The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘We do not know. Some ailment brought on by the heat, perhaps.’

Without further ado, Morden led them to the dormitory where his friars slept. It was larger than the one used by the novices, but it was a more pleasant chamber. Large windows flooded it with light and it boasted immaculately polished floor-boards, spotless walls and cobweb-free window sills. Several friars were there, sitting in companionable silence as they read or knelt in quiet contemplation. Tomas of Pécs was on the pallet nearest the door, but was engrossed in a psalter and did not look up as Morden trotted to the far end of the hall, where Big Thomas lay. Bartholomew advanced cautiously, aware that even if the ailment was something within his powers to treat, he might die regardless: the mind held a powerful sway over the body.

‘Here is Dr Bartholomew to tend you, Brother,’ said Morden loudly, as if he thought illness rendered the sufferer hard of hearing, too. ‘Sit up, so he can make his examination and calculate a horoscope for your recovery.’

‘No!’ shouted Thomas, making several men jump. ‘Make him go away.’

‘Why?’ asked Morden, startled. ‘He is here to help you.’

‘He cannot,’ cried Thomas. ‘No one can. Go away.’

So, the relic’s curse would work yet again, thought Bartholomew unhappily. Thomas would die simply because he believed he was beyond earthly help, and there was nothing a mere physician could do to prevent it.

‘You look well enough to me,’ said Morden. His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you telling the truth? You have not fabricated this illness as an excuse to stay in bed?’

Big Thomas looked furtive. ‘No,’ he said, clutching the blanket to his chin.

‘Perhaps we could speak alone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A physical consultation is a very private thing, and I do not usually conduct them with an audience.’

‘Very well,’ said Morden, ignoring Thomas’s furious protestations as he retreated with Michael to the other end of the room. The monk watched sullenly, resentful that he had been excluded. His irritation did not focus on Bartholomew for long, however. Tomas had been distracted from his text by his namesake’s yells, and the monk homed in on him, to ask more questions about his movements during the time that Urban met with his unpleasant death.

‘You are not ill,’ said Bartholomew to the ugly friar. ‘And that is why you say no one can help you-they cannot, because you do not need a cure. Prior Morden is right: you feigned sickness because you want to remain indoors today. Why?’

Thomas rubbed calloused hands over his face. ‘Damn Prior Morden! Why did he have to fetch me a physician, when I told him all I needed was rest and good food? It is not fair! He does not foist physicians on other friars, when they decide to take a day off from their labours.’

‘You are malingering because you do not want to work?’

‘Gate duty,’ explained Thomas bitterly. ‘I hate it. Why can they not use me as a thatcher, which is where my skills lie? Have you seen the state of the roof here? It is in desperate need of repair.’ He sighed. ‘Now you will tell him I am shamming, and I will be forced to do gate duty for the next month, as penance.’

‘I will not tell him-but only if you answer my questions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Kip Roughe brought you a box recently.’

‘He said it contained a relic-a gift from a Carmelite,’ replied Big Thomas, transparently keen to be helpful. He frowned. ‘It was odd, actually, because I do not know this Carmelite. No one ever brings me presents, and to be frank, I did not like the look of this one.’

‘Did you open it? To see what was inside?’

‘I was going to, but I have been talking to Tomas, and he mentioned a blood relic that kills anyone who touches it. He said it was missing, so I decided to be cautious, and let someone else open it instead.’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Did Tomas look on your behalf?’

‘I did not trust him not to steal it, so I took it to Kip Roughe instead. Do you promise not to tell Prior Morden any of this? He will be angry if he finds out-and that would not be fair, because I gained nothing from it.’

‘I promise,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘But what have you done?’

‘When Kip heard what the box held, he suggested I sell it to an abbey. He looked inside-he said we needed to be sure what it contained before we acted-and there was a small glass bottle. It was the relic right enough: we were going to be rich! I hid the box under my bed, but then Urban came to see me and repeated everything Little Tomas said-only he told me what had happened in Devonshire thirty years ago, when his master was witness. He said the relic had come to me by mistake, and offered to risk his life by returning it to its rightful carrier.’

‘And you handed it over?’

‘I did-the boy was very persuasive, and I am not ready to die yet. Kip was furious, of course, but that is too bad. I know my Order claims Holy Blood relics have no divinity, but I am not so sure. Urban’s master died from being around this one, and so did that Oxford man who tried to steal it from him-Witney. Urban told me he would die, too, as soon as he had delivered it to Norwich. These things are beyond the ken of us mortals, and I am inclined to leave such matters to those who think they know what they are doing.’

‘Very wise,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is Kip now?’

‘I have not seen him since we argued. Perhaps he is dead-he did touch the relic, after all. Do you think the curse can pass through wood, Doctor? Will I die, because I held that damned box?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, as firmly as he could. ‘You will not die. However, your prior may have other ideas if you malinger. You do not look ill, so I would not try to fool him, if I were you.’

Thomas grinned in a conspiratorial manner that made Bartholomew feel guilty. He took his leave and went to where Michael was standing over Little Tomas. Immediately, he sensed something was wrong. Several friars had gathered in a quiet block behind their prior, and Tomas was kneeling on the floor, an expression of shock on his dark features.

‘You are just in time, Matt,’ said Michael grimly, as Bartholomew approached. ‘I want you to see this.’

‘I do not know how that came to be here,’ said Tomas in the kind of voice that suggested he had said as much before and had not been believed. ‘I have no use for poppy syrup.’

‘I have witnessed one use of late,’ said Michael. He held several pots in his hand, all labelled as containing a powerful soporific. ‘It can be fed to elderly friars, so they drown when they are pushed in the river.’

Tomas’s face was white. ‘You think I brought about Andrew’s death? I was not even there, as Urban will tell you. I was with you-you watched me try to save him.’

‘We cannot ask Urban, as you well know,’ said Michael coolly. ‘He is dead-murdered attempting to give you the missing relic.’

‘That had nothing to do with me,’ protested Tomas. ‘Many friars saw me-’

‘You are clever,’ interrupted Michael. ‘It is not beyond your talents to arrange witnesses to “prove” your innocence. However, no one else has strong soporifics in his possession, and a substance like this contributed to Andrew’s death.’

Tomas’s shoulders sagged in defeat. ‘Is there nothing I can say to make you believe me?’

Michael’s expression was harsh. ‘You had an ancient quarrel with Andrew, while Urban had something you wanted. You did not have to kill the boy-he was going to give you the relic anyway.’

Meanwhile, Morden had been searching the rest of the friar’s possessions. He held something up for the monk to see. ‘What is this? It looks like a diagram, but I cannot tell of what.’