The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

The matter of the tainted relic still had to be settled. After John had taken it from Simon Claver, he had left it on the ledge in his chamber in the gatehouse, where Gwyn kept his bread and cheese. Though still sceptical about Barzak’s curse, he thought it as well to humour Thomas’s concerns and leave the tube unopened.

After a day or two, he decided to give the thing to John de Alençon to dispose of as he thought fit. The archdeacon seemed to take a more serious view of the relic’s powers, and at a meeting of the cathedral chapter, following which Bishop Marshal granted his consent, it was decided to offer it free to Glastonbury Abbey. This venerable church always seemed keen to collect relics and the pilgrims that they attracted. Letters were exchanged with the abbot, but the generous offer was gracefully declined. It seemed that Glastonbury was equally aware of the sinister history of the relic and decided not to risk taking a viper to its bosom. More letters passed across the country and eventually a home was found for the suspect relic at Tewkesbury Abbey, whose abbott apparently considered the holiness of his institution more than a match for an ancient curse.

John de Alençon could not resist a sigh of relief when he watched the gilded box and its sinister contents vanish into the scrip of a pilgrim travelling to St Cuthbert’s shrine at Lindisfarne, who had promised to deliver it to Tewkesbury en route.

He said as much to his friend the coroner, as they sat over a jug of Anjou red that evening.

‘Let’s hope they hide it away securely,’ replied John de Wolfe sombrely. ‘I’d hate to think that some other poor devil reawakens Barzak’s curse.’

‘Amen to that!’ replied the archdeacon, raising the cup to his lips.

Oxford, 1269

When the fat boy was found huddled inside the sanctuary of St Frideswide in Oxford, there was a furore. Discovered by Brother Richard Yaxley, the feretarius or guardian of the shrine, in the early hours of Sunday, it was at first thought he was dead. Brother Richard’s immediate concern was that there would be disastrous consequences for the earning potential of the priory. And right at the start of St Frideswide’s Festival as well. He concluded that rival establishments in the competition for the attention of the pilgrims had somehow contrived to sully the sacred location. Outraged, he hurried out to raise the alarm. Soon the stone shrine was surrounded by worried monks, who peered in disbelief through each of its six narrow apertures, three set evenly in each side. The prior, Thomas Brassyngton, looked in through one of the apertures, which was in the shape of an ornate cross carved within a circle. He expressed the thought on everyone’s mind.

‘How on earth did he get in there?’

There was a buzz of conversation as the brothers mulled over the puzzle. The apertures were very small, and the body inside the shrine was very large. Brother Richard was by now beginning to look embarrassed. As feretarius, it was his responsibility to keep watch over the shrine during the feast period, when the public were to be granted access. The shrine was located in the feretory-the area behind the high altar-on a raised stone platform. The previous night Brother Richard had been elsewhere, and did not wish his prior to know where. Staring at the huddled form draped across the gilded coffin housing the bones of the saint, he gave voice to the next obvious thought.

‘And how are we going to get him out?’

At that moment, a voice piped up from within the sacred spot.

‘Hello, Brother Richard. What am I doing in here?’

A puffy, round face emerged from the bundle of rags that formed the impediment to the monks allowing pilgrims into the shrine that morning. There was a look that was a mixture of puzzlement and simple joy on the unlined features. Richard Yaxley gasped, recognizing the miscreant for the first time.

‘Will Plome! What are you doing in there?’

The fat boy giggled.

‘I said it first. You tell me.’

‘Will!’

Plome may have been a simpleton, but he recognized when someone meant business. He had once been part of a troupe of jongleurs and players, and had learned to distinguish the different tones of voice which actors such as John Peper and Simon Godrich used. The feretarius’s voice was now very like the one Simon used for God. Or sometimes the Devil. He screwed his face up in a way he hoped would convey contrition.

‘I’m sorry, Brother Richard. I just wanted to get close to her blessed presence. I came late last night, and as you weren’t here…’

Will missed the piercing look of disapproval that the prior gave Brother Richard at this revelation. And Richard’s downcast glance. He was too simple to know he had got the feretarius into trouble. He went on with his story.

‘I knelt before the shrine, and prayed. I prayed for good weather for the sheep, because they have to be out in the fields. And I prayed for the fish because they have to be in the ponds where it’s wet all the time. And I prayed…’

‘Let’s not go through all the beasts you prayed for, Will Plome.’ Brother Richard’s words were sharply rebuking. A reflection of the difficulty in which he found himself.

‘Oh, and I prayed for you too, Brother Richard.’

The assembled group of brothers sniggered at the simpleton’s unintentional association of the feretarius with the beasts of the field. Brother Richard’s face reddened. The prior took over the gentle encouragement of the progress of the fat boy’s story.

‘And did you pray for the saint to make you thin, Will? So that you could climb inside her shrine?’

Will Plome giggled.

‘No, Father Prior. That would be silly.’

It was Thomas Brassyngton’s turn to blush.

‘Then how did you get in there?’

‘That’s what Brother Richard just asked me.’

The prior saw this was going to require patience, a commodity he had little of at present. The day was progressing, and the pilgrims outside the church would soon be clamouring for access. Not only had he the saint’s bones to display, but more recently he had acquired a phial of St Thomas Becket’s blood. That would be an added attraction. After all, he could not rely on old saints ad infinitum. Their attraction and efficacy would inevitably wane, and he needed to add new vigour occasionally. New blood-literally so in this case. He noted with approval that Brother Richard had at least remembered to put out the large oak collecting boxes at the entrance to the shrine. The church was in need of improvement and repair, and the pilgrims’ contributions were a valuable source of revenue. But the fat boy was stopping it all from flowing. The prior put on his severest voice.

‘Will Plome. Unless you come out of there immediately, I shall bar you from all the sacraments of the church.’

‘Oh, all right, Father. You only had to ask,’ grumbled the simpleton. He slid round behind the saint’s coffin and disappeared from view. A miracle in its own right for one so large. The prior stared in astonishment at the trick. Then he felt the stone slab under his feet start to move. He stepped back sharply in alarm, thinking the very foundations of the church were crumbling. Then he watched in trepidation as the grey slab rose an inch or two, and slid sideways. From the mouth of the dark space below the slab emerged the round and hairless head of Will Plome. The prior laughed at his own gullibility.

‘Of course, I had forgotten about the Holy Hole.’

In years gone by, pilgrims had been allowed closer proximity to the saint by crawling from the retro-choir under the reliquary and into the shrine itself through a so-called Holy Hole in the shrine’s floor. It had been eighty years since its usage had been stopped owing to the damage caused to the saint’s coffin. Too many hands rubbing away the gilded ornamentation. The closest veneration available now was by putting a hand through the pierced apertures in the sides of the shrine. The apertures through which everyone had thought Will Plome had inserted his obese body. Whereas the simpleton had merely found the old access, and used it. Perhaps the saint had spoken to him after all. Thomas could not be sure. So it was with a little more respect that the prior took Will Plome’s arm, and helped him out of the gloomy pit.