Relics bp-1 Page 3

  Meanwhile, the guard had opened the door. A warm glow, of candles and firelight, ebbed out. Sir Hugh patted my shoulder gently.

  'I will be a little while. Then, perhaps, you will be my guest for dinner? I have yet to make amends for last night.' I was speechless yet again, and managed an idiot's nod.

  'Very well, then. Tom will take care of you in the meanwhile.' And with that he stalked into the Bishop's chambers, and the guard pulled the door shut behind him.

  And so I spent a pleasant half-hour in a corridor of the Bishop's palace, eating cold fowl from a silver plate and sipping at a goblet of some rich, garnet-red wine. The page, Tom, presented these delights to me with a nervous bow and then retreated to his place in the shadows by the door, from where he watched me like a timid owl. The wine's smoky fumes reached into my head like the roots of a tree that sends tendrils creeping into every tiny crevice of the rock on which it grows -and indeed I fell to thinking of the moor, and of a hot day in August when I had laid down to rest on a tor high above my home. I had dozed and woken to find a little adder asleep in the curve of my neck. I gasped in fright and it opened a yellow eye, gazed at me with surprise, and disappeared into a fold in the stone. I had been taught to fear the glossy brown vipers, short and stocky with a black zigzag running the length of their backs, but this little creature had been gentle and as afraid of me as I had been of it. Perhaps Sir Hugh is that sort of viper, I thought idly, picking at a chicken wing. But on the whole, I doubted it.

  Finally the door to the Bishop's chambers swung open and Sir Hugh strode out. A smaller, wider man followed him to the threshold, and I recognised Bishop Ranulph. I had sprung to my feet as soon as I heard the creak of the door, and was surreptitiously wiping chicken grease from my fingers onto my habit when Sir Hugh beckoned to me. 'Brother Petroc,' he said, 'come.' Ducking my head in dismay, I did as I was bid.

  'I have commended you to His Excellency,' said the knight. You are greatly honoured.'

  I looked up, and found myself looking at the Bishop's outstretched hand. Upon the fourth finger squatted an immense ring of gold and carnelian. I knelt and kissed it, shooting a moment's glance upward as I did so. Perhaps my daydream of the moors had not quite faded, for I realised that Bishop Ranulph, whom I had only ever seen from a distance, looked like a buzzard. A thick shock of grey hair fell close around a face that held close-set, slate-grey eyes either side of a hawkish nose, below which was a thin, curving mouth. The man even held his head cocked bird-like to one side as he looked down at me beadily and, I thought, hungrily. I had seen buzzards rip the guts from baby rabbits with just such an air of concentration, and I hurriedly dropped my eyes.

  "You are a constant surprise to me, Hugh,' I heard him say. 'I hardly thought you'd be one for proteges.' The Bishop's voice was deep, flat, and every word had an inflection of finality. This was not a man who expected to be questioned.

  'Hardly a protege, Excellency,' Sir Hugh replied casually. 'Of mine, anyhow. Brother Petroc is a thinker. I merely wished to demonstrate some of the promising material the University is nurturing.'

  'Thinker, eh?' the flat voice said. 'Make sure he's thinking the right thoughts, then, Hugh.' There was a sort of laughter, a rustle of fabric, and the grumble of a closing door. Sir Hugh tapped my tonsure. 'Unfreeze yourself, brother. Let us find some dinner.'

  And so we retraced our steps through the stony anatomy of the palace, Sir Hugh wrapped, seemingly, in his thoughts and I in mine. Chief of these concerned my introduction to the Bishop, and my sense that I had acquitted myself rather poorly. The man was quite terrifying, and kneeling on the flagstones between him and Sir Hugh I had felt like a frog caught between two sharp-beaked herons. But now the Bishop knew my name and face. What a stroke of fortune – an introduction to Bishop Ranulph! Wait and see,' I told myself. Wait and see.'

  By now we were back in Cathedral Yard. Sir Hugh was still preoccupied, and although ignored I reasoned I had been invited to dinner, so I kept close to his side. Then, to my surprise, Sir Hugh steered me towards the great west door of the cathedral.

  'Forgive my silence, Petroc. The cares of work. And I'm afraid I have an errand to perform,' said Sir Hugh. 'A small matter of the Bishop's business. It will take but a few minutes. In fact-' and he turned to me as if a new thought had struck him, '-you can be of some help… that is, if you don't mind?'

  And although I was too surprised – not to say worried – to reply, he cuffed my arm companionably. 'Splendid. That is, unless you have made other plans for your evening?'

  'No, no,' I managed, unable for the life of me to imagine how I could help this strange and intimidating man.

  'It is simply that, as a cleric, you are the appropriate person for this task, which will assist me and please His Excellency the Bishop,' said the knight, as if reading my thoughts.

  After that, how could I resist? Besides, we were now at the cathedral door. It was unlocked at this hour, and Sir Hugh gestured me inside with a courtly flourish.

  I had always loved Balecester cathedral, although love is too easy a word. It is a titanic cave of stone, and yet the artisans who made it shaped that stone as if it had been wood, or wax. It was always cool and silent, except during Mass and on feast days and festivals, when it blazed with candles, buzzed with humanity and was filled with billows of incense from huge censers. Just a few weeks back, a great Mass had been held in the presence of the Pope's own legate, one Otto, and it seemed as if the entire city had craned its neck to catch a glimpse of this exotic plenipotentiary from Rome. Tonight it was empty, and lit only by the candles that burned in its chapels and before the altar. As we walked through the transept and reached the nave, I looked up, as I always did here. Columns of stone soared up and away, and met far over our heads in a filigree of arcs and leafy bosses, some carved as clusters of leaves, others as heraldic designs or grotesque beasts and men. It was like being inside a stone forest, and now, although the ceiling was deep in shadow, I felt tiny, awe-struck and insignificant compared to this mighty work honouring a mightier God.

  If Sir Hugh felt such things, he did not show it. While I made a full genuflection towards the high altar, the knight gave a curt bow and crossed himself briskly. Then he strolled on up the nave, and I hurried along behind him, trying to keep up. I was surprised when we passed under the rood screen and into the chancel. Sir Hugh was a layman – a knight, of course, and an erstwhile Templar – but he was also the Bishop's man, and so maybe had some kind of dispensation that allowed him access to the sanctuary. The rood screen itself always made me shiver. I saw it as a colossal web of stonework that held seemingly hundreds of statues, of kings, noblemen, bishops and saints, guarding the altar. So much holiness – and so much weight, supported as if by a miracle. But if I felt the fear of the pious, Sir Hugh was immune. Or was he? Now he hesitated, dropped quickly to one knee and, taking my arm, led us back into the nave.

  'I will have to ask forgiveness for that,' he said, and I thought his voice sounded strained. 'But I used to be in orders myself, and the training never leaves one.' The poise and presence of the man seemed to have left him all of a sudden. I was intrigued. He was human after all. Will had mentioned the Templars, and I was about to say something, when Sir Hugh continued.

  'As the Bishop's Steward I have the right to approach the altar, but I do not like to do so,' he said. Which is how you can be of service, Petroc. The Bishop has asked me to bring him a certain holy relic that is kept there,' and he pointed to the altar. 'It would be right and fitting if you were to carry it, brother.' I felt a glow of pride. 'Of course,' I said.

  'Excellent!' said Sir Hugh. His spirits seemed to have revived a little. 'The Bishop has need of the hand of St Euphemia. It is held in a reliquary shaped like a hand, thus,' and he raised his own hand in imitation of querulous, feminine benediction. It was startling in its precision, and faintly mocking: an actor's gesture. It was also deeply out of place, somehow: like the polished, tightly coiled knight himself, with his white eyes and e
vil little knife. I heard, somewhere in the back of my mind, a gasp of outrage from the stone worthies in the rood screen. But the sense I had of Sir Hugh's otherness, his utter remoteness from anything or anyone in my experience, only tightened his hold over me. I had no familiarity with power. For all I knew, this was how it manifested itself to lesser persons like myself.

  So it was against my better judgement, indeed almost against my will, that I turned and entered the chancel once more. The floor here was made of richly coloured tiles, which were quieter than the flagstones of the nave. The tiered pews of the choir rose on either side of me, and at any other time I would have paused to admire the dense carving that rambled over every surface. The misericords – the hinged seats that folded up against the pew-backs – each had a face or a beast under them, some obvious caricatures of real people, others leaf-haired wood-woses or green men. They were cheerful things that brought a spark of fun to the serious business of Mass, but tonight the thought of all those odd faces made me uncomfortable. Like the statues in the screen, I felt their eyes upon me.

  But now I had reached the altar. I climbed the three steps slowly; the inlaid marble of different hues and patterns that made the treads glow in the light was smooth and slippery under the leather of my soles. The great stone table before me was laden with candles, and the flames winked and slid over the gold and jewels of the tall crucifix, the covers of the Bible and Psalter, the chalice and pyx. I saw a casket of figured ivory; the stand for a crystal globe which held a single tooth of St Matthew suspended within it like the iris of a grotesque eye; a small cross of filigreed gold and garnets that I knew guarded a splinter from the True Cross. And there, almost hidden by the Psalter, slim golden fingers rose to catch the tiniest beads of candlelight on their tips. The reliquary. Catching my breath, I gathered up my right sleeve so as not to brush the altar or the gems that studded the Psalter's cover, reached across and took the hand of St Euphemia.

  It was cool, not cold, to my touch, a thin hand smaller than my own, and finely boned – not unlike my mother's, I thought suddenly. It rose from a richly patterned sleeve that formed a base. The Saint had seemingly lost her hand three or four inches below the wrist. I held the thing reverently. Although I had heard of St Euphemia, a Roman woman of Balecester who had been chopped into pieces by the soldiers of Diocletian, and knew that her powers of healing were revered by country women, I had never given her much consideration. My favourite saint had always been St Christopher, whose image my father wore always and whom I could imagine striding across the moors, carrying Our Lord across brook and mire. St Euphemia had lived and died in Balecester, and her cult was here in a city I neither liked nor wished to remain in. Nevertheless, holding this thing, a thin skin of gold separating my flesh from the flesh of the long-dead woman, I felt a tingle of power coming through the metal. I closed my eyes and offered up a prayer to her, and again, the image of my mother came unbidden to my mind. Feeling oddly comforted, I turned from the altar and found myself face-to-face with a man whose pinched face twitched with shock and outrage.

  What have you done?' he said in a strangled voice. 'How dare you – how dare you!'

  I was terrified. The man was clearly a deacon, and quite young. He must have been in the vestry and heard Sir Hugh and I talking. I had been so preoccupied that I had not heard him come stealthily up behind me. For all he knew I was a common thief and the worst sort of impious blasphemer. But then I remembered why I was here. 'I am doing the Bishop's bidding,' I stammered.

  'The Bishop? What have you to do with the Bishop, boy?' The deacon had merely been shocked before: now he was angry as well.

  'I am with Sir Hugh de Kervezey, Steward to the Bishop. He asked me to fetch the hand of St Euphemia. The Bishop requires it.'

  'I see no Steward,' said the deacon. And, looking past his shoulder, neither did I. From where we stood, the body of the cathedral beyond the rood screen was in shadow. Sir Hugh must be sitting in a pew out of sight, I thought.

  'He did not wish to approach the altar, although he has permission,' I said, desperately. 'The Bishop wants the hand. I am Petroc of Auneford, late of Buckfast in Devon and now studying here at the Cathedral School. Please,' I added, feeling close to childish tears, 'I mean no harm. Sir Hugh will speak for me.'

  'Sir Hugh be damned, boy,' spat the deacon. 'Give me the hand.' 'Please, sir, it is true,' I pleaded.

  'Give me the hand, and then I will call the Watch. You should not have drawn the Bishop into your poisonous lies, boy. You will surely suffer for what you have done.'

  I was about to give up the reliquary, but a flash of something in the nave caught my eye. And there was Sir Hugh leaning against the rood screen, his arm raised casually. 'Come, Petroc, the Bishop is waiting for us,' he called.

  I looked at the deacon in triumph. 'Sir Hugh,' I told him. The man glared at me. 'I see an accomplice, and a bold one,' he said. 'Come with me.' And he grabbed a fistful of my cowl and began to drag me down the aisle.

  We were about half-way across the chancel when I felt his grip loosen, and we halted. The deacon turned to me, and his face had changed. Rage had fled, to be replaced with doubt. 'That is Sir Hugh de Kervezey,' he informed me. I nodded.

  'I know,' I said. 'Please talk to him, then you will see I was telling the truth.'

  And now I followed the deacon as he strode across the tiles. He was quite a tall man, and perhaps ten years older than me. Now that he had regained some composure, I saw that his face was not unkind, although he looked very tired. Long hours in this cold building, I thought, and who knows what battles he fought in prayer? I began to feel less ill-inclined towards him.

  Sir Hugh was waiting for us, a tight smile on his lips. After the glittering majesty of the altar, the green damask of his clothes looked drab, but his face was almost as noble – and as unreadable – as one of the stone images that regarded us from all sides. His eyes, as they followed the deacon and me, did not blink. As we approached, he drew himself upright.

  'Master deacon,' he said, ignoring me completely, 'I see you know me.'

  Yes, my lord,' said the man at my side. Now it was his turn to stammer. 'I found this boy taking things from the altar, and thought I had caught a thief. Now I see he told me the truth, and I am sorry for thinking ill of him.'

  'No matter, no matter,' said Sir Hugh, and treated us to a wide, white smile. 'I have the honour of addressing Jean de Nointot, I believe? Your uncle fought at Hattin.'

  Yes, yes, my lord. That is so. I am amazed that you know of my family.'

  'Brother Jean, remember that I am the Bishop's man. Now, has my young friend Petroc given offence?'

  'In no way, my lord,' said the deacon, laying his hand on my shoulder. 'Although I fear I have terrified him. I certainly did not wish to interfere with the Bishop's affairs.'

  Sir Hugh laughed. 'Terror seems to be Petroc's lot,' he said. 'But of course he will forgive you. Besides, I believe his fortunes are about to change.'

  While this exchange went on, I stood between these two men, still clutching the golden hand. I was pleased that Jean the deacon had more or less apologised for frightening me half to death, and as he seemed a likeable man I was all too ready to forgive him, although I wished Sir Hugh had not done so for me. But what did he mean about my fortunes changing?

  The knight and the deacon were now talking freely, Sir Hugh asking little questions about cathedral life, Jean de Nointot answering him happily. Then it seemed Sir Hugh noticed me again. 'But we are keeping you, and the Bishop is waiting,' he said. "Will you walk us to the door?'

  'Gladly,' said the deacon, and then paused. 'It is none of my affair, but I am cursed with an enquiring nature,' he said, with a shy grin. 'But would you tell me why St Euphemia's hand is needed at the palace? I might also have to explain its absence to the Dean.'

  'Nothing simpler,' said Sir Hugh. He reached out a friendly hand to the deacon, whose smile grew broader as he waited to be drawn into the confidence of the Steward.

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bsp; Instead, Sir Hugh grabbed the front of his habit and pulled the deacon towards him so fast that the man's head jerked backwards. He yelped as Sir Hugh's knee came up between his legs and slammed into his groin. He began to crumple, but Sir Hugh's left arm snaked around him, spinning him to face me as I stood petrified, the world around our little group erased by this dreamlike flash of violence. Jean de Nointot hung from Sir Hugh's grip, choking and gasping for air. The knight looked past the twitching head and our eyes met. It was like falling through ice. Then I saw that the long blade of Thorn was in his right hand. He let the deacon slip down until the man's chin was under his left forearm, the throat stretched long and pallid. Quick as a kingfisher's beak piercing water, he stabbed Thorn deep into the side of the deacon's neck and cut forward.

  There was a ghastly whistling sound, and then the deacon's blood burst from his neck in a thick roiling jet that hit me full in the chest. I staggered back, burning liquid in my eyes, in my hair, my mouth, running down inside my habit. There was a full-bodied reek of salt and iron and I gagged, spinning away in my soaking robes, the hot gore seething against my skin as it trickled down my back, under my arms and into the hair between my legs. The dead man in Sir Hugh's arms whistled once more, an empty squeak that ended in a forlorn burble. I could see, as if through a red gauze, Sir Hugh still holding the deacon under the chin so that the weight of the corpse dragged its slashed throat apart into a vast wound in which secret things were revealed, white, yellow, red, like the inlaid patterns in the altar steps. I thought I saw the flap between head and torso stretch like dough in a baker's hands, then I was running down the nave half-blind, blood squelching between my toes at every step. Behind me I could hear Sir Hugh's voice echoing in the cavernous shadows. He was laughing, a great, warm laugh full of ease and pleasure. 'Stop,' he called, happily. 'Come back, Petroc! What a mess you've made! What on earth made you do such a thing?'