Now I am not a hypocrite. I sat drinking and soon recovered my good spirits. Benjamin was an able, young man, well protected. He'd travel to Venice and then return, so whilst the cat's away ... Nevertheless, I hadn't forgotten my master's look when he forced me to take that oath. No London! No Miranda!
A group of sailors came in, lusty men. everyone a charlatan or swaggerer, so I spent the rest of the day carousing and quaffing with the best of them. I remember a young tavern wench, golden and ripe as an apple, and us bouncing like fleas on her bed at the back of the tavern. Golden times! We giggled and we kissed all night long. The next morning I rose, bent on mischief and of course I found it. Yet, on reflection, life is strange and full of the most deadly coincidences. If I hadn't stayed at that particular tavern, and if I hadn't left it at that hour . . . but, isn't that the mystery of life? Out of the frying pan and into the fire!
I'd collected my horse and was halfway across the market square when I glimpsed the relic-seller, dressed in a colourful motley of rags, laying out his wares on the steps of the market cross. He was tall, and singular looking; his skin burnt brown by the sun, with clear blue eyes and lank, black, greasy hair. Now, one thing about being a rogue (and it's old Shallot's rule) is that you can recognise a good man when you meet one, whilst you can sniff a kindred spirit half a mile away. He introduced himself as Nathaniel Ludgate, and his villainy was as thick as clotted cream. I told him to hold my horse's reins, then walked backwards into the tavern to get us each a pot of ale. I kept my eye on the rogue, a grand idea forming in my mind. He stood grinning at me and, when I returned with the ale, toasted me, his eyes dancing with mischief.
'You are interested in relics?'
'Oh yes,' I replied airily. 'I've even seen the Orb of Charlemagne.'
Well, you should have seen the fellow's face. Eyes popping, jaw slack.
'The Orb of Charlemagne!' he whispered. 'Men would kill for that. Indeed they have.' He scratched his black, pointed heard. 'But, there again, it can bring ill fortune.'
'Are they your work?' I taunted, pointing to the relics he had laid out.'
'No, no, sir.' His voice rose to a chant as he recognised a prospective customer. 'Genuine relics, sir, every one!' He described each one.
And what a bag of tipple!
Ringlets from Samson's head, before Delilah shaved it. A thorn from the crown which the Romans put on our Saviour's head. One of Mary Magdalene's perfume clasps. A feather from the wing of the Angel Gabriel. A wooden hammer once owned by St Joseph. A piece of iron, supposedly from the griddle on which St Lawrence had been burnt. Two pieces of the true cross. A napkin used by Our Lady. Pontius Pilate's wife's earring. A portion of Herod the Great's foreskin. Five pieces of the good thief's loincloth. A battered cup once owned by St Ursula. Strands of hair from each of the ten thousand virgins executed by the Romans in Germany.
'All collected by me,' Ludgate declared. 'I have travelled, sir, beyond the Golden Horn. I have seen the devil's wings over Arabia and faced many dangers collecting these. A priceless fortune blessed by the Holy Father!' He clapped me on the shoulder, all manly and honest, and looked me straight in the eye. 'Take these to London,' he urged. 'Go to the tavern, the Flickering Lamp near Whitefriars. Boscombe, the taverner, will let you sell them in the surrounding alleys and streets. A good site, where the faithful stream by to the London churches.'
(Now you young people, children of the reformed faith, don't realise that in the days of relic-selling, a trader had to have a domicile before he could sell relics: taverners, in return for a fee, often provided this.)
I gestured at the collection. 'How much is it all worth?'
'Fifteen pounds sterling, good silver.' 'Twelve.' I replied. 'Thirteen,' he countered.
We spat and clasped hands and I returned home, one of the great relic-sellers of Europe.
Chapter 2
I found it strange to be back at the manor by myself. However, the stewards and bailiffs were honest hard-working fellows, and the school had been closed down, so I spent all my time and energy preparing my great relics. London was forbidden to me so I took out our old vellum map and gazed greedily at Ely, Norwich and the other prosperous wool towns where people might be parted easily from their money. I searched amongst Benjamin's library, found a treatise on relics and avidly studied every word. The jewel in my collection was the spearhead I'd found so fortuitously when Benjamin had burnt my medicines. The steel was still good and, with a special polish of herbs, I began to clean it carefully. Finally, it lay on the table, glowing grey steel, the eagle of Rome and the letters 4S P Q R' firmly etched upon it. God knows where it came from! It probably wasn't a fighting spear but some ceremonial shaft carried by the soldiers in their religious ceremonies.