The Tainted Relic

ACT FOUR

Cambridge, late July 1353

The old friar closed his eyes and muttered a prayer of relief when he saw the cluster of towers and rooftops jutting above the distant line of trees. His legs ached with weariness, and there was a bitter, gnawing pain in his back that had been growing steadily worse since Christmas. The summer had been unpleasant for travelling, starting with unseasonable gales and heavy rain, and now there was the exhausting, searing heat that drained his meagre supplies of energy. The sun blazed high in cloudless skies, and even farmers, who usually delighted in dry summers, complained that their crops burned and that the soil was baked too dry and hard. The friar glanced at his companion, an eager, doggedly loyal novice who had agreed to postpone his studies and go with him on his long pilgrimage from their priory in Exeter.

‘It is not much farther now, Father Andrew,’ said the youngster kindly, seeing his master’s exhaustion. ‘We will find a small, quiet hostel, where you can regain your strength. And while you do, I shall attend the public lectures given by the scholars here-if any survived the plague, that is. I heard the Death struck the universities very hard.’

‘It did, Urban,’ replied Andrew, recalling the bleak months some three years before, when a foul contagion had swept across the civilized world, claiming more victims than could be properly buried. ‘It took every one of the Cambridge Dominicans, God rest their souls.’

‘Is this our final destination?’ asked Urban keenly, sensing in his elder a rare willingness to talk, and determined to make the most of it. ‘Is this the end of our quest? Surely I have earned your trust by now, and you can tell me why we left Exeter in the depths of night and have been travelling on little-used pathways for months?’

‘I trust you, Urban,’ replied Andrew, knowing it was time he was honest, but unwilling to impose such a dreary burden on his youthful companion. ‘That is why I asked you to accompany me-you were the novice who best suited my needs. I had intended to end my journey in Norwich, but I grow weaker with each passing day, and I am not sure whether I possess the strength to finish what I began. I may have to ask you to do it.’

‘I will, Father,’ said Urban, supposing the old man was paying him a compliment of sorts. Andrew was not an easy master, and there were times when he felt as though nothing he did was satisfactory. He was always compared unfavourably with another student, who had been everything a novice should be, and Urban often wondered whether he would ever meet Andrew’s exacting standards. ‘I promised obedience, and I will do what is necessary.’

‘It will mean your death,’ said Andrew, watching alarm and then puzzlement flash in the young man’s hazel eyes. ‘Do you remember the rumours about our Holy Blood relic-the one under the high altar? It is said to carry a curse.’

Urban was startled by the mention of so odd a topic, but struggled to mask his reaction: he could not bear Andrew to think him stupid or unworldly. ‘We-the novices-tease each other about it. We take a splinter of wood and thrust it into someone’s hands, telling him he will die now that his bare skin has touched a piece of the True Cross stained with Christ’s blood. It is all nonsense, of course. None of us really believes the story about it being cursed.’

As soon the words were out, Urban regretted them; Andrew was humourless, and would certainly disapprove of jokes about a relic, even one that was tainted with such a dubious reputation. He was unable to suppress the thought that Andrew’s saintly former student would not have made light of such a subject, and that once again he, Urban, would be found lacking. To his surprise, Andrew did not issue a stream of reprimands.

‘I am sure you heard about the Exeter murders,’ Andrew said after a few moments. ‘About how a Keeper of the King’s Peace called Baldwin de Furnshill and his friend Simon Puttock discovered that four robbers had taken hold of the relic? They turned on each other, and three died in horrible ways. Eventually, it came to our priory in Exeter, which was chosen because it lies within the city walls, where it will be safe from thieves.’

Urban nodded slowly, wary now and unwilling to commit himself. He did not want to be accused of listening to the gossip of laymen who said bad things about their priory’s only relic. ‘But I do not believe them.’

Andrew gave the kind of grimace that passed for a smile on his pinched, lined face. ‘I was the fourth thief, the one who survived,’ he said softly. ‘I saw it all. Indeed, the vile events in Devonshire all those years ago were why I gave up my secular life and took the cowl. My brother Rob and I were felons-God save my soul from the shameful iniquities of my youth-and I was rough and feckless. But I came to know the relic’s power, and I wanted to be near it, to ensure it stayed where it was put, and that no one ever tried to steal it for dark purposes.’

Urban gazed at him. Here was part of the story he had not heard before. He had known his master had once been wild-some of the novices even claimed he had been an outlaw-but he had not realized that Andrew had played such an active role in the relic’s history. It certainly explained why he had always spent so much time near the high altar, where the relic was hidden.

‘I see,’ he said, knowing his response was inadequate, but unable to find better words to express himself.

‘And you know what happened next. Prior William de Regny sent me away as a minor envoy to distant places-Hungary and the land of the Bohemian kings-and I even studied in foreign universities.’ Andrew gave a short bark of humourless laughter. ‘My dim-witted brother would not have credited that I-his uncouth, loutish sibling-would become a scholar and an emissary! I was a teacher, too, grooming my best student to take my place in the university’s hierarchy, before he…well, you know what happened with him. I took the relic with me, but I was never easy about its safety in such distant places, and after some years I brought it back to Devonshire again, to our little priory.’

‘Yes, Father,’ said Urban dutifully, wondering where the discussion was leading.

Andrew’s expression was distant. ‘It is powerful-more powerful than you can imagine-and it is genuine. Besides what I witnessed thirty years ago, there are two ancient parchments that carry its seal of authenticity.’

‘I heard there were documents, but I did not think it was true.’

‘It is true,’ said Andrew with a conviction that surprised his novice. ‘The fragment of the True Cross is in a vial, and the parchments are wrapped around it. Anyone can hold the glass, but to touch the stained splinter inside is certain death.’

Urban swallowed, and the bright sun seemed to lose some of its warmth. When a magpie chattered in a tree above his head, he jumped and found that his hands were shaking. Slowly, a nasty, unworthy suspicion began to form in his mind. ‘Our priory has been the relic’s guardian for years now. It is still there…’

Andrew rummaged under his habit and removed the purse he carried around his neck. The cord that held it was old and frayed, while the bag itself was sewn from cheap purple cloth, stained and worn from the actions of restless fingers. ‘It is here.’

Urban was almost speechless, and fought hard against the urge to back away, appalled by what Andrew had done. ‘You took it? You stole it?’ All manner of questions suddenly found answers: the reason for their moonlit flight, the secrecy and orders to tell no one they were leaving, Andrew’s refusal to say where they were going, the preference for little-travelled paths when the highways would have been faster and safer.

‘It was for the best. My days are coming to an end, and the relic would not have been safe with our new prior. My duty was clear: I must convey it to Norwich, where there is another Holy Blood relic, and where the Benedictine monks will know how to keep this one from harming others.’

Urban was not convinced. Stealing was a mortal sin, but stealing a relic from a priory was an unimaginably wicked crime, and now he, Urban, was implicated in it. And Father Andrew, whom he had idolized and whose grim piety he had sought to emulate, was no more than a common thief. His thoughts whirled in confusion, and he felt betrayed. Andrew read the unhappiness and bewilderment on his face and touched his arm gently.

‘I did what was right. Do not ask me how I know-perhaps God planted the knowledge there, because I assure you I would rather have spent my last days at home than traipsing across England-but I feel it with my whole being. Prior John de Burgo is not a believer in the power of blood relics-few men in our Order are-and I was afraid one of the tasks he would perform as he took up his new office would be to rid his priory of the anathema the relic has become.’

‘The Master-General of the Dominicans did just that,’ acknowledged Urban. He glanced uneasily at the bundle his master still held. ‘He said Holy Blood relics cannot possibly exist for complex theological reasons that I do not understand, and he has ordered the destruction of what he terms “heretical idols of veneration”.’

‘I do not want this relic consigned to the fires of ignorance: what God has seen fit to place in our hands is not for man to burn. It is not a common Holy Blood relic, anyway: it is different, because of the curse it carries.’

‘The curse,’ mused Urban. ‘Is it true that a dragon bewitched it, in the days of King Arthur?’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ replied Andrew curtly. ‘Dragons cannot speak. The Knights Templar took the relic into their care, and I learned its history from one of them, a man named John Mantravers, of South Witham. He saved my life.’

‘But the Knights Templar were suppressed, and their leaders executed years ago,’ said Urban, uneasy with the notion that Andrew had cavorted with heretics.

‘Some refused to renounce their Order, and Mantravers was one of them. He told me that this piece of the True Cross was once in the possession of an Arab called Barzak, whose duty it was to protect it from infidels. When our blessed Crusaders liberated the Holy City, Barzak uttered a violent curse when his family were considered enemies and slaughtered. But his curse was too strong, and it became the bane of good men, as well as bad. Prior John de Burgo is a case in point: he is not wicked, but if he had taken hold of the thing to “prove” it holds no power, it would have meant his death regardless.’

‘So, you decided to take it to Norwich and give it to the Benedictines,’ surmised Urban. ‘They do not hate Holy Blood relics, and will treat it with the reverence it is due. You did the right thing, Father.’

Andrew nodded, relieved that the novice had been so easy to convince. He had anticipated all manner of recriminations-he was sure he himself would not have been so readily accepting, had their roles been reversed. ‘Before I took it, I removed it from its vial, to make sure it was the same splinter that caused Mantravers all his trouble. It would have been a pity to arrive in Norwich and discover it had been exchanged at some point. I had to be sure.’

Urban gazed at him. ‘But that means…’ He trailed off, not liking to give voice to the awful conclusion.

Andrew nodded. ‘It means I will die as soon as I relinquish it from my keeping. But I grow weaker with each passing day anyway, so it matters little now. However, I may be obliged to ask you to carry it for the last stage of its journey.’

‘But if the relic’s curse is genuine, then I may die, too.’

‘Only if you remove the splinter from its vial.’

‘Then I will not touch it,’ said Urban, relieved. ‘I will keep it wrapped up.’

Andrew stopped walking and opened the pouch, carefully removing the tiny box that held the small tube of glass, green and misty with age. Urban gazed at it in fascination, then stepped back sharply when Andrew removed the gilt stopper and slid the contents into his hand. The relic was not much to look at-just a rough piece of silvery-grey timber with a curious stain blackening one end.

Andrew held it up between thumb and forefinger. ‘That will not be enough, Urban. Only if you truly believe in the relic’s power will you see your quest through to the end. You must hold it in your hand and feel its strength. If you are not up to the task, then tell me, and I will recruit another servant. Cambridge has friaries and convents a-plenty, so it should not be too difficult to find a substitute.’

Urban was stung by the notion that he could be so easily discarded. ‘Of course I shall do as you ask,’ he cried. ‘I vowed to carry out your wishes, and I will do so as long as there is breath in my body. I will not abandon you.’

This last comment was spiteful, and Urban was ashamed when he saw Andrew wince. The old friar’s former favourite, on realizing he had learned all he could from Andrew, had left him for other, more knowledgeable masters, and Urban knew he had considered it a betrayal. It was unkind to have made such a remark, and he regretted it immediately.

Andrew rested his wrinkled hand on the younger man’s shoulder, partly for support and partly as a gesture of affection. ‘I know. I have every faith in you. Hold out your hand.’

Urban shuddered as Andrew moved the stained wood towards him.

Cambridge, a few days later

Brother Michael was blissfully unaware that his fine Benedictine habit would never be the same again. He held forth knowledgeably on all manner of subjects as he shared the Dominicans’ excellent dinner, and did not notice that his audience was looking not at him, but at his right shoulder. His colleague, Matthew Bartholomew, had tried several times to draw his attention to the problem, but had been silenced by a dismissive wave of the monk’s fat white hand. Michael did not like to be interrupted when he was of a mind to be erudite.

‘So, to conclude my thesis,’ he said pompously, revelling in the fact that no one had challenged his arguments for almost an hour, ‘I concur with the great theologian Francis de Meyronnes. During the three days between our Lord’s death and His resurrection, some of His blood became separated from His body and remained on Earth. Ergo, no relic containing Holy Blood is united to His divinity, just as it was not united to His divinity during the three days in the tomb. The blood of the mass, which is fully joined to His divinity, is thus far more worthy of veneration. However, this is not to say that Holy Blood relics are to be shunned-on the contrary, they are sacred and vital reminders of Christ’s resurrection and man’s subsequent redemption.’

He sat back, pleased with the elegance of his reasoning and certain that the Cambridge Dominicans would be unable to refute what he had said. He reached out with his knife and speared a roasted chicken, dragging it towards him and clearly intent on devouring the whole thing, despite the fact that the friars had already laid down their spoons and were waiting for the final grace. Michael was a large man, who used his position as the university’s senior proctor to inveigle invitations to some of the finest meals in Cambridge. It had been several days since his last grand repast, however, and so he was enjoying himself more than usual.

He had been summoned to the Dominican priory that day because one of its student novices had been involved in a fight-as Senior Proctor, Michael was obliged to investigate all incidents of violence among the university’s scholars. He had taken Bartholomew with him, anticipating that his friend’s skills as Master of Medicine might be required. The novice’s injuries were not serious, but Prior Morden was grateful for the physician’s services nonetheless, and had invited them to dine before they returned to their own college of Michaelhouse. Bartholomew, who had other patients to tend, started to decline, but Michael knew that the Dominicans ate well, and had accepted the offer before he could speak; the monk was acutely aware that the Black Friars’ supper would be far superior to anything on offer at Michaelhouse.

Prior Morden cleared his throat uncomfortably, and glanced at his assembled friars. He was a tiny man, so small he needed cushions on his chair to allow him to reach the table, and he had an odd habit of swinging his legs back and forth while he ate. It was fortunate they were short limbs, or his colleagues would have suffered cruelly from his vigorous kicks.

‘Well,’ he said eventually, his eyes straying from the monk’s flushed, greasy face to the vicinity of his right shoulder. ‘I see.’

Bartholomew could have told Michael he was wasting his time expounding to the Dominicans, who were known to be the least academically minded of the many religious orders that had gathered around the university in Cambridge. Morden had rashly mentioned an old chronicle in his library, however, which described an event in 1247: the third King Henry had presented Westminster Abbey with a phial containing blood from Christ’s passion. A violent debate was currently raging between Dominicans and Franciscans about the nature of Holy Blood, and whether it should or should not be venerated, and Michael had come down firmly on the side of the Franciscans. Bartholomew did not find the subject an especially engaging one, so kept what few thoughts he had on the issue to himself-there were far more fascinating topics to debate, and he felt it a waste to expend energy on a matter about which he was indifferent.

None of the Dominicans had spoken for some time, and the physician suspected they had understood very little of Michael’s complex analysis. Technically, Prior Morden and his friars should have been hammering on the tables with their pewter goblets, shrieking that the monk had spoken heresy within their halls. It would be what their order expected of them. But most had been more interested in their food than the monk’s erudite postulations, and Bartholomew sensed that they were bored by the monologue and wished their guest would talk about the murders he had solved or the disgraceful price of grain. Only one Black Friar looked as though he had followed what the monk had said, but he sat at that part of the table reserved for visitors, and was too polite to speak when he had not been invited to do so by his hosts.

Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he paused with a chicken leg halfway to his mouth. ‘Is that all you have to say? I think my assessment of the nature of Holy Blood warrants a more in-depth response than “I see”. Do you not agree, Matt?’

‘That theologian you kept citing,’ said Morden, before Bartholomew could formulate a suitably non-committal answer. ‘Meyronnes. I may be wrong, but I thought he was a Franciscan.’

Michael gazed at him, barely crediting that he should make such an observation when the name Meyronnes was on the lips of every scholar even remotely familiar with contemporary scholastic debate. Even Bartholomew, who was not at all interested in the controversy, knew its leading protagonists and the stances they had outlined. ‘Yes,’ he said warily. ‘What of it?’

‘Franciscans know nothing of theology,’ said Morden matter-of-factly, sounding relieved that he had got something right. ‘So, your thesis will be fatally flawed if you use him to prove your points.’

Michael sighed. Rivalry between the Orders was intense, particularly between Franciscans and Dominicans, and it was not unknown for scholars to dismiss entire schools of thought merely on the basis of who had proposed them. He saw, somewhat belatedly, that he would have to simplify his ideas if he wanted a sensible response from Morden and his slow-minded minions.

‘The blood relics polemic challenges some of the most basic tenets of our faith,’ he said, trying not to sound testy-he did not want to jeopardize future dining opportunities by revealing his disdain. ‘It concerns whether samples of Holy Blood-the most famous of which can be found at Hailes and Ashridge-should be venerated. The Franciscans say they should, your Order claims they should not.’

‘Well,’ said Morden again, still looking puzzled. His eyes dipped to Michael’s shoulder, and he rubbed a hand across his mouth. ‘We would of course say no, if the Franciscans say yes: it is only natural we should disagree. Christ’s blood is not holy, then-none of it, not a drop.’

‘But think, man!’ said Michael, becoming exasperated, despite his best intentions. ‘If you claim Holy Blood should not be venerated, then what does that say about the mass? You venerate the blood of Christ every day, so some of it must be sacred.’

‘Oh,’ said Morden, perplexed. ‘Well, if you put it like that, then I suppose it must be all right to revere these blood relics. However, as you have just pointed out, there are very few of them in existence. Most cannot be authenticated, and only Hailes and Ashridge have real ones.’

‘That is not true,’ said Bartholomew. Even he, a disinterested listener, was unwilling to allow such a wildly inaccurate statement to pass unchallenged. ‘There are flasks of Holy Blood in shrines all over the country. I hear some liquefy on special occasions, while others are associated with miracles.’

Michael’s attention was fixed on the hapless prior. ‘If you accept that blood relics should be venerated, then you are saying that the Franciscans are right and your own Order is wrong.’

‘I am not,’ said Morden, affronted. ‘I would never say the Franciscans are right! You are twisting my words with this complex theology.’

‘It is complex,’ agreed the visiting friar, apparently unable to bear the savaging any longer. He, too, addressed his comments to the monk’s shoulder, and the monk glanced behind him briefly, half expecting someone to be there. ‘And theologians from both Orders are proposing fascinating arguments.’

Morden remembered his manners and made some introductions, waving a tiny hand towards the visitor. ‘This is Brother Tomas from the university at Pécs. He says Pécs is near the Mediterranean Sea, although I have never heard of it. He arrived recently to read about angels.’

Tomas’s southern origins explained his dark, somewhat foreign looks and the lilting quality to his Latin. Bartholomew smiled at him, intrigued to meet a scholar who had travelled so far from home. ‘I understand Pécs has an unrivalled collection of Arabic texts on natural philosophy,’ he said.

Tomas returned the smile. ‘It has, and we-’

‘Well, I am pleased you came,’ interrupted Michael, rubbing his hands together. ‘Oxford is making a name for itself with brilliant arguments on the Holy Blood debate, but our own Franciscans are sorely hampered by the fact that these Dominicans rarely challenge their intellects. Now you are here, we can enter the arena and show the world the quality of our thinkers. Well, the quality of some of them, at least,’ he corrected himself, shooting a disparaging glance at Morden.

‘I would be woefully inadequate,’ said Tomas modestly. ‘Especially since Master Witney of Grey Hall in Oxford is studying in Cambridge this term-he is one of the Franciscans’ acknowledged experts on blood relics, and I cannot compete with him. He is staying at Bernard’s Hostel, where I am told the university houses its most auspicious visiting scholars.’

While Michael reduced his chicken to a pile of bones, Tomas began a careful refutation of the monk’s thesis, punctuated by the occasional and wholly unnecessary apology for his lack of understanding-he was a skilled disputant, and his knowledge of the material was detailed and sound. Despite the fact that he was restoring the Dominicans’ intellectual honour, his brethren grew restless, and some shot meaningful glances to where the day was wasting outside. Morden kicked his legs in a way that suggested he was equally bored, and then his eyes dropped to Michael’s right arm for the last time. He could stand it no more.

‘Did you know there is a fish-head on your shoulder, Brother?’ he asked. ‘It is difficult to discuss theology when we have something like that leering at us.’

Michael glanced to one side, then leapt to his feet at the sight of dull piscine eyes staring at him from such close quarters. He flailed furiously at the offending object, sending it skittering across the table, where it dropped into Morden’s lap. The prior, equally repelled, flicked it towards the floor, although one of his feet caught it as it fell and sent it cartwheeling towards Tomas. The visiting friar ducked with impressively quick reactions, and the missile sailed harmlessly over his head to slap into a wall before plummeting to the ground. Michael glowered at the servants behind him, who struggled to remain impassive. One was less adept at hiding his amusement than the others, and the monk rounded on him.

‘I wondered why I was the only one to be served a trout whose head was missing. Now I know. You deliberately set out to embarrass me.’

‘It was not deliberate,’ objected the man, attempting to appear chastened and failing miserably. Bartholomew was sure the tale would be told with relish at his favourite tavern that night.

‘I am sure Roughe meant no harm,’ said Tomas soothingly. ‘Those trays are heavy, and supporting them with one hand and serving with the other cannot be easy.’

‘Roughe,’ said Michael, continuing to glare. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’

‘It was a man called Roughe who started the fight with Bulmer-the novice I have just tended for his swollen jaw,’ replied Bartholomew.

‘That was my brother,’ said Roughe quickly. ‘I am John, and it was Kip who punched Bulmer. That skirmish had nothing to do with me.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael coldly. ‘But I-’

He stopped speaking at a sudden commotion outside. Someone was shouting, then came the sound of running footsteps. The door was flung open, and a friar stood there. He was extraordinarily ugly, with eyes that glided in different directions, a face deeply indented with pock marks, and oily hair that hung in unattractive wisps around his flaky scalp.

‘Father Prior!’ he yelled. ‘News!’

Morden frowned. ‘I have warned you before about making this sort of entry, Big Thomas. You are supposed to come in quietly, and whisper your message, so only I can hear it. You do not bellow it for the world at large. You are a friar now, and your days as a braying thatcher are over.’

‘Big Thomas?’ asked Bartholomew. The man was not particularly large.

‘He is taller than our visitor from Pécs.’ Morden lowered his voice. ‘It is kinder than Handsome Tomas and Ugly Thomas, which was how the brethren instantly started to differentiate between them.’

‘News from St Bernard’s Hostel,’ shouted Big Thomas. ‘A man there has been smothered by soot!’

Because St Bernard’s Hostel was university property, a death within its walls came under the Senior Proctor’s jurisdiction. Wiping his greasy lips on a piece of linen, Michael left the Dominicans and made his way to the High Street. Bartholomew walked at his side, wondering what grisly sight he would be assailed with this time. Michael often used him when he investigated deaths, and appreciated the insight he could offer when he inspected a corpse. It was not a duty he enjoyed, however, and he much preferred tending living patients to dead ones.

‘Strange men, the Black Friars,’ the monk mused. ‘I enthral them with my incisive comments pertaining to the holiness-or otherwise-of blood relics, and all they do is point out that some of my ideas came from Franciscans. Still, Tomas of Pécs seemed a cut above the rest of them.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘I could tell from the expression on his face that he followed your arguments, and the speed of his reaction when that fish-head sailed towards him was very impressive. I suspect there is more to him than a mere student of angels, no matter what he would have us believe.’

‘Perhaps he is here to spy on his fellows over the Holy Blood debate,’ suggested Michael. ‘It is becoming very heated in places like Spain, with accusations of heresy screeched from all quarters. After all, he did know all about the visiting Oxford Franciscan and his chosen subject of study.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Someone pointed out that Oxford friar-Witney-to me the other day. He is here with a companion, also from Grey Hall.’

‘Why should Witney be singled out for comment and identification?’

‘Because, at the time, he was engaged in a vicious and very public squabble outside King’s Hall. Everyone was looking at him, and Chancellor Tynkell, who had cornered me for a remedy for indigestion, told me who he was. He said we are honoured to have him in Cambridge, although Witney’s language during that particular quarrel could hardly be described as scholarly.’

‘With whom was he arguing?’ demanded Michael, peeved that the information had not been shared with him. He was Senior Proctor, and should have been the first to know about eminent academics arriving in his town.

‘With Big Thomas, although it is an unlikely pairing-an eminent theologian and a one-time thatcher. Thomas and Witney were bawling at each other like fishmongers, and Witney’s companion was powerless to stop them. Thomas seems to like screaming at people: he just hollered at Morden in much the same way.’

‘Fighting in public places is against university rules,’ said Michael angrily. ‘You should have mentioned this sooner.’

‘They were quarrelling, not fighting-about thatching, would you believe? But then Little Tomas arrived, and he succeeded in quietening them. The incident ended peacefully enough.’

They arrived at St Bernard’s, which stood opposite the recently founded Bene’t College on the High Street. It comprised three houses that had been knocked into one, providing a hall with two teaching chambers on the ground floor, and several smaller rooms above in which visiting scholars were accommodated.

A servant answered the door, and ushered Michael and Bartholomew into the smaller of the two lower-floor rooms. It smelled of wood smoke and the oil that had been used to make benches and tables shine. At the far end, by the hearth, stood three men. As Bartholomew approached, he was immediately aware of a tension between them. One stood apart from the others. He was tall, his grey hair was neatly trimmed, and he wore the habit of a Franciscan. He held himself stiffly, clearly furious. He was Witney’s companion, the man who had been unable to calm his colleague during the spat with the loud-mouthed thatcher.

The other two were a Carmelite and his apprentice. The White Friar was elderly and frail, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen more haunted eyes. His novice was burly and young, with thick yellow hair and the kind of face that did not seem made for priestly solemnity.

There was a fourth man in the room, too, whom Bartholomew had not immediately noticed, and who looked as though he was about to climb up inside the chimney. His head and shoulders were out of sight, while his body and legs, clad in the robes of a Franciscan, were stretched across the floor. It was Witney. As the physician drew closer, he saw soot had cascaded downward, leaving a dirty black residue over the fine wooden floor. Horrified, he hurried forward and grabbed the prone legs, hauling the body out of the fireplace. Dust billowed in all directions, causing the three onlookers and Michael to jump back, in order to avoid being coated in filth. The Oxford scholar became angrier still.

‘Have a care!’ he shouted, brushing himself down. ‘You should have removed him gently, so you did not scatter grime over the rest of us.’

‘He might have been alive,’ objected Bartholomew, although he could see that Witney’s rescue from the choking embrace of the hearth had come far too late. The open eyes were clotted with powder, which also clogged his nose and mouth. Blackened though the face was, Bartholomew could still make out an unnatural blueness there. He also noticed blood at the back of the skull, where something heavier than soot had landed on it.

‘He would not have been alive,’ said the novice. ‘Not after what he did.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael. ‘And who are you, anyway?’

‘Urban,’ replied the youngster. He gestured to his elderly companion. ‘And this is Father Andrew, my teacher. We travelled here from Devonshire.’

‘Speak when you are asked,’ said Andrew sharply. The novice’s pained grimace indicated he was used to such admonitions but that he had not yet learned to bear them with grace. ‘It is not for you to make introductions.’

‘My name is John Seton and I am Master of Grey Hall in Oxford,’ said the Franciscan, in the kind of voice that indicated he considered himself superior to mere Carmelites. He gestured to the body. ‘And this is my colleague, Peter of Witney. He has been murdered.’ His cool glance in Andrew’s direction made it clear whom he considered his prime suspect.

‘And I am the university’s Senior Proctor,’ said Michael coolly. ‘It is for me and Dr Bartholomew to determine your colleague’s cause of death.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Has he been murdered? I see a cut on his head.’

‘That was caused when this stone struck his skull,’ replied Bartholomew, holding up the offending piece of masonry for the monk to see. He demonstrated how its square edge fitted perfectly into the jagged gash on the dead man’s head, although neither Michael nor the other three paid close attention to the grisly illustration.

Seton pointed an accusing finger at Andrew. ‘That stone was wielded by him. He has been hostile towards poor Witney ever since we arrived. It is clear what happened here, Brother. Arrest the Carmelite and let us make an end of this unhappy business.’

‘There are questions I want answered first,’ replied Michael, raising one hand to stall the litany of objections that started to burst from Urban. Andrew made no attempt to deny the accusations, and merely stood regarding the dead man dispassionately. ‘This is Cambridge, not Oxford. We are rather more civilized here, and do not go around arresting men before we have properly examined the evidence. Matt: what can you tell me?’

‘The stone probably dropped down the chimney,’ replied Bartholomew, peering up the dark funnel and noting that it was not in good repair. ‘But the injury is not serious enough to have killed him outright. I imagine he breathed his last inhaling the soot that came with it. In other words, he was stunned by the blow, and was insensible to the fact that the soot was choking him.’

‘Someone did not hit him, then shove him and the stone up the chimney to make it look as though the death was an accident?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘From the juxtaposition of stone, soot and body, there are only two possibilities: either Witney was looking up the chimney when it collapsed, or someone climbed on the roof and dropped the stone when he happened to be underneath. You will agree that it would have to be a very patient killer for the latter to be true.’

‘Witney was not in the habit of peering up chimneys,’ said Seton angrily. ‘He was a scholar, like me. He was here to study, not to prod about inside hearths.’

‘He was not always devoted to his studies,’ said Andrew softly. ‘He spent a lot of time walking around churches, looking at relics.’

‘So?’ demanded Seton, outraged by what sounded like an accusation. ‘He was interested in them. It is not a crime.’

‘Perhaps,’ replied Andrew non-committally. ‘But perhaps not.’

‘Now you listen to me,’ began Seton hotly. ‘You cannot-’

‘Wait for me in your chamber, Master Seton,’ interrupted Michael. ‘I will see your colleague is removed to St Botolph’s Church and decently laid out. Then I will hear your complaints.’

Seton scowled at the Carmelites before snatching up his hat and stalking away.

Father Andrew smiled wanly after Seton had gone. ‘Divide and conquer: that is one of the first lessons I learned when dealing with unruly lads-I once held a post similar to yours, Brother. Separate the factions and speak to them apart. Of course, sometimes it is wiser to let them argue, so that one may make a fatal slip and reveal himself a villain.’

‘Is there a villain here?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘Or just a case of a man being in the wrong place at the wrong time?’

‘There is a villain,’ replied Andrew with considerable conviction. ‘But it is not a man.’ He fumbled with something tied around his neck with a leather thong. It was a pouch made of ancient purple cloth, and looked like the kind of amulet carried by peasants too superstitious to place their faith entirely in the Church. Thinking it was being proffered to him, Michael reached out to take it, but the friar drew back sharply.

‘You must not touch it,’ explained Urban. ‘If you do, you will die-just as Witney has done. Father Andrew’s relic is the reason for our long journey: we are taking it to the abbey at Norwich, where similar holy items are held.’

‘Urban!’ snapped Andrew. ‘What have I told you about speaking before you are asked?’

Urban sighed, and pulled the kind of face that indicated he thought the story would be told sooner or later anyway, and that he had just saved everyone a good deal of trouble. He went to stand near the window, making Bartholomew wonder whether he craved distance from his difficult teacher or from the corpse that lay next to the hearth, eyes still gazing sightlessly at the ceiling.

‘A relic?’ asked Michael, regarding the pouch uneasily. ‘You are wearing a relic around your neck? That is unwise: real ones do not like being used like charms.’

‘You are right,’ replied Andrew. ‘And this is an especially powerful one that comes with a curse for all those who dare to lay hands on it.’

‘Relics cannot be cursed,’ said Bartholomew immediately. ‘They are holy. A malediction would render yours unholy, which means it cannot be a relic. What you are saying is a theological impossibility.’

Andrew ignored him. ‘An Arab called Barzak set the spell after the first of the Crusades. I saw its power thirty years ago in Devonshire, while Urban will tell you a story about a long-dead coroner called John de Wolfe and how death surrounded him when he encountered its power.’

‘And there was Master Falconer, the Oxford philosopher,’ added Urban eagerly. ‘He saw it-’ He fell silent as Andrew’s stern gaze settled on him again.

The old man’s glare shifted to Bartholomew, who was looking openly sceptical. ‘Barzak’s evil oath has been active for centuries, and anyone who touches the sacred wood contained in this vial will die.’

‘You have touched it,’ Michael pointed out, although he made no attempt to move closer to the friar. He was not a superstitious man, but it was not unknown for relics to be dangerous, and it seemed a pity to end a glorious university career for the want of a little caution. ‘But you are not dead.’

‘I will be,’ replied Andrew calmly. ‘As soon as it leaves my possession-either when I deliver it to Norwich, or when I am obliged to entrust another man to take it there.’ He gestured to Urban, to indicate that the novice could speak if he liked.

‘Evil men are killed quickly,’ elaborated Urban obligingly. Michael edged away, unsure of how he stood in respect of his virtue in the eyes of God and His saints. ‘But good ones are permitted to carry it to a place where it will be safe. It has rested with Father Andrew for nigh on three decades, mostly in Exeter.’

‘Then why choose now to move it?’ demanded Michael. ‘And why inflict it on Cambridge first?’

‘It was not our intention to bring trouble to your town,’ replied Andrew apologetically. ‘And you are right to question my timing: I waited too long, and should have carried it to a safe place years ago. But I was happy in Exeter, and the relic was safe enough, lodged in the altar of a priory within the city’s great walls, and it is difficult for a content man to decide to end his life.’

‘But then a new prior was appointed,’ continued Urban. ‘And Father Andrew is afraid he might destroy it. We do not want it burned, and nor did we want Prior John de Burgo to die trying to demonstrate that it has no power.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. ‘This is quite a tale. And what is this relic, exactly? We had a lock of the Virgin’s hair once, but it disappeared.’

‘It is a fragment of the True Cross, stained with Holy Blood.’ Andrew opened the pouch and withdrew two pieces of parchment. He proffered them to the monk, but Michael gripped his wrist and moved it into the light, taking great care not to touch the documents himself.

‘This says it was found in Jerusalem,’ he said, scanning the meagre contents of the first. ‘In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and it is authenticated by Geoffrey Mappestone, Knight. The second is a warning by Guillaume de Beaujeu, who says the relic was bought with innocent blood and is utterly cursed. “Any man who touches the fragment of Holy Cross will die as soon as the relic is relinquished.”’

‘Guillaume de Beaujeu was a Grand Master of the Knights Templar,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the sorry history of that order. ‘It must be genuine, then.’

‘It is genuine,’ said Andrew quietly. ‘I have an ancient wound that pains me, and I feel myself becoming weaker with every day that passes. I must leave for Norwich tomorrow. I do not want to press my burden on Urban.’

‘I do not mind, Father,’ said Urban bravely.

Bartholomew glanced at him, wondering whether he was a little too eager. Did he believe in Barzak’s curse? Or did he see Andrew’s weakness as a means to gain hold of something that was obviously valuable? Many abbeys and priories were willing to pay veritable fortunes for relics, and the crumbling parchments indicated that this one was as authentic as most. Even if it had not performed miracles when it was first purchased, he knew it was only a matter of time before unscrupulous or malleable men started to spread stories to the contrary. And then there would be pilgrims; pilgrims left donations, and they needed inns, food and clothes. Many people would grow rich once a relic had produced a few timely cures.

‘I know, Urban,’ said Andrew kindly. His expression became wistful. ‘I had that honour in mind for another man, but he betrayed me years ago.’

Michael waited, expecting him to elaborate, but the Carmelite merely sat on a bench and began to put his relic away. The monk moved the discussion along, to mask the fact that he did not know what to think about the curious tale.

‘All this is very interesting, but what does your relic have to do with Witney?’

‘He tried to steal it,’ replied Urban. ‘He discovered what Father Andrew carries so close to his heart, and he was determined to have it for himself. He weaselled his way into our confidence, and when Father Andrew showed it to him, he tried to grab it.’

‘He used a knife to slice through the thong,’ explained Andrew, showing Michael a bright new cut across the dark leather strap. ‘He was almost out of the door before Urban wrestled him to the ground. While they struggled, I managed to retrieve it. However, before I did, the stopper came loose and the relic fell out. It brushed Witney’s arm when he and Urban were rolling across the floor.’

‘Are you saying Witney died because he touched a relic?’ asked Bartholomew, seeing the direction in which the explanation was heading. He had witnessed enough murder and mayhem since qualifying as a physician to know that people were capable of all manner of vile acts, and he was always sceptical when suspects tried to blame suspicious deaths on supernatural phenomena.

‘Of course,’ said Andrew. ‘And now I must take it to Norwich before anyone else pays such a high price for his greed or his curiosity. You cannot arrest me-although I accept responsibility for Witney’s death-because more people will die if I do not fulfil my obligations.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘You will stay here until I am satisfied no crime took place. Perhaps this relic did take Witney’s life because he dared lay profane fingers on it, but perhaps his sudden demise has a more earthly explanation. Either way, I intend to find out.’

‘Why did Witney want it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To sell?’

‘He is-was-a Franciscan, and if you know about the Holy Blood polemic, then you will be aware of the stance the Grey Friars have taken on the matter. No doubt he saw one in the hands of a poor Carmelite, and was afraid I would destroy it-or worse, give it to the Dominicans.’

‘I do not think he believed us when we said we were taking it to the Benedictines for safe-keeping,’ added Urban. ‘Personally, I think he intended to sell it and keep the profit for himself. You can tell from his expensive habit that he was a worldly sort of man.’

‘Where were you when he died?’ asked Michael, turning to more practical matters. ‘And where was Seton?’

‘We were in our sleeping chamber on the floor above-my old wound was aching, and Urban was reading to me while I rested,’ replied Andrew. ‘Then we heard a hissing sound, followed by a thump. We came to investigate, but we were not surprised to find Witney dead. He had touched the relic, so it was only a matter of time before Barzak’s curse claimed him.’

‘He died from a lack of timely help,’ countered Bartholomew tartly. ‘If he had been pulled from the chimney immediately, he would not have choked.’

‘Then Seton should have done it,’ said Urban. ‘He was here first. When we arrived, he was standing over Witney’s body like a crow over carrion. Then he accused us of killing him, when it was God.’

‘God,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘It is astonishing how often He is blamed for things men have done.’

Andrew ignored him, and turned to Michael, who represented a more sympathetic ear. ‘I promise to do all I can to help with your investigation, Brother, although you will find no earthly cause for Witney’s death. I will stay three days, but then I must go, or you will be adding more names to the list of those whom the relic has claimed.’

‘The Carmelite and his novice are lying,’ said Seton angrily, as he paced back and forth in the chamber he had shared with his Franciscan comrade. ‘Witney did have an interest in relics, but it was an academic fascination-he is one of our order’s leading proponents in the Holy Blood debate, so of course his curiosity was piqued when they claimed to possess such an object. But he would never have tried to steal one. Their story is preposterous.’

‘So what do you think happened to him?’ asked Michael.

Seton sighed. ‘It is obvious. Urban and Andrew killed him, and now they have invented this outrageous tale about ancient curses to cover their tracks. You are an intelligent man, Brother. Surely you are not taken in by this nonsense?’

‘I shall reserve judgement until I have all the facts. Is that why Witney was here? To pick fine Cambridge minds about the Holy Blood polemic?’

Seton sneered. ‘Hardly! There are none worth picking-on Holy Blood or anything else. Our visit has been a sad disappointment so far.’

Michael’s expression was cold. He disliked outsiders denigrating his colleagues, although he did it himself regularly. ‘Why are you here? To study what, exactly?’

‘Angels-although I do not see what that has to do with my colleague’s murder.’

‘Angels,’ mused Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Brother Tomas of Pécs is here to investigate angels.’

‘He is a Dominican,’ replied Seton contemptuously.

‘His knowledge about angels is lacking?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. If that were true, then there would indeed be something odd about Tomas: he would know a good deal about the blood relic debate, but less about the subject in which he claimed to specialize.

Seton backed down. ‘Perhaps I spoke hastily. He has studied different texts to me, which I suppose is not surprising, considering he hails from a foreign school.’

‘Tell me what happened when you found Witney dead,’ said Michael, more interested in the victim than in an irrelevant visiting scholar’s academic skills.

‘I was out-looking for Tomas, actually. He can often be found in St Andrew’s Church at this time of day, and I was hoping to talk to him.’

‘Why did you want to do that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You have just implied you consider his intellect inferior.’

Seton regarded him as though he were lacking in wits himself. ‘Of course he is inferior! He is a foreigner-not even from a civilized country like France or Spain-and a Dominican into the bargain. But I wanted to ask whether he knew where I might find a copy of Grosseteste’s De dotibus. Although he has only been here a few days, he already knows his way around the libraries.’

‘De dotibus is not about angels.’ Bartholomew pounced. ‘It is a short tract on the various aspects and qualities of resurrection.’

‘You are a physician, not a theologian, so do not make assumptions about matters you cannot possibly understand,’ snapped Seton, becoming nettled. ‘Of course angels relate to issues pertaining to resurrection. Besides, it is none of your affair why I want a particular book.’

‘And did you meet Tomas?’ asked Michael, raising a hand to prevent Bartholomew from responding. The point was irrelevant to Witney’s death, and he did not want to waste time on it.

‘No, and when I returned, I found Andrew and Urban in that hall, and Witney was…’ He trailed off with a shudder.

‘You were out when Witney died?’ asked Michael, to be sure.

‘Why? Did that pair claim otherwise? You can check my story, because I was seen in St Andrew’s Church by several people. I do not know their names, because I am a stranger here, but I spoke to an ink-seller and three Franciscans from the Cambridge friary. They will confirm I was out when Witney was murdered.’

‘What did Andrew and Urban say when you found them with Witney’s corpse?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering which of them was lying-and someone was, because the stories conflicted. Seton was arrogant and overbearing, Andrew was deeply convinced of his own rectitude and Urban was blindly loyal. None of them could be trusted to tell the truth.

‘They said nothing. When I saw it was Witney, I accused them of killing him-a servant must have heard us arguing and sent for you. What will you do, Brother? You cannot allow them to leave when it is clear they have committed a grave sin.’

‘They can go nowhere without my permission,’ replied Michael. ‘So, you claim Witney never attacked Andrew and made a grab for his True Cross?’

‘Of course not! Why would he do such a thing? And do not say to sell, because we are Franciscan friars, and not in the business of peddling relics. We leave that sort of thing to the Dominicans-when they do not destroy them in a frenzy of righteous bigotry, of course. But we are veering away from the point: those two Carmelites killed Witney. Urban could easily have climbed to the roof and made noises to attract Witney to the hearth. Then, when his head appeared, the stone was dropped that led to his stunning and subsequent suffocation.’

‘You said he was not the kind of man to peer up chimneys,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Seton sighed. ‘He would have investigated odd sounds. We all would. But he was a good, pious man, who has been brutally slain, and the angels will not rest until his death is avenged. I know angels and how they think.’

‘I will not rest, either, if what you say is true,’ promised Michael, not to be outdone by celestials. ‘But why would Urban and Andrew want Witney dead? They have no motive.’

‘They do,’ countered Seton. ‘Did they not tell you? He was about to expose them as charlatans-them and their so-called True Cross.’

‘How so?’

‘By logical analysis. He listened to their story-that the relic hailed from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre after the first of the Crusades, and that it was cursed by a Mohammedan called Barzak. But there is no written evidence that our Church has ever laid claim to a supply of Holy Blood from Jerusalem-if it had, then it would have been taken to Rome or Constantinople, years before the Crusades.’

‘That is impossible to prove…’ warned Michael, thinking the supposition unsound, to say the least.

‘It is very simple to prove,’ countered Seton. ‘No blood-soaked into the True Cross or anything else-came from the Holy Sepulchre. It is a lie, perpetrated by greedy and unprincipled men. Did you see the parchments they claim authenticate the thing?’

Michael nodded. ‘One was ancient, and bore the seal of a bishop.’

‘It probably is old,’ agreed Seton. ‘It was signed by a knight named Geoffrey Mappestone, who then affixed the seal of the Bishop of Durham.’

‘So?’ asked Michael, not understanding the man’s point.

Seton made a moue of impatience. ‘So the Bishop of Durham at that time was not Mappestone, but a man named Ranulf Flambard. Flambard never set foot in the Holy Land-we know about his life from ecclesiastical records-and so could never have set his seal on this document. And if the relic were real, do you not think it would have been venerated at Flambard’s own cathedral at Durham? But no! Andrew’s splinter has been hidden in an obscure priory in Exeter. If you view it with an unbiased, dispassionate mind, you will see the whole thing is ridiculous.’

Bartholomew thought he might well be right. There were enough ‘genuine’ pieces of the True Cross to crucify the King’s entire army, and fragments could be bought for pennies, although to claim this one was stained with Holy Blood made it a little unusual. If Witney was about to expose Andrew and his acolyte as charlatans, however,-and perhaps deprive them of a handsome gift from a grateful Norwich abbey-then it was certainly a good motive for murder.

‘That pair killed my colleague,’ reiterated Seton firmly. He wrinkled his nose suddenly, and looked around him with disapproval. ‘Ever since you arrived, I have been unable to get the stench of fish from my nose. Do you smell it, too?’

‘No,’ said Michael sharply, brushing his shoulder.

‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew left St Bernard’s Hostel and started to walk to Michaelhouse together. It was almost dark, although the western sky was still tinged pink by the summer sun.

Because it was summer, many folk had been labouring in the fields outside the town, harvesting grain before the fine weather broke. Too much sun meant it had been a poor year for crops, however; granaries were half empty, and there would not be enough to see the poorer folk through the winter. The street along which they walked was baked as dry as fired clay, although the manure that carpeted it meant it was never really hard under foot. The river was unnaturally low, some brooks had run dry, and the entire town stank. Earlier that week, Bartholomew had gone to visit his sister in a nearby village, and when he had returned his eyes had stung and watered from the acrid stench of rotting sewage, festering entrails abandoned by the slaughterhouses, and the rank aroma of unsold fish on the quays. Living in the town, he had not realized how bad the reek had become.

‘What do I think about the cursed-and potentially fraudulent-relic? Or what do I think about Seton’s claim that Witney was murdered?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing up to see the first of the stars begin to twinkle. A soft breeze blew from the south, although it was hot and arid, and did little to reduce the heat.

‘Both. But take the relic first. Do you think it is real?’

‘I have no idea, but I have been offered two fragments of the True Cross this week alone, and there is always someone trying to sell some sacred body part or item once owned by Christ and His saints. Why should Andrew’s be different?’

‘Because of Andrew himself,’ replied Michael. ‘I have been Senior Proctor long enough to gauge a man’s character with reasonable accuracy, and I sense he is telling the truth.’

‘Perhaps he is, but that is not what you asked-Andrew believing in the sanctity of his relic does not prove its case. But Seton was right about the Bishop of Durham: the one who lived during the first of the crusades was called Ranulf Flambard and not Geoffrey Mappestone. I have been to Durham, and I was told about Flambard when I visited the cathedral. That is two suspicious things: the seal does not match the name on the document, and Flambard never went to Jerusalem. He was far too busy doing unpleasant things here and in Normandy.’

‘Then we must agree to differ. I think you are wrong, and Andrew does hold something powerful and holy.’ Michael hesitated, and his next words were blurted. ‘I sensed it when I reached out to take it from him.’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘I had not expected a pragmatic man like you to be convinced by something as ephemeral as a feeling.’

‘Do not scoff at me,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is not easy admitting that I was assailed by a wave of reverence when I saw Andrew’s blood relic, so do not make my discomfort worse. All I know is that I sensed something decent about Andrew, and something strong in his pouch.’

‘That was because he did not let you touch it,’ replied Bartholomew practically, supposing he had better nip Michael’s uncertainties in the bud before they interfered with his investigation. ‘Such tactics work on the feeble minded, but I am surprised you succumbed.’

‘Seton was right,’ retorted Michael irritably. ‘You are a physician and know nothing of theology. But we should not argue when we are unlikely to agree. What do you think about Seton’s claim that the Carmelites murdered Witney?’

Bartholomew considered the question for some time. ‘Urban seems a hot-headed lad, but I do not see him climbing on to a roof to dispatch his victim in so bizarre a manner-nor would Andrew condone it. As far as I am concerned, the evidence suggests that Witney was unlucky enough to be peering up a chimney when a piece of it fell. He was stunned and died inhaling soot. But…’ He rubbed a hand through his hair and sighed deeply.

‘But what?’

‘It is too convenient. A Franciscan argues with two Carmelites and threatens to expose them as charlatans and, shortly afterwards, he is found dead in an accident that is unusual, to say the least. Urban and Andrew just happened to be in the house at the time, while Seton just happened to be out.’

‘So Seton says. Andrew and Urban claim he was with the body when they arrived to investigate the strange sound. Someone is lying.’

‘I am inclined to think it is Andrew.’

‘I think it is Seton,’ countered Michael. ‘Urban is not clever enough to deceive someone of my intelligence-I would have caught him out in any inconsistency.’

‘Not with his master ready to step in and help him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘You prefer Andrew because he is reasonable, whereas Seton is aggressive, rude and arrogant. But character does not make a murderer or an innocent.’

‘So,’ concluded Michael as they reached Michaelhouse and hammered on the gate to be allowed in, ‘you believe Witney threatened to expose the Carmelites’ relic as a forgery, and they killed him before he could do so. Meanwhile, I think Witney and Seton had some sort of argument that left one of them dead. You say yourself that he squabbled with Big Thomas the other day, so he was clearly a quarrelsome sort of fellow-and he died as a result of it.’

‘How? Did he wait obligingly with his head inside the hearth while Seton dropped a stone down the chimney?’

‘Why not? It is what you envisage Urban doing.’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin, and nodded an absent greeting to the night porter who had opened the gate. ‘It does not make sense, does it? You and I have our suspects, but the reality is that we cannot prove there was a murder. It is more likely-far more likely-that Witney died in an odd, freakish accident.’

Michael was unwilling to dismiss the case so soon. ‘What do you think of Tomas? He seems to crop up with suspicious regularity in this case-he quells public quarrels between Witney and the ex-thatcher; he knows a good deal of blood relic theology, Witney’s favourite subject; however, we are told that his knowledge of angels-Seton’s speciality-is lacking.’

‘I do not see why Tomas should be involved in Witney’s death, Brother. He is intelligent, but not so obsessed with his studies that he cannot laugh, unlike most of these clerics. I am looking forward to knowing him better.’

Michael pursed his lips. ‘You have just warned me against allowing amiability to colour my judgement, and now you are falling into the same trap. However, I think there is something unsettling about Tomas. He is a Dominican, whose Order believes blood relics should not be revered, just as the Franciscans propose they should be accorded the greatest respect.’

‘You have uncovered one or two odd facts about him, and you are determined to see him guilty of some crime. As I have told you-twice-I do not think there was a crime. And nor do I think Tomas had anything to do with Witney’s death.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he has an alibi: he was in the Dominican priory when Witney died-and you and I were with him.’

‘So we were,’ acknowledged Michael with poor grace. ‘However, just because he did not physically scramble on the roof, hurling masonry atop the heads of rival Franciscans, does not mean he did not hire someone else to do it.’ He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Did you say the argument he quelled between Witney and his namesake was about thatching?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Big Thomas was a thatcher before he took the cowl.’

Michael’s eyed gleamed. ‘A thatcher is an expert on roofs. And Witney was killed when something dropped from a roof. I wonder whether that is significant.’

‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is far too tenuous a connection.’

Michael sighed. ‘We will get nowhere with this tonight, so we should put it from our minds and see whether there is anything for supper. I am ravenous.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You ate enough at the Dominican priory to last most men a week.’

‘I am not most men, Matt,’ replied Michael comfortably. ‘I am different. And that is why I shall prod about this peculiar death until I have answers.’

The next day, Bartholomew spent the morning teaching, then went with two of his senior students to visit a patient in the Carmelite friary. The victim was the prior, William de Lincolne, a large man with an oddly brushed tuft of hair that rose vertically from his forehead. He had been confined to his bed since the onset of an ague, and was more than willing to pass the time of day in idle chatter with his physician. Bartholomew found it hard to extricate himself, and it was some time before he escaped to his other duties.

It was another scorching day, and he sweltered under his woollen tabard. He longed to pull it off, but the university had decreed that all college scholars should wear liveries that were immediately identifiable, and he did not want to set a bad example to his students.

He was not the only one overheating. He was just walking past St Botolph’s Church on the High Street when he saw a familiar figure. It was Father Andrew, sitting disconsolately on the wall that surrounded the graveyard, mopping his forehead with the sleeve of his habit.

‘Can I fetch you some watered ale, Father?’ asked Bartholomew solicitously, knowing that hot weather could take its toll on the elderly.

Andrew shook his head. ‘It is not the heat that ails me-I have known far fiercer suns in the past. Ten years after I took holy orders, my prior dispatched me on a long, arduous mission in the lands of the Bohemians and Magyars.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. It was unusual to meet men who had journeyed to such exotic places. ‘That must have been interesting.’

Andrew smiled. ‘It was a stimulating interlude in my life. It allowed me to visit distant universities, and I was appointed as a law-keeper in one, a post rather like Brother Michael’s. But I never really settled, and was glad to return to the peaceful Devonshire hills once my mission was completed.’

‘What was your mission? To search for relics?’

Andrew grimaced. ‘I was a minor political envoy, but Prior William’s real purpose in sending me away was to cure me of what he perceived to be a dangerous obsession with my relic. However, during my absence, that prior departed and another replaced him. Master Hugh and his successors did not try to “cure” me; they left me to my own devices-until John de Burgo was elected, that is.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. He was more interested in the man’s journeys than in what had happened when he returned; even the name of the kingdoms of the east brought back memories of his own travels. ‘How far did you go?’

But Andrew did not share his enthusiasm. ‘Too far, and I was glad to be home.’ He sighed, and wiped his head again.

‘What ails you, if not the heat?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Can I help?’

Andrew indicated Bartholomew’s bored medical students, who waited at a discreet distance. ‘I have nothing a physician can cure, and your boys are restless. Do not linger here, wasting time with old men, when you could be instructing them in the ways of virtue and goodness.’

‘I teach them medicine. Goodness and virtue I leave to the priests.’

‘You should take more care of them,’ recommended Andrew. ‘If you do not temper their learning with the teachings of the Church, they will make their own interpretations of what you tell them, and they will hurt you with betrayals.’

Bartholomew helped him to his feet and watched him hobble away, puzzled by the advice. His students immediately began a barrage of questions about the effects of the heat on elderly humours, and he was absorbed in answering them until one, Deynman, gave a yelp and raised his hand to his head. It came away bloody.

‘A stone!’ he cried indignantly, pointing across the road. ‘He threw a stone!’

‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew. He could see no one.

‘Kip Roughe,’ shouted Deynman. ‘He is the Dominicans’ servant, and is always jibing us because we are not theologians. He hurled the rock: I saw him.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bartholomew, leading him to the churchyard wall. The student was pale, and he did not want him to faint.

‘He is just plain nasty,’ replied Deynman, tilting his head so Bartholomew could inspect it. The wound was not serious, although, like many scalp injuries, it bled profusely. ‘He has no reason to lob missiles at me. I have never even spoken to him, although I know who he is-everyone does, because he is a lout.’

‘He even brawls with students from his own institution,’ added his friend. ‘Poor Bulmer has a sore face from one of his punches.’

Bartholomew recalled Bulmer’s jaw-a nasty bruise that would make eating painful for weeks to come. He gave Deynman a clean dressing to hold to the cut and sent him home. He warned him not to retaliate to Roughe’s assault, knowing how quickly such situations could escalate, and watched until he was out of sight. Then he marched towards St Botolph’s Church and stamped inside.

The interior was cool and dark after the brilliance outside, and it took a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Then he saw two shadows easing silently along the south aisle, aiming for the priest’s door in the chancel. He broke into a run and had Kip Roughe by the scruff of his neck before he could reach it. Kip was a burly fellow, with the kind of battered face that indicated he enjoyed a brawl, while his brother John was larger. It occurred to Bartholomew that it was unwise to tackle them when they could easily overpower him, but the grabbing was done and he knew it would be a mistake to reveal his unease.

‘What did you think you were doing?’ he demanded, not relinquishing his hold. ‘You could have hit Deynman’s eye, and blinded him.’

‘It was an accident,’ objected Kip. He tried to free himself, and looked angry when he found he could not. ‘We were aiming at the pigeons.’

John stepped forward in a way that was threatening, so Bartholomew released his brother and pushed him hard, so they stumbled into each other. ‘I will report this to Prior Morden,’ he said coldly. ‘He can decide what to do with you.’

‘It will be your word against ours,’ said John, leaning against a pillar and removing his knife from his belt. ‘Who will believe you?’

‘Morden,’ replied Bartholomew curtly. ‘And the Senior Proctor.’

‘Let’s go, John,’ said Kip sullenly. ‘I am not staying here to be threatened.’

John pulled away from him. ‘We are alone here. No one will-’

‘People saw him chase us in here,’ snapped Kip. He took a firm hold of his brother’s arm and dragged him outside, leaving Bartholomew angry and unsettled.

Bartholomew sat for a while in the church, relishing the coolness of the stones after the heat of the day, and left only when scholars from the Hall of Valence Marie entered for their afternoon prayers. They were noisy, speaking loudly about a debate that had just ended, and shattered the peace with their strident voices. Bartholomew emerged into the sharp afternoon sunlight, and looked both ways along the street, wondering whether the Roughe brothers might still be there, ready to lob stones again. As he did so, he saw Michael outside St Bernard’s Hostel. The monk was standing on the opposite side of the road, his eyes fixed on the roof. Bartholomew went to join him.

‘Do you think you will understand how Witney died if you stare up there long enough?’ he asked, amused by the monk’s intense interest.

Michael did not smile back. ‘Look at the chimney and tell me what you see.’

‘Stone tiles, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, not sure what the monk wanted him to say. ‘This is an old building, so some are probably worn.’

‘I must know for certain,’ said Michael. ‘I want you to go up there and look.’

Bartholomew laughed at his audacity. ‘Do you, indeed! Well, you can go and do it yourself.’

‘I cannot. I am too heavy-do not deny it, because you are always telling me to eat less-but you are fit and agile. It will only take a moment.’

‘And how do I get up there?’ asked Bartholomew, who had no intention of doing anything so perilous. ‘Fly?’

‘I suggest you use a ladder, like everyone else. Bene’t College has a long one; I will fetch it for you.’

Before the physician could object, he was gone, and Bartholomew was left alone at the side of the street doing much what the monk had been doing just moments before. He saw Andrew and Urban pass by on the opposite side of the road, the teacher deep in a monologue and his student straining to appear interested. Andrew looked ill and tired, and Bartholomew was concerned by how heavily he leaned on Urban’s arm.

‘I heard what happened,’ came a voice close enough to make him jump.

‘Tomas!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, regaining his composure, and smiling a greeting. The Dominican stood next to him, gazing up at the roof.

‘The word is that Witney was crushed by a chance stone that fell down the chimney,’ said Tomas. ‘I have also been told he died because he touched a sacred relic-a cursed sacred relic. Did Father Andrew mention this to you?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Why should he not?’

Tomas shrugged. ‘I thought he might try to keep it a secret, lest the Chancellor demand he hand the thing over to a higher authority. He is old and frail, and may not have the strength to refuse.’

‘He is concerned that someone might take it. He claimed Witney tried.’

‘Witney was a Franciscan, and his Order is determined to preserve blood relics. Perhaps he was trying to make sure it was kept safe.’

It was a possibility Bartholomew had already considered, but it was interesting to hear it from another quarter. ‘Did Witney follow his Order’s teaching or did he have his own opinion?’

Tomas shrugged. ‘I have no idea: we never shared personal reflections on that debate. He did tell me he was horrified Andrew carried such a thing around his neck, and it is possible a misunderstanding arose-that Andrew mistook a well-meaning gesture for something else.’

‘You knew Witney,’ said Bartholomew, recalling him singing the Franciscan’s praises at the Dominican priory the previous day.

Tomas nodded. ‘His main interest was the Holy Blood debate, and he was deeply involved in the question of whether it is possible for Christ’s blood to exist as a sacred form outside His body-if His body was fully raised from the dead, then His blood would have been resurrected with him. He expressed some very powerful theories, all very well phrased, and his logic could not be faulted.’

‘Was he firm enough in his beliefs to make someone want to kill him?’

Tomas gazed at him, and answered with a question of his own. ‘Are you saying his death was not an accident? It was not the relic’s curse that killed him, but some jealous mortal?’

Bartholomew made no attempt to keep the scepticism from his face. ‘I do not believe a relic-cursed or otherwise-can bring about a man’s death.’

Tomas raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you not? But Seton told me you have been appraised of this relic’s history. Are you not suspicious of the amount of blood in its history? Personally, I err on the side of caution: I do not know whether such things can manifest themselves, but I treat them with respect lest they do. It is a policy that has served me well for many years.’

Bartholomew was surprised that Tomas, a Dominican friar, should adopt such a stance, but supposed Michael had done as much, too, despite his customary scorn for superstition. ‘You did not answer my question. Was Witney the kind of man whose strong opinions caused offence?’

Tomas considered, then nodded. ‘It is possible. However, although he was not easy to like, I do not think having an objectionable character is a good motive for murder.’

‘He was objectionable?’

‘He was not always pleasant, and I sensed a certain dishonesty-that some of the ideas he expounded were not his own.’

‘A theory thief?’

Tomas shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I should not have been so blunt, but yes. A few of his ideas actually came from Meyronnes, the Franciscan theologian. Witney was a brilliant logician, and few could best him in an argument, but he was not an original thinker.’

‘And Seton?’

‘His theories about angelic manifestations are all his own. However, since Witney did not “borrow” ideas from Cambridge men, I do not see how plagiarism is relevant to his death. Are Michael and the Roughe brothers carrying a ladder?’

‘He wants me to inspect the roof,’ said Bartholomew resentfully, scowling at monk and servants as they approached. Kip and John did not acknowledge him.

‘That is a good idea, especially since Seton is watching-he will see you taking his accusations seriously, and even if you find nothing, he will know the Senior Proctor did everything possible to investigate the death of his colleague. Do you want me to help?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. Then he saw the Roughe brothers lean the ladder against the wall in a way that was precarious, and changed his mind. ‘You can hold the bottom. It looks unstable.’

‘It is unstable,’ said Tomas, elbowing the servants out of the way while he set the steps in a more secure position. Bartholomew could not but help notice the unreadable glance that passed between Kip and John. Had they wanted him to fall? He took Michael to one side.

‘Did you ask Kip about his fight with Bulmer?’

Michael nodded. ‘While we were waiting to borrow the ladder. It was all Bulmer’s fault, of course: Kip was innocently drinking ale when Bulmer attacked him. Bulmer is a troublemaker, and Kip knows that-without independent witnesses, it will be impossible to prove who started the fracas.’

Given his own recent experiences with the sullen servants, Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘Did you ask what they were quarrelling about?’

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘I did not, but it will be over poorly cleaned shoes, or whether Bulmer paid Kip enough for making his bed. It will be nothing of consequence.’

‘Ask him,’ suggested Bartholomew.

Michael sighed, but did as he suggested.

‘Bulmer was spying,’ came the unexpected reply. Kip was simultaneously indignant and sanctimonious, neither expressions that sat well on his pugilistic features. ‘Prior Morden does not approve of behaviour that brings Dominicans into disrepute, so I suggested Bulmer should stop. He refused, and we fought. He threw the first punch, though, as I told you earlier, Brother.’

Michael scratched his chin. ‘And whom was Bulmer spying on?’

‘He was lurking outside St Andrew’s Church, where the whores display their wares. It was even more reason to send him back to his prior.’

‘Right,’ said Michael flatly. ‘And your sole intention was to protect the Dominicans’ reputation?’

Bartholomew grabbed his arm and tugged him out of earshot. ‘Several prostitutes do work near that church, and Bulmer is the kind of novice to forget his vow of celibacy and hire one now and again. But Seton mentioned that Tomas also visits St Andrew’s Church-as does Seton himself, and perhaps Witney, too. I think you should interview Bulmer and find out exactly what he was doing when he was caught by his friary’s servants.’

With Michael and the Roughe brothers holding the bottom of the ladder, Bartholomew climbed to the top, expecting at every step that a rung would break and send him tumbling to the ground below. Then he became aware of Tomas behind him.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, grasping the rungs tightly.

‘It is much safer with two,’ replied Tomas. ‘Brother Michael declined to oblige, and I do not think Kip or John would be much help, so I came myself.’

Bartholomew nodded his thanks, and stepped on to the roof, clutching one of the bands that held the thatch in place. As he did so, and while his balance was at its most precarious, the ladder jerked to one side.

‘Hey!’ came Michael’s angry voice as Bartholomew scrabbled to gain a handhold. ‘Be careful!’

‘I am sorry,’ said John, not sounding at all repentant. ‘My hand slipped.’

‘Then do not let it slip again,’ called Tomas, shocked. Bartholomew glanced at him and saw that his face was white. ‘Bartholomew almost fell, and so did I.’

‘You might topple to your dooms yet,’ called Kip carelessly. ‘I had to climb on the friary thatch a few weeks ago, and it was very slippery. Men who poke about on roofs are asking for accidents.’

While Bartholomew pondered what sounded ominously like a threat, he became aware that the ladder was moving again, as Tomas clambered up next to him.

‘Do not stand there,’ advised Tomas. ‘Go to your right.’

‘Why?’ demanded Bartholomew, declining to comply. He did not feel comfortable so far above the ground, and disliked the way his legs were shaking.

‘Big Thomas was a thatcher, and knows a lot about roofs. He told me never to stand where you are now, because that is the part most vulnerable to decay and instability.’

Hastily, Bartholomew followed the advice, and together he and the Dominican made their way towards the chimney. At one point he started to slide, but Tomas caught his wrist and held it until he had regained his footing. He smiled his gratitude weakly, wanting the examination over so that he could descend to the ground again. When they reached the chimney, Bartholomew stopped in surprise, and exchanged a startled glance with Tomas. There was a harness fastened around it, as though someone else had been there and had wanted to make sure he would not take a tumble.

‘Is this from last year?’ Bartholomew wondered. ‘When the roof was repaired?’

Tomas shook his head. ‘It is recent-the rope is almost new.’

Bartholomew grabbed the chimney in a rough embrace and squinted down it, praying someone would not choose that moment to light a fire. There was a narrow ledge just inside, and several broken tiles had been placed on it.

‘Missiles,’ mused Tomas thoughtfully, lifting one out to inspect. ‘It looks as though someone intended to drop them down the chimney. They have not been here long, because they would be more covered in soot if they had.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You know rather a lot about this kind of thing.’

‘I was a proctor-or its equivalent-at Pécs, and investigated far more deaths than would be considered decent by my order. I became quite adept at it.’

Bartholomew returned his friendly smile, trying to hide the clamouring thought that would not be silenced: had Brother Tomas learned enough from solving murders to be skilled at committing one himself?

Bartholomew felt considerably happier once his feet were back on firm ground. He told Michael what he had seen, and added in an undertone that the monk was not the only one with experience as a proctor who was interested in Witney’s death. Michael was troubled by both revelations. He watched Tomas remove the ladder from the wall and issue the Roughe brothers with instructions for returning it to its owners. The pair picked it up reluctantly, as though they were troubled not only by the weight, but because they had hoped to learn what had been discovered on the roof. After a moment, Tomas decided to go with them, apparently thinking they could not be trusted to carry out his orders unsupervised. They were slovenly and insolent, and Bartholomew thought he was right to be watchful-long ladders were expensive, and the Dominicans would be obliged to pay for another if their servants left Bene’t’s somewhere it could be stolen.

‘When I am rich, I am going to buy one of these,’ muttered John, as they made their way down the street. ‘If I charge a penny each time someone wants it, I will make a fortune.’

‘Peterhouse paid to use this one three times last week,’ agreed Kip. ‘And the Gilbertines borrowed it four, because of pigeons. Witney had it once or twice for pigeons, too. Remember Urban knocking that nest down for him? Feathers everywhere!’

‘So, Seton was right after all,’ mused Michael unhappily as their chattering voices receded. ‘He said Witney had been murdered, and now you discover evidence that someone harnessed himself to the roof with a pile of missiles at the ready. Obviously, Seton would not have insisted on an investigation if he was the killer.’ He considered for a moment, unwilling to dismiss his prime suspect too readily. ‘Or was he calling our bluff-hoping the very act of ordering us to look into the matter would annoy us into doing the opposite?’

‘I doubt it, Brother,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is too risky. Besides, he was in St Andrew’s Church with independent alibis at the time of Witney’s murder. I was right in my original assumption: the Carmelites are the villains. I doubt Andrew is agile enough to scale roofs, so we must look to Urban.’

But Michael shook his head. ‘You are wrong; they are not killers. A powerful relic, like the one they carry, would not allow itself to be toted by evil hands.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance, thinking about the many acts of wickedness they had witnessed in the past, when sacred objects had suffered all manner of indignities in the hands of wicked men. ‘Do you really believe that?’

Michael rubbed his eyes. ‘I do not know what to think. However, there is something about that particular relic…but my thoughts are irrelevant. Our duty is to assess the evidence you found and draw rational conclusions from it. Are you sure about this chimney? Is it possible Tomas put the harness and stones there, to confound us for some reason? There is something about him I do not trust-and now he admits to expertise in murder investigations.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘And this “something about him I do not trust” is a dispassionate analysis of the evidence, is it? But I suppose it is possible he placed the rope and masonry by the chimney for us to find, although I cannot imagine why. He was very helpful when we were up there-he saved me from falling.’

Michael grimaced. ‘We are destined to agree about nothing in this case, Matt. You believe the Carmelites are our best suspects, while I remain suspicious of Seton. You consider the relic nothing special, while I feel there is something unique about it. And you admire Tomas, while all my senses clamour at me to be wary of him. I do not like the way he seems to feature in the various strands of our investigation-and just chances to stroll by when you need help on the roof. But tell me again about what you found. What do the harness and stones mean?’

‘That someone really did kill Witney, and made it appear as though the stone fell on him by accident. It is an unusual way to kill, and not one without difficulties: what if the perpetrator killed the wrong man; how could he be sure his victim would obligingly stick his head up the chimney at the right time…?’

‘Perhaps he did not kill the right man,’ suggested Michael. ‘Witney is dead, but that does not mean he was the intended victim. All you would see from the top of a chimney would be a head-shaped silhouette. Perhaps our killer failed in his objective, and even now is stalking his real victim. I should tell Andrew as soon as possible, and ensure he takes proper precautions.’

He broke off the discussion when Tomas returned. The Dominican made straight for the harness they had retrieved and began to inspect it. Michael assumed an expression of friendly interest as he walked towards him, and Bartholomew knew from experience that an interrogation was about to take place.

‘I understand you and I have shared similar experiences,’ said Michael. ‘I did not know you were a proctor.’

Tomas returned his smile. He had a pleasant face, and dark eyes that twinkled when he laughed. ‘Keeping law and order in Pécs took so much time that my studies suffered, and I was obliged to resign. It was an interesting life, but not nearly as fascinating as angels.’

‘But you are intrigued by this particular case,’ said Michael, and the smile turned cold. ‘It was not safe to climb on that roof, yet you did so willingly. Why?’

‘To help your colleague,’ said Tomas, sounding surprised the monk should ask. ‘You are right: it was dangerous, and it was unfair to send him up there alone. You should have gone with him yourself.’

Michael glared, although Bartholomew thought he had a point. It was not the first time the monk had merrily ordered his friend to do something risky because he did not fancy doing it himself.

‘What conclusion have you drawn from your discoveries?’ asked the monk icily.

‘That you have a murderer to catch. It is clear someone wanted to kill someone else-whether Witney or another man. Also, your villain tried to conceal the unlawful killing-he used the chimney in the hope that you would see Witney’s death as an unfortunate accident. Perhaps he wanted you to believe the cursed relic was responsible.’

Michael looked superior. ‘We have already reasoned this ourselves.’

‘Not about the relic,’ said Bartholomew, earning himself a weary glower.

‘I suspect the killer wanted you to see Witney’s death as divine intervention, an angry saint, or Barzac’s malediction,’ Tomas went on. ‘He will be angry when he learns his ruse did not work.’

‘You seem very familiar with Andrew’s relic,’ said Michael, his voice dripping with suspicion. ‘I was under the impression that he tells very few people about it.’

Bartholomew did not agree. He had not noticed much reluctance on the elderly friar’s part to discuss the ‘burden’ he carried. And if he had willingly shared the information with Michael, then in whom else had he confided?

‘Father Andrew did not tell me about it,’ replied Tomas. ‘Indeed, I have never spoken to the man. It was Witney who obliged. He was intrigued by it, and asked me to go with him to various libraries, to help research the validity of the accompanying letters of authentication. He had learned that a bishop of Durham’s seal was used, but that the man who signed it was no bishop.’

‘Why did he ask you to help him?’ asked Michael. ‘And why did you agree?’

‘He asked because I am a Dominican and he was a Franciscan. Our Orders disagree about blood relics, as you know: you expounded on the matter only yesterday. Witney said he wanted a man from the opposing side of the argument to be with him as he investigated, in case Andrew’s relic transpired to be important-I would be an independent witness who would substantiate his findings without prejudice. I agreed, because I have an interest in the Holy Blood debate myself.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘And where did Witney stand in the polemic? Did he follow his Order’s teachings, and declare blood relics worthy of veneration? Or was he swayed by the arguments of the Dominicans, and believed such items to be anathema, to be destroyed as heretical idols of veneration?’

‘I imagine he was an adherent of his own Order’s theology,’ replied Tomas, unperturbed by the monk’s hostility. ‘We discussed the issue at length, but neither of us injected personal opinions into the discourse-we argued purely along theosophical lines. To do otherwise would have been highly unprofessional.’

Bartholomew grinned. The previous day, Michael had been unable to resist adding his own views-some of them emotive and unsupported by logical deduction-to the thesis he had outlined.

Michael pursed his lips. ‘So, you cannot tell me whether Witney’s obsession with Andrew’s relic was because he wanted it revered or wanted it destroyed?’

‘No,’ replied Tomas. ‘He never told me, and I did not know him well enough to ask. It is easy for a Benedictine, like you, to state his mind freely, because your Order has not taken a dogmatic stance on the matter. However, to enquire of a Dominican or a Franciscan whether he accepts his Order’s teaching is a different matter entirely. You are asking him whether he is loyal or perfidious.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Now we have issues of fidelity to consider when we explore the circumstances of Witney’s death. Was our victim true to his Order’s beliefs, or did he think them erroneous? And, since you do not know the answer, we must ask his friend Seton.’

Michael was to be disappointed when he went to interview Seton, because the Oxford academic was not at home. Bartholomew refused to wait until he returned, on the grounds that the man could be gone all day, listening to lectures or reading in one of the college libraries, and opted to visit the Dominican priory instead: he wanted to see the injured Bulmer, and examine his swollen jaw. Michael offered to accompany him. His investigation was at a standstill until he could interview Seton, but there were other proctorial duties awaiting, one of which was determining whether the Dominican novice had been ogling prostitutes when Kip Roughe had fought him. If that were true, then Michael would impose a hefty fine as a way of warning him-and his friends-not to do it again.

He and Bartholomew left the High Street and made their way through the maze of alleys to the marshes on which the Dominican priory stood. The sun was blazing in another clear blue sky, and Bartholomew felt sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. He wiped his face with his sleeve, and stepped over a dog that lay panting in the road, too hot to move away from trampling feet. Another lapped greedily at a bowl of water placed for strays by some thoughtful person. By the time they reached the friary, Bartholomew was sticky and uncomfortable, and Michael’s flabby face was flushed red. The gate was opened by Big Thomas, who demanded to know their business.

‘I want to speak to Prior Morden,’ said Michael, starting to push his way inside.

Big Thomas barred it. ‘What about?’

Michael gazed at him in disbelief. ‘Nothing I am prepared to share with a gatekeeper. Tell Morden immediately that I am here to see him.’

Big Thomas scowled. ‘I hate gate duty! If I ask too many questions, visitors accuse me of being nosy; and if I ask too few, I am berated for letting just anyone inside. I never get it right. I should never have abandoned thatching to take the cowl-there is too much thinking involved.’

Michael sniggered as the man went to fetch his master. ‘He is lucky he chose the Dominicans, then. They think less than any Order in Cambridge.’

‘What is this about thinking?’ asked tiny Prior Morden, hurrying to greet them. ‘Too much of that goes on in this town, and no good will come of it. A prime example is this aggravation pertaining to Holy Blood, which you were holding forth about yesterday, Brother. I did not understand a word-I still do not, even though Little Tomas spent hours explaining it to me last night.’

‘I do not suppose you discussed blood relics with Seton and Witney from St Bernard’s Hostel, did you? They had views on just this issue.’

‘I most certainly did not,’ replied Morden indignantly. ‘They are Franciscans.’

‘Are you sure you never spoke to them?’ probed Michael. ‘You did not cross swords, even briefly?’

Morden pursed his lips. ‘Well, there was an occasion a couple of days ago, when Witney sidled up to me and asked whether I had been to Hailes or Ashridge. But I am not stupid, Brother, and I know perfectly well what those two places are famous for: blood relics. I told him I had not and left without further ado.’

‘And your friars?’ pressed Michael. ‘Are they equally astute when it comes to dealing with sly Franciscans, who try to make them discuss contentious subjects against their will?’

‘They are,’ declared Morden. ‘None would hold forth on such a dangerous topic with Grey Friars, especially ones who hail from that pit of devils, Oxford.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael mildly. ‘Then perhaps you will explain why Little Tomas has just admitted to helping Witney investigate the validity of one particular Holy Blood relic.’

‘Did he?’ asked Morden unhappily. ‘I know nothing about that, but he is a guest, not one of my own friars. I tend to leave visitors to their own devices, especially ones who come here to study: if I try to regulate them, they become testy and claim I interfere with the progress of their education. I have learned to let them get on with it. So, Little Tomas has benefited from my leniency, although I cannot imagine what a decent man like him would find to say to Franciscans, especially that pair: Seton is arrogant and Witney is-was-a fanatic.’

‘A fanatic?’ echoed Michael.

‘About blood relics.’ Morden sighed. ‘He spoke in confidence, but I suppose it does not matter now he is dead. When he asked me about Hailes and Ashridge-before I walked away-he told me that all such relics must be destroyed, because otherwise ignorant people will venerate them and stain their souls. However, as long as prayers are headed in the right direction, I do not think it matters whether they are directed through Holy Blood, the mass, the saints or anything else.’

‘Be careful, Father Prior,’ warned Michael, amused to hear such a tolerant attitude from a member of so vehement an Order. ‘That is close to heresy, and your Master-General is very particular about that sort of thing.’

Morden grimaced. ‘Yes, you told me yesterday that, as a Dominican, I am supposed to denounce blood relics. I imagine that was why Witney approached me: as the highest-ranking Black Friar, he expected me to concur with his views.’

‘Views which run contrary to those of his own Order,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘So, now we know where he stood-we do not need to ask Seton about him.’

‘Do you know what Little Tomas thinks?’ asked Michael. ‘Does he follow your Order’s guidelines, or is he, like Witney, the kind of man to take against them?’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Morden. ‘We have discussed the polemic, but he has never honoured me with his own opinions. Do you think he might have been sent by the Master-General, to ferret out heretics and rebels among us?’ His elfin features creased into an expression of alarm.

‘It is possible,’ said Michael spitefully.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew at the same time.

Morden looked unhappier still as he snapped his fingers at a passing servant. It was John Roughe, who was ordered to convey the visitors to the dormitory Bulmer shared with the other novices. On the way, Roughe did his best to engage them in conversation and find out what they wanted to ask Bulmer. He was clearly unconvinced by Bartholomew’s claim that he was there in a professional capacity, and looked meaningfully at the bulky presence of the Senior Proctor.

‘It was Bulmer who started that fight,’ John asserted, abandoning his ingratiating manner when he saw it would not work. ‘Not my brother Kip. If Bulmer tells you otherwise, then he is a liar. He was at the church, after whores.’

‘Is that so?’ replied Bartholomew, not much caring what the novice was doing. It was not his affair.

‘Yes,’ stated Roughe angrily. They were in a narrow corridor, and he stepped forward smartly to block their way. ‘And he does not need the services of a physician, so you might as well save your time and go home.’

Bartholomew was unmoved. ‘I am a better judge of that than you. Stand aside.’

‘I will not-’ But Michael’s bulk loomed, and Roughe’s words died in his throat. With a silent and infinitely resentful gesture, he indicated that the room they wanted was straight ahead.

‘He does not like us being here,’ mused Michael, watching him slouch away. ‘We are personae non gratae wherever we go these days.’

‘You have the power to fine his brother for attacking Bulmer-and from what I saw of Kip earlier today, I would not be surprised to learn that he was the aggressor. It is an odd tale anyway. Why should a lout like Kip take exception to Bulmer eyeing prostitutes? Is it because he has a favourite lady, and he does not want to share her with members of the university?’

He opened the dormitory door and entered the long chamber. Bulmer was sitting in the end bed with a cooling poultice pushed to his swollen face. He looked a good deal worse than he had the day before, because the swelling had come out, although he was no longer reeling and stupid. He scowled as they approached.

‘I told you yesterday,’ he began without preamble. ‘Kip Roughe punched me.’

‘It is a strange wound to be caused by a punch,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the bruising closely. ‘He must have caught you at an odd angle.’

‘It hurt, I know that,’ said Bulmer ruefully. ‘But, being a peace-loving man, I have no knowledge about what constitutes the right or wrong angles for blows.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows, knowing perfectly well that Bulmer was an accomplished and experienced brawler, and that he knew exactly how to hit people.

‘It is difficult to find the truth when there are no independent witnesses and both protagonists claim the other is at fault,’ said Michael, watching Bartholomew sit on the bed and gently probe the swelling.

‘I have told you what happened,’ objected Bulmer, pushing the physician away. ‘I will take final vows soon, and I am not given to lying. The Roughe brothers are, though; they steal, too.’

‘Can you prove dishonesty?’ asked Michael. ‘I will prosecute them, if so.’

Bulmer looked sheepish. ‘I am repeating what others have told me. They may be too timid to take on the Roughes, but I am not.’

‘Where did the altercation happen?’ asked Michael.

‘Outside St Andrew’s.’

‘What were you doing there?’

Bulmer was surprised by the question. ‘It is the nearest church to the friary, and I often go there to pray. Many Dominicans do. Our own chapel can be noisy in the daytime, and some of us crave a quieter place for our devotions.’

Bartholomew struggled to keep the incredulity from his face, although Michael had no such qualms, and his expression was openly sceptical. ‘You are not a pious lad, Bulmer, so do not pretend you are. Your skills and merits lie in other areas-equally valuable to your Order, I am sure-but do not try to deceive me.’

‘Very well,’ said Bulmer stiffly. ‘I was watching someone.’

‘I see. Does Prior Morden know you spend your time ogling whores?’

‘That is not what I was doing!’ cried Bulmer, shocked. ‘I only ever watch them at night, and the incident with Roughe happened in daylight.’

‘Who were you watching?’ asked Michael curiously.

Bulmer was uneasy. ‘I would rather not say.’

Michael followed his nervous glance towards the door. ‘Do not worry about being overheard. Matt will stand guard and make sure no one is eavesdropping.’

Bartholomew obliged, and the novice began to speak. ‘I was watching Little Tomas. I do not like him.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I am not sure,’ admitted Bulmer. ‘I am not given to flights of fancy, being a practical fellow, but my feelings about him are strong, and I felt the need to act. Prior Morden is a good man, but overly inclined to see the good in people. I do not want him harmed because of the likes of Little Tomas.’

‘Can you be more specific?’ asked Michael, raising his hand when Bartholomew started to point out that the suspicion probably arose from the fact that Tomas was a foreigner, and such men often excited negative emotions in English towns.

Bulmer played with the compress against his injured face. ‘He says he is from a university called Pécs, but I have never heard of it, and I do not believe it exists. I am afraid he is here to spy on us, to see where we stand over this Holy Blood business. None of us really understands the wretched affair, and Prior Morden is too open for his own good-I think he may even believe the Franciscans are right, and might confide in the wrong people. I do not want the Cambridge community excommunicated when I am about to take my final vows-I should like to be a prior one day, and that will not happen if I am deemed a heretic.’

‘Is that all?’ asked Michael. ‘You do not like Tomas because he is from an unknown university and you think he may be part of an inquisition?’

Bulmer nodded. ‘And because he asks questions. I detest Kip Roughe, as you know, but even he is uncomfortable with Tomas, and that is why we fought. I was watching Tomas, but it was Kip who was about to thrust a knife between his shoulder blades. I cannot condone murder, not even of someone like Tomas. I ordered him to put down his weapon, and he punched me.’

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why not mention this sooner? We assumed you were gawking at prostitutes, but now it seems you averted a crime. Why did you keep your noble actions to yourself?’

‘Because I would have had to admit to following Tomas,’ replied Bulmer resentfully. ‘Although I suspect he probably already knows-as I said, he is clever. Besides, this is not the first time Kip and John have tried to kill him, but he is too cunning to be dispatched by mere servants. It is the Roughes who will die if they continue to stalk him, not Little Tomas.’

As soon as he emerged from the Dominican priory, Bartholomew was summoned by the Carmelites, whose prior had taken a turn for the worse, obliging the physician to spend the rest of the day with him. By the time he returned to Michaelhouse, it was too late to speak to Michael and the lights in almost every room were doused. Exhausted, he slept soundly, despite the stifling heat, and woke only when the bell chimed for prime. He waylaid the monk before breakfast, and learned that Kip Roughe had confirmed Bulmer’s tale-and had been proud that he had raised the courage to take a stand against a man of Tomas’s obvious wickedness. Michael had warned him not to do it again, and fined him heavily to make his point.

Both scholars spent the morning teaching, and it was well past noon before they were able to meet again. Michael, whose classes were smaller and less demanding, had gone a second time to warn the Roughe brothers against murder, only to learn that neither had been seen since the previous evening. Both Bulmer and Morden informed him that it was not an uncommon occurrence for the pair to disappear on business of their own, and neither seemed concerned about their untimely absence.

‘I am worried, Matt,’ said Michael as they walked towards the High Street. He wanted to visit Seton. ‘I do not want the Roughe brothers dead at Tomas’s hand.’

‘It is they who are trying to dispatch him, not the other way around. And if they are killed, Tomas can quite legitimately claim self-defence. I do not know why they have taken against him: he has done nothing wrong, other than to be an intelligent foreigner.’

Michael was not so sure, but did not want to argue when he knew they would not agree, while Bartholomew also dropped the matter and looked across the road to where two men in Carmelite habits walked, deep in conversation-or rather, Andrew talked while Urban listened. Bartholomew could not be certain, but he thought Urban was sobbing, and supposed the master was admonishing him for some infraction. His own, albeit brief, observations had told him that Andrew was a hard and exacting taskmaster, difficult to please. He recalled him mentioning a previous novice, who had been all a master could desire, but who had ‘betrayed’ him by seeking more knowledgeable teachers. He supposed Urban was lacking in comparison, and felt sorry for the lad: competing with ghosts was a grim and unrewarding business.

Michael knocked briskly on the door to St Bernard’s, and paced back and forth while he waited for it to be answered. Bartholomew watched Andrew sink gratefully on to the low wall surrounding the churchyard opposite, while Urban perched next to him. The old man was weary, eager for rest, while Urban appeared to be unsettled and restless. When a greasy scullion arrived to ask Michael’s business, the monk did not reply; he pushed past the man and strode inside, aiming for the smaller of the two chambers on the ground floor, where Seton was enjoying a solitary meal.

‘You are alone?’ asked Michael. ‘Where are the Carmelites?’

‘Out,’ said Seton, before Bartholomew could say they were sitting in the sun outside. ‘They have been gone much of the day, which suits me. I am here to study, and it is difficult to read when they chatter all the time.’

‘They talk a lot?’ enquired Michael, helping himself to bread.

‘Andrew does,’ replied Seton, grimacing when Michael took the last piece of chicken. ‘He is always telling that stupid novice something he will forget within an hour. Carmelites accept anyone into their ranks, and more often than not their wits are inferior. I am afraid the same is also true of my own Order. Still, at least the Franciscans have men like me to present an intelligent face to the world. Witney did so, too, before that pair murdered him.’

‘Witney was interested in Andrew’s Holy Blood relic,’ began Michael. ‘Are you sure he did not try to take it from him? Your Order is intent on preserving such items from destruction by the Dominicans. Perhaps he tried to seize it in a misguided attempt to protect it-to take it from a feeble old man who would be unable to repel the determined advances of single-minded Black Friars.’

Seton sighed. ‘I was not going to bother you with irrelevant detail, but Witney was not an adherent of my Order’s teachings-he did not accept the validity of such relics. But why do you ask? Have you come around to my way of thinking: the Carmelites killed him?’

‘Did you like Witney?’ asked Michael, declining to reply.

Seton was taken aback. ‘I have known kinder, more gracious men, but I did not kill him, if that is what you are asking. I heard what you found on the roof, but I am not a man to scramble up buildings, Brother. That sort of agility is for the likes of young Urban.’

‘Did you see Urban by the chimney?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or covered in bits of thatching to suggest he had been climbing?’

‘No,’ admitted Seton. ‘But I paid little attention to him or his master, because I considered them beneath my dignity. It was Witney who engaged them in conversation. But, now I think of it, Urban did climb a ladder at one point. There was a pigeon’s nest near our window, and the constant coos and flaps were disturbing Witney, so Urban offered to knock it down for him. There! I have proved your case, Brother: Urban is an experienced user of ladders and happy on roofs.’

‘I hardly think-’ began Bartholomew, but Seton was not to be deterred.

‘And whoever murdered Witney was a man with exactly those skills. Urban is the villain, just as I predicted.’

It was clear they would learn no more from Seton, so Bartholomew and Michael took their leave.

Bartholomew followed Michael out of the hostel into the intense glare of the afternoon sun. Michael gasped at the sudden heat, then insisted they visit the Brazen George for cool ale while they discussed what they had learned. Although scholars were not permitted in taverns, Bartholomew felt the humidity was unpleasant enough to warrant some rule-breaking. He followed the monk into a peaceful room at the back of the inn, where they were served ale that had come directly from one of the deeper cellars. It was clear, cold and refreshing, and he began to feel somewhat revived. The same could not be said for their progress on the case, however, and although they discussed it at length, neither had anything new to add. They were staring disconsolately into the dregs of their ale when the door opened, and Little Tomas walked in.

‘Your beadles said I might find you here,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I understand you have been looking for me-to ask about the fact that the Roughe brothers have been trying to kill me.’

If Michael was disconcerted by the bald pronouncement, he masked it. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You are aware of what Kip and John have been doing?’

Tomas smiled as he took a seat. ‘It is difficult not to notice a crossbow bolt that misses you by the length of a finger, or a horse that tries to ride you down. They also shook the ladder when I climbed it yesterday-endangering Bartholomew into the bargain. Of course I have noticed.’

‘And what have you done about it?’ demanded Michael.

‘Nothing. Their attempts are clumsy, and I am never in real danger-although the crossbow bolt was a little close for comfort.’

‘Why are you so sanguine about it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Most men would confront their would-be assassins and demand to know what they are about.’

‘I do not need to ask; I know exactly why they have taken against me. None of the other Cambridge Dominicans is a scholar, and neither they nor their servants understand why I devote my life to books. Also, I am from a university in a country they have never heard of, and I look, speak and behave differently from them. I am a stranger, a foreigner, and therefore suspect. Their dislike of me is simple ignorance, no more and no less.’

Bulmer had admitted as much and so had the Roughe brothers, and Bartholomew supposed that, even in a university town, it was possible for advanced scholarship to be considered an unnatural vice. Also, the Black Friars tended to be local-even Welsh and Irish scholars were regarded as aliens, so someone from the mysterious-sounding Pécs would be an obvious target for their petty hatreds. Michael was not content with Tomas’s explanation, however.

‘They think you are an inquisitor. Are you?’

‘There are Dominican inquisitors who report incidents of heresy to our Master-General, but they are Englishmen, who blend in with the host community. They are not foreigners whom no one will trust. Such a ploy would be pointless.’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ pressed Michael.

‘It is a no,’ replied Tomas, a little impatiently. ‘I am just a scholar and a priest.’

Michael was about to ask him more about his interest in Witney’s death-and his stance on Holy Blood relics-but there was a knock on the door and one of Michael’s beadles entered.

‘You are asked to go to the river, near the quays, Brother,’ he said breathlessly. ‘There has been an accident, and the dead man is said to have been staying in St Bernard’s Hostel.’

Bartholomew jumped to his feet. ‘Who? Seton?’

The beadle shook his head. ‘An old man wearing a White Friar’s habit.’

‘Do you mean Father Andrew?’ asked Tomas in an appalled whisper. ‘Dead?’

Bartholomew glanced at him, startled by his sudden pallor. Afraid he might swoon, he leaned forward to take his arm. Tomas did not notice, and fixed his dark, intense eyes on the beadle as he waited for a reply.

‘I did hear his name was Andrew,’ acknowledged the beadle.

‘God save us!’ breathed Tomas. When he raised his hand to cross himself, it shook so much that he was barely able to complete the motion.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Bartholomew, certain there was more to his shock than hearing about the death of a man he had, by his own admission, never met. As proctor of Pécs, he would have seen death on a daily basis-assuming he had been telling the truth about his previous vocation, of course.

‘I have not been entirely honest with you,’ said Tomas, accepting the remains of Bartholomew’s ale and taking a tentative sip. ‘You were right: I do have more than a passing interest in this case. I am one of many Dominicans scattered across the country whose task it is to listen for information about Holy Blood relics and their movements. And Andrew’s sounded particularly important.’

‘An inquisitor?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘You just denied that.’

‘Not an inquisitor,’ said Tomas. ‘An observer. It is not the same thing.’

‘It is,’ declared Michael. ‘Remember that fish-head John Roughe left on me at your priory? It sat on my shoulder without my knowledge and surveyed us all with its flat, watchful eyes. Well, that is what your kind is like, Tomas. A fish-head perched on the shoulders of honest men.’

Bartholomew and Michael hurried towards the quays with Tomas at their heels. Michael had tried to dissuade the Dominican from coming with them, but the man was insistent. His face was grim as they walked, leading Bartholomew to wonder whether they had learned all there was to know about his connection to the relic and its carriers.

Because it was the end of a market day, the streets were choked with carts, and people and animals were everywhere. Cattle lowed as they were driven towards Slaughterhouse Row, while chickens flapped and geese strutted in hissing gaggles. A dog barked furiously at a herd of sheep, and a donkey brayed its displeasure at the cacophony. The smell of animal dung and urine was overpowering, so strong under the baking summer sun that Bartholomew felt himself become breathless from want of clean air.

It took some time to make their way through the crowds and reach the riverside quays. These were a series of ramshackle piers, used to unload goods brought on the flat-bottomed boats that traversed the fens. The active ones in the southern part of the town were in better repair than the disused ones behind Michaelhouse, and it was to the dilapidated set that the beadle led them. The jetty Michaelhouse owned was among those that were virtually derelict, and anyone venturing on to it was taking his life in his hands. The area surrounding it was seedy and abandoned.

Tomas looked around. ‘I do not like this place. It feels eerie.’

‘Only because it is quiet after the hubbub of the main roads,’ said Bartholomew, who was used to it. ‘It can be quite pleasant on a balmy summer evening.’

‘Well, it is not pleasant now,’ retorted Tomas sharply. ‘On a blazing afternoon with the sun at its hottest and more flies than leaves on the trees.’

Because July had been so dry, the river was considerably lower than usual. Stripes of dried black slime on the jetty’s legs showed it was down by half the height of a man. The beadle pointed, and Bartholomew saw someone standing in the chest-high water at the end of the pier. The figure was leaning forward, so its head was just below the surface. A group of people had gathered to gawk at the spectacle, and Bartholomew saw Urban among them, sitting on a discarded barrel with his head in his hands. He appeared to be crying.

‘We left the body where it was, so you could see for yourself,’ said the beadle to Michael. He frowned. ‘It is an odd way to die. If he had stood up straight, his head would have been above the water, and all he would have had to do was call for help. There was no need for him to drown.’

Before the monk could reply, Tomas darted forward and began to wade towards the corpse. The river shelved quickly, and water soon reached his waist. In his haste, he stumbled and disappeared completely. Bartholomew tensed, half expecting to be looking for a second body. The river was not deep, but its bottom was foul, and it was not unknown for a man’s legs to become entangled in weeds or mud and for him to find himself unable to reach air again. But Tomas burst spluttering to the surface, and continued to make his way to the pathetic figure that bobbed up and down in the waves he created.

Bartholomew inched his way along the pier, aware that the boards had become very much more rotten since he had last ventured on to them. He warned Michael to stay where he was, suspecting the whole thing might collapse if too much weight was placed on it. When he reached the end, he knelt, noting that some of the planks had recently snapped off. The new breaks were bright, contrasting starkly with the dark green of the weathered ones. Tomas was just below him, struggling to lift Andrew’s face above the surface. It was already far too late, but Tomas urged him to breathe anyway.

‘There is nothing you can do,’ said Bartholomew, leaning down to touch his shoulder. ‘He has been dead too long.’

‘His feet are stuck,’ said Tomas in a voice that held a hint of panic. ‘I cannot pull him out.’

‘Mud,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘It is notoriously sticky in this part of the river, which is why no one is swimming here, even though the day is hot. Folk know to bathe elsewhere.’

‘Andrew was a stranger,’ said Tomas bitterly. ‘He did not know to avoid this stretch of water. Besides, the mud is not as thick as you think. I am standing next to him, but I can still extricate my feet.’

Bartholomew regarded him intently. ‘What are you saying? That something else is holding him there?’

Tomas rubbed a shaking hand over his eyes. ‘I do not know. However, I can tell you one thing: the pouch containing his relic has gone.’

‘Perhaps it was washed off during his death struggles. He told us Witney had damaged the cord that held it around his neck.’

‘He would not have been that careless-not when he knew its loss would mean his death.’

‘Give me his hands,’ instructed Bartholomew. He saw where the Dominican was going with his assumptions, but was loath to accept that the relic had claimed another victim. ‘I will pull him up.’

Tomas obliged, and Bartholomew took the frail arms and braced himself to haul. It was harder than he had imagined, and he was beginning to think he might have to enlist help when the river finally yielded its prize with a sticky plop and a gurgle of thick, black mud. He pulled the body on to the pier and knelt to examine it.

There was little to see. There was no wound on Andrew’s head to indicate he might have been stunned before he entered the water, and no marks on hands or arms to suggest he had been involved in a struggle. He leaned on the old man’s chest and watched frothy bubbles emerge from his mouth, leading him to suspect drowning as the cause of death. The only odd thing was that Andrew’s pupils had contracted to tiny points, no larger than the hole made by a needle. While Tomas waded out of the river, Bartholomew carried the old man to the bank, where Urban was waiting. Michael took Bartholomew’s arm and tugged him to one side.

‘I have just spoken to Urban. He tells me Andrew was ill last night, and was beginning to accept that he might not have the strength to carry his True Cross to Norwich. He said he went out this morning, and when he returned, he no longer had the relic.’

‘He lost it?’ asked Bartholomew, slow to understand.

‘He gave it to someone,’ explained Michael. ‘Someone who would take it north. Then he told Urban that he would die today, and, sure enough…’

‘I thought his plan was to pass the thing to Urban,’ interrupted Bartholomew, refusing to accept that some ancient curse was the cause of the old man’s death.

‘So did Urban.’

‘I saw them earlier today,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to recall whether the pouch had been around Andrew’s neck at the time. He decided it was not, and concluded that Andrew must have just returned from passing it to his elected carrier. The old man had been tired, and the physician recalled his relief as he had sat on the churchyard wall. Urban, perching next to him, had been weeping-perhaps because he had just been told that he was not to be trusted with his master’s quest. Had the novice been sufficiently hurt by the lack of trust to kill his master?

Bartholomew stared at Andrew’s pale, water-logged features and wondered whether he had believed so strongly that he would die once the True Cross was out of his possession that he had jumped into the river of his own accord. The mind exerted a powerful force on the body, and it would not be the first time a man had willed himself to death.

Because Andrew was a visitor to Cambridge, and Urban seemed incapable of dealing with his master’s body, it was Michael who arranged for it to be taken to St Botolph’s Church. Bartholomew, Tomas and Urban carried the sad burden, and when they arrived Tomas took Urban to pray in the chancel, while Bartholomew manhandled Andrew into the parish coffin and Michael hunted for candles. When they had completed their sorry duties, Bartholomew studied Urban. His face was tear-streaked, and his shoulders slumped, as though he had been deprived of something very dear to him. The physician could not decide whether the loss related to his teacher, or to the fact that the relic was gone and he was no longer obliged to play a part in its journey.

‘Tomas is interrogating him,’ said Michael, watching. ‘Except his enquiries sound rather more desperate and meaningful than did mine.’

Bartholomew watched the Dominican, and conceded that Michael was right. The expression on Tomas’s face was more agonized than an informal discussion warranted, and it was clear that Andrew’s death-or perhaps the disappearance of the relic-had grieved him as deeply as it had Urban. He walked over to them, wanting to hear what was said for himself. While Tomas’s reaction to Andrew’s sudden demise was odd, he still liked the man, and did not want Michael to draw all the conclusions regarding his behaviour.

‘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.’

‘He did not give it to you?’ pressed Michael. ‘It would make sense if he had. He would probably far rather send you-the traitor-to your death, than the boy of whom he was fond.’

Tomas winced. ‘I wish now that I had made myself known to him, and that he had asked me to take the relic. But he did not.’

‘You have far too many secrets, Tomas,’ said Michael gravely. ‘Is there anything else about you that I should know? If so, then tell me now. If I learn it from other sources, I shall arrest you and charge you with murder.’

‘Whose murder?’ demanded Tomas. ‘Not Andrew’s, because you have just concluded that his death was a suicide. And not Witney’s, because I was with you when he died.’

‘I shall make up my own mind about Andrew, and I will not allow your or Matt’s interpretation of the “facts” to confuse me. So, I ask you again: is there anything else I should know?’

‘No,’ said Tomas. ‘Not about me.’ He looked at Urban, who glowered at him in the kind of way that suggested he intended the Dominican serious harm.

‘Andrew’s death is your fault,’ Urban declared angrily. ‘It was seeing you here that made him decide to accept an early death. If you had not appeared, none of this would have happened.’

‘That is unfair,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Besides, you should bear some responsibility for what has happened, because you have not been truthful, either.’

‘What do you mean?’ cried Urban.

‘I mean you are no White Friar. I have been tending William de Lincolne, the Carmelite prior, for a fever of late. He is well acquainted with his order’s foundations, and he tells me there is no Carmelite friary inside Exeter’s walls-and Andrew was very specific about the positioning of his priory, because he felt its fortified location rendered his relic safe. In fact, Lincolne says there are only two friaries which match Andrew’s description in Exeter, and they are Dominican and Franciscan. I strongly suspect you belong to one of these.’

Urban started to cry. ‘I knew we would be found out sooner or later. I knew one of us would make a mistake that would see us exposed, especially in a place like this, where there are so many well-travelled mendicants.’

‘Your real Order-the Dominicans-does not approve of blood relics,’ continued Bartholomew. ‘Your prior in Exeter-a man you called John de Burgo, although I am told there is no high-ranking Carmelite of that name-was newly elected, and you were afraid he might destroy the relic, acting boldly, as men freshly appointed often do in an attempt to make a mark.’

Urban nodded miserably. ‘There is no point in denial now, and my role in the affair is over. Andrew and I are Dominicans, but he did not agree with our Order’s stance on Holy Blood. He did not want his relic destroyed in a wave of religious bigotry, and that is why he did what he did.’

‘Very noble,’ said Michael dryly.

‘People lie to me on a regular basis,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked away from St Botolph’s Church. ‘But I do not think I have ever encountered quite so many untruths in such a short period of time as I have in this case.’

‘Most are not lies, but omissions. Tomas neglected to mention his relationship with Andrew-as did Andrew himself-and Andrew and Urban told no one they were saving the relic from their own Order. And I have lied, too, I am afraid.’

Michael laughed. ‘You? I do not think so! You are the worst dissembler I know, and I would have seen through you in an instant.’

‘You did not this time, thankfully. I lied about Andrew. I do not think he jumped into the water of his own volition, for two reasons. First, the pupils in his eyes were severely contracted, which often means some sort of medicine or poison has been ingested; and second, it is not easy to stick your head under the surface and expect to drown-the instinct to lift it up again is too strong.’

Michael stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Not completely-mine is an inexact science-but there was a tiny pink-coloured phial in Andrew’s scrip when I searched his body. The stopper was out and it was full of water, so I shall never be able to tell you what it originally contained. However, I cannot help but wonder whether he was given something to swallow-perhaps to calm him over giving up the relic-and it robbed him of the use of his limbs or made him lethargic. It would explain why he did not lift his head to breathe.’

‘And you did not say this in front of Tomas and Urban because…?’

‘Because one of them might have given it to him.’

‘Interesting. You have always been more positive towards Tomas than I, but now you hesitate when it comes to sharing information with him. Why?’

‘Because I had already suspected a prior connection between him and Andrew, and I did not know what it meant. They parted on bitter terms. Do you think he might have seen his former master and decided to avenge some ancient grievance?’

Michael nodded, pleased his friend was finally coming around to his way of thinking. ‘However, it is equally possible that Urban might have avenged a more recent one. He is furious that Andrew gave the relic to someone else. Hurt. He may have fed him this substance, then shoved him in the water. They were alone, after all. But now I have two murders to investigate.’

‘Andrew and Witney. I wonder whether they were claimed by the same hand. Whoever it is, the culprit is clever. Both deaths could easily be seen as accidents.’

‘But not by us,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘We are clever, too. Let us consider Witney for a moment. You said he might not have been the intended victim. Perhaps Andrew was the target, because he stole a blood relic from his Order, and Witney’s head happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘Very wrong,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the culprit is the current holder of the relic. However, I doubt we will ever know, because he will be long gone with the thing, if he has any sense.’

‘Where? To Norwich? Or to some Franciscan foundation that will pay handsomely for it?’

‘He will die when he parts with it, if Andrew was to be believed, although I do not believe in such nonsense.’

‘I wish Urban would tell us to whom Andrew entrusted it,’ said Michael. ‘Can we be sure it was not Tomas, his old student and a man he once loved? Urban is a solid, reliable lad, but he is not of Tomas’s mettle. Urban would be very much a second choice.’

‘Perhaps it was Seton. He is a Franciscan, who adheres to his Order’s tenet that Holy Blood relics are worthy of veneration, unlike Witney. Or perhaps it was someone from the Dominican priory-Andrew preferred the Franciscan stance to that of his own Order, and he was not alone in rebelling. Morden admitted as much, after a fashion.’

‘Morden never leaves Cambridge, and I cannot see Andrew passing such a valuable thing to a man who looks like an elf-or to one who barely knows what the Holy Blood debate entails. It will not be Morden, and it will not be his friars, either. They are all the same-likeable, but inveterately stupid.’

‘What about the servants? Kip and John Roughe?’

‘They are more intelligent than the men they serve,’ agreed Michael. ‘But they are untrustworthy. I do not see Andrew putting his faith in such low fellows.’

It was already past dusk, and Bartholomew was tired from a day of teaching, seeing patients, scrambling over roofs and inspecting bodies. He was ready for bed, and did not want to wake himself up by speculating further on the mysteries. When they reached Michaelhouse, he went to his chamber. He removed his tabard and boots in the gathering darkness, rinsed his hands in a bowl of fresh water, and lay on his bed, expecting sleep to claim him immediately.

The room was stifling, so he rose to open the window. After he had lain down again, he found he was too hot in shirt and leggings, so stood to remove them. By the time he was comfortable, the Franciscans in the room opposite had embarked on a noisy debate, and their strident voices roused him from the edge of a doze. He climbed to his feet a third time, to close the window. But the friars’ discussion was an intense one, and their clamour carried on the still night air. They were just loud enough for him to make out some of the words, so he knew they were arguing about the Holy Blood and its place in the mass. He returned to his bed but found himself straining to catch what they were saying, so pulled the blanket over his head to block out the sound. But the hot night made many scholars restless. There was a constant procession across the yard for drinks or visits to the latrines, and someone was playing a lute. Bartholomew slept fitfully, and by the morning he felt wearier than when he had retired.

He joined his colleagues in the yard as they assembled to process to the church, breathing in deeply the slightly cooler air that whispered in from the east. After the mass, he remembered that it was Saturday, and that he had arranged for his students to study with another master, which meant he was free. Normally he used any spare time to write the treatise on fevers that took most of his free hours, but he could not settle to it that day. He was not sure whether the problem was the heat or the odd business surrounding the relic.

Since there was no point in staring at blank parchment all morning, waiting for inspiration, he went in search of Michael, who was enjoying an illicit second breakfast in the kitchens. The monk waved to a stool, inviting the physician to join him in a small repast comprising oatcakes smeared in white grease and heavily sprinkled with salt. Bartholomew declined, knowing they would only make him thirsty. The monk had just started to outline again some of the facts they had uncovered about the deaths of Andrew and Witney when there was a tap on the door and one of his beadles sidled into the room.

‘You are needed, Brother,’ he said, eyeing the oatcakes longingly. ‘You too, Doctor.’

‘Is it Prior Lincolne of the Carmelites?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought his fever was over.’

‘It is Urban, the novice. Hurry, though. I am no physician, but I can tell he does not have long for this world.’

‘Where?’ demanded Michael, making for the door.

‘St Andrew’s Church,’ replied the beadle, standing aside to let the senior proctor go first, so he could steal an oatcake before he followed.

Bartholomew and Michael hurried along the streets in the early morning light. Carts and people were already out, indicating that few were sleeping long when the heat was so intense. Even before the sun had fully risen, the town was sticky and humid, and Bartholomew felt himself become breathless as he walked, as though there were not enough air to go around. Michael panted next to him, complaining vociferously about the wretched furnace of a sun.

Urban had been stricken in the churchyard, and he lay in the long grass near the porch. Both scholars stopped dead when they saw they were not the first to arrive: Tomas was there, kneeling next to the novice and giving him last rites. Bartholomew was aware of Michael’s tense anger, but he could hardly object to a friar’s prayers for a dying soul, and so was obliged to hold his tongue until the ritual was finished. It was some time before Tomas packed away the chrism and the stole he wore around his neck; the Dominican took his duties seriously.

‘What happened?’ asked Michael in a whisper to Bartholomew while they waited. ‘Can you see?’

‘It looks as though Urban has fallen on top of something,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I can see a spike protruding from his stomach, and he is lying awkwardly.’

‘Fell or was pushed?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is impossible to say-not from this distance and without having inspected the wound, and probably not even then. You will have to ask him. Tomas has finished now.’

Bartholomew dropped to his knees, assessing the young man’s injury, but making no attempt to touch it. As he had surmised, Urban had toppled on to a metal spike that had pierced him clean through. It was an ugly wound, but Urban did not seem to be in pain, although his hands were stained red with his own blood. Bartholomew suspected it had damaged his spine and deprived him of feeling. There was nothing he could do to save him, and there was no point in moving him when it would only cause him discomfort in his last few moments.

While Michael spoke gently, identifying himself and telling Urban what he needed to know, Bartholomew studied the object that had killed the lad. At first, he saw only that it was an unusual shape and seemed to be attached to the ground. Eventually, he realized that it was the shoe-scraper that stood outside many churches, so parishioners could remove the worst of the muck from their feet before entering. Urban had dropped, fallen or been pushed on top of one that was particularly ornate, and it had speared him like a fish.

‘Dr Bartholomew is here,’ said Michael softly, when the lad’s eyes seemed to focus on him at last. ‘Do you want anything to ease the pain?’

‘There is no pain,’ whispered Urban. ‘Only cold.’

Bartholomew removed his tabard and laid it over him, although he doubted it would make much difference. Without a moment’s hesitation, Tomas hauled off his habit and wrapped it around the lad’s legs, revealing a light shift that was unusually clean for a garment that was probably never seen by anyone else.

‘Did Andrew take any medicines?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps something for the ache in his back-his old wound?’

‘Poppy syrup-but only when it became very bad,’ replied Urban. He gave a sudden, heart-broken sob. ‘I cannot believe he so suddenly decided he would not complete his journey. I would have helped him, no matter what the cost. I lied for him, too. Seton was not in St Bernard’s Hostel when Witney died. We said he was with the body when we found it, because we knew he was going to accuse us of the crime, and it was the only way to make sure you knew we were innocent.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael softly. ‘Did someone push you on to that spike? Tell me his name.’

Urban shook his head. ‘No one pushed me. I am dying because of Barzak’s curse. I touched the relic, you see.’

‘I thought you hesitated,’ said Bartholomew, not sure he wanted to hear about another death for which the relic was deemed responsible. ‘And that Andrew had second thoughts about your-’

Michael silenced him with a glare. ‘We believe your master may have been murdered,’ he said, as gently as such grim news could be imparted. ‘It is possible that the man to whom he gave the relic was also the villain who killed him. As far as I am concerned, this releases you from your promise to Andrew. You are dying, but I will avenge you and him if you tell me this fellow’s name.’

‘Thomas,’ said Urban in a whisper. Bartholomew could tell by the glazed look in his eyes that he could no longer see Michael.

‘Thomas?’ asked Michael, looking up at the friar, who appeared to be astonished by the claim.

‘Andrew took it to the Dominican priory, and gave it to Kip Roughe with orders that he was to pass it to Thomas,’ breathed Urban. ‘He put it in a box, so Roughe would not touch it and become a victim of Barzak’s curse, too. He was careful. I touched it, though, when Roughe gave it to the wrong Thomas.’

‘What do you mean?’ pressed Michael, confused by the disjointed explanation.

Urban swallowed. ‘Andrew told me he had arranged for the relic to go to his old student, but it was clear that had not happened yesterday: Tomas did not have it. I was jealous at first, but then I came to my senses-if that was what Andrew wanted, then it was my duty to see his wishes fulfilled. I asked Roughe about the box, and I realized why it was not in Tomas’s possession.’

‘Because Roughe had stolen it for himself?’ guessed Michael.

‘Because he had given it to Big Thomas, not Tomas of Pécs,’ said Bartholomew, quicker on the uptake. ‘Andrew is a stranger here: he did not know that there is more than one Thomas at the Dominican priory.’

Urban nodded. ‘I had to put matters right. I persuaded Big Thomas to give it back-told him it was cursed and he yielded it eventually…’ He trailed off with a weak cough that brought blood to his lips.

Michael waited until Bartholomew had wiped the boy’s face. ‘Then what? Did Big Thomas change his mind and demand it back, so he would not die from this curse, too?’

Urban did not seem to hear. ‘I wanted to give it to Tomas secretly, without anyone else seeing. So I hid among those bushes, and waited for him to attend prime. Roughe said Tomas keeps all his religious offices-Andrew taught him well. When I was safely hidden from prying eyes, I opened the box to make sure the splinter was inside its vial. But the night was dark and I could not see, so I was obliged to identify it by touch.’ His eyes became dreamy. ‘It it so small. It should be bigger, after all the lives it has claimed.’

‘What happened next?’ urged Michael as Urban’s eyes closed. ‘Did you fall?’

‘I dropped it,’ said Urban in an agonized whisper. ‘The hot wind blew dust in my eye. It hurt, and the relic slipped from my hand as I tried to rub it out.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael, leaping up and lifting his feet to make sure he was not treading on it. ‘Are you saying that it is here somewhere?’

Urban shook his head. ‘I put it back in the box, and hid again. But…’

‘Yes?’ asked Michael urgently. ‘But what?’

‘Someone came…he tripped me,’ said Urban weakly. He became agitated. ‘Where is it now? Did I give it to the right Thomas? I cannot recall.’

‘I have it,’ said Tomas, kneeling next to the lad, while Bartholomew held his head and soothed him by stroking his hair. ‘It is safe, so do not despair. You have done your duty to Andrew and to Christ’s Holy Blood.’

‘Thank God,’ breathed Urban. And then he died.

‘Do you have the relic?’ asked Michel, watching Tomas don his habit, while Bartholomew covered Urban’s face with his tabard. ‘Where is it?’

‘I do not,’ said Tomas, indicating that there was nowhere for it to be. There was nothing but a wooden cross around his neck, while he carried no purse or scrip at his side. ‘The boy was distraught, so I told him what he needed to hear in order to die in peace. I lied, Brother, although doing so gave me no pleasure. It was simply the right thing to do.’

‘Lying to dying men is right?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.

‘On occasion,’ said Tomas. ‘What good could have come from telling him he had sacrificed his life for nothing?’

‘Who tripped him? Who forced him on to that scraper?’ Michael was looking at Tomas in a way that made it clear he was the prime suspect.

‘I attended prime with several other Dominicans,’ said Tomas. ‘I did not see Urban when we arrived-although I confess I did not look in the bushes-and he was lying here when we came out. You must look elsewhere for your murderer, Brother-and for your thief, too.’

‘Have you searched for the relic?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it flew from Urban’s fingers as he fell, and it is still here.’

‘Your beadles did that after I raised the alarm and told them what had happened,’ replied Tomas. ‘I did not, because I was absolving a dying boy. Besides, I have no wish to take possession of something so dangerous. If Andrew had asked me to take it, then it would have been hard for me to refuse him, a man to whom I owe a great deal. But I would not have accepted it from Urban.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘You are a Dominican, and they renounce the efficacy of relics containing Holy Blood.’

‘Perhaps we do, but there is no need to ignore the warnings of centuries,’ said Tomas tartly. ‘The cold fact is that people who touch this thing die-whether from accidents, murder or just driven to take their own lives. I want none of it.’

‘Very courageous,’ remarked Michael.

‘Would you touch it?’ demanded Tomas, finally angry. ‘If I found it here, in the churchyard, and handed it to you, would you take it?’ Michael had no reply. ‘No! I did not think so.’

‘This is not the place for such a debate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘One of you needs to anoint Urban, and then we can carry him inside.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Tomas, glaring at Michael as he knelt again. ‘I became distracted with earthly concerns when I should have been performing my priestly duties.’

Michael moved away, pulling Bartholomew with him, and assessed the Dominican through narrowed eyes. ‘I cannot make him out, Matt. However, I do not like the fact that he was here when a grisly murder took place-and one most certainly did. You heard Urban say someone tripped him and flung him down on to that sharp implement.’

‘I heard him say he was tripped,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘He did not say it was to fling him to his death. There is a big difference.’

‘Really? Then where is the relic, if the objective was not to kill him and steal what he possessed? You are too willing to protect that priest, and I am tired of it.’

‘You are exasperated because you have no evidence,’ said Bartholomew, knowing the real cause of the monk’s anger. ‘And you are appalled that people are dying and you have no idea why or how. It is nothing to do with Tomas.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, sounding weary. ‘But I do not like his connections to our three victims-Andrew, his old master; Urban, who took his place; Witney, with whom he discussed the Holy Blood polemic.’

‘Do not forget the Roughe brothers,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They had possession of the relic, albeit briefly, when they passed it to the wrong Thomas. Andrew might have put it in a box to protect them, but I am willing to wager anything you like that they looked inside it before they did as they were asked.’

‘And probably touched it. So, we may be looking for two more corpses.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘They are missing, but I do not think they are dead-yet. However, we must not forget Big Thomas, either. He may have looked at the relic, too.’

Michael groaned. ‘We shall visit him today and ask about it. But look at Tomas, kneeling and praying so diligently over a lad who may be his latest victim. I do not believe his presence here is coincidence, Matt. I really do not.’

When they arrived at the Dominican priory to ask Big Thomas about the missing relic, Prior Morden hurried to greet them, his elfin face creased with worry.

‘Little Tomas told me what happened this morning,’ he began, wringing his hands as he stared up at Michael’s monstrous bulk. ‘It is a dreadful business, but I hope you do not think a Dominican brought about this death. A number of friars-and some were Franciscans, so you can be certain they would not lie in our favour-were with Tomas when Urban met his end, so he is not your culprit.’

‘It is not Tomas I want to see, but his namesake,’ said Michael.

‘He did not dispatch Urban, either,’ squeaked Morden in alarm. ‘And you must not make that accusation publicly. Can you imagine how it will look, to have one of our Order accused of killing a Carmelite?’

Michael shrugged. ‘If he has done nothing wrong, he has nothing to worry about. Where is he?’

‘Unwell,’ replied Morden. ‘He was unable to attend church this morning.’

Bartholomew felt a pang of unease. Was Barzak’s malediction working its ugly magic on Big Thomas, too? Or was he allowing an overactive imagination to run away with him? He had heard so many people say the curse was real that he was slowly beginning to believe it. ‘What is wrong with him?’

‘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.’

Michael took it from him, and when he looked at Tomas, his eyes were accusing. ‘It is a picture of the chimney at Bernard’s Hostel, and a map showing the safest way across the roof towards it. Now I see why you were prepared to risk your life to climb up there with Matt. We thought you were trying to help, but your intention was to make sure he interpreted the harness and the pile of missiles in a way that suited you. So, you killed Witney, too.’

‘No!’ cried Tomas, appalled. ‘I have killed no one!’

‘The evidence is too strong to ignore,’ said Michael gravely, gazing at the stunned faces that surrounded him. ‘I have always been suspicious of you, Tomas, and now I see I was right. You have lied to us from the start-about the fact that you were once Andrew’s student, and about your true purpose here.’

‘To study angels,’ began Morden, appalled at what was happening.

‘To spy for your Master-General,’ said Michael harshly. ‘To find out what honest Dominican friars think of the Holy Blood debate, and to report these findings to powerful men.’ He pointed a finger at Tomas. ‘You are our killer-and I am arresting you on three counts of murder.’

Tomas was led from the Dominican priory and marched through the town to be placed in a cell near the church of St Mary the Great. He said nothing more in his defence, but declined to provide Michael with details of his various crimes. Bartholomew walked behind him, feeling angry and rather guilty. He had liked Tomas, and had defended him against Michael’s accusations, but he had been wrong, and he was unsettled to think he may have influenced the monk in a way that had seen a murderer left free to take another two victims-Andrew and Urban.

‘I cannot make you speak to me,’ said Michael as he prepared to abandon the Dominican in the proctors’ prison. ‘But it would be helpful if you would tell me where you have hidden the relic. Holy Blood is potent, and should be treated with respect. I would like it put somewhere safe, where it will do no more harm.’

‘Against the teachings of my Order, I am inclined to agree with your assessment,’ replied Tomas. ‘Holy Blood is powerful and divine. But I cannot tell you where it is, because I do not know.’

‘Urban gave it to you before he died,’ pressed Michael.

Tomas sighed softly. ‘The only words we exchanged pertained to his absolution. I knew he did not have many moments to live, and I thought the fate of his immortal soul was of greater importance than this tainted relic. He tried to talk about it-he said it dropped from his hand when he fell on the shoe-scraper-but I urged him to make his final confession instead.’

‘I will find it,’ vowed Michael. ‘I will dig up the churchyard if I have to, but I will recover it.’

‘Good,’ said Tomas with a smile that lacked humour. ‘It is a comfort to know that it will soon be in your able hands.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. His comment sounded like a threat. He decided to go with the monk when he began his search, and ensure he was very careful before he laid hands on anything that looked like a splinter in an ancient glass vial. He rubbed a hand through his hair, realizing that he, too, was becoming certain there was something sinister about the relic-beginning to accept that it could do great harm to those unfortunate enough to come into contact with it.

‘It will go better for you if you tell me where it is,’ said Michael, trying for the last time.

‘I know,’ said Tomas tiredly. ‘But I cannot tell what I do not know.’

Michael locked the door to Tomas’s cell, and walked into the sunlight, heaving a sigh of relief. ‘The case is solved. The diagram of the hostel’s roof proves he planned mischief up there, and I imagine his intended victim was Andrew. Unfortunately, it was Witney who went to investigate odd noises coming from the chimney and he paid the ultimate price for his curiosity.’

Bartholomew nodded, feeling chilled, despite the warmth of the sun. ‘Tomas mentioned a discussion he had had with his namesake about roofs. On its own, it means nothing, but it is suspicious in the light of Witney’s peculiar death.’

Michael nodded, eyes gleaming as details of the case began to come together in a way that made sense. ‘He was taking advantage of Big Thomas’s expertise. But his cunning ploy failed. Still determined to kill Andrew, he fed him a powerful dose of poppy syrup to render him helpless, and encouraged him to walk on to the rotten jetty. And we know how he killed Urban.’

Bartholomew frowned. Michael’s explanation was too simple, and did not take into account some of the facts. ‘I am not sure about this. First, Urban did not mention Tomas giving Andrew potent medicine, or being present when the old man trod on the pier. He said they were alone. Second, I saw Andrew and Urban not long before Andrew died, and Tomas was not with them. And third, we know Urban was killed while Tomas was praying inside the church-we have independent witnesses who will attest to that.’

Michael did not seem discomfited that his carefully constructed explanation had several glaring inconsistencies. He shrugged. ‘As I keep saying, Tomas is clever. Perhaps he will answer these questions when I interview him again later, but perhaps he will not, and we will never know.’

‘Are you certain of his guilt? Sure enough to see him hang?’

Michael raised his hands, palms upward. ‘That is for a jury to decide. But the diagram and the hidden soporifics are damning, Matt. Even you must see that. And do not forget we are still missing Kip Roughe. It would not surprise me if his corpse were to appear sooner or later, too.’

‘Then you are going to be disappointed,’ said Bartholomew, pointing across the street. ‘Because there he is, and his brother John is with him.’

Michael shot across the road to apprehend the servants. The pair looked distinctly uneasy when they saw the monk bearing down on them and, for a moment, looked as though they might run. But they held their ground, and waited until he reached them.

‘You have been missing,’ said Michael without preamble. ‘We were afraid something untoward had happened to you.’

‘Something did,’ replied Kip harshly. ‘Tomas.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he try to harm you?’

‘Several times,’ replied John. ‘He shot a crossbow at us one night, as we were leaving a tavern. It was a good thing Kip had not swallowed as much ale as me, or I would not be talking to you now-he pushed me to safety. Then Tomas rode a horse at us, aiming to crush us under its hoofs. He is a dangerous man, Brother, and I am relieved you have him under lock and key.’

‘We heard the good news a few moments ago,’ elaborated Kip. ‘We have been hiding in a cousin’s house, terrified that he might try again.’

‘Why did you not tell me this sooner?’ demanded Michael.

‘Would you have believed two servants over a friar?’ asked Kip scornfully. ‘Of course not! He would have told you that we attacked him, and then it would have been us at the gibbet. Still, we hear you have proper evidence against him now.’

‘We do,’ acknowledged Michael.

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘Bulmer said it was you who were trying to kill Tomas, not the other way around-you shot the arrow and rode the horse. He said you and he were suspicious of Tomas, and were stalking him together.’

‘When we learned Bulmer felt the same way as us, we offered to combine forces,’ admitted John. ‘But Bulmer proved too hot headed. He intended to murder Tomas, while all we wanted was to watch him and see what he did. We were arguing about it when the horse crashed into him.’

‘Bulmer’s jaw,’ said Bartholomew, remembering. ‘I said at the time that it did not look like an injury from a punch. He was hit by a horse?’

‘A horse ridden by Tomas.’ John nodded. ‘We said Bulmer should tell Morden what had happened, but he was afraid Tomas would smother him in his sickbed.’

‘All this is most interesting,’ said Michael. ‘And I shall ask you to repeat it in front of a jury when Tomas is brought to trial. But we are still missing the relic. Do you know where it is?’

‘Tomas must have it,’ said John. ‘Was it not among his belongings?’

‘Not that I saw.’

‘He has hidden it, then,’ declared Kip. His face dissolved into an expression of fury. ‘I detest that man and his sly ways. He came here to spy, you know. He intended to take tales to the Master-General about the Cambridge priory, and have it closed down over this Holy Blood nonsense. He says he is from Pécs, but old Father Andrew once lived in Pécs and he said Tomas was never there. I imagine that is why Tomas made an end of him.’

Bartholomew knew he was lying. ‘Andrew would have said no such thing-he had no reason to deny his former student’s existence, especially to servants. Besides, Tomas did not have the relic when he gave Urban last rites, but Urban definitely had it with him in the graveyard, because he told us so.’

‘Andrew’s relic is just a splinter,’ said Kip, eyeing him angrily. ‘Tomas could have hidden it anywhere on his person.’

‘No, he could not,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He removed his habit to cover Urban, and he has no purse.’

‘He wears a shift, though,’ persisted John. ‘It could have been there, in some secret fold. He probably took off his habit just to “prove” he had not stolen the relic. As we said, he is cunning-he never does anything without some sinister motive.’

‘How do you know the relic is a splinter?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you seen it out of its vial?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Kit carelessly. ‘Big Thomas asked us to open the box-before Urban asked for it back again-and I took it out then. It is nothing to look at-just a bit of wood, stained black at one end.’

‘You touched it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Only for a moment.’ Kip had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Big Thomas was going to sell it to an abbey, and share the profits with us, but Urban took it away before we could damn our souls. I expect the curse led us to be tempted by the Devil.’

‘You touched it?’ asked Bartholomew again.

Kip regarded him sombrely. ‘For the shortest of moments. But do not be concerned: Barzak’s curse will not affect me. Even Little Tomas admits it only kills the wicked.’

‘I have some excellent French wine in my room,’ said Michael, watching the two servants swagger away. ‘We should share it, to celebrate our success.’

‘I do not want to celebrate,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I want to think. There are too many people telling me what I should and should not believe-and nearly all of it is contradictory. None of the tales fit together. Tomas said Kip and John attacked him with a crossbow-and so did Bulmer-but now the brothers say it was the other way around.’

‘Tomas is a killer, Matt,’ said Michael patiently. ‘He will say anything to shift the blame away from himself, and it has worked admirably until now.’

‘I want to visit St Bernard’s Hostel,’ said Bartholomew. The hostel was only a few steps along High Street. ‘I need to examine the place where Witney died again.’

Michael sighed. ‘It is too hot to go on fools’ errands. I accept there are loose ends and questions that have not been answered, but we have been in this position before. It is no good looking for logical explanations when you have a clever man like Tomas as your culprit.’

‘There is, Brother,’ insisted Bartholomew, knocking at the hostel door. ‘Tomas is a theologian and a scholar-he lives by logic. Of course we should look for logic in any crimes he is accused of committing.’

The door was opened by a servant who had the heavy-eyed gaze of someone who had enjoyed too much ale with his midday meal. Bartholomew pushed past him and made his way to the chamber in which Witney had died. The servant did not seem to care, and returned to the kitchen to resume his post-prandial nap. When Bartholomew and Michael reached the hall, Seton was there, sitting in a window seat and nodding drowsily over a religious tract which lay open on his knees.

‘I hear you arrested Witney’s murderer,’ he said. ‘It is a pity you did not catch him before he claimed another two lives. I did not like Andrew and Urban, but it is unfortunate they had to die before the case was resolved.’

‘It was,’ replied Michael coldly, disliking the implication that his inefficiency had resulted in additional victims.

Seton saw that his barb had hit its mark and smiled nastily. Then he gestured to a corner, where two packs had been carelessly stuffed with various items of clothing. ‘Since there was no one else to do it, I gathered up what belonged to them. Perhaps you could arrange for it to be collected?’

Bartholomew inspected the scruffy bags. ‘This is everything?’

‘They did not own much.’

‘What is this?’ asked Bartholomew, prising a glass container from a pouch that had been sewn inside the older of the two packs. ‘Medicine?’

‘Andrew told me it was poppy syrup, which eased the pain of an old wound and allowed him to sleep. I saw him swallow most of what he had left the morning he died.’

Bartholomew raised the phial to his nose and smelled the dregs: poppy syrup. ‘You have a problem, Brother. This phial is virtually identical to the one I found with Andrew’s body. However, it is considerably smaller than the ones you discovered under Tomas’s bed.’

‘So what?’ demanded Michael.

‘I only ever saw Andrew drink from that kind of container,’ said Seton. ‘They all have a strange pinkish colour; I remember them well.’

‘I suspect we were right about Andrew’s death in the first place,’ said Bartholomew, sitting on a bench with the bottle in his hand. ‘Andrew was in pain, and regularly swallowed poppy syrup as a palliative. Now we have Seton telling us he imbibed a hefty dose-all his remaining supply-before he died, which explains the contracted pupils. I think Andrew took his own life, just as we thought. He jumped into the river-hard and straight, as Urban described-and he drowned because he was unable to raise his head. But Tomas had nothing to do with it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael, reluctantly. ‘But he still killed Witney and Urban.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Do you still have that diagram?’

Michael rummaged in his scrip, and produced it with a flourish.

‘Where did you get that?’ demanded Seton, trying to snatch it away from him. His eyes narrowed. ‘Big Thomas!’

Several facts came together in Bartholomew’s mind. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken, this picture belonged to Witney.’

‘What if it did?’ demanded Seton angrily. ‘What business is it of yours?’

‘It is very much our business,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘It proves Witney had more than a passing interest in that chimney. The picture was among Tomas’s possessions, but he was astonished when you found it, Brother. I think someone else put it there-just as someone else left the wrongly sized, wrongly coloured medicine phials for you to discover.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you saying someone placed evidence in a way that was deliberately intended to mislead me?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Tomas is an easy target, because he is a foreigner, and everyone is suspicious of outsiders. No one was surprised when he was revealed to be the killer-shocked, but not surprised. However, he is innocent.’

‘I do not see how you can claim all this from a drawing,’ said Michael. ‘It-’

‘I see exactly what happened now. Witney was planning to do something untoward on the roof. The harness and the pile of missiles were his, not Tomas’s-just as this diagram was his. And his interest in the chimney explains why he was found dead with his head sticking up it.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Seton, although his voice lacked conviction. ‘Witney was not interested in the chimney because he wanted to kill someone, but because a savage draught whistled down it. He told me so when I found him poking about up it once.’

‘Then you are not the only one who caught him doing something odd involving the roof,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘So did Urban, although he did not understand its significance. He found Witney with a ladder, and Witney fabricated some tale about a pigeon’s nest. But the reality was that he was about to ascend to the roof to set his lethal trap with stones. He pretended to be inept at climbing when Urban saw him-the boy ended up knocking down the nest himself. But do you remember what Kip Roughe said about the people who had recently borrowed Bene’t’s long ladder, Brother?’

‘That Witney had done so once or twice,’ said Michael. ‘If his purpose had been just to rid himself of a noisy pigeon, once would have sufficed.’ He turned to Seton with considerable anger. ‘Why did you not tell us about his interest in the chimney before? Surely, you must have seen it was pertinent to my enquiries?’

‘It was irrelevant,’ snapped Seton. ‘The poor man was murdered!’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You and Urban both noticed his fascination with the roof-and with the relic. Andrew said he had tried to take it by force, and I think he was telling the truth. Witney was a fanatic, passionate about the Holy Blood debate and, contrary to his Order’s teachings, believed blood relics should be destroyed. He took it upon himself to oblige, but first, he had to dispatch its owner.’

Seton rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I did see him covered in thatching once. He told me he had been looking for pigeon eggs as a surprise for my supper. But then he was murdered, and…’

‘He was not murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He set his trap with loose masonry in the chimney, and then came to see if it would work. Perhaps it was a freak gust of wind, or perhaps it really was Barzac’s curse, but a stone fell just as he happened to look up it. The rock did not kill him, but the soot that tumbled down with it did. It was an accident and Tomas had nothing to do with it. Someone else hid the diagram among his possessions, to mislead Michael.’

‘Big Thomas,’ said Seton heavily. ‘Witney gave the diagram to Big Thomas before he died.’

‘Big Thomas was a thatcher,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He knows about roofs, and I heard Witney arguing with him about thatching in the High Street. I imagine the picture was central to that row?’

Seton looked as though he would continue to deny the allegations, but a glance at Michael’s stern, forbidding expression convinced him to prevaricate no longer. ‘Witney was rash enough to show it to Big Thomas-he told him he was going to pay for St Bernard’s roof to be replaced, but that he needed the opinion of a professional thatcher before he parted with money. However, Big Thomas claimed the scale was wrong or some such stupid thing. He would not listen when Witney said scale was unimportant, and was determined to have his say. We might still be there, forced to listen to his deranged ranting about angles and pitch, if Tomas of Pécs had not rescued us.’

‘Poor Tomas,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Witney’s death was an accident, Andrew killed himself and Tomas has an alibi for Urban’s demise. You should let him go, Brother: he had nothing to do with any of it.’

‘But there are still loose ends,’ complained Michael, as they walked towards the proctors’ prison to release the hapless Dominican.

‘You said that did not matter when we arrested Tomas,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, logic dictates that it should not matter now he is innocent.’

Michael shot him a black look. ‘You can show that no one killed Andrew and Witney, but Urban is another matter. He told us on his deathbed that someone tripped him with the sole intention of forcing him on to the shoe-scraper.’

‘Someone tripped him,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But I think his ending up pierced was an accident, too. It must be Barzak’s malediction. He did touch that damned relic, after all.’

‘You believe that?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I thought you had dismissed it as superstition, and I was the one convinced of its power. Now, you claim that these horrible deaths were brought about by this wicked curse, and it is me telling you that there may be a human hand involved.’

Bartholomew shrugged sheepishly. ‘Two days ago, I would have insisted that the relic was irrelevant to all that has happened, but Witney’s death is unusual, and Andrew could have saved himself when he jumped into the water. And then there is Urban. All three touched the thing. Perhaps I was wrong to be dismissive of matters I did not-do not-understand.’

‘Kip Roughe touched it, too,’ Michael pointed out. ‘But he is still alive.’

‘He said he only touched it briefly,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I do not think the length of time matters to the heavenly hosts. You either die when you handle it, or you do not. If you believe in Barzak’s spell, then you must expect Kip to meet with a grisly end, too. We had better warn him.’

Bartholomew hesitated. ‘The mind has considerable power over the body. If you tell him he will die, it is possible he may will himself to do so. I think you should say nothing.’

Michael smiled. ‘You are not completely convinced about the curse, or you would not believe Kip has a chance of life. However, I would not mind another word with him, anyway. I am not sure that he and his brother were telling the truth when they said they did not know what happened to the relic.’

Tomas said nothing when Michael unlocked the door and indicated he was free. He stepped out of the cell and spent a few moments gazing up at the deep blue sky, as if he had not expected to see it again. He gave Bartholomew a shy smile.

‘Brother Michael says I owe my release to you-that you were the one who reassessed the evidence and found it lacking. Thank you.’

‘We are going to visit the Roughe brothers,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bulmer told us they are inveterate liars and we have caught them in at least two untruths-about you trying to kill them, and about it being Big Thomas’s idea to sell the relic to an abbey. Thomas is not clever enough to invent such a plan-but they are.’

‘If they lie about one thing, they will lie about another,’ said Michael. ‘And someone placed that “evidence” among your possessions for me to find. They have access to all parts of the friary, and they had the opportunity-and the wits-to leave phials and diagrams to mislead a lowly proctor.’

‘You are not lowly, Brother,’ said Tomas charitably. ‘Cambridge is lucky to have you.’

‘Generally, you are right,’ agreed Michael immodestly. ‘But in this case, I have been wrong at every turn. Will you come to see the Roughes? The sight of you may encourage them to say something they might otherwise keep to themselves.’

Tomas gave a rather wolfish grin, obviously keen to avenge himself on two men who might have seen him hanged. He led the way to the Dominican priory, where the door was opened by a sullen Big Thomas, back at his duties on the gate. Bartholomew paused.

‘Witney and Seton asked you about St Bernard’s roof,’ he said.

Big Thomas nodded. ‘Witney said he was going to pay for it to be replaced, but I suggested he give his money to Prior Morden for the one here instead. I told him that I expect to see a tragedy every time a brother bends to poke the hearth, what with loose stones tumbling down our chimneys from want of repair.’

‘You said that?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that inspiration could come from the least likely of sources.

Big Thomas nodded a second time. ‘And then, in a strange coincidence, Witney himself died exactly that way just days later! He had drawn a plan of Bernard’s roof, which he asked me to look over-he valued my opinion as a thatcher, you see. It was terrible, and he got angry with me when I told him how wrong it was.’

‘In the end, I suggested you take it home and redraw it,’ said Tomas, frowning as he recalled the incident. ‘He was becoming overly aggressive, and I did not want a squabble to end in a fight-and you to be blamed for starting it.’

‘I spent ages making it right, but he never did see it,’ said Big Thomas in disgust, as though Witney had died specifically to inconvenience him. ‘I was complaining about the waste to Kip, and he kindly gave me a penny for it. He said such a picture might come in useful, although he did not say for what.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘I doubt he was motivated by kindness. Do you know that he is telling everyone that it was your idea to sell the relic to an abbey?’

Thomas was affronted. ‘It was not! Besides, I have come to think my Order is right about this Holy Blood debate. These blood-soaked relics should be destroyed-not because they are unworthy of veneration, but because some of them are evil, and capable of causing great harm.’

‘Where are John and Kip?’ asked Michael, thinking about more harm that might be waiting to happen.

‘In the kitchens.’ Thomas grimaced. ‘And you can tell them that I do not take kindly to lies spread about me. It was their idea to sell that relic, and I am glad I had nothing to do with their nasty plans.’

The Dominicans’ kitchen was a large room in a separate block, to reduce the risk of fire. It was dominated by a massive hearth, over which hung an extensive rack of knives and ladles. The rack was worked by a pulley, which could be raised or lowered, depending on whether the utensils were needed at hand or stowed out of the way. John was chopping onions on the table, while Kip was stirring something in a pot over the fire, tasting it every few moments. It was obvious he was fishing out the best bits as he did so.

‘You have some explaining to do,’ said Michael, as he entered, Bartholomew and Tomas at his heels. ‘You placed pots of strong medicine and a drawing among Tomas’s possessions for me-or perhaps Morden-to find, but you made two mistakes. First, the phials were the wrong kind. And second, Big Thomas has just confided that he gave Witney’s diagram to you.’

‘Tomas took it from us,’ replied Kip coolly, eyeing the friar with dislike. ‘We warned you about him, but he has already convinced you to let him out of gaol.’

‘Why do you want him hanged for murder?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What is it about him that you do not like?’

‘He is a liar,’ said Kip, angry when he saw that his stories were not believed. ‘He is not here to study angels, but to spy on his brethren and their faithful servants. Then he will tell the Master-General that Prior Morden is prepared to revere Holy Blood, and this friary will be suppressed. We have worked here for ten years now. Where will we find other employment if he succeeds?’

‘So, you tried to kill Tomas to ensure that would not happen-first with a crossbow and then with a horse,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘The horse missed Tomas, but it almost broke Bulmer’s jaw.’

The brothers exchanged an uncertain glance as they saw the net closing around them. ‘All right,’ said John. ‘We admit we tried to dispatch a man who is evil, but we were protecting the friars whom we have served faithfully for a decade. I shook the ladder the other day, too, although you were the one who almost fell. And we left the phials and the picture for Brother Michael to find, but only because we wanted to see justice done.’

‘Hanging an innocent man is not justice,’ said Michael sharply.

‘You are still lying,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You threw a stone at me on the High Street-it injured Deynman, but it was aimed at me-because Michael and I were investigating matters that were coming too close to your activities for comfort. I imagine you would have tried to harm Michael, too, in time.’

‘For the good of our Dominican employers…’ said John in a bleat.

Michael was unmoved. ‘You are killers, thieves and liars, so do not pretend your motives are honourable.’

‘Killers?’ squawked John, appalled. ‘We are not killers!’

‘You murdered Urban,’ said Michael. ‘You knew he had reclaimed the relic from Big Thomas, because Big Thomas told you so. You were angry to be deprived of a potential fortune, and followed him to the churchyard. You hurled him on to that spike…’

‘It was an accident,’ cried John. ‘He would not listen to what I had to say, so I chased him and Kip stuck out his foot…’

‘Shut up!’ hissed Kip. ‘Tell them nothing. They have no proof.’

‘Urban said it was not our fault,’ shouted John, eyes wild in his white face. ‘As he lay there, with that point through his middle, he said it was not us who killed him. We should have stayed, but we were afraid, and we ran away. We knew Tomas would help him when he came out…’

‘Enough!’ roared Kip furiously. ‘We have done nothing wrong, except tell one or two untruths for the benefit of the priory. Do not say anything else.’

But his brother was unstoppable. ‘It was the relic. The relic killed Urban, because he touched it.’

‘Rot,’ said Kip firmly. ‘I touched it, and I am perfectly healthy.’

‘Where is it?’ demanded Michael.

Then everything happened quickly. Kip made a quick, darting lunge, and all of a sudden he had snatched two knives from the rack above his head. Bartholomew ducked behind a table, but Tomas and Michael were slow to react, and only gazed in horror as Kip prepared to throw the first one.

‘No, Kip!’ cried John, horrified. ‘Do not make matters worse.’

‘I can kill two men with these,’ said Kip, calmly assessing his situation. ‘First, I will spear the monk for not believing us over Tomas, and then I will kill Tomas himself. Bartholomew is nothing-it does not matter if he lives or dies.’

He drew back his arm. Tomas shot towards the wall and Michael dived to the floor, which meant Kip was obliged to clamber on to the table in order to gain a clear view of his first victim. He raised his arm to take aim, but there was a tremendous groan as first one half of the iron rack, and then the other, descended towards the servant’s unprotected head. Bartholomew saw Kip’s mouth open in an expression of horror before he was lost among crashing utensils and the heavy thump of the rack itself. He leapt forward to haul it away, but the load had fallen in such a way as to break Kip’s back.

‘He cut the rope that held the rack with his own knife,’ explained Tomas, holding the severed twine for Michael to inspect. ‘As he lifted his hand to hurl the weapon, his blade scored through the rope. The cook keeps them very sharp.’

‘Barzak’s curse!’ cried John in horror. ‘Kip touched the relic so was doomed, just as Urban and Andrew said.’

‘I will not die,’ muttered Kip, although it was obvious to everyone that he had but moments to live.

‘Make your confession,’ Tomas urged. ‘Before it is too late.’

‘And tell me the location of the relic,’ added Michael. ‘I do not want anyone else to die because they inadvertently handle the thing.’

Kip snarled a refusal, but John scrabbled at his brother’s neck to reveal a purple pouch. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Take it.’

Michael regarded it warily, and made no attempt to oblige, while Bartholomew certainly had no intention of doing so and Tomas was more concerned with the dying man’s soul. Kip ignored the friar’s exhortations to confess his sins, and his groping fingers found the purse and began to open it, each movement slow and laboured.

‘Is that it?’ asked Michael, watching cautiously. ‘It is not a decoy? You have not hidden the real one elsewhere?’

‘Why not look?’ suggested Kip tauntingly, waving a small splinter in the monk’s face. He smiled when the monk leapt backward. ‘To be certain.’

They were his final words. He closed his eyes and, after a few moments, his breathing slowed then stopped, although the splinter remained firmly clutched in his fingers. Tomas began to intone a final absolution. At the sound of the Dominican’s voice, Kip’s eyes flew open and he hurled the relic from him. It hit the startled friar square in the middle of his chest. His prayers faltered and Kip went limp for the last time.

‘Lord!’ whispered Michael in horror. ‘Tomas has touched it.’

‘I do not think we have ever made so many mistakes and erroneous assumptions with a case before,’ said Michael the following day, as he sat with Bartholomew in the little orchard at the back of their college. ‘We thought we had three murders, but there were only three accidents-four, if we count Kip. First, there was Witney, a fanatical hater of Holy Blood relics, who would stop at nothing to destroy one. He died when the trap he had set for Andrew sprung early, and stones dropped down the chimney to stun him and then smother him with soot.’

‘Witney’s death may have been accidental, but Andrew’s and Urban’s had a human component. John insists Kip did not mean to kill Urban when he tripped him, and I think he is telling the truth, but Kip was responsible for the death nonetheless. Meanwhile, Andrew’s demise was a clear case of self-murder.’

‘He deliberately walked on to the unstable pier, and he had dosed himself with a sedative to ensure he would not swim. There is also the way Urban says he fell-with his legs rigid and straight, as though he intended to plunge as deep as possible. He probably thought he would never rise.’

‘But there is a drought, and the river is low,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Fortunately for him, the syrup did its work, and he simply slipped into unconsciousness and drowned. I think he staged his suicide to be perceived as an accident, because he wanted to make a point to Tomas. He knew he would not live long anyway, and decided to use his death to ensure Tomas took Barzak’s curse seriously.’

‘And fulfil his last wishes. All friars are trained to obey their masters, and Tomas would be no different, despite their rift. I wonder why he elected to use Tomas, rather than Urban. Was it because he was fond of Urban, and hoped to spare him an early death?’

‘I can think of no other reason,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Urban had hesitated when he was offered the relic earlier, and Andrew saw that, for all his protestations of loyalty, Urban was not ready to die. But Andrew should not have killed himself before making sure that the relic was in Tomas’s hands, and that Tomas agreed to do what he asked. All manner of things could have gone wrong-did go wrong.’

‘Not really. I have just told you that Tomas would obey his former master’s dying wish-and that is exactly what he is doing. He left Cambridge this morning, with the relic around his neck. It will be in Norwich in a week. You were right about him, and I was wrong. It is a pity he will die, because the Dominican Order needs more men like him-open minded, mild, tolerant. ’

‘I do not think he will die,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I was not right about him: you were.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Tomas killed Kip.’

Michael stared at him. ‘No-Kip killed Kip. Tomas pointed out the severed twine that held the rack to the ceiling, remember?’

‘I remember that is what he said. However, when Kip snatched the knife from the ceiling, Tomas grabbed one from the table. Then he flew across to the wall, where the rope holding the rack was secured to a hook. The rack dropping on Kip looked like divine vengeance, but it was just Tomas, cutting the rope that held the pulley. Besides, the situation Tomas described-with Kip slicing the twine as he took aim at you-is quite implausible.’

Michael gazed at him. ‘Are you sure?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I saw exactly what happened.’

‘Then why did you say nothing?’

‘Because he saved you, and I was grateful to him. But he is a liar. He lied about his real purpose in visiting Cambridge-gaining the trust of good men like Prior Morden in an attempt to discover treachery in the Holy Blood debate is hardly an honourable duty-and he was not honest with us about his former acquaintance with Andrew.’

Michael continued to stare. ‘Then perhaps it is just as well he has gone.’

‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘You compared him to the fish-head John Roughe left on your shoulder at the Dominican priory, before we had ever heard of this relic. You were right: he is the kind to sit unseen, waiting for others to harm themselves with their own careless tongues.’

‘A stinking, malevolent presence with all-seeing eyes,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘Like Barzak’s curse.’

Tomas had been travelling since dawn, when he had taken his leave of Prior Morden and the Cambridge Dominicans, promising to deliver the relic to Norwich as Andrew had requested. He glanced at the man who sat in the cart next to him, and they exchanged yet another grin of satisfaction.

‘The monk and the physician were so easily fooled,’ crowed Seton. ‘They believed it was the real relic Kip hurled at you. They all did.’

‘I might have been dead if it were,’ said Tomas. ‘It was fortunate you were to hand when Urban died, to find it and hide it until we could spirit it away.’

‘Our Minister-General will be pleased,’ said Seton, delighted with his success, ‘although it is a pity Witney grew impatient and tried to act too soon.’

Tomas nodded. ‘I am sorry he died.’

‘This venerable object does not belong with Benedictines in Norwich, but in the hands of the Order that is making a stand for the sanctity of Holy Blood against the vile ravages of fanatical Dominicans. It belongs with us Franciscans-true believers, like you and me.’

Tomas smiled. ‘It will be a relief to don the habit of a Grey Friar again. I hate the Dominican garb-I have done ever since I changed my allegiance after hearing Andrew’s flawed ramblings in Pécs all those years ago. I owe him a great deal-it was his inadequate grasp of theology which convinced me I was in the wrong Order.’

Seton laughed. ‘You played your part well-perhaps too well. Brother Michael still believes you are a Dominican inquisitor, and did not suspect for a moment that we had been watching Andrew all the way from Exeter, waiting for an opportunity to wrest his treasure away from him. But you should not have played with Michael. It was not kind.’

‘I was bored among all those dull-witted Dominicans, and needed something to amuse me.’ Tomas fingered the pouch at his neck.

Seton glanced at it uneasily. ‘I will be glad when we pass that to our Minister-General. What do you think he will do with it? Display it, so common folk can come and pay homage? Or will he keep it in a secure vault, to ensure the Dominicans never seize it for their pyres?’

‘It is worth a fortune,’ replied Tomas. ‘And London is the place where fortunes are made.’

Seton gazed at him in alarm. ‘You mean he will sell it? But it might fall into the hands of someone unscrupulous!’

Tomas nonchalantly drew a knife from his belt and hugged Seton to him as he slipped the blade into his companion’s stomach. Seton’s eyes bulged, and he struggled for a moment before going limp. The friar shoved him off the cart and watched the body bounce into a ditch.

‘You will never know what happens to it,’ he murmured. ‘And neither will your Minister-General.’

Historical Note

Blood relics were controversial items throughout the Middle Ages, and they gave rise to a complex scholastic debate. This concerned not only whether such relics could exist and, if so, whether they should be venerated, but also touched upon such topics as the definitions of death and resurrection, transubstantiation and the mass, and the precise nature of the kind of blood that may or may not have been involved. Since contemporary medical science was of the belief that there were several kinds of blood in the human body, the specific type alleged to have been contained in blood relics, such as the ones at Hailes or Ashridge, was extremely contentious, and had all manner of theological implications.

There were two peaks in the polemic. One occurred in the 1350s, when the Franciscan Francis Bajulus of Barcelona declared that the blood of Christ’s Passion had become separated from His divinity; he based his claim on the writings of the Provençal Franciscan Francis de Meyronnes (died c.1325). The claim might not sound particularly significant today, but in the 1350s it created an uproar. The implication was that if blood and body had indeed become separated, then the blood was unworthy of veneration-which raised questions about the veneration of Christ’s blood in the mass. This in turn had profound implications for fundamental tenets of Christian orthodoxy. Bajulus’s theory was referred to the nearest Dominican inquisitor, and it is no surprise to learn that it was deemed heresy. Thus began yet another chapter in the long series of disagreements between White and Black friars.

The second peak in the debate came a century later, with the Franciscans vociferously arguing that Holy Blood relics were sacred, and the Dominicans furiously seeking to suppress the claims. The battle lines between the two Orders over these issues remained in place until well into the seventeenth century.

Norwich Cathedral was one of several English foundations said to possess a portion of Holy Blood. It came from Fécamp in the 1170s, and may have been an attempt to attract pilgrims who might otherwise have gone to the shrine of Thomas á Becket in Canterbury. It was still there in 1247, and may explain why it was the Bishop of Norwich who was invited to give the sermon when Henry III gave his portion of Holy Blood to Westminster in that year. Norwich Cathedral was ravaged by fire in 1272 and, despite attempts to save it, the crystal vase in which the blood was kept cracked and the reliquary was damaged by flames. The blood was removed from the split vessel, and the monks were amazed by the ‘miraculous’ suspension of most of the blood in the upper part of the vase (it had probably dried).

Adherence to one or other side of the argument can be seen in the world of Renaissance art: the slab on which the dead Jesus lay was either painted red, showing an affinity with the Franciscans’ beliefs, or grey, indicating a preference for the Dominicans’. Presumably, a multi-coloured one indicates a hedging of bets.