The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘I thought he trusted me,’ Urban was saying, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. ‘I could not believe it when he said he had asked someone else to take it. I promised I would do it. I even offered to touch it, to prove my sincerity.’

‘You did?’ asked Tomas uneasily. ‘When?’

‘The day we arrived.’ Urban sniffed. ‘I would have done anything he asked!’

‘I am sure he knew,’ said Tomas kindly. ‘I imagine he had grown fond of you, and did not want to load you with such a heavy burden.’

‘Barzak’s curse,’ said Urban numbly. ‘He was right-he said he would die the day the relic left his care. When he handed it to me, I hesitated. Perhaps that gave him second thoughts. I was a coward, when I should have been bold.’

‘Being wary of handling holy relics shows good common sense, lad,’ said Michael. ‘Only a fool seizes them up as one might grab marchpanes at a feast. I doubt your caution reduced your standing in his eyes. But before we explore his death further, there is something I would like to ask. Have you ever been on the roof of St Bernard’s Hostel?’

‘No,’ replied Urban miserably. ‘Yes.’

Michael, who had joined them, regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Well, which is it?’

‘I did not go as far as the roof, only to the gables on the upper floor. There was a pigeon’s nest outside Witney’s window, and he said the noise was driving him to distraction. I found him trying to climb a ladder one day, but he was a danger to himself, even on the lower rungs, so I went up instead. He gave me a penny, which I considered insulting.’

‘Because you wanted more?’ asked Michael.

Urban glared at him. ‘Because I am a friar, and helping other people is part of my vocation. I do not require to be paid for acts of kindness, and I was offended that he thought I did.’

‘Andrew,’ prompted Tomas, more interested in the Carmelite than in Urban’s sensitivities. ‘What happened to bring him to this vile end today?’

Urban took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘After he told me he had given the relic to someone else, he asked me to walk with him by the river. I was angry and distressed-refused to listen to him-and he wandered alone to the end of that pier, probably to avoid my stupid, prideful sulks. Then, before I could do anything to stop it, the boards snapped and he plunged into the river, feet first.’

‘Feet first?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He did not crumple or flail as he fell?’

‘He went in as straight as an arrow. It was almost as if he knew the planks would break and he was ready for them. I tried to reach him, but I cannot swim and was afraid to venture too far from the bank.’

‘The water is shallow at the moment, and the currents are weak,’ said Michael. ‘You could have reached him by wading, just as Tomas did.’

The novice regarded him with an agonized expression. ‘You mean I could have saved him, if I had had the courage to wade into the water?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew before the monk could make matters worse. ‘Even if you had reached him, you could not have prevented his death-for three reasons. First, it is obvious the pier’s planks are rotten, especially at the far end, and I suspect Andrew knew exactly what he was doing when he trod on them. Second, your description of his fall sounds as though he intended to force himself deep into the water-to drown; his feet were certainly very firmly embedded in the mud. And third, he could have held his face above the surface of the water had he been so inclined. But he did not.’

‘He is right,’ agreed Tomas. ‘Andrew believed he was going to die, and he willingly embraced his fate. There was nothing you could have done to save him. But did he tell you why he had elected to choose another man in your stead?’

‘He said I was too young.’

‘Did he tell you to whom he gave the relic?’ asked Bartholomew.

Urban nodded. ‘But he made me promise, on peril of my immortal soul, that I would never reveal the information. And I shall not, no matter what you do to me.’ He thrust out his chin defiantly.

‘Do not worry, lad; no one will force you to break your oath,’ said Michael gently. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Are you certain his death was a combination of accident and self-murder? You do not think someone encouraged him out on to the pier, knowing it would collapse?’

‘ I did at first,’ said Tomas, speaking before Bartholomew could reply. ‘But not any more. I saw from Bartholomew’s examination that there was nothing to suggest a struggle. Andrew allowed himself to die. I thought he would fight it.’

‘How would you know what he might do?’ demanded Urban. ‘You do not know him. He was with me the whole time we have been in Cambridge-except this morning-and he never met you. How would a stranger know what he was like?’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael mildly, eyeing Tomas’s neck to see whether he wore a purple pouch. ‘And where were you this morning, Tomas?’

‘Andrew did not give me the relic,’ said Tomas, understanding exactly what the monk was asking. ‘I only wish he had.’

‘He would never give it to a Dominican ,’ said Urban bitterly and rather accusingly. ‘They would destroy it, claiming it heretical.’

‘Many would,’ admitted Tomas.

‘Would you?’ demanded Michael. ‘You have been very coy about where you stand in the debate. Do you follow the teachings of your order, or are you of a more independent mind?’

‘What I think is irrelevant…’

‘You did know Andrew,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the Dominican intently as certain facts became clear in his mind. ‘Your reaction to his death has been one of distress. An ex-proctor, used to violence, would not have shown grief for a stranger-or for a man of brief and recent acquaintance. Ergo, you knew each other at some point in the past.’

Tomas bowed his head, and when he spoke his voice was so soft as to be almost inaudible. ‘I knew Andrew, although I took care not to let him see me here. I was once under his tuition.’

‘You cannot have been,’ said Urban unsteadily. ‘You are a Dominican, and he is a Carmelite. He would have nothing to do with a Black Friar.’

‘Andrew travelled when he was younger,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His prior sent him to Hungary, which is where Pécs is located. You met him there.’

Tomas nodded. ‘I studied with him, but we disagreed on too many issues.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Urban unhappily. ‘We are Carmelites , and he would not have studied with a Dominican. Or did you come with the express intention of killing him and taking his relic?’

‘A good question,’ said Michael.

‘It is coincidence that brought us to Cambridge at the same time,’ replied Tomas. ‘I never expected to see him again, and I did not make myself known when I spotted him in the street. I did not want my presence here to distress him.’

‘But he knew you were here regardless,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about what he had reasoned. ‘He thought you did not see him, just as you thought he did not see you. But he did. He told me about you in a roundabout way-twice.’

Tomas stared at him. ‘He did?’

‘He said there was a student to whom he had hoped to entrust the relic, but the fellow proved unacceptable. He also said he had once held a post similar to that of proctor. So did you.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Tomas. ‘I learned my skills from him.’

‘He warned me about letting my own students have too much freedom of thought. He gave you too much, and you turned against him.’

Tomas hung his head. ‘We grew apart as I read more, and he disliked me for it. We parted, and I never expected to see him again. I knew he had returned to England-to his beloved Devonshire-but that was all. It was a shock to see him here, so far from his home. But I loved him, and I would have taken his relic to Norwich, no matter what the cost.’