The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘That is not true,’ said Bartholomew. Even he, a disinterested listener, was unwilling to allow such a wildly inaccurate statement to pass unchallenged. ‘There are flasks of Holy Blood in shrines all over the country. I hear some liquefy on special occasions, while others are associated with miracles.’

Michael’s attention was fixed on the hapless prior. ‘If you accept that blood relics should be venerated, then you are saying that the Franciscans are right and your own Order is wrong.’

‘I am not,’ said Morden, affronted. ‘I would never say the Franciscans are right! You are twisting my words with this complex theology.’

‘It is complex,’ agreed the visiting friar, apparently unable to bear the savaging any longer. He, too, addressed his comments to the monk’s shoulder, and the monk glanced behind him briefly, half expecting someone to be there. ‘And theologians from both Orders are proposing fascinating arguments.’

Morden remembered his manners and made some introductions, waving a tiny hand towards the visitor. ‘This is Brother Tomas from the university at Pécs. He says Pécs is near the Mediterranean Sea, although I have never heard of it. He arrived recently to read about angels.’

Tomas’s southern origins explained his dark, somewhat foreign looks and the lilting quality to his Latin. Bartholomew smiled at him, intrigued to meet a scholar who had travelled so far from home. ‘I understand Pécs has an unrivalled collection of Arabic texts on natural philosophy,’ he said.

Tomas returned the smile. ‘It has, and we-’

‘Well, I am pleased you came,’ interrupted Michael, rubbing his hands together. ‘Oxford is making a name for itself with brilliant arguments on the Holy Blood debate, but our own Franciscans are sorely hampered by the fact that these Dominicans rarely challenge their intellects. Now you are here, we can enter the arena and show the world the quality of our thinkers. Well, the quality of some of them, at least,’ he corrected himself, shooting a disparaging glance at Morden.

‘I would be woefully inadequate,’ said Tomas modestly. ‘Especially since Master Witney of Grey Hall in Oxford is studying in Cambridge this term-he is one of the Franciscans’ acknowledged experts on blood relics, and I cannot compete with him. He is staying at Bernard’s Hostel, where I am told the university houses its most auspicious visiting scholars.’

While Michael reduced his chicken to a pile of bones, Tomas began a careful refutation of the monk’s thesis, punctuated by the occasional and wholly unnecessary apology for his lack of understanding-he was a skilled disputant, and his knowledge of the material was detailed and sound. Despite the fact that he was restoring the Dominicans’ intellectual honour, his brethren grew restless, and some shot meaningful glances to where the day was wasting outside. Morden kicked his legs in a way that suggested he was equally bored, and then his eyes dropped to Michael’s right arm for the last time. He could stand it no more.

‘Did you know there is a fish-head on your shoulder, Brother?’ he asked. ‘It is difficult to discuss theology when we have something like that leering at us.’

Michael glanced to one side, then leapt to his feet at the sight of dull piscine eyes staring at him from such close quarters. He flailed furiously at the offending object, sending it skittering across the table, where it dropped into Morden’s lap. The prior, equally repelled, flicked it towards the floor, although one of his feet caught it as it fell and sent it cartwheeling towards Tomas. The visiting friar ducked with impressively quick reactions, and the missile sailed harmlessly over his head to slap into a wall before plummeting to the ground. Michael glowered at the servants behind him, who struggled to remain impassive. One was less adept at hiding his amusement than the others, and the monk rounded on him.

‘I wondered why I was the only one to be served a trout whose head was missing. Now I know. You deliberately set out to embarrass me.’

‘It was not deliberate,’ objected the man, attempting to appear chastened and failing miserably. Bartholomew was sure the tale would be told with relish at his favourite tavern that night.

‘I am sure Roughe meant no harm,’ said Tomas soothingly. ‘Those trays are heavy, and supporting them with one hand and serving with the other cannot be easy.’

‘Roughe,’ said Michael, continuing to glare. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’

‘It was a man called Roughe who started the fight with Bulmer-the novice I have just tended for his swollen jaw,’ replied Bartholomew.

‘That was my brother,’ said Roughe quickly. ‘I am John, and it was Kip who punched Bulmer. That skirmish had nothing to do with me.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael coldly. ‘But I-’

He stopped speaking at a sudden commotion outside. Someone was shouting, then came the sound of running footsteps. The door was flung open, and a friar stood there. He was extraordinarily ugly, with eyes that glided in different directions, a face deeply indented with pock marks, and oily hair that hung in unattractive wisps around his flaky scalp.

‘Father Prior!’ he yelled. ‘News!’

Morden frowned. ‘I have warned you before about making this sort of entry, Big Thomas. You are supposed to come in quietly, and whisper your message, so only I can hear it. You do not bellow it for the world at large. You are a friar now, and your days as a braying thatcher are over.’

‘ Big Thomas?’ asked Bartholomew. The man was not particularly large.

‘He is taller than our visitor from Pécs.’ Morden lowered his voice. ‘It is kinder than Handsome Tomas and Ugly Thomas, which was how the brethren instantly started to differentiate between them.’

‘News from St Bernard’s Hostel,’ shouted Big Thomas. ‘A man there has been smothered by soot!’

Because St Bernard’s Hostel was university property, a death within its walls came under the Senior Proctor’s jurisdiction. Wiping his greasy lips on a piece of linen, Michael left the Dominicans and made his way to the High Street. Bartholomew walked at his side, wondering what grisly sight he would be assailed with this time. Michael often used him when he investigated deaths, and appreciated the insight he could offer when he inspected a corpse. It was not a duty he enjoyed, however, and he much preferred tending living patients to dead ones.

‘Strange men, the Black Friars,’ the monk mused. ‘I enthral them with my incisive comments pertaining to the holiness-or otherwise-of blood relics, and all they do is point out that some of my ideas came from Franciscans. Still, Tomas of Pécs seemed a cut above the rest of them.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘I could tell from the expression on his face that he followed your arguments, and the speed of his reaction when that fish-head sailed towards him was very impressive. I suspect there is more to him than a mere student of angels, no matter what he would have us believe.’

‘Perhaps he is here to spy on his fellows over the Holy Blood debate,’ suggested Michael. ‘It is becoming very heated in places like Spain, with accusations of heresy screeched from all quarters. After all, he did know all about the visiting Oxford Franciscan and his chosen subject of study.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Someone pointed out that Oxford friar-Witney-to me the other day. He is here with a companion, also from Grey Hall.’

‘Why should Witney be singled out for comment and identification?’

‘Because, at the time, he was engaged in a vicious and very public squabble outside King’s Hall. Everyone was looking at him, and Chancellor Tynkell, who had cornered me for a remedy for indigestion, told me who he was. He said we are honoured to have him in Cambridge, although Witney’s language during that particular quarrel could hardly be described as scholarly.’