====================== The Rag and Bone Man by Lillian Stewart Carl ====================== Copyright (c)2002 by Lillian Stewart Carl First published in Murder Most Catholic, October 2002 Fictionwise www.Fictionwise.com Mystery/Crime/Historical Fiction --------------------------------- NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. --------------------------------- Agitated voices echoed off the walls of the forecourt. Anselm shook his head in disapproval. But more than the usual number of pilgrims had passed through the priory today, the feast of St. Anne, and he was only too aware that not all of them came with pious motives. He turned his face to the late afternoon sunshine. Even though the days were dwindling, still July was the best of the summer. Anselm supposed he could find a lesson in that, something about the waning days of one's life being the richest. But he was tired after the day's sacred labors and was content merely to bask in the warmth and light and the subtle scent of incense. Inside these walls was an enclave of peace, not quite of this world, on the threshold of the next. What better symbol could there be of that than the Holy House of Nazareth in the Lady Chapel behind the church, the replica of Our Lord's childhood home? The sound of running steps shattered his reverie. He opened his eyes to see young Brother Wilfrid bobbing before him. "Father Prior, one of the pilgrims has been found dead in the chapel of Mary and Martha." "May he rest in peace," Anselm returned, wondering why Wilfrid was so disturbed. Every few days an ill pilgrim gave up the ghost here in Walsingham, if unable to find healing in this world, then more importantly easing his passage into the next. "Father, he was murdered." Oh, thought Anselm. Yes, that was a problem. "Tell Brother Porter to shut all the gates and allow no one in or out," he ordered Wilfrid, and he ordered his own aching body across the forecourt to the church. Several people stood outside the door. All voices bar one, a woman's in full lamentation, fell silent as Anselm approached. Glancing at the group, he assessed them as a motley collection of pilgrims no different from any other -- save for my lady the king's mother, who was bending solicitously over the howling woman. Sorry to see the dowager queen involved with such an unseemly matter, Anselm offered her a brief nod of sympathy. The interior of the church was dark and cool. A double row of pillars led to the high altar and its crystal reliquary containing a few precious drops of Our Lady's milk, bright as a star in a constellation of candlelight. Anselm bowed before it, then turned toward one of the chapels. The room was small as a hermit's cell -- or a tomb. A man lay prone before the altar, but not in an attitude of prayer. A runnel of blood crept out from his body to puddle amongst the scattered rushes. Anselm knelt down and with an effort -- the man was fleshy, Anselm was not -- turned him over. He knew this face, pale and distorted though it was. Hubert of Gillingsoke, a merchant who came to Walsingham more to peddle his wares to the pilgrims than to pay his respects at the shrine. Hubert's tunic was soaked with blood from the gaping wound in his throat. Anselm saw no blood trail, no smudges, no scattered drops -- like a slaughtered cow, Hubert had dropped where he stood. The small knife he carried was still in its sheath. He had neither defended himself nor attacked another. The murder had been the work of only a moment. Had Hubert even seen his murderer's face? Probably not, if the killing stroke had come from over his shoulder. His vacant eyes were already glazing over, drained of life and its passions, good or ill. The odors of profane blood and profane body thickened uneasily in Anselm's throat, almost masking the faint aroma of -- smoke? One of the tall beeswax candles on the altar had been knocked over and extinguished. The cloth below it was singed. Worse, one end of the cloth was blemished with a crimson smear swiftly darkening into brown. The murderer had wiped his blade on it. And the reliquaries? Anselm rose to his feet, frowning. The gold-rimmed crystal displaying one of St. Martha's hairs was lying on its side. The jeweled casket containing St. Mary Magdalene's finger bone was gone.... No, thank God and all His saints, there it was, on the floor behind the trailing end of the cloth. Reverently Anselm picked it up. "Father Prior," said Wilfrid's voice behind him. Anselm looked around and up. "It was your place to conduct the group of pilgrims about the grounds and keep watch over the relics." "And so I did, Father. Although this group was the last of the day, I didn't hurry them at all -- we stopped by the chapel of St Lawrence, and the holy wells, and the wicket gate. At the Lady Chapel each pilgrim passed through the Holy House and then each placed a coin in the collection box.... Well no, Hubert groped in his purse but offered nothing -- instead he hissed angrily at his wife and she opened her purse. Until we came here to this chapel, nothing was different from any other day." "So how then, did this evil deed happen?" The young monk retracted his stricken face into his black-cowled shoulders like a turtle retreating into its shell. "Ah -- well -- you see, Father, the old sister swooned and the young one asked me to bring cool water to bathe her brow. So I ran to the well." "Sisters?" Anselm did remember seeing two Benedictine nuns amongst the pilgrims outside. "Did everyone remain here in the chapel whilst you fetched the water?" "No, Father. When I returned they were walking into the porch, the old nun supported between the young one and Hubert's wife, and everyone else gathered close. We got her outside and set her down. Once the color came back into her face -- it looked like bleached linen, it did -- Hubert's wife asked where her husband had gotten himself off to. I went with her to search him out and here he was. Like this. Murdered." "Was anyone else in the church when you left to fetch the water?" "No one save our lady the king's mother. After she paid her respects to Mary and Martha she returned to kneel before the high altar, as always..." "Yes, yes." Queen Isabella had established her own patterns of devotion over the years. The relic of St. Mary Magdalene, the beautiful sinner, was her favorite, but she paid most of her attentions to the Blessed Virgin Mother. If anyone needed to pry open heaven's gates, it was Isabella. But then, if prayer could pry open the gates of heaven then hers would do so. When Isabella took up her usual lodgings at the prior's house last night, she'd told Anselm she wanted to ask his advice on the disposition of a relic. Several times during the day he'd wondered just what she meant. Could she, with her connections in France, have come by another relic of the Magdalene to add to the Holy Mother's treasury? He put his speculations aside. The matter of Hubert's death, while hardly more important, was more pressing. "And our lady Queen Isabella followed the pilgrim group outside?" "She was with the others when I came back with the water, Father, and right helpful she was, too, first with the sister, then with the wife." "So the church was empty when you came in search of Hubert here." "Yes, Father." "You should have made sure it was empty before you left. You should have summoned help for the sister instead of..." He stopped. No need to rub the boy's nose in his folly. The deed was done. "Fetch a hurdle and several strong backs to carry him to the infirmary. And gather the entire group of pilgrims -- including my lady the king's mother -- in my parlor." "Yes, Father." Wilfrid hurried away. Anselm listened to the slap slap of the young brother's sandals receding across the chancel of the church. The sacristy door creaked open and shut with a thud. He turned back to the inert flesh that had once been a man. The flesh was weak, Anselm told himself. Pilgrims were often overcome by exhaustion and emotion, especially if they'd been fasting and walking barefoot -- as well they should, if they wanted their prayers to be answered. And then there was Hubert, his feet shod, his protruding stomach rarely if ever purified by hunger. Along with linen, wool, and silk he dealt in bits of rag and bone which he claimed were relics of the blessed saints but which, for all Anselm knew, he'd "discovered" in the midden behind his house. If Hubert had tried to steal the reliquaries, all one of the other pilgrims needed to do was raise the alarm. And since, manifestly, neither reliquary had been stolen, the matter could hardly be a falling out of thieves.... Thieves. Anselm felt along Hubert's belted waist and found two trailing ends of leather. That was it, then. His purse had been cut clean away. It was justice, perhaps, that a less-than-honest man should fall victim to one even worse. Reminding himself that it was not his place to pass verdict on the dead, Anselm closed the staring eyes. For a long moment he knelt, listening, as though the man's ashen lips would open and speak a name. But no. His silence was absolute. With a groan Anselm stood up, removed the altar cloth, and set the candle upright on bare stone. Which was worse, the defilement of this sacred space or that Hubert had died unshriven? If he'd said his prayers properly in front of Our Lady's shrine, though, surely she'd hear his confession even now and intercede on his behalf. "May God have mercy on his soul," Anselm murmured, and turned toward the door. * * * * The western front of the church shone brightly in the light of the setting sun. But Anselm was no longer aware of the light. Neither did he smell incense. He twisted his nose at the ripe reek of summer and mortality, smoke, cooking food, offal. He'd never felt so much under siege from the town, its high street crowded with inns and shops breeding sin and disease. He turned to Brother Nicholas, the infirmarian, whose stooped figure in its black robe looked like a raven. "Yes, Father, I'll clean the man's body and bind up his throat, make him decent so his wife can take him home. Gillingsoke is on the road to Castle Rising, isn't it?" "Yes," replied Anselm, "but Hubert's house and manufactory are in town, in Norwich. He held his property free of any lord. Such times we live in, Nicholas, such times!" Clucking his tongue, Nicholas went on, "Here is Hubert's purse -- see the sprinkling of blood? It was lying behind a pillar in the church. The thief must have emptied it out into his own purse." So as not to be discovered holding it, Anselm told himself. The small leather pouch in Nicholas's hand was flaccid as Hubert's body. The porter, Brother Simon, stood waiting his turn. His nose and the shaved crown of his head were both sunburned -- he didn't hide inside the gatehouse, he was faithful to his task. "Yes, Father, I saw the pilgrims fussing about on the porch of the church. Soon after I heard the woman scream inside. No one had left for some time. I sent Brother Peter to close the meadow gate and then he and I searched the enclave. No pilgrims are inside the pale now bar the ones waiting in your parlor." "Thank you," Anselm told them both, and told himself that their observations were probably useful but he was at a loss to say how. He supposed he should send to the earl for a sergeant-at-arms -- which would be yet another trespass by the outside world. Unless, Anselm thought suddenly, he solved this crime himself. Then all he'd have to do was turn the culprit over to the sergeant, shut the gate upon them both, and set about cleansing the sacred precinct. He walked across the forecourt, bent beneath the weight of his task. But as crosses went, this one in no way approximated the poundage of Our Lord's. Summoning the iron into his soul, Anselm opened the door to his house and stepped into his parlor. The room, already small, seemed claustrophobic, warm and still. Pilgrims were ranged along the walls, some standing, some sitting on benches and chests, both his own and Isabella's. Wilfrid stood guard over the one high-backed chair, trying to redeem himself after his earlier dereliction of duty. Anselm lowered himself down, only too aware of the dust dabbling his feet and the hem of his black robe and of the sweat trickling down his back. But he couldn't ask Wilfrid to bring him a cool drink, not when all these people had none. Every face turned toward him, every eye focussed on him. One of these people, Anselm thought, was a thief and a murderer. He could ask to inspect their purses, but each coin looked like another -- how to tell which ones had begun the day in Hubert's pouch? The room was so quiet he could hear the concerted breaths of the pilgrims and the whimper of a baby.... And a combination of the two, the quick gulped breath of a woman who'd been sobbing. Yes, there she was, Hubert's young wife Alianor, small, sleek, her eyes like smoldering coals. She wore a headdress and a cote-hardie of an elegance beyond her station, not to mention her surroundings. The trailing end of one sleeve was stained a brownish crimson. It must have touched her husband's wound when she and Wilfrid discovered his body. "I'm sorry for your loss, Madame," Anselm said. She parted her compressed lips. "I've lost my husband, my livelihood. I don't know where to turn." In truth, Anselm told himself, she hadn't lost her livelihood -- since Hubert's property and business were free held they would come to her. But now, in the throes of her grief, was no time to mention such legalities. The king's mother stood close beside Alianor, one supporting hand on her shoulder. "You may come to me at Castle Rising, you know the way." "My thanks, my lady," said Alianor, "I shall indeed throw myself on your mercy. But -- oh, Father Prior, you must find the evil man who deprived me of my lord and husband!" "If God so wills it." Anselm turned to Isabella. "My lady, you and your retainers were the last to leave the church before the discovery of the murder. Did you see or hear anything?" "Not at all, Father Prior." Isabella's voice was still inflected by the language of her youth, even though her youth -- and her infamies -- had occurred many years ago. Supposedly she'd once had a remarkable worldly beauty. Now her face was like fine marble eroded by time and repentance. "The murderer must have passed close behind us," she said, "but lost as I was in veneration I saw and heard nothing. Sir Raynald?" Isabella's steward was a thickset man, freckled of face, red of hair. He smiled shamefacedly. "I confess, my lady and Father Prior, to woolgathering as I knelt, estimating expenditures and the like. I'll be sure to beg Our Lady's pardon for my inattention. Walter?" "I was praying very passionately that my trespasses be forgiven." The rawboned man-at-arms smiled tightly and a flush brightened his sallow cheeks, making Anselm wonder how many of his trespasses were hedonistic ones. Raynald asked, "James?" Isabella's squire stepped forward, his jaw square, his blue eyes steady, his broad shoulders set beneath his flowing sleeves. "I heard my lady's voice, Father, and the footsteps of the other pilgrims. Perhaps one set came late, behind the others -- it's hard to say, the space is filled with echoes and drafts and my mind was centered on my prayers." Isabella turned to her ladies-in-waiting. "Maud, Blanche, did you see or hear anything?" While dressed less soberly than the queen herself, who wore the habit of a Franciscan nun, still the women's clothing lacked the frills and furbelows of Alianor's. They were both of a middling age and ordinary countenance. "I knelt beside you, my lady," said the one, "and repeated the Psalter of Our Lady as you spoke it. Blanche?" The other said, "The church is dark. After several moments staring into the altar candles strange shapes and shadows moved in the corners of my eyes, as though the pillars themselves came forward to kneel." "Yes, said one of the nuns suddenly, "I saw them too, the shapes of angels and ministers of grace, of the Holy Blessed Virgin and her mother, blessed St. Anne." "I beg your pardon?" asked Anselm. The older nun's thin face was almost as colorless as the wimple surrounding it, and yet a subtle glow in her flesh made Anselm think of a fine painted window shining with the light of heaven. It was the younger sister, wider than she was tall, round and rosy of cheek, who answered. "Father Prior, I am Sister Margaret and this is Sister Juliana, from the priory at Little Aldersthorpe. Mother Prioress gave Juliana permission to come to Our Lady's shrine on this, the feast day of St. Anne, our patron saint." "And you came as Sister Juliana's companion." "Yes, Father. I am infirmaress, and she has been -- infirm." And hadn't long to live, Anselm concluded. Yet Juliana came here in celebration, not to plead for healing. "I'm afraid I saw and heard nothing this afternoon," Margaret went on. "My attention was to Sister Juliana. Mother Prioress has excused her from fasting, but still...." "The incense," said Juliana with a beatific smile. "The relics, the spirit of a blessed soul lingering in their physical remains, working miracles. Shape and shadow and Our Lord made flesh, out of Mary by the spirit of God." This one was a bit wander-witted, Anselm told himself, and turned to the gangly young man who hovered over a drawn and pinched young woman. She crouched on one of Isabella's small chests, holding a child of perhaps two years of age. The simplicity of their garments reminded Anselm of the Holy Family, and yet their expressions, worry shading into despair, had nothing holy in them. "Who are you?" he asked. "I am Thurstan, a plowman of Fakenham," said the man, politely enough but with little deference. "This is my wife, Hawise, and our son, who we named Edward after your son, my lady." The corner of Isabella's mouth tucked itself into a rueful half-smile, perhaps remembering that her late husband and his imperious father had also been named Edward. She peered at the child's face. His lips were blue, his skin tinted with lavender. "He is ill?" "He was taken ill in the spring," answered Thurstan, "choking and wheezing, and now wastes away before our eyes." "And we thought ourselves fortunate to be spared the plague this last year." Hawise rocked the child in her lap and it whimpered again. "May the Holy Mother have mercy," Anselm said. Of all the pilgrims who flocked to Walsingham he liked the children best. It was sad when one died, yes, and yet it was also a blessing for their souls to be taken up into heaven before they were contaminated.... The desolation in Hawise's face made Anselm realize she was seeing matters from a very different perspective. Somehow he'd never asked himself how the Blessed Virgin felt upon seeing her son's bloodied corpse lowered from the cross. Strange, to think that everything was not as it seemed. Stranger still, to find that thought less discomforting than stimulating. "We saw nothing in the church," Thurstan said. Anselm forced himself back to the issue at hand. "You went outside with all of the others?" "Our lady the king's mother knelt before the high altar," Hawise said, then glanced at the man standing to one side, half obscured by the ray of sun just creeping into the narrow window. "But this man, here, he came behind us." "Well then," said Anselm. The man was tall, dressed in a simple wool tunic and mantle. Rough dark hair streaked with gray framed a patrician face, high-browed, hawk-nosed. "I am Geoffrey de Charny, knight," he said in the accents of France. The others glanced at him in surprise and even resentment. Several inched away. Isabella did not. Her eyes lit up. "_Ah, un chevalier francais_." "_Je vous en prie, Madame_." Geoffrey bowed, his shadow on the opposite wall bending and straightening as well. Well, well, thought Anselm. A Frenchman. An enemy. "You were the last to go outside?" "No," replied Geoffrey. "The merchant, Hubert, he stayed behind." "Of course he did, we know that. But you were the last of the group that did go outside?" "Save my lady the king's mother, yes." "You, then, were the last person to see Hubert alive." "So it seems." Anselm leaned forward like a hound on the scent. "Why are you here? Were you a captive?" "I was captured at Calais. My king has paid ransom. I stop here on my way to take ship at King's Lynn." Raynald's sandy brows rose. "If King Jehan has paid your ransom then you must be a great knight indeed. An honorable man," he added to Anselm. "The truly wise man give thanks to God and to the Virgin Mary for any successes he may achieve," Geoffrey said. Amen to that. Anselm deflated a bit, suddenly uncertain. France and England might be at war, but a warrior turned pilgrim, a man of honor trusted by his captor, always had safe conduct. And was hardly likely to go about murdering merchants. "A Frenchman who can't afford to pay his own ransom," Alianor said scornfully, "might think a bit of thievery wouldn't come amiss. He has killed many Englishmen, no great mischief to kill one more who stood between him and a holy reliquary." "Is the relic missing, Father?" asked Geoffrey. "No," Anselm replied. "Perhaps," suggested James, Isabella's squire, "he dropped it on the floor as he fled." "Why do I steal a finger bone of the blessed Madeleine when her body already lies in my country?" Geoffrey returned. "More than one body," muttered Walter. "Those French monks either create relics or steal each other blind." Geoffrey quirked a brow but said nothing. "If the holy thief succeeds in his purpose, then the blessed saint herself wants to move," Juliana pointed out. "And some relics have the power of self-replication, like the holy Eucharist itself." Anselm had heard Hubert expressing similar rationalizations, although from a very different viewpoint. Not that it mattered -- Walsingham's reliquary of St. Mary Magdalene was safe in its chapel. "Only Hubert's money was stolen," he said. "And his life." "Hubert had no money," said the lady-in-waiting named Blanche. "I overheard at the door of the Lady Chapel, he reached into his purse, found it empty, then muttered a curse at his wife for keeping their coins herself." Alianor shrugged. "He'd forgotten he gave me the coins to carry. He was always short-tempered." Behind Anselm's back Wilfrid nodded agreement. He'd already mentioned the quick exchange between man and wife before the collection box. "Even though the thief didn't know Hubert's purse was empty," said Anselm, grasping at a quickly-receding straw, "the motive remains the same." "And perhaps this man here," Alianor went on, "the plowman with the ailing child, needs money badly enough to kill for it." Hawise frowned, but Thurstan drew himself up and shook the mop of flaxen curls from his brow. "I'm not a wealthy man, far from it. But I've no need to steal. After the black plague killed so many in our village I have more work for my hands than ever before, and higher wages and a bit of respect as well." What is the world coming to? Anselm asked himself. Although he saw where he himself was going. He wouldn't be giving thanks for achieving any successful criminal investigations, not at this rate. He sank back even further in his chair, sent a prayer for assistance heavenwards, and tried to concentrate his mind. Had this crime gained nothing for the murderer, then, and accomplished no end whatsoever? No money stolen, no relics stolen -- had Hubert died for a mistaken perception, because everything wasn't what it seemed? Anselm envisioned Hubert in the chapel, between the group with Alianor, Juliana, and the others on the one hand and Isabella and her retainers on the other. He must have died after the former left the church but before.... Impatiently Alianor looked right and left and then stepped forward, shaking her becrimsoned sleeve at Anselm. "My husband's blood cries out for justice, Father Prior! If you can't find his killer here, then send these people about their business and look amongst your own brethren. Who's to say which of them entered the church, privily, through the sacristy door?" "That door creaks," Anselm explained, trying to keep the indignation from his voice. "My lady Queen Isabella would certainly have heard it, even if the guilty party had waited to cross the chancel until she'd turned away.... What is it, Sister?" Margaret was looking closely at Alianor's forearm, exposed as the sleeve of her cote-hardie slid back. "You've been injured, Madame. Five bruises, four on one side, one on the other, like the violent grasp of a man's hand." "It's no matter, please don't concern yourself." Alianor quickly dropped her arm and the folds of cloth covered it. Anselm sat up, suddenly seeing the murder from a different viewpoint, and answered his own question. What had been accomplished by Hubert's murder was Hubert's death. Alianor might have tired of her husband knocking her about -- that much Anselm could understand. But she hadn't broken her vow of obedience, not to mention the sixth commandment, and murdered him. When she'd left the church with Juliana and the others, her husband was still alive. Juliana, Anselm saw, was staring at the shadow play on the wall, Alianor's sleeves billowing like smoke in the brilliant sunlight, Geoffrey's figure like an upright effigy. Was it Sister Juliana who'd said something about shadows? No, it was Isabella's lady-in-waiting, Maud, who said she'd seen moving shapes while she knelt at the altar. And someone else, one of the men, had also said something very interesting.... The room was so silent Anselm could hear the child's labored breath and the shuffle of feet as several people shifted impatiently. Shoes, he thought. He and his brethren wore sandals, but everyone else here wore soft leather shoes. Isabella and her retainers heard no footsteps because there had been none to hear. They themselves had been the only people in the church save Hubert himself. Everyone spoke of the king's mother as though she and her retainers moved together like soldiers in formation. But if Maud saw a shadow moving before her, what she was seeing was a shadow cast by the light of the candles in the chapel behind her, the shadow of one of her own colleagues as he stepped cat-footed through the door, did the evil deed, and returned. All he had had to do was station himself in the rear of the group and wait until Isabella, in a voice that had once commanded armies, began speaking the Psalter. Abruptly Anselm stood up. The man had done two evil deeds -- he'd murdered Hubert and he'd wiped his blade on the altar cloth, knocking the reliquary to the floor. Yes, he saw the way now, as clearly illuminated in his mind as the mottled plaster wall of his parlor was illuminated by God's holy and revealing light. "Wilfrid, gather every knife in this room and bring them to me." Wilfrid stepped out from behind the chair, puzzled but knowing better than to ask questions. He collected blades from Geoffrey, Thurstan, Raynald, James, and Walter. When Margaret proffered a tiny knife Anselm shook his head. "Thank you, Sister, but so small a blade as that could not have cut a man's throat in one stroke -- nor could you, I think, have reached over his shoulder to make that stroke." Turning away from them all and yet aware of every eye upon him, Anselm walked into the hot glow of the sunbeam which shone through the window bright as the Holy Mother's crystal reliquary. He beckoned Wilfrid, his arms bristling with knives, to his side. Picking up the first knife, he drew it from its sheath and held it to the blazing ray of sun. Geoffrey's dagger was long and plain, but the hilt was cunningly wrought. The blade was pristine, polished to a silvery gleam. Thurstan's knife was well-worn and stank of onions, but it, too, was clean. Not that Anselm suspected either man, not any more. It was simply appropriate for him to inspect all the knives. He picked up the third one, a fine blade with a jeweled hilt. Raynald's, he guessed. He drew it from its sheath and turned it back and forth in the dazzling light. Clean. That left two, both simple, very similar, knives. Feet shuffled behind him but he didn't glance around. He plucked the next knife from its sheath and held it close, squinting in the glare. Yes, there, a streak of rust-red forming a thin crust between shining blade and dull guard. Wetting his fingertip, Anselm touched it to the crust. It came away red. If not for the sun he'd never had seen it. "This knife has blood on it." He turned back toward the watching people, blinked away several bright shapes floating in his vision, and asked, even though he knew the answer, "Who does it belong to, Walter or James?" For a long moment none of the eyes watching him blinked. Then James exclaimed, "Walter! Have your debts grown so great you coveted Hubert's money? One sin begets another and yet another, it seems." Walter's jaw worked -- he'd have spat on the floor, Anselm assumed, if he'd been anywhere but in a prior's parlor. "I have gambling debts, yes. But I didn't kill the man. Look to your own knife and your own sins, Sir Squire." Raynald caught James's arm and pulled him into the light. The squire, his lower jaw outthrust, shook him away. "I tell you, that's Walter's knife, not mine." One lingering shape in Anselm's eye resolved itself into a vision of a flaccid leather pouch, spotted with blood. Blood will tell, yes. Blood will confirm. Between thumb and forefinger he picked up the loose fabric of James's sleeve and spread it before the all-seeing light of God. Bending close, he smelled the young man's acrid sweat. He saw a delicate spray of brown droplets fanning across the cloth. The drops drew an ugly picture -- James's left hand grasping Hubert's shoulder or hair, his right arm reaching around and drawing the knife across his throat in a smooth, quick stroke. Hubert's last breath, expelled through the wound, sprinkling his lifeblood over James's stylishly long sleeve. And it was James himself who'd uttered the words that damned him. "You knew that the reliquary had fallen to the ground," Anselm said. "Only the murderer could have known that." "You killed my husband!" Alianor shrieked. James turned on her with a snarl. "It's what you wanted, you daughter of Eve! Isn't that why you seduced me there at Castle Rising, when you and your husband came to peddle your wares? He's old, you said. He's vile-tempered, you said. Hold me, you said. And then when you'd had your way with me you told me that our passion was sinful, that it would be better to marry than to burn, and that I had no choice but to kill him and take you as my wife." "No." Alianor took a step back and collided with Isabella, who laid a firm hand on her arm. "No, you're lying." "You and Hubert did visit Castle Rising," Isabella said quietly. "I bought a length of baudekyn from you, but none of your collection of relics, false or otherwise." Maud stared from Alianor to James and back. "I heard you talking, the both of you, about a relic. I thought that to be evidence of your piety." "Is he lying, daughter?" Anselm asked Alianor. "Or is he confessing his guilt? What of you? Confess your disobedience and purify your soul." "No," Alianor said again, her voice stretching thinner and thinner. "We made our plans," James said between clenched teeth. His glare at Alianor was filled with passion, yes, but with hatred, not lust. "She told me her plans, rather, that I, fool that I am, agreed to put into effect. Her old husband, who was no great loss, by the by, wanted to steal the relic of St. Mary Magdalene. A holy theft, he named it. He'd told Alianor to feign a swoon there in the chapel, but in the event she didn't need to." "It was I who swooned," Sister Juliana said, not at all shamefaced. "And among those female voices I heard in my dream was one whispering, 'now, do it now'. I thought the saint was speaking to me, and although I didn't understand, I didn't question, as God's mysteries are beyond human comprehension." The color drained from Alianor's face. "God and the Holy Virgin help me," she murmured, and swayed like a broken reed. Maud and Blanche stepped forward to ease Alianor's sagging body to the floor. She wasn't feigning a swoon, not now. Anselm regarded her sadly. The flesh was weak, and no flesh was as weak as a woman's.... Well, neither Hubert nor James were male exemplars, were they? All Hubert had had to do was attach himself and Alianor to the dowager queen's party. Then, when -- someone -- provided a distraction and drew the others away, he would steal the reliquary. But Alianor and James had their own plot, parallel to his. All Alianor had had to do was guide her husband to Walsingham on St. Anne's Day, when Isabella would also be there. Perhaps Alianor and James intended all along to throw suspicion onto Walter. Or perhaps they took advantage of his presence -- and his failings -- as they took advantage of having a peasant and a Frenchman in the party. James took Hubert's empty purse to make it appear as though robbery was the motive. And he knew that whilst Hubert could have slipped out of the priory with the reliquary beneath his tunic, the hue and cry over a murder would never permit James himself to do the same. So he'd left the reliquary lying on the floor of the chapel, where it'd fallen, most likely, after he wiped his blade on the altar cloth. Why then, Anselm wondered, should James and Alianor have been discussing a relic at all? Because they could hardly avoid discussing Hubert's business? Margaret patted Alianor's cheeks, bringing her round. James watched stone-faced. Wilfrid handed back the knives, giving James's to Raynald. Thurstan inspected his and then used it to clean a bit of food from his teeth. Geoffrey tucked his into his belt abstractedly, as though feeling he had little to do with the events taking place before him. Isabella met Anselm's eyes with a remote, rueful expression. For just a moment he could read her mind. Her own husband had been no exemplar, either. Her rebellion against him, while wrong, was not inexplicable. Like Alianor she had discovered one very effective tactic: There was no need to wield a weapon yourself if you could beguile a man into doing it for you. Isabella had had years to pay penance, humbling herself and showing compassion even for those like Alianor. Especially for those like Alianor.... And suddenly Anselm saw the plot entire. What else had Hubert's murder accomplished? It had left Alianor in possession of his property and his business, dealing not only in cloth but in relics. She had no need to plead poverty in front of Isabella and ask for her succor at Castle Rising. But Isabella possessed a relic, one she wanted to discuss with Anselm. While Hubert might have lusted after a relic from Walsingham, Alianor lusted after the one from Castle Rising. Perhaps she'd learned of it from James. Perhaps she'd merely used James as a means to her end -- not only to dispose of her husband but to claim Isabella's compassion in her bereavement and thereby gain access to her relic. The sunbeam faded, filling the room with twilight. With a quickly muffled groan, Anselm sat back down in his chair. James's life would end on the gallows, no doubt about it. As for Alianor -- well, unlike Isabella, the earl was not known for his compassion. "Wilfrid, have Brother Simon send for the earl's sergeant-at-arms. Sir Raynald, if you'd be so kind -- ladies...." "My pleasure, Father." Raynald and Walter marched James across the room and out the door. He stepped out proudly, as though on parade. Maud and Blanche came behind with a stumbling Alianor. "Is there any justice for me, Father? A young woman married against her will to a violent old man -- why shouldn't I look to my own provision?" "We shall all stand before the judgement of Christ," Anselm told her, "and each one of us shall render account of himself to God. All the church can offer you is forgiveness, if you ask for it." Perhaps she would ask, as Isabella had. Perhaps she'd never find humility. Anselm watched the two young people disappear out the door and felt old and weak and empty. The child Edward was fretting, making little cries of discomfort. Hawise bent over him and Margaret knelt beside them. Suddenly he sat up in his mother's lap, coughing violently, his entire body spasming. "Blessed Virgin," exclaimed Thurstan, "as you loved your own son, help mine!" In one great paroxysm the child spat something into Margaret's hand and lay back, breathing deeply. Isabella set her hand on his face, watching in amazement and, Anselm thought, gratification, as Edward's skin flushed a rosy and healthy pink. "It's a miracle," said Juliana, crossing herself. Margaret inspected the damp object in her hand. "It's a bit of nutshell. It must have been lodged in his chest." Tears of joy were running down Hawise's fragile cheeks. "The day he took ill I was cracking walnuts and he was playing at my feet. Children will put anything and everything into their mouths." "God be praised," said Anselm, and he surprised himself with a smile. "Yes, indeed," Isabella said. "And God be thanked for giving me such a clear and unequivocal sign." "My lady?" Anselm asked. "We were all brought here together for a purpose -- the child, Sir Geoffrey, all of us. I see it plain as you saw the blood on that knife, Father Prior, illuminated by God himself." Geoffrey tilted his head quizzically. "Madame?" "I wished to ask your advice about a relic, Father." "Yes," Anselm replied. "I was just thinking of it. If you'd rather wait until some better time...." "This is the time." Isabella raised Hawise from the chest she'd been sitting on. Thurstan wrapped wife and child in one long arm and stepped aside. Margaret went to stand beside Juliana. Isabella reached into her belt, withdrew a key, and unlocked the chest. Leaning forward, Anselm saw a length of baudekyn, its silk and gold threads shining in the last gleam of light from the window. Reverently Isabella rolled back the end of the precious cloth. Inside it lay folded linen. She grasped one end of the linen and pulled it from its wrapping, higher and higher, until she held it unfurled to the height of her own body. Still part of the cloth lay concealed in the chest. At first Anselm thought it was ordinary linen cloth such as Hubert sold. Then, very faintly, he began to make out the impression of a man's body, a bearded face bedaubed with blood, crossed arms wounded in the wrists. The linen seemed to emit a pale light of its own as well as a subtle fragrance. He rose to his feet, slowly but painlessly, drawn by the soft but radiant glow of the cloth and that elusive scent of -- myrrh, he realized. The unguent which anointed Our Lord's corporeal body.... "It is the burial shroud of Our Lord himself," Isabella said. "What?" Chills ran down Anselm's back. Juliana gasped and fell to her knees, Margaret at her side. "Look, it is the image of Our Lord, wounds and all. Thurstan called upon the Virgin in the name of her son, and through His spirit dwelling in the relic the child was healed." "I doubted whether this cloth was the genuine relic," said Isabella, "having seen many false bits of bone and rag and such over the years. But here, in this moment, God has shown me -- shown us all -- the truth." No, Anselm told himself, the miracle was not a matter of perception or a difference in viewpoint. The cloth was exactly as it appeared. One by one everyone sank slowly to his knees, save the little boy, who burbled happily in his mother's arms. The child, made in the image of God, the image now displayed before them. The image of a mortal man, his body like Anselm's own. What would have been the point of Our Lord's sacrifice, had he had no body to suffer? Anselm felt dizzy, as though a wind was blowing through his skull and sweeping his old perceptions away. Automatically he made the sign of the cross over them all, and then traced the sign again, more slowly, for the first time fully aware -- and taking joy in -- its physicality. Isabella's voice was a note of music. "I was sent from France to marry Edward the year after my father, King Philippe, charged the Order of the Temple with heresy. He purged them with blood and fire and took their treasure for his own. One of my bride-pieces was a jeweled chest from the Paris commandery. It was years later, long after my son exiled me to Castle Rising for my sins, that I found the false bottom in the chest and this cloth, folded so that only the face of the image could be seen." "The Templars were charged with worshipping a face," said Geoffrey. "A face with a beard." Isabella folded the linen back into the chest. Its glow vanished into the shadows like the sunbeam disappearing from the wall. Its fragrance lingered, now smelling less like myrrh than like baking bread. After all, Anselm told himself, while man might not live by bread alone, bread was necessary to life. He bounded to his feet like a spring lamb, refreshed, and reached out to assist Juliana and Margaret. But they too, stood effortlessly. Every face was turned to the chest, and every face glowed rosily as though turned to the sun, even in the now-dark room. "This is the so-called idol of the Templars," said Isabella. "They didn't worship it, they venerated it. I believe they saved it when Constantinople was looted by their own brethren, the Crusaders, and kept it so secret that even my father's treasurers didn't know where -- or what -- it was. The irony of the most sacred of relics falling into the hands of she who was once named 'the she-wolf of France', her father's daughter, has not been lost on me." "God so willed it," stated Juliana. Isabella nodded. "I could, I suppose, present this relic to Our Lady's shrine here at Walsingham, buying my way into heaven with it." For a long moment Anselm's mind filled with the image of Walsingham as the greatest shrine not just in England but in the world, drawing pilgrims and their offerings.... The thought came to his mind as though a voice whispered it in his ear: I can't have it both ways. I can either disdain the world or welcome it to my doorstep. "And yet," Isabella went on, "I see that today's events are a sign from God himself, that my own penance is only a small part of a much greater one. France and England have seen war, plague, famine, death these last few years. This most holy of relics must be returned to the place whence it was stolen, to redeem both my and my father's pride and to heal both my homelands. Sir Geoffrey, you must take it with you back to France." "My respect to your nephew, my liege lord Jehan," said Geoffrey with a frown, "but he would destroy the _suaire_, the shroud, as evidence of the Templars. I could give it to the holy father, the pope." "Who is captive in Avignon, in my nephew's domain, without hope of ransom. He wouldn't dare accept such a gift. No, Sir Geoffrey, find some small church which will hold the holy shroud in trust until such time as its presence can be revealed and appreciated for what it is." "I shall give it, then, to my own church at Lirey and conceal its origins." "Thank you," said Isabella, and, turning to Anselm, "I beg your pardon, Father Prior. I know what this relic would have meant to you here within these walls." "But we can see only part of God's plan from within these walls," Anselm told her. "Our Lord himself opened the door of his mother's house and went out to meet the world." "If there were no outside world," said Margaret softly, "why should there be need for places like Walsingham?" Yes, thought Anselm, without pilgrims there would be no priory. Without the world there would be no pilgrims. Without the body and blood of Christ -- the actual, physical body and blood -- there would be no faith. That's why relics existed. How long, he wondered, had he himself been no more than a rag and bone man, never seeing the true significance of his charge? Geoffrey brushed the chest with his fingertips, then with a low bow accepted the key from Isabella's hand. "Thank you for your trust, Madame." "I have learned," said Isabella, "to trust in God." "Amen," Anselm said with feeling. "Who would have thought that a rag and bone man like Hubert would be an instrument of God's will?" "God works in mysterious ways," said Hawise. Edward was squirming. She set him down and he toddled toward the chest, where he started beating its top with crows of delight. Grinning, Thurstan pulled him away. A bell rang outside. "It is the hour of compline," said Anselm, "the completion of the daily cycle of prayer. Please, come to the church with me, so that we can pray for James and Alianor, and give thanks, and prepare ourselves to begin again tomorrow." "Yes, Father." Thurstan gathered Hawise close. Margaret supported Juliana. Geoffrey bowed Isabella out the door. Anselm waited a long moment, eyeing the room now empty of people but never empty of faith. Then he turned and went out into the twilight, grateful to be part not only of his canonical community, but of the greater community of mankind, saint to sinner and everyone between. Historical Note: The artifact now known as the Shroud of Turin can be traced back to 1355, when it was owned by the de Charny family and displayed at the tiny church of Lirey in France. How it got there is anyone's guess. Since Isabella the Fair (or the She-Wolf, take your pick) had good reason to make her pilgrimages to Walsingham, and Geoffrey de Charny, who was in England in 1351, was known to be an exceptionally pious knight, this particular guess is only slightly less probable than some. ----------------------- Visit www.Fictionwise.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.