The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

In the quiet and safe atmosphere of the communal hall, he sat Hanny down beside the embers of the fire. The other students had retired to their shared dormitory rooms, carelessly leaving a cold mess of potage on the hearth. Falconer, towering over Hanny, demanded to know what the boy was doing starting a riot. Hanny’s face was as white as a sheet, and his words came in little gasps.

‘I swear I did not actually say it was the Jews. That was the fault of that wall-eyed giant. He said it must have been the Jews, as they were always killing Christians for their rituals.’

Falconer snorted in disgust. He would let Bullock know about the wall-eyed man, assuming that the constable hadn’t manage to grab him off the street anyway. The boy had been foolish, and incautious like any young man with a story to tell. But what was it he had said that had excited the crowd so? There was nothing in the details Hanny had given him and Peter Bullock which could have done that. Had he held something back?

‘I think you had better tell me everything, John.’

John looked glumly at the ground, where a careless spillage of bean potage had left a dark brown stain. He pushed at the mark with his foot, spreading it in the straw.

‘You will not believe me, if I told you.’

Falconer smiled gently. Young men like this student often imagined that they had seen wonders. When their vision was clouded with drink, and all they had been witness to was something unusual, that nevertheless had a perfectly rational explanation. The Regent Master’s guiding star was Aristotelean logic, which demanded scientific observation and comparison of facts. Occasionally in the past, he had been incautious enough to express opinions openly about others’ beliefs. And that had put him at odds with the Church and the university establishment. More than one chancellor had hinted at heresy, and threatened him with an appearance before the Black Congregation. It had not helped his position in the university, and his reputation was tarnished as a consequence. Lately, he had grown more circumspect, more compliant, which did not entirely please him. But he was weary of conflict and controversy, and not for the first time questioned whether he should even be teaching at all. But, at his lowest ebb, he would encounter such a lost youth as John Hanny, and his commitment was renewed.

‘I might just surprise you, John Hanny. I am old enough to have seen many things, and few, if any, have given me cause to marvel. Except for the gullibility of student clerks.’

John blushed, and began a stumbling revelation.

‘I did go eeling that night. That was the truth. And I did fall asleep in the hut, and was awakened by a noise. But I saw more than I told you or the constable.’

The boy paused, a fearful look in his eyes.

‘Go on. You must tell me everything now.’

‘When I crawled out of the hut to see what had made the noise, I saw him.’

‘The dead monk?’

‘No. Him. The murderer. He was bending over the body with something in his hand. A curved blade. It looked like a sickle. I watched as he turned the body over and straightened the legs. He did something else that looked like a sort of magical pass with his hands over the body. Then he laid the sickle under the monk’s hands, folding them across the body. What could he be doing else, but conducting some Jewish ritual over the man he had killed?’

Falconer wondered too, but was not inclined to think Hanny had seen a ritual of any sort. It was more likely the killer had been searching for something the monk had in his possession. But who had the boy seen who had him so scared he dare not at first reveal this knowledge?

‘Tell me who you saw.’

The boy screwed up his face in fear.

‘I thought it was the very Devil, sir. Or if not him, some Jew. He was big and dressed all in black, and I saw his face when he turned away from the body. It was dark-complected, and the eyes burned like coals. I swear that is the truth. He actually reminded me of that youth Deudone, who is always mocking Christians, and bragging about how much richer he is than us.’

‘You didn’t mention him by name to the mob?’

‘No, master!’

Falconer held in his anger at the boy’s unthinking demonization of the Jews. But it was doubly worrying, if Hanny imagined he had seen Belaset’s son at the scene of the murder. Most people would not want any further proof of the guilt of a Jew.

‘I want you to think most carefully, use your brains to think about what you really saw. Perhaps you will make more sense in the morning. We will tell the constable then.’

Hanny subsided on to his stool, and looked incredulously at his master.

‘Master. Don’t you believe in the Devil?’

Falconer grunted. How could he explain it to this callow youth in a way that did not sound like heresy?

‘The Devil? Put it this way, John. I do believe in the ability of man to create infinite evil.’

Peter Bullock yawned, and kneaded the small of his back. He had had a frustrating night with nothing to show for his discomfort but cold feet, and a nagging ache at the bottom of his spine. After being hauled from his bed to a disturbance in the Jewish quarter that had turned out to be something and nothing, he had decided to make use of the disruption to his sleep. He had sneaked into the precincts of St Frideswide’s Church, and found himself a hiding place behind one of the empty vending stalls there. He could see the tapers still burning inside the church, and the shadow of someone moving about. It had to be Brother Richard Yaxley, carrying out his duties as feretarius. During the festival, the monk remained in the church at night to guard the shrine. Or rather, he should do so. Bullock was sure he had deserted his post the time Will Plome inserted his fat frame into the shrine. And he suspected Yaxley was also absent when he murdered Oseney Abbey’s Brother John Barley. But suspicion was not enough. Bullock needed proof. Last night he had been determined to gather the evidence by spying on the man.

He found that by perching on a wall he could observe Yaxley moving around inside the church, going from offertory box to offertory box. He was collecting the coins in a bag, which was soon heavy with the bounty. He then moved towards the high altar. For a while he disappeared from Bullock’s limited view. In fact, he was out of sight for so long that the constable was on the verge of entering the church, thinking Yaxley had given him the slip. Then he reappeared, unencumbered by the bag of coins. Bullock watched as Yaxley climbed to his watching loft at the level of the triforium windows. There, he settled down on a straw-filled mattress, and lay back. Disappointed, Bullock observed in envy as the monk spent a comfortable night resting in the warmth of his station above the shrine.

It was a grey dawn that saw Bullock easing his aching bones, and slipping away for a cold breakfast of bread and ale. Frustrated at being none the wiser about Yaxley’s earlier activities, he almost didn’t hear his old friend, Falconer, calling from behind him.

‘Peter. Peter. You’re abroad very early.’

Bullock slowed his pace to allow Falconer to catch up with him, and they walked together towards the castle.

‘I might say the same for you, William. But I have been on business. What’s your excuse?’

Despite his determined tread, Bullock was finding himself hurrying to keep up with the taller man’s loping stride. Fortunately for him, Falconer stopped abruptly in response to his question, and stood at the corner of Fish Street and Pennyfarthing Lane. He watched distractedly as the early-rising tradesmen opened the shutters of their shops and began setting up their stalls. They had to profit when they could. And it would be another lucrative day meeting the needs of the pilgrims who thronged into Oxford for the Feast of St Frideswide. The lanky Regent Master turned his gaze on his stockier companion.