The Medieval Murderers: The Tainted Relic

‘Are you Mohammedan?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking that if he were, then he would indeed be wise to remain hidden until the killing frenzy was properly over. His friend Roger was a good man, but even he had joined in the wave of violence.

‘I am Peter,’ replied the old man enigmatically. ‘Will you help me, or not?’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Take this,’ said Peter, rummaging in the greasy scrip that was attached to his belt and withdrawing a leather bag. ‘I want you to make sure it reaches the Pope in Rome.’

‘I cannot,’ said Geoffrey, refusing to accept it. ‘I may be here for years serving Prince Tancred, and the life of a knight in the Holy Land is precarious, to say the least. However, there are plenty of monks leaving for Rome now that Jerusalem is taken. One of them will take it.’

‘But that is my problem,’ said Peter. ‘I do not know your monks, and I cannot tell which ones I might trust and which-and that is most of them, I imagine-I should not.’

‘You do not know me, either,’ Geoffrey pointed out.

‘I know enough,’ said Peter softly. ‘A man who tries to save enemy civilians when he could be looting speaks for himself. But you must help me. What this bag contains is important.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Ask William Pichard-he is in the Pope’s service and plans to travel to Rome soon. He is honest and will take your…’ He paused, since he did not know what was in the bag that Peter considered so momentous.

‘He will die,’ claimed Peter authoritatively. ‘Are you sure he can be trusted?’

‘Why will he die?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously, wondering what he had let the hapless monk in for by so casually offering his services. ‘He was healthy enough this morning.’

‘That is irrelevant,’ said Peter dismissively. ‘Very well, since you will not help me, I shall speak to this Pichard instead. He can carry my relic to Rome.’

‘A relic? And it belongs to you?’ Geoffrey wondered whether the Crusaders were the only ones who had taken the opportunity to practise their thieving skills during the last two confusing days.

Peter kissed the bag with considerable reverence. ‘In this pouch is a fragment of the True Cross. I rescued it from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre before your comrades got to it.’

‘You stole a relic from a church?’ asked Geoffrey, horrified. ‘But that is sacrilege! You should put it back before you are struck down.’

‘It is too late for that,’ said Peter matter-of-factly. ‘Far too late.’

‘That is not true,’ said Geoffrey, resisting the urge to back away from Peter and his dangerous booty. He was not a particularly superstitious man, but only a fool tampered with things he did not understand, and the potency of holy relics most definitely came into that category. ‘You should put it back before-’

‘I told you, it is too late ,’ insisted Peter sharply. ‘This holy thing has been in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for centuries-always under the care of an Arab keeper. But the events of the last two days have put an end to that.’

‘Why an Arab?’ asked Geoffrey, curious despite his better judgement, which warned him to have nothing more to do with the matter. ‘If it really is a piece of the True Cross, then it will be one of the most sacred things in the Holy City, and should be guarded by Christians.’

‘Most Christians are too frightened of its power to serve it properly,’ said Peter impatiently, as though Geoffrey should have known this. ‘And this Arab family has been looking after it devotedly for hundreds of years. The last member was called Barzak.’

‘I suppose we killed him,’ surmised Geoffrey, ‘not knowing that he and his ancestors had served the Church faithfully for so long.’

‘Worse,’ said Peter. ‘You murdered his family-here, at Temple Mount. When Barzak heard what had happened, he snatched the relic from its shrine and put a curse on it: anyone who so much as lays a finger on it will die.’

‘Even more reason to put it back-’ Now Geoffrey felt perfectly justified in taking a step backward, and did not care that it made him a coward. At least he would be a live one.

Peter did not seem to notice his unease, and continued with his tale, a faraway look in his blue eyes. ‘Moments after Barzak had screamed his oath, the Crusaders burst into the church, and killed him. I saw and heard everything, and only just managed to rescue the relic from Barzak’s dead hand before it was trampled and destroyed for ever.’

‘If it is really cursed, then the only place for it is in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that Peter should have allowed the thing to be crushed so that it could do no one any harm. ‘Take it back, and tell the priests what you saw. Perhaps they can-’

‘They can do nothing!’ spat Peter. ‘In this world, there is nothing more dangerous than a holy relic that has been cursed by a good man. It cannot stay in Jerusalem, because who knows what might happen if it fell into the wrong hands? Evil men may use it for their own ends, and all manner of chaos may ensue. No, there is only one place where it will be rendered harmless, and that is Rome, near the tombs of the holy fathers. Are you sure you will not help me?’

‘I cannot abandon my duties here,’ said Geoffrey reasonably. ‘But if this relic is as dangerous as you say, then you should tell the Crusade’s leaders. They will know how to keep it from the wrong people.’

Peter gave him the kind of look that indicated he thought him an imbecile for putting any faith in the hard, greedy men who had foisted their hard, greedy troops on the Holy City. ‘It will not be safe here, not among these butchers.’

‘Then put it back and say nothing to anyone,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘The “butchers” will not raid a church now the looting is over-especially not that one-and your relic will be safer here than travelling all the way to Rome.’

‘I was wrong about you,’ said Peter bitterly. ‘I thought you were a man of principle, but you are just like all the others-and a fool into the bargain.’

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing across the deserted courtyard in the city that smelled of death.

As soon as the princes’ religious obligations had been discharged by way of a lengthy and ostentatious service of thanksgiving, Geoffrey found himself busy for the next week helping them restore law and order in the city. Fires needed to be extinguished, soldiers fed and billeted, horses stabled, and loot divided in a manner that was considered fair by the majority. The damage caused to the walls during the attack had to be repaired, and plans drawn up to strengthen them in the event of a retaliatory attack.

When their day’s work was over, and the sun was setting in a ball of fiery red, Geoffrey and Roger of Durham strolled back to their temporary quarters on the Street of the Holy Sepulchre. A civilian curfew had been imposed, so the streets were already mostly empty. An ancient black-garbed Greek hobbled along one dusty alley, while a man with a donkey cart loaded with fruit travelled briskly in the opposite direction. Two monks hurried towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where a bell was ringing to announce the beginning of compline.

Geoffrey had been too busy to think much about his strange conversation with Peter, but he recalled it in a guilty rush when he recognized one of the monks as William Pichard. Pichard was wearing his Benedictine habit, he carried a pack over his shoulder, and a stout staff was gripped in one of his strong hands. The second monk was someone Geoffrey did not like-a small, weasel-faced fellow from Normandy by the name of Julius. Julius had been involved in an unsavoury incident involving the theft of a gold crucifix some months previously, and, although nothing had ever been proven, Geoffrey had grave doubts about the man’s honesty.