The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘You start at the western end. There.’

He pointed at the entrance to the labyrinth, clearly inviting Falconer to walk it. The Regent Master complied. He could do with a little contemplation on his existence. The twists and turns meant the journey could not be hurried, and Falconer slipped into a steady rhythm. His pacing brought him tantalizingly closer and closer to the centre, while still circling round it. Round and round the monk, who turned slowly to observe his new tyro. Finally, the two men stood in the centre, and the monk grasped both of Falconer’s shoulders in approval.

‘There. That part of the journey is a purging, a letting go. Do you feel it?’

Falconer was not sure what he felt. He was not a man accustomed to feeling the mystical. But somehow he did experience a relief from the pressures of his normal life. Students and their diet. The monk offered his name.

‘Robert Anselm.’

‘William Falconer.’

‘Ah, yes. I have heard of you.’

Falconer guessed the monk was thinking of the previous murder that had brought him to Oseney. Now a second one had occurred, and here he was again. Albeit reluctantly.

‘Here in the centre is an opportunity for insight, and illumination.’

Falconer reckoned he also needed that right now. Not least to sort out his doubts about his continuing vocation. Anselm went on to describe the symbolism of the six petals around the central core of the labyrinth. Mineral, plant, animal and so on-all the elements of the world were there represented.

‘And the very centre is the seventh symbol. In the person of the Trinity. Here, beneath this stone.’

He pointed a reverential finger at the carved stone in the centre. Falconer could not see it clearly without using his eye-lenses. Too embarrassed to take them out before a stranger, he bent down to examine the carving. It was of God as a master mason, or architect, wielding a giant set of compasses.

‘Does it provide you with any insight, Master Falconer?’

‘About what?’

‘The death of Brother John, of course. Do you see it?’

Falconer shook his head.

‘I am afraid I rely on facts, Brother Robert, and there are precious few of those at present.’

‘You will see it, if you only look. I am sure.’

Falconer was not as confident as Anselm seemed of his ability to see the killer. It was time for him to go, and to pay better attention to John Hanny’s needs. He thanked the monk, and left. Anselm winced as Falconer ignored the twisting outward labyrinth, and crossed the floor in a direct line to the doorway.

The Templar, once refreshed by the morning bread and ale, ventured out into the throng of pilgrims making their way to St Frideswide’s Church. The skinny, dark-haired maid who had served him his food both days was also the maid who had plumped up his straw mattress for him on arrival. When he left the Golden Ball Inn, she was hovering by the door, a sly look on her pinched face. He admired her persistence, which flew in the face of her lack of comely charms, but it was wasted on him. His order demanded chastity, as well as obedience and poverty. And he had never had any difficulty obeying the rule of chastity. Nor that of poverty-the order provided him with all he wanted. It was obedience which was most irksome to the Templar, and which provided him with the greatest struggle. If he had chosen to obey the Grand Master strictly, he would probably have given up his quest by now. But he hadn’t. He had not come this far to give up so easily. Last night’s little setback needed to be overcome, and he could not do that by scuttling back to Occitania. He would have to return to Oseney Abbey and the mason.

If he could find the man in charge of the building work there, he might succeed where he had failed with the monk. Not knowing the short cut that had taken Falconer, Bullock and the boy Hanny out on to the water meadows, the Templar exited the North Gate and followed the well-trodden northern track to the abbey. So it was that he missed Falconer, who was returning to Oxford by the postern gate in the castle wall.

On his way to the abbey, the Templar talked to the ragged peregrini , who were seeking to double their fortunes by adding the power of the relics at the abbey to that of St Frideswide. He asked casually whether anyone had heard of a portion of the True Cross in the vicinity. Suddenly he was surrounded by shining faces, eagerly demanding that, if he knew of such a relic, he tell them of its location. It was of inestimable importance to them. One man with a boil-ravaged face would not let go of his sleeve. He was convinced that the Templar knew more than he was admitting to, and begged to be let into the secret. He was desperate for a cure. The Templar broke free of his clutches only with some difficulty. Thereafter, he refrained from revealing his intentions to his fellow travellers.

At the abbey, the Templar cast around until he saw a man carving a diamond pattern on the surface of a cylindrical piece of stone. Each piece, piled on its companion, would make up one of the pillars to the entrance to the nearly completed church. The Templar stood and marvelled at the man’s skill as he worked on in silence. Every blow was precise and controlled, leading to a groove that spiralled up the pillar section. Could this be the mason he sought? He had supposed him to be older. He tested the ground with a question.

‘Did you know that a pillar, being the synthesis of a circle and a square, represents the marrying of the spiritual and the material worlds?’

The man smiled coolly, and chose his reply carefully.

‘Yes. And that the pillars named Jachin and Boaz stood either side of the entrance to Solomon’s Temple.’ La Souch stopped chipping at the stone, and squinted into the sun, studying the dark-skinned stranger.

‘You are a Templar?’

The man briefly inclined his head. It was barely an acknowledgement, but enough. The mason set his tools carefully on the floor of the lodge where he sat.

‘Some people say you lot have more secrets to hide than we poor masons. Have you been to the Holy Land? The darkness of your skin suggests you have, and recently.’

The Templar grimaced.

‘Alas, I got no farther than our fortress near Famagusta on the island of Cyprus. I leave the honour of having once freed Jerusalem from its yoke to one of my ancestors, Miles de Clermont. I have to be content with the Heavenly Jerusalem embodied in the structure of churches such as this one you have constructed.’

‘Me and my predecessor, God rest his soul. I have only been working here for two years, myself.’

That was not what the Templar wanted to hear. He had come all this way because of a story concerning the mason working on Oseney Abbey in England. Certain knowledge had been conveyed to the Templar Grand Master. Knowledge of a particular relic that the Order had been seeking for years. At one time they had traced it to Tewkesbury Abbey, but it was no longer there, and the trail had gone cold. Then a story about a mason working in Oxford had reached the Grand Master. It now appeared that story had been too long in surfacing. The old mason was dead. There perhaps remained a slight chance that the knowledge had been passed on, though.

‘But you work to plans laid down by the master mason who came before you?’

Eudo La Souch produced a snorting laugh that had his labourers working on the site looking in his direction. They were curious as to what had amused their normally sour taskmaster. But he waved his hand at them, and they hastily returned to what they were doing. La Souch examined the Templar, lounging in the shade of the lodge roof. Despite the man’s relaxed posture, he could see that his muscular legs held his body in perfect balance. His arms, crossed nonchalantly over his chest, were actually tensed and ready for an assault from any quarter. He wondered whether the man ever truly relaxed.