The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

He and Bartholomew left the High Street and made their way through the maze of alleys to the marshes on which the Dominican priory stood. The sun was blazing in another clear blue sky, and Bartholomew felt sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. He wiped his face with his sleeve, and stepped over a dog that lay panting in the road, too hot to move away from trampling feet. Another lapped greedily at a bowl of water placed for strays by some thoughtful person. By the time they reached the friary, Bartholomew was sticky and uncomfortable, and Michael’s flabby face was flushed red. The gate was opened by Big Thomas, who demanded to know their business.

‘I want to speak to Prior Morden,’ said Michael, starting to push his way inside.

Big Thomas barred it. ‘What about?’

Michael gazed at him in disbelief. ‘Nothing I am prepared to share with a gatekeeper. Tell Morden immediately that I am here to see him.’

Big Thomas scowled. ‘I hate gate duty! If I ask too many questions, visitors accuse me of being nosy; and if I ask too few, I am berated for letting just anyone inside. I never get it right. I should never have abandoned thatching to take the cowl-there is too much thinking involved.’

Michael sniggered as the man went to fetch his master. ‘He is lucky he chose the Dominicans, then. They think less than any Order in Cambridge.’

‘What is this about thinking?’ asked tiny Prior Morden, hurrying to greet them. ‘Too much of that goes on in this town, and no good will come of it. A prime example is this aggravation pertaining to Holy Blood, which you were holding forth about yesterday, Brother. I did not understand a word-I still do not, even though Little Tomas spent hours explaining it to me last night.’

‘I do not suppose you discussed blood relics with Seton and Witney from St Bernard’s Hostel, did you? They had views on just this issue.’

‘I most certainly did not,’ replied Morden indignantly. ‘They are Franciscans.’

‘Are you sure you never spoke to them?’ probed Michael. ‘You did not cross swords, even briefly?’

Morden pursed his lips. ‘Well, there was an occasion a couple of days ago, when Witney sidled up to me and asked whether I had been to Hailes or Ashridge. But I am not stupid, Brother, and I know perfectly well what those two places are famous for: blood relics. I told him I had not and left without further ado.’

‘And your friars?’ pressed Michael. ‘Are they equally astute when it comes to dealing with sly Franciscans, who try to make them discuss contentious subjects against their will?’

‘They are,’ declared Morden. ‘None would hold forth on such a dangerous topic with Grey Friars, especially ones who hail from that pit of devils, Oxford.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael mildly. ‘Then perhaps you will explain why Little Tomas has just admitted to helping Witney investigate the validity of one particular Holy Blood relic.’

‘Did he?’ asked Morden unhappily. ‘I know nothing about that, but he is a guest, not one of my own friars. I tend to leave visitors to their own devices, especially ones who come here to study: if I try to regulate them, they become testy and claim I interfere with the progress of their education. I have learned to let them get on with it. So, Little Tomas has benefited from my leniency, although I cannot imagine what a decent man like him would find to say to Franciscans, especially that pair: Seton is arrogant and Witney is-was-a fanatic.’

‘A fanatic?’ echoed Michael.

‘About blood relics.’ Morden sighed. ‘He spoke in confidence, but I suppose it does not matter now he is dead. When he asked me about Hailes and Ashridge-before I walked away-he told me that all such relics must be destroyed, because otherwise ignorant people will venerate them and stain their souls. However, as long as prayers are headed in the right direction, I do not think it matters whether they are directed through Holy Blood, the mass, the saints or anything else.’

‘Be careful, Father Prior,’ warned Michael, amused to hear such a tolerant attitude from a member of so vehement an Order. ‘That is close to heresy, and your Master-General is very particular about that sort of thing.’

Morden grimaced. ‘Yes, you told me yesterday that, as a Dominican, I am supposed to denounce blood relics. I imagine that was why Witney approached me: as the highest-ranking Black Friar, he expected me to concur with his views.’

‘Views which run contrary to those of his own Order,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘So, now we know where he stood-we do not need to ask Seton about him.’

‘Do you know what Little Tomas thinks?’ asked Michael. ‘Does he follow your Order’s guidelines, or is he, like Witney, the kind of man to take against them?’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Morden. ‘We have discussed the polemic, but he has never honoured me with his own opinions. Do you think he might have been sent by the Master-General, to ferret out heretics and rebels among us?’ His elfin features creased into an expression of alarm.

‘It is possible,’ said Michael spitefully.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew at the same time.

Morden looked unhappier still as he snapped his fingers at a passing servant. It was John Roughe, who was ordered to convey the visitors to the dormitory Bulmer shared with the other novices. On the way, Roughe did his best to engage them in conversation and find out what they wanted to ask Bulmer. He was clearly unconvinced by Bartholomew’s claim that he was there in a professional capacity, and looked meaningfully at the bulky presence of the Senior Proctor.

‘It was Bulmer who started that fight,’ John asserted, abandoning his ingratiating manner when he saw it would not work. ‘Not my brother Kip. If Bulmer tells you otherwise, then he is a liar. He was at the church, after whores.’

‘Is that so?’ replied Bartholomew, not much caring what the novice was doing. It was not his affair.

‘Yes,’ stated Roughe angrily. They were in a narrow corridor, and he stepped forward smartly to block their way. ‘And he does not need the services of a physician, so you might as well save your time and go home.’

Bartholomew was unmoved. ‘I am a better judge of that than you. Stand aside.’

‘I will not-’ But Michael’s bulk loomed, and Roughe’s words died in his throat. With a silent and infinitely resentful gesture, he indicated that the room they wanted was straight ahead.

‘He does not like us being here,’ mused Michael, watching him slouch away. ‘We are personae non gratae wherever we go these days.’

‘You have the power to fine his brother for attacking Bulmer-and from what I saw of Kip earlier today, I would not be surprised to learn that he was the aggressor. It is an odd tale anyway. Why should a lout like Kip take exception to Bulmer eyeing prostitutes? Is it because he has a favourite lady, and he does not want to share her with members of the university?’

He opened the dormitory door and entered the long chamber. Bulmer was sitting in the end bed with a cooling poultice pushed to his swollen face. He looked a good deal worse than he had the day before, because the swelling had come out, although he was no longer reeling and stupid. He scowled as they approached.

‘I told you yesterday,’ he began without preamble. ‘Kip Roughe punched me.’

‘It is a strange wound to be caused by a punch,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the bruising closely. ‘He must have caught you at an odd angle.’

‘It hurt, I know that,’ said Bulmer ruefully. ‘But, being a peace-loving man, I have no knowledge about what constitutes the right or wrong angles for blows.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows, knowing perfectly well that Bulmer was an accomplished and experienced brawler, and that he knew exactly how to hit people.