The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

She walked away from the shack a few paces so that their voices wouldn’t stir the family. ‘Why should he?’

‘He more than likely killed them both, don’t you think? Adam was always jealous of Will and Andrew, and he probably did that to them both just to get them out of the way.’

‘A bit foolish, wouldn’t you think? Doing that so that he could run a gang half the size?’

‘You don’t understand him, Annie.’

‘No. And I don’t want to. Rob, I don’t love you, and I can’t marry you. I love someone else.’

It was on the tip of his tongue. Rob licked his dry lips, but he couldn’t accuse her. He’d always known that she got on with him, of course, but that was different to thinking that she’d willingly give him up for the other. Never, except in those red, ferocious dreams in the middle of the night, had he thought that she’d discard him for the other man.

‘I’m sorry, Robert,’ she said, and she tried to touch his face with her hand.

He snapped his chin away. ‘Don’t!’

‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’

‘But he’s dead ! How could you love a man who’s dead?’

She smiled then, a lovely, transforming smile that thawed his heart even as her rejection had frozen it. ‘But he’s not. He’s alive and in the hospital. Your brother is alive!’

‘What do you mean?’ Baldwin said, snatching the parchment from the clerk.

‘Can you read it?’ Jonathan asked. ‘It says, “This is a fragment of the True Cross, stained with the blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, which was preserved for safe-keeping in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem”, signed by Geoffrey Mappestone, Knight.’

Simon knocked back the last of his drink and belched softly. ‘What’s it got to do with all this?’

‘I found it on the floor of the tavern with this other piece,’ Jonathan said, unwrapping the second parchment.

Simon frowned. ‘What makes you think that piece of scrawl has anything to do with the casket?’

‘They had an argument in there,’ Baldwin said. ‘We’ve heard that already. Three unlettered men finding a box-why should they want to keep papers with it? We’re lucky that they didn’t cast these into the fire. Instead they merely tossed them aside, not realizing their value.’

‘What value do pieces of parchment hold?’ Simon scoffed.

‘If they validate the history of a marvellous relic, they are priceless,’ Baldwin said, but as he spoke Jonathan held up his hand, pale and anxious.

‘Listen to this!’ He read the strip of parchment with a finger running along the old and faded letters. ‘“I, Guillaume de Beaujeu, found this relic. It was originally bought with innocent blood and is utterly cursed. Any man who touches the fragment of Holy Cross will die as soon as the relic is relinquished.”’

Baldwin blanched. He grabbed the parchment and read it himself. He sat back, it seemed to him that in the far distance he heard again those dreadful massed kettledrums, the screams and shrieks, the rattle of sling-stones, the metallic ‘ting’ of arrows bouncing from walls…and saw again in his mind’s eye the bold warrior de Beaujeu, sword raised, suddenly overwhelmed. He saw all this and he felt sickened.

‘Baldwin?’ Simon asked. He had risen and stood at Baldwin’s side. ‘Jonathan, fetch some wine. Strong, red wine.’

As soon as the clerk was gone, Baldwin murmured, ‘I saw him die.’

‘Who?’

‘Guillaume de Beaujeu. He was the man whom we revered above all others in Acre. Courageous and bold, but wily, he lead the Templars in their defence of the city.’

‘But he was superstitious,’ Simon said.

Baldwin frowned. ‘I should not have thought so. No more than a bishop. He died before the fall of Acre, and his treasurer, Thibaud Gaudin, took all the relics and saved them. When the Order of the Temple was disbanded, all the relics were taken, though. I wonder how this one survived?’

‘Perhaps it was simply unregarded,’ Simon suggested.

‘Scarcely,’ Baldwin said.

Jonathan had returned, unnoticed, and he held out a mazer of wine. He looked as though he should have drunk it himself.

‘Perhaps it was left alone because it was feared?’ he said.

If there was one thing that the outlaw was good at, it was patience. He stood outside the house, listening and watching carefully. There was no sign of his prey, but another man interested the outlaw now. All evening he had waited here, hoping to catch sight of Adam, without luck, but he had begun to notice that he was not alone. There was another man watching the same doorway, a younger man with a good-quality tunic. He looked like a rich man’s servant, or maybe an official from the city?

So Adam had upset another man. This could complicate matters.

It was one thing to kill a felon like this Adam, but a different thing altogether to murder an officer in cold blood.

And then he saw the stumbling shape of Adam lurching down the lane. The outlaw quickly shifted his belt, hitching it up so that the hilt lay within easy reach. Then he pushed himself out of the doorway where he had been resting, and set off up the alley towards the door of the place where Adam lived. As he did so, he saw that the youngster had spotted Adam too. Being no fool, he was not going to confront the man. Instead, he turned down the alley towards the outlaw and passed him at a trot. Off, no doubt, to call for assistance. The outlaw smiled to himself. There would be little need for that shortly.

He reached the doorway at the same time as Adam. Nodding to the felon, the outlaw cast a look about him. There was no one. He drew his sword as Adam pushed the door wide, and brought the pommel crashing down on his head. Adam roared with pain, his neck muscles contracting, his shoulders hunching, and he spun to confront the outlaw. The outlaw had completed his blow, drawing the blade back, his right fist at his flank, elbow crooked, ready to stab, his left hand outstretched, palm flat, his weight balanced on his right leg.

Adam saw him, and the outlaw saw the blank incomprehension in his eyes. Then there was only blind rage. He darted back, slamming the door, but it bounced off the outlaw’s boot. The outlaw sprang forward into the gloomy interior, and he heard the rasp of steel as he entered. There was a flash, and he parried. A crash of metal, and his arm was jerked with the force of Adam’s fury. Then the blade came again, a heavy falchion by the look of it, wickedly curved and deadly. He shoved his fist across his body, and the blades met with a loud ringing. A second glint, and he had the man’s measure. Adam was a hacker, preferring to use blunt force to wear down his opponent rather than subtlety.

But the outlaw was a trained warrior, skilled in the craft of swordsmanship and experienced in a hundred battles. He parried once more, fell back, and then stabbed forward, once, his leg straightening, as did his arm. The falchion was swinging at his neck, but he was ready, and caught the flat of the blade with his left hand, knocking it safely up and away even as he felt the gentle resistance of Adam’s breast. He pushed on a little farther, and he saw the anger leaving Adam’s face, to be replaced by a wondering shock. There was a clatter as the falchion’s tip struck the ground and Adam started to stagger backward. His legs struck a stool and he slipped down to sit, dully gazing up at the outlaw.

The outlaw heard a gasp and a sudden sob, and turned his head to see an old man and a woman sitting not far from him. The distraction was enough. Adam flicked his falchion’s point up and the outlaw felt it enter his belly, tearing through his bowels and snagging on his lowest rib. There was no pain, not yet. That would come later.

He put his boot on Adam’s fist and trampled it as hard as he could, pushing the blade away from himself, and when he was free of its encumbrance, he pulled his sword out of Adam, and whirled it around in a fast, slashing sweep. There was a fountain of blood, and in its midst he saw the uncomprehending expression in Adam’s eyes as the head rose as though balanced on a column of crimson, and fell to the ground.