Season of Blood Page 15

  ‘Because I feared for the safety of the relic. You were only gone a day before someone tried to steal it again.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘It’s true. The abbot was beside himself.’

  ‘Did you catch the culprit?’

  ‘No. He got away.’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  He shook his cowled head, black over the white gown. ‘Alas. But the abbot bid me go to you, and so I have arrived.’

  ‘And so you have. To bring me these tidings?’

  ‘No. To bring you this.’

  Crispin swore as the monk pulled the crystal vial out from under his scapular.

  FIFTEEN

  God’s blood! Then Crispin felt foolish, for his oath suddenly rang true. It was God’s Holy Blood right here in his lodgings … again.

  The monk held out the strange, flattened bowl of glass, the rusty blood lazily rolling from one side of the crystal to the other. Vaguely, he wondered if the monk could see the blood run free.

  ‘And just what does the abbot expect me to do with it?’

  ‘Why … protect it, of course.’

  Dropping his face into his palm didn’t seem like enough somehow. ‘Could he not put guards on it?’

  ‘We are few monks at Hailes. Even fewer now with our two deaths.’

  Dammit. ‘I can think of only one solution, then. We will take it to Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘There? Oh. I shouldn’t think that a very good idea, begging your pardon, Master Guest.’

  ‘And why not? They have plenty of monks to guard it.’

  Brother James clutched the reliquary. ‘You don’t understand, Master Guest. They are our biggest rivals.’

  ‘Rivals? An unusual term. How can the abbey be a rival to you? Are you not all men of God?’

  ‘Well, certainly. But … surely it cannot be unknown to you how envious they are of our relic of Hailes?’

  ‘I don’t understand. Westminster has its own blood relic, given to them by Henry III. The relic of the Holy Blood.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Yet pilgrims come most often to Hailes to see this one. It is our very livelihood.’

  It was true. Old King Henry had hoped that the blood relic he presented to the abbey over one hundred and forty years ago would generate the interest and pilgrim fees as did the holy relic of Hailes, but it was never so. And after all this time, there was still a rivalry?

  ‘Nevertheless, I believe the safest place would be the abbey.’

  The monk considered. By his expression, he didn’t think much of this plan, but Crispin was already grabbing his cloak and stepping out onto the street. ‘Brother?’

  The monk moved as urged and Crispin locked the door, hoping Simon would behave himself when left to his own devices.

  It would take a good half an hour to reach the abbey, and so Crispin whirled his cloak over his shoulders, buttoned it from the cold and set out toward the Strand. Reluctantly, the monk followed.

  Crispin mulled it all through his brain and wasn’t liking what he was coming up with. Some of it was making sense while other parts didn’t. And then there was Simon. The fool had done everything wrong, but Crispin well knew what a wily woman could do to a man’s senses.

  There were still many travelers going to and from London and as they arrived at Charing Cross it was just as crowded in the late afternoon as it was in the morning. The spires of the palace rose above the mist but the daunting facade of Westminster Abbey imposed itself in front of their view. Crispin made his way not toward the west door but to the side where the porter’s bell hung to welcome visitors to the monastery. Crispin pulled on the rope, letting the chimes die away as he waited, stealing glances at the quiet Cistercian.

  A shadow preceded the Benedictine monk as he approached the gate. Brother Eric first greeted Crispin before he noticed the man in white robes beside him. ‘This is Brother James from Hailes Abbey, Brother Eric. Is Abbot William available?’

  ‘I will take you to him,’ he said with only an inquiring brow raised. Brother Eric walked slower these days, Crispin noticed as they moved along the cloister arcade, and his hair was not as dark as it used to be, marked by gray as it was now. Crispin had found several gray hairs in his own black locks, and little wonder. He was thirty-five now, certainly getting on in years.

  Crispin watched his clerical friend as he stole glances at the Cistercian. He knew Brother Eric was trained well and would not enquire, but he must have burned with curiosity. Trying to recall how many years he had known the monk, Crispin reckoned it must have been before his time of banishment. Brother Eric was the faithful servant of Abbot Nicholas de Litlyngton, Abbot William’s predecessor and, as was the way of things, demoted in favor of Abbot William’s trusted chaplains. The older gave way to the young. Brother Eric, as expected, never complained.

  They reached the abbot’s lodgings where Abbot William de Colchester was dictating to his chaplain, Brother John Sandon, something about tithes and the accounting as the monk busily scratched down what his abbot said on a flat parchment, holding the quill tight in his fingers and crouching low over his writing. Both abbot and chaplain looked up upon Crispin’s entering.

  ‘Crispin Guest, my Lord Abbot,’ announced Brother Eric before bowing and leaving them there.

  Abbot William smiled in greeting, but the smile faltered when he spied the Cistercian monk standing uncomfortably behind Crispin’s back.

  ‘My dear Master Guest. You have brought … a visitor.’

  ‘My Lord Abbot,’ said Crispin with a bow. He turned to the Cistercian. ‘This is Brother James, late of Hailes Abbey. We have a matter of some importance to discuss with you.’ He eyed Brother John pointedly.

  ‘I see. Brother,’ he said to his chaplain, ‘await me without.’

  Silently, the monk set aside his quill and rose from his place at the tall desk. He bowed to all present and then shuffled out of the door, closing it after him.

  The abbot never moved from where he was standing beside the fire. ‘May I offer you refreshment?’

  Crispin always thought that Abbot William had the look of a shopkeeper about him, with his fleshy face and pale blue eyes, unlike the patrician features and ancestry of the late Abbot Nicholas. But he knew the abbot to be a shrewd and clever negotiator, having spent his many years as Westminster’s archdeacon, enviable to other less-educated archdeacons, no doubt, for his expertise in matters of divorce and excommunication, though seldom did he use this expertise on its premises, for he had been mostly sent abroad to Rome to take matters of the king to the pope while Abbot Nicholas presided over Westminster. A patient and judicious man was Abbot de Colchester, and Crispin admired his careful judgment and sedate reasoning.

  The monk beside him muttered that he needed no refreshment and Crispin declined the offer as well, wanting to get this over with. ‘My Lord Abbot, we need not go over the fine details but we are in need of the services of your monks. This brother has brought to me a precious relic from Hailes. I have been admonished by his abbot to guard it. Alas, I fear I am at a disadvantage to do so, and so I implore you and your good monks to take on this task.’

  Abbot William laced his fingers over his belly and, though his expression never changed, his eyes seemed to take on a sparkle when the relic was mentioned. ‘Of what relic do you speak, Master Guest?’

  ‘The Holy Blood of Hailes, my lord.’

  Abbot William unlaced his fingers, crossed himself then returned his fingers to their repose against his belly. ‘I take it this is to remain a secret.’

  ‘Most assuredly, my lord.’

  ‘I beg your mercy, Lord Abbot,’ said Brother James suddenly, ‘but I objected to Master Guest’s bringing the relic here. I told him of the … the … rivalry.’

  ‘Ah.’ The abbot strode to his chair by the fire and carefully sat down. This was Crispin’s cue to join him there, and he sat in the chair opposite. ‘I find it extraordinary,’ said the abbot, ‘that our brother here should travel all the way from Haile
s just to present the relic to you, Master Guest.’ He eyed Crispin sharply. Crispin always felt that when Abbot William did so, he could somehow see into his soul. An absurd notion, but the man’s gaze was always particularly acute and he seldom seemed to blink. ‘But of course,’ he went on, ‘there is more to the tale that you have not, and perhaps will not tell me, no?’

  ‘It is a long tale, my lord,’ said Crispin, ‘and your chaplain is waiting outside … in the cold. Suffice it to say that there are those who have already died for it, one is still in danger of his life, and … other mischief afoot.’

  The abbot’s still form always disconcerted him, but Crispin knew that the man had long practice in it, in his many years as envoy for Westminster, waiting long hours and even days in the halls of the pope’s palace to be called to an audience. ‘Interesting. I hope that you will satisfy my curiosity … someday.’

  ‘Indeed I shall, my Lord Abbot. Someday.’ He offered a crooked smile.

  ‘But for now you will house the relic here, under lock and key. I am loath to hide such a thing. For our Lord gave His precious Blood to us for our sins, and it is proper to venerate, to display His relics.’

  ‘And ordinarily I would agree with you, my lord, but in this case it must not be known where the relic is. At present.’

  ‘I need no convincing, Master Guest. If you say it is so, then I am inclined to believe your word.’

  Crispin warmed at the compliment. The abbot so infrequently gave them.

  Abbot William turned to the monk still standing behind Crispin. ‘I take it you have it on your person?’

  ‘I do, my Lord Abbot.’

  ‘Then we will lock it away in my lodgings. Will that suffice?’

  ‘I think that will do well,’ said Crispin.

  The abbot rose and approached the Cistercian, who seemed to shy back slightly. The abbot opened his hands. ‘Brother, will you surrender it?’

  Brother James hesitated but finally brought it out from under his scapular again. But instead of handing it to the abbot – to the enemy, Crispin mused – he offered it to Crispin.

  Crispin rose and took it. The tingle he had experienced before jolted his hands so much he was afraid he’d drop it. Clutching the beryl crystal, he handed it with a reverential bow to the abbot. The abbot shook his sleeves over his hands and took the crystal with great solemnity.

  He looked it over carefully, eyes tracking its every surface. ‘The Blood … it runs,’ he muttered.

  Ah, thought Crispin. A sinless soul. But then he dismissed it. That was assuming the relic was real, and of that he always harbored his doubts.

  Like a mother carrying its babe, the abbot cradled the reliquary and never took his eyes off it as he approached an ambry. He took a key from his belt, unlocked the door and carefully placed it inside, relocking the door once he’d closed it. He gently touched the door, dropped to his knees and murmured a prayer. The monk followed suit, and when the abbot was done Brother James stepped forward, nervous hands rubbing together. ‘My Lord Abbot, I do not know whether I should stay here or request hospitality at St Mary Graces …’

  ‘Of course you should stay here, brother. If that is your wish.’

  ‘I … I do not know, my lord.’

  ‘I think you would feel more comfortable as close to it as you can be. My chaplain will find you quarters, and then you may return here to keep vigil. Will that suffice?’

  In answer, the monk looked relieved and bowed low.

  The abbot rang a hand bell on his desk and Brother John was quick to enter. ‘Brother John, take Brother James to his quarters. He’s to be our guest. He will be permitted to come and go to my lodgings while he remains here. However long that is.’

  Brother John did not seem to question the abbot’s unusual request and led the Cistercian away, even as Brother James kept looking over his shoulder toward the ambry until the door closed it from his view.

  The abbot turned narrowed eyes toward Crispin until he strode sedately back to his chair by the fire. ‘Master Guest, you do involve yourself so.’

  ‘Why does everyone keep saying that?’

  ‘Because it is true.’ He sat and arranged his robes. ‘Murder, you say? Danger? Perhaps you would find it safer within the monastery as well.’

  ‘I should find such residence … confining, my lord.’

  The abbot smiled. ‘Is there anything I can offer you? Information, perhaps?’

  ‘What do you know of Westminster’s Holy Blood?’

  ‘Shall we go to see it?’ He rose again and Crispin was compelled to follow.

  They traversed the arcade and through the cloister, somewhere Crispin felt particularly privileged to be. They cut across to the church and entered by a side door. There were many people in the church, as there always was, just as there were in St Paul’s back in London. Men looking for work as clerks, as lawyers, and others looking for those men to hire. But the abbot managed to skirt the commerce going on around him and made his way to the tomb of King Henry III.

  The latten effigy of the king in repose sat high above his tomb, but Crispin could still see the jewels set in his crown and in the crossed scepters in his hands, his features gleaming in the candlelight. Set in the tomb, in its own modest shrine, was a stepped cabinet of gold topped with a cross. Set within a grille was a crystal vase decorated with gems and gold. Inside the vase was a rusty color.

  The abbot knelt, crossed himself and touched the grille, unlocking it. ‘The abbot of Westminster has many duties and responsibilities,’ he said quietly. He shook down the sleeve of his gown again to cover his hand and take the vase with his cloth-covered fingers. He turned with it to show Crispin, who also knelt and crossed himself. ‘But I have also found that one of its rewards is being able to do this.’

  Instead of going to Crispin, he allowed Crispin to approach. Crispin looked at it from as many angles as he could manage. It wasn’t like the Blood of Hailes at all. Instead of the freely flowing blood, it sat as a reddish swath in cloudy glass. He did not want to go as far as to call it less impressive, but, well. That was the only description he could ascribe to it.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Abbot William. He cocked his head at the relic, even as he turned it in his covered hands. ‘Because the Blood is not liquid, it isn’t quite as … inspiring as the Blood of Hailes, no?’

  ‘Yet some say that they cannot see the liquid Blood of Hailes. It is only for the sinless to see it flow.’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t that interesting?’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Did you see it flow, Crispin?’

  He locked gazes with Abbot William. ‘Strangely … yes.’

  The abbot smiled. ‘I thought as much.’ He gently returned the reliquary to its cupboard and closed and locked the grille. ‘It was a great honor, of course, for King Henry to have bestowed this relic upon the abbey, and so we keep it here at his tomb. And yet, it has not brought the pilgrims to us as he had hoped it would. Why do you suppose that is?’

  ‘The Holy Blood of Hailes is kept in its own magnificent shrine, my lord.’

  ‘Do you think that is the reason? I’m not so certain. You have seen many relics, I daresay, have you not?’

  Too many was on his lips, but he changed it to a simple, ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘And are you of the opinion that this relic is the true blood of our Lord?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘Ah! So you do doubt.’

  ‘I … doubt them all, Abbot William. For without proof, how can a man know?’

  ‘Faith, my dear Crispin. I know you are a man of faith. But in these you doubt. The pope himself has declared it a true relic of our Lord.’

  ‘Then if the pope says so …’

  The abbot snorted. ‘And I know how much you admire the pope.’

  Crispin judiciously said nothing.

  ‘But what of the Blood of Hailes? Do you think it is the true relic?’

  He couldn’t help but rub his fingers together, remembering the tingle in
them from handling the reliquary. ‘I … do not know. Only that …’ He looked down at his hand. ‘I get a strange feeling around it.’

  ‘But not with this one?’

  Crispin glanced up to the reliquary behind its grille. Though he hadn’t touched it, he felt no strange presence from it, no godly sensation. It was merely a crystal with a stain.

  Crispin shrugged. ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘You say much when you say nothing,’ said the abbot with a gentle smile. ‘Relics. God’s gifts to us. Or are they a curse? You would say so.’

  Again, Crispin remained silent.

  The abbot nodded. ‘Would you be surprised to learn that I agree with you? Man is not mature enough to accept these gifts, if gifts they are. He would use them for ill purposes. Indeed, you have been a witness to much of that. And is it the same again with this relic of Hailes? You said that one is in danger and some have already died. What is man to do with such beneficence? Is it better to toss them all in a pile and burn the lot of them?’

  ‘So I have thought many a time, Abbot William.’

  ‘I thought you had.’ He sighed. ‘Man is a wretched creature. He is full of sin and evil. Often he would choose first to do his fellow ill, rather than a kindness. Yes, being abbot here has its rewards but also its curses, for I am firsthand with those of the court. And though I am no traitor …’ his glance roved over Crispin, aware of the sting his words inflicted but seeming not to care, ‘… and I speak no ill of the king, I cannot say the same for his courtiers.’

  ‘Surely you do not speak of their confessions.’

  ‘Of course not. I am not permitted by the seal of the confessional to even acknowledge a confession took place. But one need not even hear a confession to know the hearts of some of these men. I tell you true, Crispin, that I sometimes think fondly of my days as prior and archdeacon, for I was far from here oftentimes. That is not to say that I regret this office I now perform. Oh, no. I have kept order here. I have cared for my monks like a stern father. But there are responsibilities that a man of poor reputation might find daunting. A more ambitious man might twist it to his own pleasure. I thank God for making me a humble and forthright man, and for giving my monks the foresight to vote me as their abbot.’