The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

‘You addlepated frogwit!’ Giles exploded. ‘What in the name of Lucifer possessed you to take anything so valuable? If they discover that’s missing, they won’t just lock you up, they’ll wall you up for good and leave you to starve to death.’

Robert raked the stubble of his tonsure distractedly. ‘Oswin said he needed something holy, and I thought if I just took a candlestick, he could claim he couldn’t find it because it wasn’t powerful enough to cry out. Besides, they put the cheap stuff out on display and they’d notice any gaps immediately. They check those night and morning to make sure the pilgrims haven’t stolen anything, but the valuables are kept in the chests. They’re only brought out for the big festivals, so they won’t know the cross is gone.’

Oswin laid his hand on Robert’s shoulder. ‘And it will be back before anyone discovers it’s missing, trust me. But I must prepare. And I need silence, absolute silence.’

The other four backed away from him, retreating as far as the small chapel allowed. Oswin kneeled and then prostrated himself before the altar on the dirty, wet tiles, his chin resting on the floor, his eyes fixed on the dim outline of the altar that covered the reliquary of St Guthlac.

He had been certain that he could do this, but now that the moment had arrived, his confidence leeched out of him like the heat from his body into the cold ground. He’d fasted all day, prayed and bathed. Now he tried to clear his mind, calling on the powers of St Guthlac, St Hugh, the saints and all the Holy Virgins to prove as much to himself as to his brothers that he was worthy, that he had the skills denied to other men, skills that he swore before all the saints he would dedicate to the service of the Holy Mother Church.

‘If that which is holy is lost or stolen it will cry out like a child for its mother, calling out to the priest of God and guiding him, until it is found and restored.’

That is what was written. All he had to do was to believe it. He rose to his knees and taking the flask of holy oil from his scrip, anointed his head, hands, feet, ears, eyes, lips and breast, drawing on each the sign of the cross with the chrism. He moved closer to the lantern and, pulling a bottle of water and a tiny bowl from his scrip, he poured the water into the bowl and carefully tipped three drops of the oil into it, watching the pattern of the oil as it swirled in the water.

‘Hair of the blessed St Hugh, call out to me, cry to me, that I may find you.’ He murmured the words over and over again in a fever of prayer.

Finally, Oswin bowed his head to the altar, then clambered to his feet, turning slowly to face the four men. Even though they couldn’t read his expression in the dim light, there was no mistaking the confidence in his stance.

‘I know where the cross is hidden,’ Oswin announced, triumph ringing in his voice.

Giles exchanged an anxious glance with John, ‘Where?’

But already Oswin was making for the door.

The wind, if anything, seemed to have strengthened, hurling them back into the chapel as they tried to force their way out. It seemed to take Robert longer to lock the door than it had to unlock it and Oswin impatiently seized the lantern and strode away into the darkness, with the others scuttling after him. Eustace trailed along behind, sniffing like a bloodhound, as the bitter wind brought tears to eyes and set his nose streaming.

Giles hurried to catch up with Robert.

‘Is he heading in the right direction?’ he whispered, though he was forced to repeat the question several times, almost shouting into Robert’s ear as the wind snatched up the words.

Robert shrugged. ‘It’s not the route I would have taken,’ he said cautiously, ‘but it might lead us there.’

Oswin was out ahead, the feeble light of the lantern bobbing up and down at his side, but even he kept turning his head to make sure the others were following. No one wanted to find himself alone in the darkness on a foul night like this. The trees on either side of the path bent and groaned in the wind, creaking like gallows’ ropes, and somewhere in the distance a dog was howling. Behind them lay the massive city walls. A flickering red glow was just visible above them, from the torches that burned on the walls of its streets, as if the great gate was the entrance to Hell itself.

Ahead of them, Oswin’s tiny lantern light had stopped moving and then it suddenly vanished.

‘He might have waited for us to catch up,’ Giles said indignantly. ‘I can’t see the hand in front of my face. Is he deliberately trying to give us the slip? I knew the cheating-’

But his words were cut off abruptly as John slapped a great hand across his mouth, almost suffocating him.

‘Get off the track. Horses!’

They didn’t hesitate, but scattered and forced their way through the tangle of old undergrowth into the cover of the bushes, smothering curses as hose, cloaks and skin alike tore on brambles. Almost at once they heard the striking of iron on stone and the creak of leather harnesses. Two riders were trotting down the track, heading for the town. Their faces were muffled in hoods and their cloaks billowed behind them.

Each of the clerics crouched lower in his separate hiding place, his ears straining to hear if there were more riders following. Finally, when all seemed quiet, the Black Crows emerged one by one, dragging themselves free of the snagging brambles, and lumbering back onto the road.

‘Messengers?’ Eustace asked, jerking his head back in the direction the riders had taken.

‘Or robbers,’ Giles said. ‘I wasn’t going to stop them and ask. More to the point, where is Oswin?’

‘Behind you!’ a voice shouted into his ear, and Giles jerked round so violently, his foot slipped and he found himself grovelling on his knees in the dirt.

Oswin stood over him, laughing. ‘Why thank you for your obeisance, Giles. I always knew you’d bow to my superior talents one day.’

John hauled the cursing Giles upright, dumping him on his feet as if he was a small child.

‘Where to now?’ John asked.

‘Through here. I’ve found the place,’ Oswin exclaimed.

He plunged back into the grove of trees and they followed, and presently above the wind, they heard the sound of running water. Oswin held up the lantern. They were standing in a small clearing, at the centre of which a spring bubbled up into a pool before trickling away into a stream. They caught a glimpse of something flapping in the wind. As the light fell on it, they saw it was a thorn tree, leafless in winter, but not bare, for it was covered with hundreds of strips of faded rags, teeth strung on cords, locks of hair bound in coloured threads and strands of sheep’s wool, all fluttering wildly in the wind.

Next to it stood a small beehive-shaped shrine made of rough stone. The wooden statue that stood on the shelf inside was protected by iron bars, but that hadn’t prevented other offerings being stuffed through them, mostly crude little dolls in the form of swaddled babies, like the model of the infant Jesus placed in the crib at Christmas, except these were no more than an inch or two long and fashioned from cloth or wood.

‘What is this place?’ Eustace said, eyeing the tree with disgust.

‘St Margaret of Antioch’s well,’ Robert replied. ‘Folk come here to ask her aid.’

They all nodded. Margaret was a popular saint. It was said that any who lit candles to her would receive anything good they prayed for. She could also shield the dying from the Devil if they called on her name and protect women from the many dangers of childbirth too.

‘The cross is here?’ Giles demanded, looking from Oswin to Robert.

All eyes turned to Robert. He nodded slowly. ‘And you have to admit it’s not the most obvious hiding place. I only found it with difficulty and then only because I heard my uncle talking about it a while back.’ He gestured towards the thorn tree. ‘The locals say the tokens they tie there are to ask the saint to intercede for them, but the priest here in these parts reckons they’re offerings to the old goddess, says its pagan. He wanted to chop it down, but his parishioners got wind of it and threatened to chop him down, if he did.’