Susanna GREGORY - The Killer of Pilgrims

‘I suppose I had better accept,’ Welfry went on unenthusiastically. ‘The Prior-General sent me to Cambridge to pen a great theological tract that will glorify our Order, but I do not seem able to start one. Perhaps these solemn duties will concentrate my mind.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the Prior-General was hankering after a lost cause. Welfry was incorrigibly mischievous, and the physician doubted he would ever use his formidable intellect to its full potential. Indeed, he suspected it was only a matter of time before Welfry played some prank on the exchequer, simply because he was bored. The King’s clerks were unlikely to appreciate it, and the University would suffer as a consequence.

‘I have been told I must be solemn at all times,’ said Welfry glumly. Then a grin stole across his face. ‘But maybe I should regard it as a challenge – I am sure I can make the exchequer laugh. Incidentally, how is the King’s Hall student who was gored by the bull? That was a nasty trick.’

‘It was,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But he is recovering. I have been told it was the work of Chestre Hostel. What do you think?’

Welfry grimaced. ‘There is insufficient evidence to say, although they did happen to be walking past when the crate was opened, which was suspicious. However, I cannot believe they intended harm. Jokes are never funny if someone is hurt when they are implemented.’

Bartholomew watched him walk away, wishing everyone shared Welfry’s benign attitude.

The Carmelites, popularly known as the White Friars, had done well for themselves since their priory had been established in Cambridge the previous century. It had been founded by St Simon Stock, an early Prior-General, and from humble beginnings it had expanded until they owned a spacious site and a number of elegant buildings.

Bartholomew was admitted to their compound by a lay-brother, and escorted to the pretty cottage in which Prior Etone lived. Etone was a grim-faced man, said to spend more time with his account books than at his prayers, although Bartholomew had always found him pleasant enough. He was suffering from chilblains, a common complaint in winter, when footwear never dried and feet were rarely warm. While Bartholomew applied a poultice to the sore heels, Etone regaled him with a detailed description of the new shrine he intended to build.

‘The number of pilgrims warrants the expenditure,’ he explained. ‘Four more arrived just this morning and they look wealthy. I am sure they will leave us a nice benefaction when they go.’

Bartholomew glanced up at him. ‘Why do pilgrims come? What shrine do they visit?’

Etone regarded him askance. ‘How can you ask such questions? I thought you were local!’

‘I am, but–’

‘It is because of what happened to St Simon Stock when he was here,’ interrupted Etone indignantly. ‘He had a vision: our Lady of Mount Carmel appeared to him, and presented him with the scapular all Carmelites now wear.’

A scapular was two pieces of cloth joined together and worn over the shoulders. It formed a distinctive part of the White Friars’ uniform.

‘I have heard the tale,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘But I thought it was a myth – that no one could prove Simon Stock even had a dream, let alone when he was in Cambridge.’

‘It is most assuredly true!’ cried Etone. ‘And the increasing pilgrim trade proves it. Our Lady handed St Simon Stock his scapular here, in our very own priory, and I intend to exploit … I mean develop the place for the benefit of all mankind.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But just because pilgrims come does not mean it is a genuine–’

‘It is genuine!’ insisted Etone. He stood carefully, and slipped his feet into soft shoes with the backs cut away. ‘Come with me, and I shall show you where it happened. You will feel its sanctity. And if you do not, it means you are Satan’s spawn and God has not deigned to touch you.’

Bartholomew was not very susceptible to atmospheres, being a practical man of science, and did not want to be denounced as the Devil’s offspring by an influential friar.

‘Another time, Father,’ he mumbled hastily. ‘I still have several patients who need–’

‘Even diligent physicians should never be too busy for God,’ declared Etone piously. ‘Come.’

Supposing he would have to prevaricate if not immediately overwhelmed by the shrine’s holiness, Bartholomew followed him across the yard to a wooden hut. It was well made, and had been nicely painted, but it was still a hut.

‘Is this it?’ he asked uneasily, not sure he could feign suitably convincing reverence over something that looked as though it belonged at the bottom of a garden.

Without speaking, Etone pushed open the door. Inside was a tiny altar with a brass cross, two candlesticks and an ornate, jewel-studded chest, which he unlocked with a key that hung around his neck. Then he stood aside, so the physician could inspect its contents. Bartholomew did so, and saw a piece of cloth. It was old, dirty and of indeterminate colour. He studied it for a moment, then looked blankly at Etone, wondering what he was supposed to say.

‘It is a piece of the scapular Our Lady presented to St Simon Stock,’ averred Etone reverently, crossing himself. ‘So, you see, this is not just a sacred place because of the vision that occurred here, but because we have this important relic.’

Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, itching to ask how he had come by it: according to the legend, Simon Stock, as per the instructions given in his dream, was said to have worn the garment for the rest of his life and then had been buried in it. Etone did not look like a tomb robber.

‘It is a disgrace!’ came a sudden, furious shout from outside. ‘We are pilgrims, and you think people would respect that.’

‘It is a bad winter and the poor are desperate.’ Michael’s voice was soothing and calm. ‘I doubt he knew what he was taking. He just saw the glint of metal, and assumed it was a brooch.’

‘It was a badge from the Holy Land,’ came the agitated voice. ‘ Not a brooch.’

Bartholomew followed Etone outside, relieved to be spared the awkwardness of pretending that he had been touched by what he had been shown, when the reality was that he had felt nothing at all. Perhaps God did consider him a disciple of Satan, he thought uneasily, and his constant flying in the face of all that was orthodox had finally been too much. It was not a comfortable notion.

Michael was standing in the yard with the four pilgrims they had seen earlier – two men and two nuns. All looked angry.

‘What is the matter?’ demanded Etone, hobbling towards them. ‘What has happened?’

‘Brazen robbery,’ declared one of the pilgrims, turning to face him. He was a thickset man with an unhealthy complexion that said he was probably ill. His hat and cloak bore more pilgrim insignia than Bartholomew had ever seen on a single person, and he imagined the fellow must have spent half his life visiting shrines, because besides the distinctive ampoules of Canterbury and St Peter’s keys from Rome, at least two suggested he had been to Jerusalem, as well.

‘Robbery?’ repeated Etone uneasily. ‘Not in my priory, Master Poynton.’

‘Yes, here!’ declared Poynton heatedly. ‘One of my badges has been stolen. It was pinned to my saddlebag, and now it has gone.’

‘I saw it happen,’ added one of the nuns. ‘I saw the signaculum snatched with my own eyes.’

‘So did I,’ added the second nun. ‘The villain aimed straight for it, and ripped it away. He did not even look at our purses.’

‘ Signacula are extremely valuable,’ snapped Poynton. ‘Especially that one. It was gold – a cross from the Holy Land, no less.’