The Relic Murders(8)

‘If it's a relic,' Poppleton declared, shouldering his way through the crowd, his lips coated with a white foam of ale. 'If it's so holy, it should be able to perform miracles.'

'That's right!' another cried. 'Miracles! We want a miracle. Shallot!'



My stomach curdled: I hadn't thought of that. 'A cure!' another cried. 'Perhaps it can cure my leg!' 'The only thing that cure your leg,' someone cried out, 'is to stop drinking ale and work a little harder!'



I tried to hide my apprehension. With all my subtle planning, I hadn't thought of such a challenge. Poppleton was sneering at me.



'Come, come, Master Shallot,' he taunted. 'A little miracle is not too much to ask.'

'There's Lucy,' Tom the taverner shouted from where he stood beside the barrels.



'Lucy?' I shouted as a diversion. 'What's wrong with her?'



'She's upstairs in a chamber, sick with a fever,' Tom replied, coming forward.



'Oh yes, that's right.' Poppleton planted himself squarely in front of me. 'The wench hasn't been to clean for days.'



His greasy smile widened. 'I believe Lucy has given you her favour?' He was cooing like a stupid wood pigeon. 'Surely, Master Shallot, it's not too much to ask that you use this great relic to cure the love of your life?'



'Let me see her,' I declared.



I put the spear back in the sack and followed Tom up the rickety, wooden stairs to a small garret at the top of the tavern built just under the eaves. Oh, Lord help me, but Lucy looked dreadful. She lay asleep on the soiled sheets but her face and hair were soaked with sweat. She tossed and turned, murmuring to herself and my heart skipped a beat as she muttered my name. I felt her brow, it was hot as a steaming pot.



'Out late she was,' Tom declared. 'Out late then came back with a chill, coughing and sneezing fit to burst,' he told the rest crowding the stairwell behind him.



'Cure her,' Poppleton whispered. 'Lay the sacred spear upon her!'



I wetted dry lips, my mind racing like a rat down a hole. I wished I had my medicines then I remembered something.



'Listen,' I said. 'I will lay the relic upon her but not yet.'



Poppleton lowered his head and began to snigger. There were groans and moans from the stairwell.



'Tonight,' I continued, 'I shall return. This room is to be cleaned. Vicar Doggerel should bless and make it ready for this great relic. At seven o'clock tonight I shall return.'



Poppleton's head came up. 'No trickery, Shallot!'



'Of course not,' I whispered back. 'Only divine intervention.'



'We'll see,' he snarled.



I was glad to be out of that tavern. I rode swiftly back to the manor house, went upstairs and, from a secret casement in my chamber, pulled out a locked coffer. I opened it and stared at all the things truly precious to me; a lock of my mother's hair; a ring Benjamin had given me: a love letter which I never had the courage to despatch. Above all, a small phial, the real diamond amongst all my cures; a powerful potion I won at hazard from a Turkish physician in a tavern off the Ropery. God knows what was in it. The Turk had told me it was the scrapings of dried milk fermented in a soup of moss, a veritable elixir for any fever. I opened the phial, shook the white, chalky substance into my hand. I then locked the coffer, recited an Ave Maria, and fortified myself with two cups of malmsey.

Once dusk fell I returned to the White Harte. Now the whole village had turned out. Poppleton and his younger brother were waiting for me in the taproom. They looked the same, two cheeks of the same hairy arse. Tom the taverner took me upstairs. Lucy still lay tossing and turning, angry spots of fever high in her cheeks. However, the chamber had been swept and cleaned and the poor girl now lay between crisp, clean linen sheets. Vicar Doggerel the village parson, (to whom I'd sold cow dung as a cure for his baldness) was also present. He had a stole around his neck and an Asperges bucket and rod in his hands.



'I've blessed the room,' he announced. 'But, Roger,' he whispered, 'what knavery is this?'



'God works in wondrous ways, Father.'



'If he's working through you then he certainly does!' Doggerel replied.



'Well come on!' Tom shouted.



'God does not act because we click our fingers,' I snarled back. 'Does he, Father?'



The vicar nodded. I took the spear from my sack and laid it on the bed.



'It may take all night,' I replied.



A murmur of disapproval came from the group, led by the Poppletons, who thronged in the doorway.



'Come, come,' I replied. 'Surely you are not going to add the sin of heresy to that of doubt?'



(I would have made a fine preacher!)



I laid the spear next to Lucy. 'I wish to be alone,' I declared, 'for an hour. I will then leave and the chamber will be locked, but I shall sleep here tonight. Now, all of you, go!'



Vicar Doggerel supported me so the crowd, led by the Poppletons, scowling and muttering under their breath, went back downstairs. Tom, who could now see a great profit in the evening's procedures, fairly leapt from foot to foot.