The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘I promise to keep it safe, and henceforth prevent it harming anyone else. What my ancestor, Miles de Clermont, brought about, I will bring to an end. No more deaths will be occasioned by this relic.’ But then he realized the implications of his actions. He looked up to meet Harbottle’s lugubrious stare. ‘What of Brother Anselm?’

The abbot shook his head. Anselm was not yet dead, but it was inevitable anyway, whether the relic was removed from the abbey or not. His end was not far away, and his dying would be a painful journey. There were many deaths besmirching his immortal soul. De Beaujeu took a deep breath.

‘Then let him be the last that dies because of this curse.’

South Witham, Lincolnshire, June 1323

It was twilight, and the rough door scraped on the packed earth of the floor. The sudden gust of wind made the cheap candle gutter. It sparked and hissed malevolently on the table.

Luke peered inside and had to quash the urge to recoil when he caught sight of the corrodiary’s [1]eyes. In the gloom Luke thought they they had filled with blood, as though old Johel had died of a fit. The flame’s reflection glittered balefully in them. Brother Johel looked like a demon, squatting there on the other side of the chamber, his elbows leaning on the bare boards of the table while he glared fixedly at the doorway.

Luke had to force himself to cross the threshold, his knowledge of the man’s crimes making his progress reluctant.

‘Godspeed, Luke.’

Well, his voice hadn’t changed. Still powerful, with a rough edge; like that of a man who’d spent his life bellowing at others. Which he had, of course.

Under his threadbare and stained tunic, once white, now filthy grey, the corrodiary was ancient, with swollen and arthritic joints looking out of place on such withered limbs. He was probably sixty to five-and-sixty years old, and each of those years had taken its toll. Tracks of pain were carved about his brow and into the flesh on either side of his slit-like mouth. His flesh was so lean that, although it was leathery from long days in the saddle in the Holy Land, it yet showed the tracery of fine veins underneath. Livery blotches marked his face and his crabbed hands. Scrawny jowls dangled from his jaw; his cheeks were prominent, but served only to add to the impression of gauntness.

He would soon be a corpse. His eyes alone held remnants of the vitality that had once set the seal on his character. The near-madness gleamed in them still.

When Luke had first met Brother Johel, they had been as sharp as a falcon’s, but over the last four years they had lost much of their brilliance. Forced to accept that he could never avenge his slaughtered comrades or the destruction of his life’s efforts, there was little softness left in them. His own torture was one stage of his suffering, but more poignant to him was the failure of his dream of a fresh Crusade to free the Holy Land. Only misery remained-and fear. Johel knew as well as any that he was dying, and Luke felt sure that it was this knowledge which had turned him into an old man in a matter of days. Luke should feel sympathy, but compassion was scarce in these terrible times. God had forsaken the realm, and all must look to themselves.

The candle was one of the manor’s own: small and thin, made of foul-smelling mutton fat that burned slowly and unevenly. It illuminated a scant few feet, and in Luke’s eyes it made the room hellish. All about was dark, but in the middle of the room the reeking flame made the monk’s face appear still more awful than Luke had expected. It could have been the face of a tormented soul.

‘You came.’

Luke nodded and cleared his throat. Stupid comment, it was obvious, wasn’t it?!

‘Why, though? Just because an old corrodiary called for help.’

Luke felt a spark of irritation. ‘If you don’t want me…’

‘I do. Come closer.’

‘Just tell me what you want, old man.’

‘I want you here, where I can see you.’

The voice was weaker; the devil was not long for the world, Luke told himself. He should respect a man like this, one who had commanded earls and lords. He might seem feeble, but he was entitled to respect. Probably his mind was going. Luke felt a fleeting sadness to think that Johel would soon be gone.

Reluctantly he stepped forward. ‘Well?’

A hand snaked up and gripped his rough habit, hauling Luke forward fiercely. ‘ Don’t treat me like an imbecile, boy !’

Luke felt dazed with shock. The man was supposedly close to death, aye, but he had power in those wretched hands. The suddenness of the attack made Luke dizzy; nausea washed through him, and he felt close to puking.

Johel continued in a malevolent whisper, ‘You can shit yourself now, boy, and you can laugh at me when I’m dead, but for now you have only me here. And I have only you!’

The contempt was like poison. It trickled through Luke’s pride, eating it away. He wanted to defend himself, but couldn’t. ‘Let me go!’

‘Shut up! You know who I am?’

‘Johel of Acre.’

‘And what was I?’

‘A brother in the Order.’

‘Yes. The Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon,’ Johel said with grave emphasis. He coughed, the spasm making his fingers twist in Luke’s tunic. ‘Remember that name, boy, if you value your soul! And serve the Order.’

‘What do you want with me, old man?’ Luke asked. Anger was beginning to flare, and he added snidely, ‘The Order’s gone, you remember? The Pope declared it…’

‘We answer only to God, then!’ Johel looked at him fiercely, but gradually slouched and released Luke. His hand fell to the table as though lifeless. ‘But you’re right. I have a request to make of you.’

‘What do you mean?’

My God! Johel thought again, peering at the lad, aware, so aware, of his own impending doom. This was a matter too weighty for a dying man, but he had a last duty to perform for the defence of all. He was a Templar, a proud warrior-monk in the service of God, but he was so weak. Yet this matter was too important to be left unresolved.

Christ Jesus, why have you done this to us?

Johel let his eyes drop. All they had tried to do was perform God’s will on earth. They had ignored all the snares and politics of the secular world, and that omission had brought them down. Many were already dead, and he would soon join them. Yet there was still a task that he had to complete.

He reached under his tunic and brought out a small box. And then, as Luke’s eyes widened, he explained about the marvellous relic within.

Bishop’s Clyst, Devonshire, November 1323

The famine was over, true enough, but that wasn’t much help to a body. Not when a man had an empty belly and no money in his purse to fill it. Not that Will Hogg was unused to that. He had plenty of experience of hunger. Everyone did.

This was a busy little vill. He was standing by the trunk of a great beech whose upper branches reached out over the trackway and shaded it. To his left was a gurgling little river, quite fast flowing just here, between steep, muddy banks, while behind him lay the long and damp path that led to the city.

It was a good spot here, at the ford. The rain had poured down recently and the River Clyst had swollen and burst its banks, flooding the whole plain. Even in the height of summer the boggy ground here was sodden, but today it was much worse. People would have had to have tramped through the soggy marshland to get here, feet already soaked and chilly, and their senses would be as numbed as their toes by the time they reached the bank. And here they’d have to contemplate crossing the river itself, and would pause while they sought the best route. Although the passage of many feet had tramped a ramp into the bank just here, that was no proof that the best route was straight through the water to the other side. A traveller must spy out the shallowest passage. That was when they would make their attack.