Paul Doherty: The Relic Murders

I'd collected my horse and was halfway across the market square when I glimpsed the relic-seller, dressed in a colourful motley of rags, laying out his wares on the steps of the market cross. He was tall, and singular looking; his skin burnt brown by the sun, with clear blue eyes and lank, black, greasy hair. Now, one thing about being a rogue (and it's old Shallot's rule) is that you can recognise a good man when you meet one, whilst you can sniff a kindred spirit half a mile away. He introduced himself as Nathaniel Ludgate, and his villainy was as thick as clotted cream. I told him to hold my horse's reins, then walked backwards into the tavern to get us each a pot of ale. I kept my eye on the rogue, a grand idea forming in my mind. He stood grinning at me and, when I returned with the ale, toasted me, his eyes dancing with mischief. 'You are interested in relics?'

'Oh yes,' I replied airily. 'I've even seen the Orb of Charlemagne.'

Well, you should have seen the fellow's face. Eyes popping, jaw slack.

'The Orb of Charlemagne!' he whispered. 'Men would kill for that. Indeed they have.' He scratched his black, pointed heard. 'But, there again, it can bring ill fortune.'

'Are they your work?' I taunted, pointing to the relics he had laid out.'

'No, no, sir.' His voice rose to a chant as he recognised a prospective customer. 'Genuine relics, sir, every one!' He described each one. And what a bag of tipple!

Ringlets from Samson's head, before Delilah shaved it. A thorn from the crown which the Romans put on our Saviour's head. One of Mary Magdalene's perfume clasps. A feather from the wing of the Angel Gabriel. A wooden hammer once owned by St Joseph. A piece of iron, supposedly from the griddle on which St Lawrence had been burnt. Two pieces of the true cross. A napkin used by Our Lady. Pontius Pilate's wife's earring. A portion of Herod the Great's foreskin. Five pieces of the good thief's loincloth. A battered cup once owned by St Ursula. Strands of hair from each of the ten thousand virgins executed by the Romans in Germany.

'All collected by me,' Ludgate declared. 'I have travelled, sir, beyond the Golden Horn. I have seen the devil's wings over Arabia and faced many dangers collecting these. A priceless fortune blessed by the Holy Father!' He clapped me on the shoulder, all manly and honest, and looked me straight in the eye. 'Take these to London,' he urged. 'Go to the tavern, the Flickering Lamp near Whitefriars. Boscombe, the taverner, will let you sell them in the surrounding alleys and streets. A good site, where the faithful stream by to the London churches.'

(Now you young people, children of the reformed faith, don't realise that in the days of relic-selling, a trader had to have a domicile before he could sell relics: taverners, in return for a fee, often provided this.) I gestured at the collection. 'How much is it all worth?' 'Fifteen pounds sterling, good silver.' 'Twelve.' I replied. 'Thirteen,' he countered.

We spat and clasped hands and I returned home, one of the great relic-sellers of Europe.

I found it strange to be back at the manor by myself. However, the stewards and bailiffs were honest hard-working fellows, and the school had been closed down, so I spent all my time and energy preparing my great relics. London was forbidden to me so I took out our old vellum map and gazed greedily at Ely, Norwich and the other prosperous wool towns where people might be parted easily from their money. I searched amongst Benjamin's library, found a treatise on relics and avidly studied every word. The jewel in my collection was the spearhead I'd found so fortuitously when Benjamin had burnt my medicines. The steel was still good and, with a special polish of herbs, I began to clean it carefully. Finally, it lay on the table, glowing grey steel, the eagle of Rome and the letters 4S P Q R' firmly etched upon it. God knows where it came from! It probably wasn't a fighting spear but some ceremonial shaft carried by the soldiers in their religious ceremonies.

I went out to the forest and found a suitable piece of ash, which I stripped, dried and rubbed with charcoal to make it look more ancient than it was. A few dabs of blood and I had the spear with which the centurions pierced our Saviour's side. The blood, I reasoned, wasn't the Lord's but that of some martyr who had hidden it until I, Roger Shallot, relic-seller and buyer to His Holiness in Rome, found it through my own intuition and Divine favour. So, I was ready for the market, but was the market ready for me?

After five days' hard work, I strolled down to the White Harte tavern in the village, the miraculous spear and a few other relics in my bag. I took a seat in the taproom near the window where I could watch the door. (I trust that you young men will act on my advice. If you go into a tavern or ale-house, you never know when you will have to leave, sometimes it's quicker than you imagine, so, always sit near the window or door. If trouble breaks out, you can flee like the wind.) The place was full. I noticed Edmund Poppleton, the Great Mouth's son, holding forth on the price of corn. As I stared at his greasy face, with its scrawny moustache and beard, and his beer gut like a barrel, I wondered why men such as he have to collect riches they don't really need whilst the poor go hungry to bed? I sat sneering at him over my ale: like a coney he rose to the lure.

'Master Shallot, Master Shallot!' His face creased into a smile. 'You are being rather discreet, sitting there so doleful, cradling a tankard.'

'I have no choice,' I replied. 'I always do this when listening to someone speak. It's so fascinating

He narrowed his eyes, too shrewd to ask why I found it so fascinating. 'Your master,' he cooed, 'is off to Italy?'

'Yes,' I lied. 'Gone to see the Holy Father on the business of his dear uncle, His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey, as well as to make a report on other matters that might disturb His Holiness.'

Poppleton flinched and I knew the rumours were correct. The Great Mouth and her sons had been flirting with the new doctrines of Luther. Now the Poppletons hated me and I hated them. You may recall from my previous memoirs how I tricked them when they dared to call my master a catamite. They hadn't forgotten and, full of malice, could never resist baiting me. 'And you saw your dear master leave?'

I saw my chance. 'No, no.' I shook my head. 'Not just that, something much more important.' The noise in the taproom stilled.

'I went to Harwich with my master to receive special gifts: artifacts and relics that my master and I discovered when we visited Florence.' I shrugged. 'Well, not really discovered. They were more gifts from His Eminence Cardinal de Medici.'

'Piddle poo!' Poppleton scoffed. 'Master Shallot, you are well known for your tales and your trickery. What relics are these? Goliath's foreskin?'

I sat back. I hadn't thought of that one and mentally added it to my list. Poppleton now had the attention of all the customers. I looked round and saw that young Lucy Witherspoon was not present. I was sad as I'd hoped to impress her.

'Relics!' Poppleton scoffed. 'You have no relics, Master Shallot!'

That was my signal. I undid the neck of the sack and took out the spear shaft.

'Look,' I said, standing up, deliberately turning so the polished steel caught the sunlight; this gave it a spiritual aura as it shimmered and reflected the light. The appearance of the spear brought 'oohs' and 'aahs' from everyone. Turning sideways I pointed the spear at Poppleton, every inch the Roman soldier.

'This is the spear,' I intoned, 'the centurion used on Calvary when he pierced the Lord's side. This is the blood of a martyr who buried it until Roger Shallot was given it as a gift in Florence!' 'Pig's trotters!' Poppleton taunted.