By Sylvian Hamilton (4 page)

'These
precious things are your ...' She paused and actually looked
embarrassed.

'My
line of business,' Straccan smiled.

'Exactly.
I hoped that this might be known to you, that you could tell me whose
it is.'

'I'm
sorry.'

'The
dead man also carried this letter.' It was written in an angular
cramped non-secretarial hand and bore neither salutation nor
signature. It simply said: 'Do as I ask, for my soul's sake.' 'What
should I do?' she asked. 'With someone's soul at stake, how do I find
out where the man was going?'

'Easier
to find where he came from,' said Straccan, who was wondering that
himself. 'That will lead to the answer. Do you have an intelligent
man among your servants: someone you could send back along the road
to make enquiries?'

'Our
bailiff's son is a man of some sense,' she said.

'See
what he can discover. Meanwhile, if you wish, I will make some
enquiries. See what I can find out.'

'That
is what I meant to ask of you. Thank you.'

'At
your charges,' said Straccan.

'Of
course,' said the prioress with a wintry smile. 'You will give us
your accounting.'

Chapter
4

Straccan's
house was built on four sides of a square, in the style and on the
site of an old Roman villa. Roman-worked stone still formed part of
the walls, and red roof-tiles, hypocaust tiles and multicoloured
mosaic tiles turned up everywhere the ground was dug. The roofs were
now of furze and thatch and much of the building was new wood.
Straccan's office was at the back, and there he sat at a table,
checking items on a long list while his clerk opened and sorted
oddly-shaped packages taken from a small hide-covered chest. This
mild late-March morning the shutters were off, letting in light and
noise unhindered. In the yard a supply cart was unloading, men and
women going back and forth with sacks and bundles, shouting,
laughing, whistling.

'Item,'
said Straccan. 'Six threads from the chemise of Our Blessed Lady.'

'Here,'
said the clerk.

'Item,
rib of Saint Cecilia.'

'Here.'

'Item,
dust from the tomb of Saint Thomas Becket.'

'Yes,
about half a pound of it in a leather bag. I'll put a new label on,
this one's too hard to read.'

'Item,
bone fragment from the arm of Saint Mary Magdalene.'

'No.
Cross that off. The Prior of Winchelsea bought that while you were
away. And you remember he wanted that foot of Saint Martin?'

'He
couldn't afford it.'

Right.
But he's come up with a bright idea. He suggests borrowing it, just
for two or three years. Reckons it'll rake in enough offerings in
that time for him to be able to buy it.'

‘
Fat
chance,' said Straccan, drawing a line through the Magdalene's
fragment. 'Some of Becket's dust has got in my throat. Let's have a
drink, Peter.'

The
clerk poured beer from a jug into two pewter cups. Straccan walked to
the window, leaned through and shouted, 'Has anyone seen Bane?'

'Gone
to the village, Sir,' someone called back.

'I
want to see him as soon as he gets back.' He picked up the list
again. 'Ready? Item, jawbone of Lazarus.'

'Here.
Looks more like a woman's jawbone. Oh well, never mind.' 'Item, ear
of Saint Marcellinus.'

'Can't
find it. An ear? Haven't had an ear before, have we?'

Peter
turned over several small boxes, pouches, bundles. 'No. Oh is this
it?' He held up what looked like a withered blackened folded scrap of
leather. 'I suppose it might be an ear.' Both men stared doubtfully
at it. 'Who was Marcellinus, anyway?'

Straccan
consulted his list. 'It says here, an early blessed martyr. Let's
have a look.' He turned the darkened scrap over in his fingers,
sniffed it, shrugged and handed it back. 'Keep it dry. It'll stan to
smell if the damp gets at it.'

'What
else is supposed to be in this lot?' Peter poked about in the sheep's
wool packing.

The
sound of hooves cut through the cheerful racket outside. Straccan
glanced over the rest of the list. 'We should have the Virgin's
binder, a swaddling band of the infant Christ and two of his milk
teeth, a thorn from the crown, a kneecap of Saint Peter, three hairs
of Saint Edmund, a splinter of the true cross, sundry bloody clouts
from sundry martyrdoms, an arrow that pierced Saint Sebastian, oh,
and three teeth of Saint Apollonia.' An ugly gap-toothed face frowned
round the open door. 'Sir, a man to see you.'

'Who
is it, Cammo?'

'Him,'
said Cammo, with obvious disapproval. 'From that Master Wotsit.'

'Master
Gregory?'

'Aye.'

'Well
put him in the solar. Have his horse seen to. Tell Adeliza to wait on
him and I'll see him as soon as I've put this lot away.' Master
Gregory's messenger sat at his ease on the cushioned window seat,
dipping his hands in and out of the bowl of warm water Adeliza held
for him. He had been doing this for some time, apparently absorbed in
letting the water run and drip from his fingers. Adeliza looked
unhappy, and her arms had begun to tremble with the strain of holding
the bowl. After a few more moments it shook sufficiently to spill a
little water into the man's lap. He smiled at her.

'Clumsy
slut,' he said very softly and pinched the back of her hand sharply.
His nails were very long. 'Pretty, but a clumsy slut. Calls you his
housekeeper, does he? Keep his bed warm, do you?' Tears gathered in
her eyes and she stepped back.

'I
haven't finished,' he said.

'Yes
you have,' said Cammo from the doorway. He leaned against the door
frame, huge hands hooked into his belt, staring at the man. 'Take the
bowl away, Liza. I'll wait on him.' As she hurried out of the room he
snatched the towel from over her arm and threw it at the seated man.

'Your
master is ill served,' the man said, still smiling. 'Clumsy cattle
and insolent serfs.'

'Do
you want something to drink?' Cammo asked, lumbering forward and
looming over him.

'No.
Wait ... Yes.'

Outside
the window, a little girl had run into the yard and was talking to
one of the carters, who laughed and swung her high on to the driving
seat of the cart, behind the four great oxen whose heads were well
tucked into nosebags, tails swishing at flies and glossy hides
twitching occasionally.

The
messenger watched the child and licked his lips. 'Whose brat is
that?' he asked. Cammo ignored the question and plonked a beaker of
beer on the seat beside the man, resuming his stance by the door.
Outside, Gilla chattered happily and gee'd up the oxen until she was
lifted down and taken to meet each beast in turn, her clear voice
repeating their names--Dumpling, Blackbird, Belly-wise and Bracken
–until Adeliza appeared from the kitchen and scooped her back
into the house.

Peter
came in. 'Master says sorry to keep you waiting, will you come with
me now?' The messenger pushed past Cammo without a glance.

'Good
day to you, Sir Richard,' he said. 'My master has another commission
for you.'

'What
does he want?'

'He
requires a relic of Saint Thomas.'

'Then
he should apply to Canterbury.'

'No,
not Becket. Thomas the disciple. Thomas Didymus.' 'Doubting Thomas?'
Straccan looked thoughtful. 'His remains are said to be in India.'

'As
you say. But the King of France has the skull, or part of it, in his
Halidom.'

Straccan
took a large thick book from the table beside him and began riffling
through its pages. 'Ah yes,' he said. 'Saint Thomas. The Pope has a
finger. But he won't sell anything for less than a kingdom, and
trying to deal with his agents can take years. King Philip, well,
just possibly he might, if the price was right.'

'My
master trusts that you will negotiate on his behalf, as you have done
before. Funds can be drawn in Paris from the Jew, Rohan, or in Rome
from the banker, Tolomei.'

'Til
make enquiries,' said Straccan. 'My fee is one hundred gold pieces,
half before I go, and mine whether I succeed or not. The other half
on delivery.'

'One
hundred? Your charges have gone up, Sir Richard!'

The
cost of living's gone up. It's the Interdict, you know. Everything's
dearer: travel, inns, food. Besides, it's always costly dealing with
royalty. Palms to grease, friends to buy, favours to spread around.'

The
man unbuckled his belt and upended it over the table. Gold coins fell
out, one after another. Straccan counted twenty.

'Present
yourself at the house of the Jew Eleazar in Nottingham, and give him
this.' He took a roll of parchment from his pocket. 'It is my
master's authority to pay the rest.'

The
messenger's escort, two men-at-arms, was ready and waiting when his
horse was led from the stable. A boy held its head while he mounted.
He sat in the saddle for a moment, gazing round the yard at the
various doors and windows. From an open door came the sound of a
child singing. The man smiled. 'Who is the little wench?' he asked.
'I saw her earlier, sitting in the cart.'

'That's
our Gilla,' said the boy, beaming. 'The master's little girl. Don't
she sing pretty?'

'Like
an angel,' said the messenger, and listened a moment more before
touching spurs lightly to his horse and trotting under the arch out
of the yard.

I've
got a job for you,' said Straccan when Bane returned. He recounted
the story of the dead man at Holystone while Bane listened, whistling
softly. 'The nuns sent their bailiff's son to try and backtrack this
fellow and find out anything about him. When Gilla came home, the
prioress sent word with her their man came back with no success. I
want you to have a go. Find out where he came from and who sent him,
where he was going, and what that picture is.'

'Right.
When?'

'Tomorrow
will do.'

'I
met that Gregory's man and his escort as I came back. What did he
want?'

'He
wants a relic of Doubting Thomas,' said Straccan. 'Have you ever seen
one of these?' He offered Bane a gold coin. It was small and very
thick. On one side was some unknown script and on the other the image
of an ugly little tentacled creature.

'Some
sort of octopus,' said Bane. 'No, I've never seen one. Where's it
from?'

'I've
no idea. I thought I'd seen all monies, especially eastern. D'you
think this is eastern?'

'Probably.
But it's strange to me. Where'd you get it?'

'Gregory
sent it. Up-front money for his relic.'

'Just
so long as it's true gold,' said Bane.

'Oh,
it's gold right enough.' Straccan held up one of the coins which bore
his testing teeth-marks.

Chapter
5

Straccan
knew very little of Bane's previous life. He had a story but how much
of it was true was anybody's guess. Various more-or-less colourful
adventures were let slip from time to time.

Apprenticed
to a physician, he had run away and joined the army --been wounded in
a skirmish in France –survived and gone pilgrim to Saint James
at Compostella, come home penniless and turned beggar, tried thievery
and joined a band of wandering players.

Straccan
first saw him in the pillory in the market square at

Evesham
where a small crowd had gathered, not to pelt, but to laugh at the
prisoner's jokes, songs, and facial contortions. Towards curfew folk
drifted away to their homes and a couple of large young oafs started
throwing rubbish. Straccan, watching from the alehouse door, saw the
prisoner's head jerk and his body suddenly slump, hanging from the
neck and wrists like a sack, and realised that a stone had been
flung. Just then the sherrif's underdog came to open the pillory,
letting the man fall like a dead thing into the mud. The two youths
had fled, the sun was sinking, the curfew began to ring and three or
four people hurried past, ignoring the huddled body.