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Authors: Michael Jecks, The Medieval Murderers
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cathedral?’
The outlaw had anticipated this question–he had deliberately avoided the cathedral, where the far larger complement of priests increased the risk of his being recognized.
‘I had heard of St Nicholas Priory and knew it to be a daughter of Battle Abbey, whose fame is known far and wide. It occurred to me that you might relish the opportunity to secure the object to present to your abbot, gaining his gratitude and respect.’
The flattery was not lost on the prior, who could also benefit from some extra goodwill from his superior at Battle, the abbey near Hastings erected by William the Bastard to commemorate the great victory of the Normans that gave them England.
‘What is this remarkable object?’ he snapped. ‘Not yet another piece of the True Cross, I hope?’ he added sarcastically.
Gervase managed not to look discomfited as he admitted that, indeed, it was. ‘But with a great difference, Prior, from the usual dross that unscrupulous relic merchants hawk around. This has undoubted authentication.’
He bent to open his satchel and took out the faded gilt box, removing it from its leather wrapping and handing it to the bald monk.
‘Pray read the message on the parchment in the box–and be sure to study the seal upon it,’ he recommended.
There was a silence as the curious prior, with his even more inquisitive clerk craning his head over his master’s shoulder, looked at the glass tube and read the letter from Sir Geoffrey Mappeston.
‘I have heard of that knight,’ volunteered the clerk. ‘He was a famous Crusader earlier this century!’
‘So have I, boy,’ retorted Anselm testily, fingering the seal attached to the parchment. ‘It certainly seems a genuine note. Whether or not the relic is authentic is another matter.’ He jerked his round face up towards the visitor. ‘How did you come by this?’ he demanded. ‘Did you steal it from some cathedral in France or Spain?’
‘Indeed I did not!’ exclaimed Gervase indignantly. ‘I bought it at considerable expense from a relic dealer near Chartres, whom I succoured when he was in distress.’ He spun an inventive yarn about helping a man whose horse had bolted, leaving him on a lonely road with a broken leg. In return, the dealer had let him have the relic at a reduced, but still substantial, price, which accounted for Gervase’s present poverty.
‘For the good of my soul, I would sell it for no more than I gave for it, at no profit,’ he said piously. ‘Such a relic would be a valuable acquisition for any religious house and repay its cost a thousandfold from the offerings of the pilgrims that it would attract. One only has to look to Glastonbury Abbey to see what riches they have amassed since they discovered the bones of King Arthur and his queen there!’
He said this with a sly grin, in which the other men joined with conspiratorial smirks of disbelief at the enterprise of their Somerset brothers. Prior Vincent turned over the ancient tube thoughtfully and stared at the contents with a mixture of reverence and scepticism. Then he reread the faded words on the parchment and studied the seal more closely.
‘How much do you want for this?’ he asked eventually, peering pugnaciously at the man opposite.
‘What I paid for it, the equivalent of thirty marks,’ lied Gervase.
The prior put the vial on his table as if it had suddenly become red hot.
‘Twenty pounds! Impossible, that’s more than a year’s income for this little place. You should be willing to donate such a sacred object to us for the good of your mortal soul, not trying to extort such a huge sum from your own brothers!’
Gervase was in no mood to start bargaining with the very first customer he came across.
‘Would that I could afford to, Prior–but I sold all I had to fund my pilgrimage and now have nothing in the world. My living in Somerset has been given to another in my absence and I am not sure of finding a new stipend on my return. I
The outlaw had anticipated this question–he had deliberately avoided the cathedral, where the far larger complement of priests increased the risk of his being recognized.
‘I had heard of St Nicholas Priory and knew it to be a daughter of Battle Abbey, whose fame is known far and wide. It occurred to me that you might relish the opportunity to secure the object to present to your abbot, gaining his gratitude and respect.’
The flattery was not lost on the prior, who could also benefit from some extra goodwill from his superior at Battle, the abbey near Hastings erected by William the Bastard to commemorate the great victory of the Normans that gave them England.
‘What is this remarkable object?’ he snapped. ‘Not yet another piece of the True Cross, I hope?’ he added sarcastically.
Gervase managed not to look discomfited as he admitted that, indeed, it was. ‘But with a great difference, Prior, from the usual dross that unscrupulous relic merchants hawk around. This has undoubted authentication.’
He bent to open his satchel and took out the faded gilt box, removing it from its leather wrapping and handing it to the bald monk.
‘Pray read the message on the parchment in the box–and be sure to study the seal upon it,’ he recommended.
There was a silence as the curious prior, with his even more inquisitive clerk craning his head over his master’s shoulder, looked at the glass tube and read the letter from Sir Geoffrey Mappeston.
‘I have heard of that knight,’ volunteered the clerk. ‘He was a famous Crusader earlier this century!’
‘So have I, boy,’ retorted Anselm testily, fingering the seal attached to the parchment. ‘It certainly seems a genuine note. Whether or not the relic is authentic is another matter.’ He jerked his round face up towards the visitor. ‘How did you come by this?’ he demanded. ‘Did you steal it from some cathedral in France or Spain?’
‘Indeed I did not!’ exclaimed Gervase indignantly. ‘I bought it at considerable expense from a relic dealer near Chartres, whom I succoured when he was in distress.’ He spun an inventive yarn about helping a man whose horse had bolted, leaving him on a lonely road with a broken leg. In return, the dealer had let him have the relic at a reduced, but still substantial, price, which accounted for Gervase’s present poverty.
‘For the good of my soul, I would sell it for no more than I gave for it, at no profit,’ he said piously. ‘Such a relic would be a valuable acquisition for any religious house and repay its cost a thousandfold from the offerings of the pilgrims that it would attract. One only has to look to Glastonbury Abbey to see what riches they have amassed since they discovered the bones of King Arthur and his queen there!’
He said this with a sly grin, in which the other men joined with conspiratorial smirks of disbelief at the enterprise of their Somerset brothers. Prior Vincent turned over the ancient tube thoughtfully and stared at the contents with a mixture of reverence and scepticism. Then he reread the faded words on the parchment and studied the seal more closely.
‘How much do you want for this?’ he asked eventually, peering pugnaciously at the man opposite.
‘What I paid for it, the equivalent of thirty marks,’ lied Gervase.
The prior put the vial on his table as if it had suddenly become red hot.
‘Twenty pounds! Impossible, that’s more than a year’s income for this little place. You should be willing to donate such a sacred object to us for the good of your mortal soul, not trying to extort such a huge sum from your own brothers!’
Gervase was in no mood to start bargaining with the very first customer he came across.
‘Would that I could afford to, Prior–but I sold all I had to fund my pilgrimage and now have nothing in the world. My living in Somerset has been given to another in my absence and I am not sure of finding a new stipend on my return. I
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