The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

There were plenty of ruts in the damp soil to show how many carts had come this way to go to Exeter’s market. The great city sat safe behind its massive red walls some two miles west and a little north. They were hidden from view down here in the Clyst Valley, but Will knew that they would be gleaming up there in the morning sunshine over the bend in the River Exe. He stared up that way with a strange sense of longing. He was aware of a curious wistfulness as he brought to mind the picture of the great city walls, dwarfed by the two massive towers of the Cathedral of St Peter within. There was safety in there.

Exeter was full of wealthy people who lived in comfortable houses drinking wine from silver or pewter goblets with their friends. If his father hadn’t died for the King, Will could have had a life like that himself. It wasn’t his fault he was like this, a broken-down man with no occupation, making do as best he could. At least he had a small corner to sleep in, out of the rain and away from the cold. After the last few years it felt like a palace to him, especially with winter approaching. He’d had his share of sleeping under hedges in winter.

The others were spread about. Andrew had some space at the inn; Rob had his in Elias’s stable, just over the way from his brother. Those two were often the source of news about travellers, essential in this work.

Adam was more reliable. That was why Will had agreed to share his room with him. The others were good companions, but Will wasn’t so sure about them. Andrew was bright enough, and he had that edge of hardness, but Rob was a fool. Always worried about the risks. He was the one who counselled caution when the others wanted to try their luck.

If it was up to him, they wouldn’t be here now, sod him. He wanted them all to wait. Said it was too soon after their last attack. Feeble cretin! They wanted money, and the way to get it was by boldness.

There was a low whistle, and he dropped to his knees as he heard voices, a jingling of chains, a creaking of harness, and he made out two figures, one slumped man on a large rounsey [2], one younger-looking fellow on foot. Both were clad in black, the walker appearing to be wearing clerical garb, a heavy-looking satchel over his shoulder, the rider looking more like a down-at-heel knight. God alone knew, there were enough of them just now, since the King had taken his revenge on the barons who’d threatened his authority. With their lords executed, the men-at-arms had to seek new masters. A man was nothing without patronage.

The horseman was tired, head nodding, perhaps asleep already. Yes: these two should be easy targets.

The outlaw rode along slowly, jogging easily in his saddle. At the sound of a bird by the roadside, his head snapped around. He stared, gradually relaxing as the noisy clattering of wings disappeared into the distance. It was only a wood pigeon, he saw, and that was cause for comfort. No pigeon would stay if there was a man about the place. There would be no ambush here if a pigeon was roosting.

A fugitive must always be on the lookout for danger. Any man could make an attempt on his life now, capture him and remove his head, declaring him to be outlaw without fear of punishment. He had to be on his guard at all times. It was fortunate that he was at least a knight and used to seeking out ambushes. He’d learned his skills well when he lived at my Lord de Courtenay’s household as a child and youth. That was four-and-thirty years ago. Much had happened since. He had travelled the world, seen the destruction of so much that had been good-and finally renounced his past life of service and hope. Now all he had was his oath, and he would be damned before he broke that.

His chin rested on his breast again. Yes, he had learned to be alert when it was necessary, but here in the sleepy flatlands on the outskirts of Exeter, there was less need. He wasn’t in France evading the King’s damned officers, nor in the Holy Land, where an ambush was to be expected at any moment. He was in England, in one of the most peaceful parts of the kingdom, and God’s Wounds, but he was tired. His head moved with the horse’s steady amble, and he felt his eyes closing once more. The journey had been long, and they were nearly at their destination.

There was a change in the gait of his mount, and he opened his eyes to see that the beast was favouring his front right hoof.

‘Wait!’ he called.

‘What is it?’

‘My horse is lame.’

The clerk nodded, but then looked ahead again. ‘You can catch me up, Sir Knight. I’ll get on. I am so desperate for ale I think my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.’

The outlaw nodded. There was surely no danger up here. He jerked his head and the clerk continued. Meanwhile the outlaw swung himself down, lifted the offending hoof, and saw the large pebble caught there. He pulled out his dagger and inserted it, twisting it gently, all the while talking to the beast to keep it calm. If you could keep them quiet and confident, they were twice the animals.

So it was by the merest chance that he wasn’t caught and slain in the first moment when the trap was sprung. A stone in the hoof saved his life for just a little longer.

A raucous din. He was startled by the explosion of noise, and he looked up to see a blackbird cackling out its warning cry. Then he heard the shrill shriek.

He levered the stone from the hoof, thrust the dagger back in the sheath, then leaped on to the horse’s back. There came another scream, and he clapped spurs to the beast’s flanks. The brute reared, whirling as though preparing to bolt away, but he jerked the head around and galloped off after the clerk, riding towards Exeter.

As he rode through a small stand of trees, he saw the clerk lying on the ground, a man over him. Roaring his rage, the outlaw drew his sword and pelted along the road at the man, but as he approached he felt, rather than saw, the figure rise from a crouch with a long staff in his hands, saw the iron tip swing towards him. He ducked, but the heavy metal butt still caught him over the ear, and he nearly fell from the saddle. Waving his arm for balance, he turned the horse, and rode back, fury overwhelming his sense of duty.

That was the cause of the deaths. If he had continued and ignored the assault, so many lives would have been saved, he later realized, but at that moment the only thought in his mind was avenging this blow.

And that was how the curse came to be laid once more on Exeter’s population.

Exeter, Devonshire, November 1323

Brother Joseph yawned and scratched at his beard as he ambled happily from the little garden where he grew his medicinal herbs. He was a round-faced man, and his chin was forever rough and stubbly, no matter how often he asked the barber to scrape it. The damned fool never saw to his razors properly, that was the problem.

It was already late, and he was looking forward to the end of the final service of the day so that he could go to his cot and sleep. Funny how, as a man grew older, he craved earlier nights. When he had been a lad, he had been keen to stay up most of the night and drink as much ale as he could, while also befriending attractive wenches; later he’d been more interested in staying up to pray to ask forgiveness for those nights of dissipation.

The days when he would stay up all night were long gone, and with them the guilt of a young novice. He was contented now, happy to look to his bed with gratitude that it was lonely. When he was younger, he would have been sad at the thought of the cold blankets and palliasse being empty when he went to them. In those days the only bearable bed was one in which young Mags or Sara was already waiting; now his bed was for sleeping, and my God, how delightful that was!