The Medieval Murderers: The Tainted Relic

Since the gates were still closed, and anyone wanting to leave the city that day would not yet have been allowed to do so, Geoffrey decided to visit Pichard. He wanted to ask why he was prepared to take such a dangerous relic on the long journey to Rome, and had decided to tell him that he could do better in his choice of companion than the light-fingered Julius. He walked to the small inn near St James’s Church where Pichard was staying. A large Benedictine lounging lazily on a bench outside told him that Pichard had not left yet, but that he intended to do so within the hour.

Geoffrey climbed the uneven wooden steps to the upper floor and knocked on Pichard’s door. There was no reply, so he knocked again, harder this time. When a third hammering went unanswered, he drew a short dagger from his belt, grasped the latch and opened the door.

Pichard was inside, lying fully clothed on the bed. At first, Geoffrey thought he was dead, because he lay so still and his face was an odd grey-white colour. Then he detected a slight rise and fall in the monk’s chest. He glanced quickly around the room, to ensure that Julius was not lingering in the shadows with a weapon poised to strike, but it was empty. Two packs lay ready on a bench, and Pichard’s travelling cloak was folded neatly on top of them. Pichard, it seemed, had been on the brink of leaving.

Geoffrey strode to the bed and took the monk’s wrist in his hand, to feel the fluttering life beat under his fingertips. It was stronger than he had anticipated, so he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him firmly. The Benedictine opened eyes that were glazed, then licked his lips and managed a faint smile.

‘Geoffrey! I thought I would never see a living face again.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Geoffrey. ‘There is nothing wrong with you-no wound, no sickness. You were fit yesterday, and I know of no disease that can kill a man with quite such speed.’

It was not true. He had encountered several nasty sicknesses that could reduce healthy men to corpses within a few hours, but most were contracted in damp, unhealthy air or were caused by drinking poisoned water. Pichard was a seasoned traveller, and knew how to avoid such risks.

‘The relic,’ said Pichard in a soft voice. ‘I had it in a bag around my neck last night, but when I awoke this morning, someone had taken it. And now I will die.’

‘You will not,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Healthy men do not simply die.’

‘The curse,’ whispered Pichard. ‘Barzak’s curse. He said that anyone who touched the relic and gave it up would die.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Geoffrey, trying to pull the monk into a sitting position. Pichard was like a dead weight, and flopped back again. ‘Barzak may have made such a claim, but rational men of God cannot put faith in that kind of thing. The infidel cursed us all the way from Constantinople to Jerusalem, and we took no notice of them. Why should this Barzak be any different?’

‘Because of the True Cross,’ said Pichard. ‘I felt my strength ebb away as soon as the bag was taken. I was powerless to prevent it from going.’

‘If you believe all this nonsense, then why did you agree to take it to Rome in the first place?’ demanded Geoffrey, exasperated.

‘Because it was my sacred duty,’ whispered Pichard. ‘It belongs in Rome, where it can be placed somewhere it cannot be used for evil. I knew I would die if I undertook the mission-Peter was honest with me in that respect-but I thought I would be safe until I reached home.’

‘I suppose Julius robbed you,’ said Geoffrey, disgusted. He wished he had stayed with Pichard the previous night, and then invented some excuse to prevent Julius from going with the monk. But he had not believed Julius would steal the thing quite so soon.

‘It was not Julius,’ said Pichard. ‘It was Peter’s friend-Marcus. I saw his face quite clearly in the moonlight. I suppose the Brotherhood changed its mind, and decided to keep the relic here instead of sending it to Rome, as Peter wanted. I cannot blame them.’

‘I was under the impression that they considered the thing dangerous now, and better out of their city.’ Geoffrey thought about the talkative monk with whom he had chatted that very morning. He had certainly not seemed sorry to see the cursed relic gone.

‘Peter did, but perhaps not all his brethren agreed. Regardless, my role is over now. I was to have carried it, but now I am doomed.’

‘No,’ said Geoffrey. ‘If you allow yourself to be overcome by this, then you may well die. But you can fight it. There is no reason you should not see Rome again.’

‘I should like to see the Tiber,’ whispered Pichard. ‘There is no river in the world like the Tiber.’

Geoffrey slipped an arm under his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. ‘Then come outside with me. See the sun and the sky, and you will feel better. Your time to die is not yet.’

He began to drag him across the room, staggering under his huge weight. He struggled down the stairs, and hauled him into the open air. Pichard raised his head and squinted up at the lightening sky, and a smile touched his lips. He took his arm from Geoffrey’s shoulders and leaned against the wall.

‘You may be right,’ he said. Geoffrey noticed that colour was returning to his cheeks. ‘I do feel better out here.’

‘Breathe deeply,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘And sit on the bench next to your colleague.’

The fat monk obligingly shifted along so Pichard could rest, muttering about those who drank more than was good for them the morning before long journeys. Pichard did not correct him, but sat with his eyes closed, savouring the rising sun on his face and the strength returning to his limbs.

Geoffrey soon grew restless, and wandered the short distance to the end of the lane, where he watched the sunlight slant in dusty shafts along the main road. Bells chimed across the city, and the streets were becoming busy. Suddenly, a cart thundered around the corner, spilling fruit in its wake. There was no driver, and a small crowd of people ran behind it, yelling for those ahead to bring it to a standstill. But there was little Geoffrey could do to halt a stampeding horse, and he was unprepared to risk life and limb leaping for the reins, when there was a danger of being crushed beneath hoofs or wheels. He flattened himself against a wall and the cart clattered past him. Then, just as it reached the bench where Pichard and the fat monk sat, an axle snapped.

The cart tipped, then fell to one side with a tearing scream of wood. The horse stumbled from the impact, and dropped to its knees, whinnying in pain and terror. Pieces of fruit bounced everywhere, and people raced towards them, aiming to gather as many as they could before the owner arrived to claim them. Geoffrey ran towards the bench, then stopped in horror.

Part of the cart had sheared off into a vicious spike, and this had been driven clean through Pichard as he had basked in the sun. Next to him, his fat friend sat in stunned shock, his mouth agape and his fleshy face covered in a sheen of sweat. Geoffrey quickly ascertained that he was unharmed, then turned his attention to Pichard.

The Benedictine was quite dead. He sat as Geoffrey had left him, with a smile of contentment on his face and his eyes closed. The knight backed away, his thoughts reeling. Was it just a terrible coincidence? Or was Barzak’s curse really working? He rubbed an unsteady hand across his face, not sure what to believe. Pichard was dead. Peter was dead. But the relic was gone, back into the care of the Brotherhood, and Geoffrey hoped they would keep it safe, so it would never blight the lives of good men again.

In a small house in what had been the Jewish Quarter of the city, Marcus took a small leather bag from around his neck and handed it to Julius. Julius accepted it with a smile, and loosened the strings of the pouch so he could look inside. He shook it gently, and a piece of wood about the length of his middle finger dropped into the palm of his hand.