The Tainted Relic Read online

  THE TAINTED RELIC

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2005

  This edition first published by Pocket Books, 2006

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © The Medieval Murderers, 2005

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission. All rights reserved.

  The right of The Medieval Murderers to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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  Simon & Schuster Australia

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN-13: 978-1-8473-9661-7

  ISBN-10: 1-8473-9661-5

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ‘THE MEDIEVAL MURDERERS’

  A small group of historical mystery writers, all members of the Crime Writers’ Association, who promote their work by giving informal talks and discussions at libraries, bookshops and literary festivals.

  Simon Beaufort is the pseudonym under which Susanna Gregory writes her Sir Geoffrey Mappestone series of twelfth-century mysteries.

  Bernard Knight is a former Home Office pathologist and professor of forensic medicine who has been publishing novels, non-fiction, radio and television drama and documentaries for more than forty years. He currently writes the highly-regarded Crowner John series of historical mysteries, based on the first coroner for Devon in the twelfth century; the tenth of which, The Elixir of Death, has recently been published by Simon & Schuster.

  Michael Jecks is the author of the immensely popular Templar series, all set during the confusion and terror of the reign of Edward II. The most recent novels in the series are The Butcher of St Peter’s and A Friar’s Blood Feud. Michael was the Chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association in 2004–5.

  Ian Morson is the author of an acclaimed series of historical mysteries featuring the thirteenth-century Oxford-based detective, William Falconer.

  Susanna Gregory is the pseudonym under which she writes the Matthew Bartholomew series of mystery novels, set in fourteenth-century Cambridge, the most recent of which, The Tarnished Chalice, has just been published in hardback. She also writes historical mysteries under the name of ‘Simon Beaufort’.

  Former schoolmaster Philip Gooden is the author of the Nick Revill series, a sequence of historical mysteries set in Elizabethan and Jacobean London, during the time of Shakespeare’s Globe theatre. The latest titles in the series are Mask of Night and An Honourable Murder.

  THE PROGRAMME

  Prologue –

  In which Simon Beaufort records dire events in Jerusalem in the 1100th year of Our Lord.

  Act One –

  In which Bernard Knight relates dark deeds in Exeter during the reign of Richard Coeur-de-Lion.

  Act Two –

  In which Ian Morson offers a labyrinthine tale of Oxford in the thirteenth century.

  Act Three –

  In which Michael Jecks spins a web of intrigue in the county of Devon in the year 1323.

  Act Four –

  In which Susanna Gregory recounts strange events in Cambridge in the middle of the fourteenth century.

  Act Five –

  In which Philip Gooden takes the stage in London at the time of Will Shakespeare.

  Epilogue –

  In which Bernard Knight comes up to modern times.

  PROLOGUE

  Jerusalem, July 1100

  Jerusalem had fallen to the Crusader armies, and the Holy City was in Christian hands at last. Already, even though only two days had passed since the infidel had been defeated, messengers were riding hard northward to take the momentous news to the Pope and the western kings, proclaiming to the world that God had delivered a great victory into the deserving hands of the invincible, glorious soldiers of His holy war.

  Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, one of few English knights to join the Crusade, did not feel much like a conquering hero. Months of starvation, disease, foul weather and hardship had sapped his enthusiasm for the venture. When the towering walls of the Holy City had finally been breached, and the gates flung open to admit the rest of the army, the Christians had slaughtered their way through the civilian inhabitants like avenging angels, and Geoffrey had been sickened by it. The killing had continued for an afternoon, and then a night, so that when the first rays of sunlight lit Jerusalem from the east, it was to illuminate a vision from Hell.

  No quarter had been given to any Muslim or Jew, so that the corpses of small children and old women lay next to those of able-bodied warriors. They had been massacred in their houses, doors and windows smashed by men frenzied by the stench of blood and the thought of plunder; they had been cut down in the streets when they had tried to run to safety; and, worst of all as far as Geoffrey was concerned, they had been murdered in their mosques and synagogues, where they had believed they would be spared.

  Geoffrey’s liege lord, Prince Tancred, had seized the land surrounding the mighty Dome of the Rock, and had placed his banner over the Temple, promising those inside that they would be spared–in exchange for a handsome ransom, naturally. But the Crusader leaders despised each other as much as they did their enemies, and Tancred’s promise of clemency was ignored by his rivals. When Geoffrey visited the Temple the following day, he was forced to wade through piles of corpses that reached his knees. The Jews in their chief synagogue fared no better. They were accused of helping the Mohammedans, and the building was set alight, burning to death all inside.

  When there were no citizens left, and when every house, animal, pot and pan had been seized and divided among the invaders, the sacking came to an end. The princes led their proud, blood-soaked warriors in solemn reverence to give proper and formal thanks to God in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Geoffrey did not join them, and instead went to stand on the city walls near the Dome of the Rock, wanting no part of the pious gloating that was taking place among the victors.

  With the Crusaders at their devotions, and most of the population dead, the city was quiet. A goat bleated from a nearby garden, and a light, hot wind whispered from the desert and caressed the ancient walls. Eddies of dust stirred in the abandoned courtyard, and patches of dry-yellow grass trembled here and there. Geoffrey went to the battlements and looked out across the barren hillside, to where the Crusaders had camped before their final assault. Empty tents snapped and fluttered, and the odd retainer could be seen here and there, left behind to guard his master’s treasure. Behind him, smoke rose in a greasy grey pall; the looters’ fires still smouldered among the ruins.

  Geoffrey rested his arms on the wall and closed his eyes. The sun beat down on his bare head, and he felt sweat begin to course down his back. Some knights had dispensed with the mail and thick surcoats that had protected them during the battle, but Geoffrey felt uneasy in this alien city, with its minarets and pinnacles, confused jumble of alleyways and lanes, and cramped houses. His armour stayed where it was, and would do so until he felt safe.

  ‘What happened here will live in infamy for many centuries to come,’ came a quiet voice at his elbow.

  Geoffrey spun around in alarm. His sword was out of his belt and he had it pointed at the throat of the man who had spoken almost before he had finished turning.

  The man who stood nex
t to him made a moue of annoyance, and pushed the weapon away. He was old, with a mouth all but devoid of teeth, and the deep wrinkles in his leathery skin suggested he had spent most of his long life under the scorching Holy Land sun. His clothes comprised a shabby monastic habit, worn leather sandals, and a waistband made from the braided sinews of some animal. His eyes were not the faded, watery blue Geoffrey usually associated with the very ancient, but were bright and clear, so that they looked as though they belonged in a younger, less feeble body.

  ‘You should be more careful,’ said Geoffrey irritably, glancing around to ensure the fellow was alone before sheathing his sword. ‘It is unwise to slip up behind soldiers so softly–especially now.’

  ‘Especially now,’ echoed the old man, regarding Geoffrey sombrely. ‘You mean because your friends are so engorged by bloodlust that they strike first and only later demand to know whether we are friend or foe?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Geoffrey, turning away from him and leaning on the wall again. ‘You should stay at home and wait for some semblance of order to be established. Until then, Jerusalem is a dangerous city for anyone without a sword–even for monks.’

  ‘I have important matters to attend to,’ stated the old man indignantly. ‘I cannot linger indoors, when I have so little time left. But you can help me.’

  ‘I can, can I?’ said Geoffrey, amused by the presumption.

  The old man looked across the courtyard to where the massive octagonal structure dominated Temple Mount, with its smooth, gleaming dome and its walls of brightly coloured tiles. Inside was a stone where, according to tradition, Abraham had prepared to sacrifice Isaac, and where the Jews believed the First Temple’s Holy of Holies had been located. Muslims thought it was the spot from where Mohammed had ascended on his Night Journey, and Geoffrey supposed it would now become a Christian shrine. Red-brown smears on the ground and an ominous splattering on the pillars still bore witness to where those under Tancred’s protection had been murdered just two days before.

  ‘You did not like what happened here, Geoffrey Mappestone. You did not take part in it.’

  Geoffrey regarded him warily. ‘How do you know my name?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘I watched what happened, and I heard you arguing with the murderers who came to spill Mohammedan blood. I asked Sir Roger of Durham who you were, and he told me.’

  ‘Are you Mohammedan?’ asked Geoffrey, thinking that if he were, then he would indeed be wise to remain hidden until the killing frenzy was properly over. His friend Roger was a good man, but even he had joined in the wave of violence.

  ‘I am Peter,’ replied the old man enigmatically. ‘Will you help me, or not?’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Take this,’ said Peter, rummaging in the greasy scrip that was attached to his belt and withdrawing a leather bag. ‘I want you to make sure it reaches the Pope in Rome.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Geoffrey, refusing to accept it. ‘I may be here for years serving Prince Tancred, and the life of a knight in the Holy Land is precarious, to say the least. However, there are plenty of monks leaving for Rome now that Jerusalem is taken. One of them will take it.’

  ‘But that is my problem,’ said Peter. ‘I do not know your monks, and I cannot tell which ones I might trust and which–and that is most of them, I imagine–I should not.’

  ‘You do not know me, either,’ Geoffrey pointed out.

  ‘I know enough,’ said Peter softly. ‘A man who tries to save enemy civilians when he could be looting speaks for himself. But you must help me. What this bag contains is important.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Ask William Pichard–he is in the Pope’s service and plans to travel to Rome soon. He is honest and will take your…’ He paused, since he did not know what was in the bag that Peter considered so momentous.

  ‘He will die,’ claimed Peter authoritatively. ‘Are you sure he can be trusted?’

  ‘Why will he die?’ asked Geoffrey suspiciously, wondering what he had let the hapless monk in for by so casually offering his services. ‘He was healthy enough this morning.’

  ‘That is irrelevant,’ said Peter dismissively. ‘Very well, since you will not help me, I shall speak to this Pichard instead. He can carry my relic to Rome.’

  ‘A relic? And it belongs to you?’ Geoffrey wondered whether the Crusaders were the only ones who had taken the opportunity to practise their thieving skills during the last two confusing days.

  Peter kissed the bag with considerable reverence. ‘In this pouch is a fragment of the True Cross. I rescued it from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre before your comrades got to it.’

  ‘You stole a relic from a church?’ asked Geoffrey, horrified. ‘But that is sacrilege! You should put it back before you are struck down.’

  ‘It is too late for that,’ said Peter matter-of-factly. ‘Far too late.’

  ‘That is not true,’ said Geoffrey, resisting the urge to back away from Peter and his dangerous booty. He was not a particularly superstitious man, but only a fool tampered with things he did not understand, and the potency of holy relics most definitely came into that category. ‘You should put it back before—’

  ‘I told you, it is too late,’ insisted Peter sharply. ‘This holy thing has been in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for centuries–always under the care of an Arab keeper. But the events of the last two days have put an end to that.’

  ‘Why an Arab?’ asked Geoffrey, curious despite his better judgement, which warned him to have nothing more to do with the matter. ‘If it really is a piece of the True Cross, then it will be one of the most sacred things in the Holy City, and should be guarded by Christians.’

  ‘Most Christians are too frightened of its power to serve it properly,’ said Peter impatiently, as though Geoffrey should have known this. ‘And this Arab family has been looking after it devotedly for hundreds of years. The last member was called Barzak.’

  ‘I suppose we killed him,’ surmised Geoffrey, ‘not knowing that he and his ancestors had served the Church faithfully for so long.’

  ‘Worse,’ said Peter. ‘You murdered his family–here, at Temple Mount. When Barzak heard what had happened, he snatched the relic from its shrine and put a curse on it: anyone who so much as lays a finger on it will die.’

  ‘Even more reason to put it back—’ Now Geoffrey felt perfectly justified in taking a step backward, and did not care that it made him a coward. At least he would be a live one.

  Peter did not seem to notice his unease, and continued with his tale, a faraway look in his blue eyes. ‘Moments after Barzak had screamed his oath, the Crusaders burst into the church, and killed him. I saw and heard everything, and only just managed to rescue the relic from Barzak’s dead hand before it was trampled and destroyed for ever.’

  ‘If it is really cursed, then the only place for it is in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,’ said Geoffrey, thinking that Peter should have allowed the thing to be crushed so that it could do no one any harm. ‘Take it back, and tell the priests what you saw. Perhaps they can—’

  ‘They can do nothing!’ spat Peter. ‘In this world, there is nothing more dangerous than a holy relic that has been cursed by a good man. It cannot stay in Jerusalem, because who knows what might happen if it fell into the wrong hands? Evil men may use it for their own ends, and all manner of chaos may ensue. No, there is only one place where it will be rendered harmless, and that is Rome, near the tombs of the holy fathers. Are you sure you will not help me?’

  ‘I cannot abandon my duties here,’ said Geoffrey reasonably. ‘But if this relic is as dangerous as you say, then you should tell the Crusade’s leaders. They will know how to keep it from the wrong people.’

  Peter gave him the kind of look that indicated he thought him an imbecile for putting any faith in the hard, greedy men who had foisted their hard, greedy troops on the Holy City. ‘It will not be safe here, not among these butchers.’

  ‘Then
put it back and say nothing to anyone,’ suggested Geoffrey. ‘The “butchers” will not raid a church now the looting is over–especially not that one–and your relic will be safer here than travelling all the way to Rome.’

  ‘I was wrong about you,’ said Peter bitterly. ‘I thought you were a man of principle, but you are just like all the others–and a fool into the bargain.’

  He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing across the deserted courtyard in the city that smelled of death.

  As soon as the princes’ religious obligations had been discharged by way of a lengthy and ostentatious service of thanksgiving, Geoffrey found himself busy for the next week helping them restore law and order in the city. Fires needed to be extinguished, soldiers fed and billeted, horses stabled, and loot divided in a manner that was considered fair by the majority. The damage caused to the walls during the attack had to be repaired, and plans drawn up to strengthen them in the event of a retaliatory attack.

  When their day’s work was over, and the sun was setting in a ball of fiery red, Geoffrey and Roger of Durham strolled back to their temporary quarters on the Street of the Holy Sepulchre. A civilian curfew had been imposed, so the streets were already mostly empty. An ancient black-garbed Greek hobbled along one dusty alley, while a man with a donkey cart loaded with fruit travelled briskly in the opposite direction. Two monks hurried towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where a bell was ringing to announce the beginning of compline.

  Geoffrey had been too busy to think much about his strange conversation with Peter, but he recalled it in a guilty rush when he recognized one of the monks as William Pichard. Pichard was wearing his Benedictine habit, he carried a pack over his shoulder, and a stout staff was gripped in one of his strong hands. The second monk was someone Geoffrey did not like–a small, weasel-faced fellow from Normandy by the name of Julius. Julius had been involved in an unsavoury incident involving the theft of a gold crucifix some months previously, and, although nothing had ever been proven, Geoffrey had grave doubts about the man’s honesty.