he moved from the periphery of the nave towards a central point. There was a look of fierce concentration on his face. At the centre of his ramblings he stopped, and turned slowly round in a complete circle. His face, coloured by the broken light from the window, now looked ecstatic, and was quite unheeding of Falconer observing him. The Regent Master began to feel a little embarrassed at spying on the monk’s devotions, but was drawn towards him. He wandered into the church, and stood in the shadow of a pillar. From there, he could see the pattern on the floor of the nave which the monk had been following. It looked like a maze. Or more strictly speaking a labyrinth. A maze had dead ends, whereas the labyrinth ran circuitously but inexorably in one direction.

‘It describes a contemplative journey. A pilgrimage.’

The gentle voice was that of the tall monk, addressing Falconer from the core of the labyrinth. His face was radiant in the coloured light, his smile one of peace.

‘You start at the western end. There.’

He pointed at the entrance to the labyrinth, clearly inviting Falconer to walk it. The Regent Master complied. He could do with a little contemplation on his existence. The twists and turns meant the journey could not be hurried, and Falconer slipped into a steady rhythm. His pacing brought him tantalizingly closer and closer to the centre, while still circling round it. Round and round the monk, who turned slowly to observe his new tyro. Finally, the two men stood in the centre, and the monk grasped both of Falconer’s shoulders in approval.

‘There. That part of the journey is a purging, a letting go. Do you feel it?’

Falconer was not sure what he felt. He was not a man accustomed to feeling the mystical. But somehow he did experience a relief from the pressures of his normal life. Students and their diet. The monk offered his name.

‘Robert Anselm.’

‘William Falconer.’

‘Ah, yes. I have heard of you.’

Falconer guessed the monk was thinking of the previous murder that had brought him to Oseney. Now a second one had occurred, and here he was again. Albeit reluctantly.

‘Here in the centre is an opportunity for insight, and illumination.’

Falconer reckoned he also needed that right now. Not least to sort out his doubts about his continuing vocation. Anselm went on to describe the symbolism of the six petals around the central core of the labyrinth. Mineral, plant, animal and so on–all the elements of the world were there represented.

‘And the very centre is the seventh symbol. In the person of the Trinity. Here, beneath this stone.’

He pointed a reverential finger at the carved stone in the centre. Falconer could not see it clearly without using his eye-lenses. Too embarrassed to take them out before a stranger, he bent down to examine the carving. It was of God as a master mason, or architect, wielding a giant set of compasses.

‘Does it provide you with any insight, Master Falconer?’

‘About what?’

‘The death of Brother John, of course. Do you see it?’

Falconer shook his head.

‘I am afraid I rely on facts, Brother Robert, and there are precious few of those at present.’

‘You will see it, if you only look. I am sure.’

Falconer was not as confident as Anselm seemed of his ability to see the killer. It was time for him to go, and to pay better attention to John Hanny’s needs. He thanked the monk, and left. Anselm winced as Falconer ignored the twisting outward labyrinth, and crossed the floor in a direct line to the doorway.

The Templar, once refreshed by the morning bread and ale, ventured out into the throng of pilgrims making their way to St Frideswide’s Church. The skinny, dark-haired maid who had served him his food both days was also the maid who had plumped up his straw mattress for him on arrival. When he left the Golden Ball Inn, she was hovering by the door, a sly look on her pinched face. He admired her persistence, which flew in the face of her lack of comely charms, but it was wasted on him. His order demanded chastity, as well as obedience and poverty. And he had never had any difficulty obeying the rule of chastity. Nor that of poverty–the order provided him with all he wanted. It was obedience which was most irksome to the Templar, and which provided him with the greatest struggle. If he had chosen to obey the Grand Master strictly, he would probably have given up his quest by now. But he hadn’t. He had not come this far to give up so easily. Last night’s little setback needed to be overcome, and he could not do that by scuttling back to Occitania. He would have to return to Oseney Abbey and the mason.

If he could find the man in charge of the building work there, he might succeed where he had failed with the monk. Not knowing the short cut that had taken Falconer, Bullock and the boy Hanny out on to the water meadows, the Templar exited the North Gate and followed the well-trodden northern track to the abbey. So it was that he missed Falconer, who was returning to Oxford by the postern gate in the castle wall.

On his way to the abbey, the Templar talked to the ragged
peregrini
, who were seeking to double their fortunes by adding the power of the relics at the abbey to that of St Frideswide. He asked casually whether anyone had heard of a portion of the True Cross in the vicinity. Suddenly he was surrounded by shining faces, eagerly demanding that, if he knew of such a relic, he tell them of its location. It was of inestimable importance to them. One man with a boil-ravaged face would not let go of his sleeve. He was convinced that the Templar knew more than he was admitting to, and begged to be let into the secret. He was desperate for a cure. The Templar broke free of his clutches only with some difficulty. Thereafter, he refrained from revealing his intentions to his fellow travellers.

At the abbey, the Templar cast around until he saw a man carving a diamond pattern on the surface of a cylindrical piece of stone. Each piece, piled on its companion, would make up one of the pillars to the entrance to the nearly completed church. The Templar stood and marvelled at the man’s skill as he worked on in silence. Every blow was precise and controlled, leading to a groove that spiralled up the pillar section. Could this be the mason he sought? He had supposed him to be older. He tested the ground with a question.

‘Did you know that a pillar, being the synthesis of a circle and a square, represents the marrying of the spiritual and the material worlds?’

The man smiled coolly, and chose his reply carefully.

‘Yes. And that the pillars named Jachin and Boaz stood either side of the entrance to Solomon’s Temple.’ La Souch stopped chipping at the stone, and squinted into the sun, studying the dark-skinned stranger.

‘You are a Templar?’

The man briefly inclined his head. It was barely an acknowledgement, but enough. The mason set his tools carefully on the floor of the lodge where he sat.

‘Some people say you lot have more secrets to hide than we poor masons. Have you been to the Holy Land? The darkness of your skin suggests you have, and recently.’

The Templar grimaced.

‘Alas, I got no farther than our fortress near Famagusta on the island of Cyprus. I leave the honour of having once freed Jerusalem from its yoke to one of my ancestors, Miles de Clermont. I have to be content with the Heavenly Jerusalem embodied in the structure of churches such as this one you have constructed.’

‘Me and my predecessor, God rest his soul. I have only been working here for two years, myself.’