The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘Business? What business? The riot that took place across the street from here yesterday? I was coming to tell you about that. It was a wall-eyed man with ginger hair who was the ringleader…’

Bullock smiled grimly.

‘Ah. William Lawney. That makes sense. He owes a lot of money to the Jews. Money he borrowed for a business venture that failed. Thank you for that. I was on the scene too late to do anything about the commotion. All the excitement had evaporated by the time I arrived, and everyone seemed to just disappear down convenient alleys before I could employ my sword to good effect.’

The constable was renowned for his huge but rusty sword which hung at his hip most of the time he patrolled the streets of Oxford. He no longer bothered about the sharpness of its edge, because, if he ever drew it, it was to employ the flat of the blade. That was far more effective a deterrent, when laid across a clerk’s buttocks, than a cutting edge. And more forgiving. Last night, the crowd had dispersed without even the need for that.

‘I will deal with Master Lawney. But no, that was not the business I was thinking of.’

‘The murder, then.’

‘Yes. I have been observing my suspect.’

Falconer frowned, and looked at the salted fish seller rolling his barrels of produce out on to the street. It reminded him again of the starving John Hanny, and what the boy had seen that night.

‘You have a suspect? Who is that?’

Bullock bubbled with the satisfaction of putting one over on his erudite friend. It was not often that he got to the truth before the Regent Master.

‘Why, Brother Richard Yaxley, of course. I saw him arguing with the dead man the night before he was killed. He claims over some trifling incident concerning young Will Plome, but that is a red herring.’

Falconer knew Plome, who had come to Oxford with a troupe of travelling players. There had been a murder that had almost been laid at the door of the fat youth. Until the Regent Master had solved the puzzle. The jongleurs had moved on, but Will had stayed behind. He now made a living running errands for kindly people who pitied his simplicity.

‘What did Will have to do with it?’

Bullock waved a beefy hand dismissively in the air.

‘Oh, nothing really. It was a trifle. But I do think he was put up to embarrassing the feretarius by Brother John Barley. You know how some of the monks at Oseney envy the popularity of the saint’s shrine. Especially at this time of year.’ The constable rubbed his finger and thumb together to signify the lucrative nature of the shrine. ‘And haven’t you always told me that money is an excellent motive for murder? Yaxley also said that the monk had something of great value to offer, but had then played that trick on him instead.’

Bullock was prepared for his old friend to pour scorn on his conclusion. And was surprised when Falconer merely responded with a tilt of the head, and a little grunt. If he hadn’t known him better, Bullock would have thought the Regent Master had actually agreed with his analysis. Without demur. But in reality, Falconer just seemed distracted, and not at all full of the usual enthusiasm he exhibited over a murder. He appeared to be more interested in the mundane activities of the fish seller, Luke Bosden, setting up his stall across the street. Bullock narrowed his eyes, and peered at Luke as he rolled out another barrel of salted fish. If his actions were so interesting to Falconer, then maybe there was some deep riddle to be solved by observing them.

In fact, Falconer was not really looking at the fish seller. He was merely worried about the state of John Hanny’s mind. And his belly. The description of what he had seen the night Brother John Barley was murdered had left Falconer half inclined to admit to the very real existence of the Devil. And to consider taking holy orders to seek expiation of all the heretical scientific ideas he had held heretofore. Anything rather than think Deudone was involved in the death.

Yet Falconer had always relied on observation to guide his thinking. And it was a very real world which bustled around him now. The mundane life of real toil that a man like the fishmonger Bosden pursued in his effort to feed himself and his family. If there was anything spiritual in this world, it was the relentless optimism that sustained such men as Bosden. By comparison, Falconer, who did nothing more than cram a few notions into the heads of boys more often than not reluctant to give them room, felt himself worthless. He took a deep breath, and tried to concentrate on what Bullock had been saying. There was a connection. Suddenly it came to him. The conversation he had overheard between Harbottle and the master mason.

‘What was that you said about something of value? Could it have been a relic?’

Bullock sighed, realizing that Falconer had not been listening to a word. A relic? There had been nothing of the kind, only a trick played on Yaxley that had badly misfired. But at least this was more like his old friend. Off on a sidetrack, when the obvious was staring him in the face. He went over his conversation with Yaxley again, asserting that no mention had been made specifically of a relic. This obviously did not put Falconer off, for now he had a request for Bullock.

‘It could be that you are right, Peter. But we need to go and talk to the abbot. Will you send one of your men to Oseney to ask the abbot if he will see us? There is something I must do first. Oh, and will you ask him to arrange for us to talk to the master mason, La Souch, also?’

Bullock nodded in agreement, though he didn’t know why they needed to talk to a mason. Nor was Falconer forthcoming about the urgent errand he had to attend to first. Such mysterious behaviour was typical of his friend, and he had long given up trying to fathom him out. He turned to go down Pennyfarthing Street towards St Ebbe’s Church, and the castle postern gate, while Falconer turned the other way. His resolve momentarily reinvigorated, Falconer could not help having a final dig at his old friend.

‘You have discounted our mysterious Templar, then?’

Bullock grunted in a non-committal fashion. In fact, he had forgotten all about him.

If Peter Bullock had known that the Templar was already abroad, and had exited the town while Master Falconer was brooding over the fate of fishmongers, he might yet have included him in his reckoning. For the Templar was returning to Oseney Abbey, convinced it was the goal of his mission. When he had last spoken to the master mason, he had been sure that Eudo La Souch knew more than he was telling. He had mentioned the possible existence of a piece of the True Cross somewhere in the abbey, and the mason had all but screamed out he too knew of it. His face had paled, and sweat had broken out on his temple. La Souch had tried to mask his reaction by picking up his tools, and chipping away at the section of stone pillar he had been working on. But the new chiselling had been a mess compared to the work he had carried out before. His hands had trembled, and he couldn’t wait to be rid of his inquisitor. The Templar was sure he knew something. But did he know the actual location of the relic? Or, like himself, was he still searching?

He had decided there and then not to press the man to reveal what he knew. With his skill at persuasion, learned from his old adversaries, the Assassins, he could easily have extracted what information the mason had. But then he might have found himself in another dead end like the one he had encountered with the monk, John Barley. Far better to let the man pursue his own searches, and uncover the truth. Then the Templar could intervene, saving himself a lot of work. Today, he was planning to find out how far the mason had got. The Templar strode cheerfully along the roadway towards Oseney Abbey, crossing the two streams that marked the edge of the water meadows. In passing it, he hardly gave the place of Brother John Barley’s murder a second glance.