Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

Athelstan kicked the small pile of bandages. ‘And these are yours?’

The doctor picked them up without a second thought and sniffed them carefully. ‘Yes, Father, and if you don’t need them, and he certainly doesn’t, I’ll take them back to use again.’ The physician pushed his face close to Athelstan’s. ‘I can’t explain it, Father, and neither can you. Anyway, why shouldn’t God work miracles in St Erconwald’s?’ He turned on his heel and stamped off down the street.

Athelstan looked at Pike. ‘What do you know of this Raymond D’Arques?’

‘A good man, Father. He and his wife Margot live off Dog Leg Lane. He owns quite a big house near the Skinner’s Yard.’

Athelstan leaned against the wall. Dog Leg Lane was just within the boundary of his parish.

‘I never see them at church,’ he muttered.

‘Ah,’ Pike replied, ‘that’s because he and his young wife are prosperous and go to St Swithin’s. They are good, pious people, Father, and give regularly to the poor. He’s a fair tradesman, well liked and respected. You ask old Bladdersniff. He knows every man’s business.’

Athelstan sighed and went back into the church where his excited parishioners now ringed Raymond D’Arques and his wife. The man came towards him, waving the others back.

‘Father,’ he whispered, ‘I am sorry. My arm was sickly, I came here to pray. All I can do is thank God and you. Please accept this.’ He pushed a silver coin into Athelstan’s hand.

The priest stepped back. ‘No, no, I can’t.’

‘Father, you must. It’s my offering. If the church won’t have it, give it to the poor.’ D’Arques clasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘Please, Father, I won’t trouble you again. Margot,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘we have bothered this poor priest enough.’

He walked away. His wife smiled at Athelstan, touched him gently on the hand and slipped quietly through the door after her husband.

‘Well, Father!’ Watkin the dung-collector, arms folded, legs apart, confronted his priest. ‘Well, Father,’ he repeated, ‘we have our miracle. The cure proves that we have a saint here in St Erconwald’s.’

Athelstan saw the gleam of anticipated profit in the dung-collector’s eyes.

‘There’ll be pilgrimages!’ the sexton shouted. ‘St Erconwald’s will become famous. You can’t stop us,’ he added defiantly. ‘You know church law. The nave belongs to the people. This is our church!’ He pointed a stubby finger towards the transept. ‘That’s our coffin, our skeleton and our saint. Anyone who thinks different can bugger off!’

A chorus of approval greeted his words. Athelstan looked at his parishioners. He just wished Benedicta was here to calm things for he recognised the dangerous mixture of religious fervour and the prospect of fat profits stirred up in the rest. Tab the tinker would go back to his shop and hammer out fine amulets, effigies and crosses, and be selling them within a day. Amasias the fuller would display cloths embroidered with an ‘E’ which he would claim had touched the remains of the saint. Huddle the painter would sell crude drawings on pieces of parchment. Pike would get his wife to bake bread and sweetmeats and form an unholy alliance with Watkin to levy a toll upon the pilgrims and sightseers. Athelstan felt a surge of pity but realised that now was not the time for cool logic or blunt truth.

‘Let me think about it,’ he said. He drew himself to his full height and stared round at his parishioners. ‘Little children,’ he declared, using the phrase he always called them on giving a sermon, ‘I beg you to be careful and prudent. God works miracles. This day is a miracle. Each of you, unique in yourself, is a miracle. Do not act hastily for this matter is not yet resolved. I will not oppose you, but think about what this will do to you and our parish in the end. You are good people but I think you are blinded.’

‘What about the miracle?’ Mugwort shouted. ‘What about our martyr?’

Athelstan smiled. ‘As the psalmist says, Mugwort, who knows the mind of God? We shall see, we shall see.’

He turned on his heel and left them and, despite the hour, went back to his house and drank a cup of wine with a speed the Lord Coroner would have admired.

On the Monday of the Great Miracle at St Erconwald’s, Afheltan’s superior, Father Anselm, sat in his study with members of the Inner Chapter and wondered if there was an assassin loose at Blackfriars. Brother Bruno’s fall down the steps of the crypt and, more strangely, Brother Alcuin’s disappearance, raised such a possibility — as if there were not matters enough to tax the brain and fatigue the body.

He looked around the long, wooden table at his companions assembled there: hatchet-faced, sharp-eyed William de Conches, Master Inquisitor; the smooth-faced, boyish but brilliant theologian, Brother Henry of Winchester; Brother Callixtus, the librarian, his long fingers stained with ink, eyes weak from peering at manuscripts and books. The thin and angular librarian was apparently distressed for he kept fidgeting on the bench and tapping his long fingers on the table top as if he really wished to be elsewhere. Next to him sat Brother Eugenius, completely bald with a cherublike face; his short, stubby features, smiling eyes and smiling mouth belied his fearsome reputation as the Master Inquisitor’s assistant, a fanatic constantly sniffing out heresy and schism. Finally, Brother Henry’s two opponents, the Defenders of the Cause, who would challenge his theological treatise and try to disprove its logic or else argue that it was against the orthodox teachings of the Church. Nevertheless, these Defenders of the Cause were likeable men! Peter of Chingforde, sturdy and stout, his dark bearded face always smiling. He had a down-to-earth manner and a rather blunt sense of humour which he kept concealed with his subtle and skilful questioning. Next to him, red-haired and white-faced, the Irish Dominican, Niall of Harryngton.

The Irishman now looked askance at the prior and hummed some hymn under his breath, beating a small tattoo on the table top. The prior smiled weakly back. He knew Brother Niall, ever impatient, wished to get back to the matter in hand, yet there were other more pressing affairs — not just the death of Bruno and the disappearance of Alcuin but the general business of the monastery and, above all, the importunate pleadings of the sub-sacristan, Brother Roger. The prior sighed. He really must make time for the poor man but Roger, a lay brother who years previously had fallen into the hands of the Inquisition whilst serving at a community outside Paris, was broken in spirit, weak in mind, and fearful of William de Conches and his insidious assistant Eugenius.

Anselm looked narrowly at those two: they sat, heads together, murmuring about something, and he wondered if he should report them to the Chapter General in Rome. True, the psalmist sang ‘Zeal for thy house has eaten me up’. Yet, with this precious pair, their enthusiasm and zeal for eating up heresy might swallow everyone. He stared back at the top of the table. Brother Henry sat there, hands apart, waiting for the debate to continue.

‘Father Prior,’ Brother Niall spoke up, ‘we have paused to sing Nones and eat and drink, so shouldn’t we continue?’

His question drew a chorus of approval from his companions. The prior nodded and waved at Brother Henry. The young Dominican smiled, smoothing the top of the table with his finger tips.

‘Father Prior,’ Brother Henry’s voice was low but quite distinct, ‘my general thesis is this: too much emphasis has been laid on the fact that Christ became man to save us from our sins.’ He held up one hand. ‘But if the venerable Aquinas is correct in his study of the Divine Nature, God is the “Summum Bonum”, the Supreme Good. How, therefore, can the Supreme Good, the Divine Beauty, be motivated by sin? Moreover,’ Brother Henry turned and looked fully at William de Conches, ‘if God is omnipotent, why couldn’t he save us from our sins by a simple decree?’