The Tainted Relic (35 page)

‘You are right,’ replied Andrew. ‘And this is an especially powerful one that comes with a curse for all those who dare to lay hands on it.’

‘Relics cannot be cursed,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘They are holy. A malediction would render yours
un
holy, which means it cannot be a relic. What you are saying is a theological impossibility.’

Andrew ignored him. ‘An Arab called Barzak set the spell after the first of the Crusades. I saw its power thirty years ago in Devonshire, while Urban will tell you a story about a long-dead coroner called John de Wolfe and how death surrounded him when he encountered its power.’

‘And there was Master Falconer, the Oxford philosopher,’ added Urban eagerly. ‘He saw it—’ He fell silent as Andrew’s stern gaze settled on him again.

The old man’s glare shifted to Bartholomew, who was looking openly sceptical. ‘Barzak’s evil oath has been active for centuries, and anyone who touches the sacred wood contained in this vial will die.’

‘You have touched it,’ Michael pointed out, although he made no attempt to move closer to the friar. He was not a superstitious man, but it was not unknown for relics to be dangerous, and it seemed a pity to end a glorious university career for the want of a little caution. ‘But you are not dead.’

‘I will be,’ replied Andrew calmly. ‘As soon as it leaves my possession–either when I deliver it to Norwich, or when I am obliged to entrust another man to take it there.’ He gestured to Urban, to indicate that the novice could speak if he liked.

‘Evil men are killed quickly,’ elaborated Urban obligingly. Michael edged away, unsure of how he stood in respect of his virtue in the eyes of God and His saints. ‘But good ones are permitted to carry it to a place where it will be safe. It has rested with Father Andrew for nigh on three decades, mostly in Exeter.’

‘Then why choose now to move it?’ demanded Michael. ‘And why inflict it on Cambridge first?’

‘It was not our intention to bring trouble to your town,’ replied Andrew apologetically. ‘And you are right to question my timing: I waited too long, and should have carried it to a safe place years ago. But I was happy in Exeter, and the relic was safe enough, lodged in the altar of a priory within the city’s great walls, and it is difficult for a content man to decide to end his life.’

‘But then a new prior was appointed,’ continued Urban. ‘And Father Andrew is afraid he might destroy it. We do not want it burned, and nor did we want Prior John de Burgo to die trying to demonstrate that it has no power.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘This is quite a tale. And what is this relic, exactly? We had a lock of the Virgin’s hair once, but it disappeared.’

‘It is a fragment of the True Cross, stained with Holy Blood.’ Andrew opened the pouch and withdrew two pieces of parchment. He proffered them to the monk, but Michael gripped his wrist and moved it into the light, taking great care not to touch the documents himself.

‘This says it was found in Jerusalem,’ he said, scanning the meagre contents of the first. ‘In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and it is authenticated by Geoffrey Mappestone, Knight. The second is a warning by Guillaume de Beaujeu, who says the relic was bought with innocent blood and is utterly cursed. “Any man who touches the fragment of Holy Cross will die as soon as the relic is relinquished.”’

‘Guillaume de Beaujeu was a Grand Master of the Knights Templar,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the sorry history of that order. ‘It must be genuine, then.’

‘It
is
genuine,’ said Andrew quietly. ‘I have an ancient wound that pains me, and I feel myself becoming weaker with every day that passes. I
must
leave for Norwich tomorrow. I do not want to press my burden on Urban.’

‘I do not mind, Father,’ said Urban bravely.

Bartholomew glanced at him, wondering whether he was a little too eager. Did he believe in Barzak’s curse? Or did he see Andrew’s weakness as a means to gain hold of something that was obviously valuable? Many abbeys and priories were willing to pay veritable fortunes for relics, and the crumbling parchments indicated that this one was as authentic as most. Even if it had not performed miracles when it was first purchased, he knew it was only a matter of time before unscrupulous or malleable men started to spread stories to the contrary. And then there would be pilgrims; pilgrims left donations, and they needed inns, food and clothes. Many people would grow rich once a relic had produced a few timely cures.

‘I know, Urban,’ said Andrew kindly. His expression became wistful. ‘I had that honour in mind for another man, but he betrayed me years ago.’

Michael waited, expecting him to elaborate, but the Carmelite merely sat on a bench and began to put his relic away. The monk moved the discussion along, to mask the fact that he did not know what to think about the curious tale.

‘All this is very interesting, but what does your relic have to do with Witney?’

‘He tried to steal it,’ replied Urban. ‘He discovered what Father Andrew carries so close to his heart, and he was determined to have it for himself. He weaselled his way into our confidence, and when Father Andrew showed it to him, he tried to grab it.’

‘He used a knife to slice through the thong,’ explained Andrew, showing Michael a bright new cut across the dark leather strap. ‘He was almost out of the door before Urban wrestled him to the ground. While they struggled, I managed to retrieve it. However, before I did, the stopper came loose and the relic fell out. It brushed Witney’s arm when he and Urban were rolling across the floor.’

‘Are you saying Witney died because he touched a relic?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing the direction in which the explanation was heading. He had witnessed enough murder and mayhem since qualifying as a physician to know that people were capable of all manner of vile acts, and he was always sceptical when suspects tried to blame suspicious deaths on supernatural phenomena.

‘Of course,’ said Andrew. ‘And now I must take it to Norwich before anyone else pays such a high price for his greed or his curiosity. You cannot arrest me–although I accept responsibility for Witney’s death–because more people will die if I do not fulfil my obligations.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘You will stay here until I am satisfied no crime took place. Perhaps this relic did take Witney’s life because he dared lay profane fingers on it, but perhaps his sudden demise has a more earthly explanation. Either way, I intend to find out.’

‘Why did Witney want it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To sell?’

‘He is–was–a Franciscan, and if you know about the Holy Blood polemic, then you will be aware of the stance the Grey Friars have taken on the matter. No doubt he saw one in the hands of a poor Carmelite, and was afraid I would destroy it–or worse, give it to the Dominicans.’

‘I do not think he believed us when we said we were taking it to the Benedictines for safe-keeping,’ added Urban. ‘Personally, I think he intended to sell it and keep the profit for himself. You can tell from his expensive habit that he was a worldly sort of man.’

‘Where were you when he died?’ asked Michael, turning to more practical matters. ‘And where was Seton?’

‘We were in our sleeping chamber on the floor above–my old wound was aching, and Urban was reading to me while I rested,’ replied Andrew. ‘Then we heard a hissing sound, followed by a thump. We came to investigate, but we were not surprised to find Witney dead. He had touched the relic, so it was only a matter of time before Barzak’s curse claimed him.’

‘He died from a lack of timely help,’ countered Bartholomew tartly. ‘If he had been pulled from the chimney immediately, he would not have choked.’

‘Then
Seton
should have done it,’ said Urban. ‘He was here first. When we arrived, he was standing over Witney’s body like a crow over carrion. Then he accused
us
of killing him, when it was God.’

‘God,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It is astonishing how often He is blamed for things men have done.’

Andrew ignored him, and turned to Michael, who represented a more sympathetic ear. ‘I promise to do all I can to help with your investigation, Brother, although you will find no earthly cause for Witney’s death. I will stay three days, but then I must go, or you will be adding more names to the list of those whom the relic has claimed.’

‘The Carmelite and his novice are lying,’ said Seton angrily, as he paced back and forth in the chamber he had shared with his Franciscan comrade. ‘Witney
did
have an interest in relics, but it was an academic fascination–he is one of our order’s leading proponents in the Holy Blood debate, so of course his curiosity was piqued when they claimed to possess such an object. But he would never have tried to steal one. Their story is preposterous.’

‘So what do you think happened to him?’ asked Michael.

Seton sighed. ‘It is obvious. Urban and Andrew killed him, and now they have invented this outrageous tale about ancient curses to cover their tracks. You are an intelligent man, Brother. Surely you are not taken in by this nonsense?’

‘I shall reserve judgement until I have all the facts. Is that why Witney was here? To pick fine Cambridge minds about the Holy Blood polemic?’

Seton sneered. ‘Hardly! There are none worth picking–on Holy Blood or anything else. Our visit has been a sad disappointment so far.’

Michael’s expression was cold. He disliked outsiders denigrating his colleagues, although he did it himself regularly. ‘Why are you here? To study what, exactly?’

‘Angels–although I do not see what that has to do with my colleague’s murder.’

‘Angels,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Brother Tomas of Pécs is here to investigate angels.’

‘
He
is a Dominican,’ replied Seton contemptuously.

‘His knowledge about angels is lacking?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. If that were true, then there would indeed be something odd about Tomas: he would know a good deal about the blood relic debate, but less about the subject in which he claimed to specialize.

Seton backed down. ‘Perhaps I spoke hastily. He has studied different texts to me, which I suppose is not surprising, considering he hails from a foreign school.’

‘Tell me what happened when you found Witney dead,’ said Michael, more interested in the victim than in an irrelevant visiting scholar’s academic skills.

‘I was out–looking for Tomas, actually. He can often be found in St Andrew’s Church at this time of day, and I was hoping to talk to him.’

‘Why did you want to do that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You have just implied you consider his intellect inferior.’

Seton regarded him as though he were lacking in wits himself. ‘Of course he is inferior! He is a foreigner–not even from a civilized country like France or Spain–and a Dominican into the bargain. But I wanted to ask whether he knew where I might find a copy of Grosseteste’s
De dotibus
. Although he has only been here a few days, he already knows his way around the libraries.’

‘
De dotibus
is not about angels.’ Bartholomew pounced. ‘It is a short tract on the various aspects and qualities of resurrection.’

‘You are a physician, not a theologian, so do not make assumptions about matters you cannot possibly understand,’ snapped Seton, becoming nettled. ‘Of course angels relate to issues pertaining to resurrection. Besides, it is none of your affair why I want a particular book.’

‘And did you meet Tomas?’ asked Michael, raising a hand to prevent Bartholomew from responding. The point was irrelevant to Witney’s death, and he did not want to waste time on it.

‘No, and when I returned, I found Andrew and Urban in that hall, and Witney was…’ He trailed off with a shudder.

‘You were out when Witney died?’ asked Michael, to be sure.

‘Why? Did that pair claim otherwise? You can check my story, because I was seen in St Andrew’s Church by several people. I do not know their names, because I am a stranger here, but I spoke to an ink-seller and three Franciscans from the Cambridge friary. They will confirm I was out when Witney was murdered.’

‘What did Andrew and Urban say when you found them with Witney’s corpse?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering which of them was lying–and someone was, because the stories conflicted. Seton was arrogant and overbearing, Andrew was deeply convinced of his own rectitude and Urban was blindly loyal. None of them could be trusted to tell the truth.

‘They said nothing. When I saw it was Witney, I accused them of killing him–a servant must have heard us arguing and sent for you. What will you do, Brother? You cannot allow them to leave when it is clear they have committed a grave sin.’

‘They can go nowhere without my permission,’ replied Michael. ‘So, you claim Witney never attacked Andrew and made a grab for his True Cross?’

‘Of course not! Why would he do such a thing? And do not say to sell, because we are Franciscan friars, and not in the business of peddling relics. We leave that sort of thing to the Dominicans–when they do not destroy them in a frenzy of righteous bigotry, of course. But we are veering away from the point: those two Carmelites killed Witney. Urban could easily have climbed to the roof and made noises to attract Witney to the hearth. Then, when his head appeared, the stone was dropped that led to his stunning and subsequent suffocation.’

‘You said he was not the kind of man to peer up chimneys,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Seton sighed. ‘He would have investigated odd sounds. We all would. But he was a good, pious man, who has been brutally slain, and the angels will not rest until his death is avenged. I know angels and how they think.’

‘I will not rest, either, if what you say is true,’ promised Michael, not to be outdone by celestials. ‘But why would Urban and Andrew want Witney dead? They have no motive.’

‘They do,’ countered Seton. ‘Did they not tell you? He was about to expose them as charlatans–them and their so-called True Cross.’

‘How so?’

‘By logical analysis. He listened to their story–that the relic hailed from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre after the first of the Crusades, and that it was cursed by a Mohammedan called Barzak. But there is no written evidence that our Church has
ever
laid claim to a supply of Holy Blood from Jerusalem–if it had, then it would have been taken to Rome or Constantinople, years before the Crusades.’