The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘What did you think you were doing?’ he demanded, not relinquishing his hold. ‘You could have hit Deynman’s eye, and blinded him.’

‘It was an accident,’ objected Kip. He tried to free himself, and looked angry when he found he could not. ‘We were aiming at the pigeons.’

John stepped forward in a way that was threatening, so Bartholomew released his brother and pushed him hard, so they stumbled into each other. ‘I will report this to Prior Morden,’ he said coldly. ‘He can decide what to do with you.’

‘It will be your word against ours,’ said John, leaning against a pillar and removing his knife from his belt. ‘Who will believe you?’

‘Morden,’ replied Bartholomew curtly. ‘And the Senior Proctor.’

‘Let’s go, John,’ said Kip sullenly. ‘I am not staying here to be threatened.’

John pulled away from him. ‘We are alone here. No one will-’

‘People saw him chase us in here,’ snapped Kip. He took a firm hold of his brother’s arm and dragged him outside, leaving Bartholomew angry and unsettled.

Bartholomew sat for a while in the church, relishing the coolness of the stones after the heat of the day, and left only when scholars from the Hall of Valence Marie entered for their afternoon prayers. They were noisy, speaking loudly about a debate that had just ended, and shattered the peace with their strident voices. Bartholomew emerged into the sharp afternoon sunlight, and looked both ways along the street, wondering whether the Roughe brothers might still be there, ready to lob stones again. As he did so, he saw Michael outside St Bernard’s Hostel. The monk was standing on the opposite side of the road, his eyes fixed on the roof. Bartholomew went to join him.

‘Do you think you will understand how Witney died if you stare up there long enough?’ he asked, amused by the monk’s intense interest.

Michael did not smile back. ‘Look at the chimney and tell me what you see.’

‘Stone tiles, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what the monk wanted him to say. ‘This is an old building, so some are probably worn.’

‘I must know for certain,’ said Michael. ‘I want you to go up there and look.’

Bartholomew laughed at his audacity. ‘Do you, indeed! Well, you can go and do it yourself.’

‘I cannot. I am too heavy-do not deny it, because you are always telling me to eat less-but you are fit and agile. It will only take a moment.’

‘And how do I get up there?’ asked Bartholomew, who had no intention of doing anything so perilous. ‘Fly?’

‘I suggest you use a ladder, like everyone else. Bene’t College has a long one; I will fetch it for you.’

Before the physician could object, he was gone, and Bartholomew was left alone at the side of the street doing much what the monk had been doing just moments before. He saw Andrew and Urban pass by on the opposite side of the road, the teacher deep in a monologue and his student straining to appear interested. Andrew looked ill and tired, and Bartholomew was concerned by how heavily he leaned on Urban’s arm.

‘I heard what happened,’ came a voice close enough to make him jump.

‘Tomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, regaining his composure, and smiling a greeting. The Dominican stood next to him, gazing up at the roof.

‘The word is that Witney was crushed by a chance stone that fell down the chimney,’ said Tomas. ‘I have also been told he died because he touched a sacred relic-a cursed sacred relic. Did Father Andrew mention this to you?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why should he not?’

Tomas shrugged. ‘I thought he might try to keep it a secret, lest the Chancellor demand he hand the thing over to a higher authority. He is old and frail, and may not have the strength to refuse.’

‘He is concerned that someone might take it. He claimed Witney tried.’

‘Witney was a Franciscan, and his Order is determined to preserve blood relics. Perhaps he was trying to make sure it was kept safe.’

It was a possibility Bartholomew had already considered, but it was interesting to hear it from another quarter. ‘Did Witney follow his Order’s teaching or did he have his own opinion?’

Tomas shrugged. ‘I have no idea: we never shared personal reflections on that debate. He did tell me he was horrified Andrew carried such a thing around his neck, and it is possible a misunderstanding arose-that Andrew mistook a well-meaning gesture for something else.’

‘You knew Witney,’ said Bartholomew, recalling him singing the Franciscan’s praises at the Dominican priory the previous day.

Tomas nodded. ‘His main interest was the Holy Blood debate, and he was deeply involved in the question of whether it is possible for Christ’s blood to exist as a sacred form outside His body-if His body was fully raised from the dead, then His blood would have been resurrected with him. He expressed some very powerful theories, all very well phrased, and his logic could not be faulted.’

‘Was he firm enough in his beliefs to make someone want to kill him?’

Tomas gazed at him, and answered with a question of his own. ‘Are you saying his death was not an accident? It was not the relic’s curse that killed him, but some jealous mortal?’

Bartholomew made no attempt to keep the scepticism from his face. ‘I do not believe a relic-cursed or otherwise-can bring about a man’s death.’

Tomas raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you not? But Seton told me you have been appraised of this relic’s history. Are you not suspicious of the amount of blood in its history? Personally, I err on the side of caution: I do not know whether such things can manifest themselves, but I treat them with respect lest they do. It is a policy that has served me well for many years.’

Bartholomew was surprised that Tomas, a Dominican friar, should adopt such a stance, but supposed Michael had done as much, too, despite his customary scorn for superstition. ‘You did not answer my question. Was Witney the kind of man whose strong opinions caused offence?’

Tomas considered, then nodded. ‘It is possible. However, although he was not easy to like, I do not think having an objectionable character is a good motive for murder.’

‘He was objectionable?’

‘He was not always pleasant, and I sensed a certain dishonesty-that some of the ideas he expounded were not his own.’

‘A theory thief?’

Tomas shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I should not have been so blunt, but yes. A few of his ideas actually came from Meyronnes, the Franciscan theologian. Witney was a brilliant logician, and few could best him in an argument, but he was not an original thinker.’

‘And Seton?’

‘His theories about angelic manifestations are all his own. However, since Witney did not “borrow” ideas from Cambridge men, I do not see how plagiarism is relevant to his death. Are Michael and the Roughe brothers carrying a ladder?’

‘He wants me to inspect the roof,’ said Bartholomew resentfully, scowling at monk and servants as they approached. Kip and John did not acknowledge him.

‘That is a good idea, especially since Seton is watching-he will see you taking his accusations seriously, and even if you find nothing, he will know the Senior Proctor did everything possible to investigate the death of his colleague. Do you want me to help?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. Then he saw the Roughe brothers lean the ladder against the wall in a way that was precarious, and changed his mind. ‘You can hold the bottom. It looks unstable.’

‘It is unstable,’ said Tomas, elbowing the servants out of the way while he set the steps in a more secure position. Bartholomew could not but help notice the unreadable glance that passed between Kip and John. Had they wanted him to fall? He took Michael to one side.