Sylvian Hamilton - Bone-Pedlar

BySylvian Hamilton The Bone-Pedlar The Pendragon Banner

THEBONE-PEDLAR

SylvianHamilton

ORION

AnOrion paperback

Firstpublished in Great Britain in 2000 by Orion This paperback editionpublished in 2001 by Orion Books Ltd, Orion House, 5 Upper StMartin's Lane, London wczh gEA

CopyrightSylvian Hamilton 2000

Theright of Sylvian Hamilton to be identified as the author of this workhas been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designsand Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved No part of diis publicationmay be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, inany form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, widiout the prior permission of the copyrightowner. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from theBritish Library. isbn 07528442} 7

Printedand bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

Withlove to Patrick, prop-and-stay; to Deborah, beloved daughter andworld's greatest hypnotherapist; and to my dear son Steven, Cathiehis wife, and their children. With thanks to John, for his help andencouragement; and to Jane and Cass, for nudging me in the rightdirection. Thanks also to the staff of Duns Library, who manageagainst hard odds to get many of the books I need. And with affectionand gratitude to Christine Green, best agent in the world I

Chapter1

Inthe crypt of the abbey church at Hallowdene, the monks were boilingtheir bishop.

Hehad been a man of exemplary piety, whose eventual canonisation was acertainty, or at least a strong probability, and they were taking nochances. Over the bishop's deathbed, the calculating eyes of thesacristan and the almoner had accurately weighed up the advantages ofa splendidly profitable set of skeletal relics, and Bishop Alain wasbarely cold before he was eviscerated, dismembered, and simmering inthe largest pot the monastery kitchen could furnish.

'Isn'tit a bit,--well, sort of hasty? the kitchener protested, when orderedto hack his bishop limb from limb. 'You sure e's dead?'

'Ofcourse he is,' snapped the almoner.

'OnlyI thought I card him sigh.'

Therewas a flurry of panicky activity as the almoner laid his ear to theunmoving episcopal bosom, and the sacristan peered uneasily at thedulled eyes and fallen jaw of the revered corpse.

'Geton with it,' said the sacristan impatiently. The kitchener went towork with his knives and a cleaver borrowed from the butcher.

'Inthe Holy Land,' said old Brother Maurice, who had been there andnever let anyone forget it, 'it was the custom to boil crusaders,them as wanted their bones shipped home for burial. But in the caseof a holy body, we'd put it in an anthill. The ants'd pick the bonesto a pearly whiteness. Truly beautiful. When you have to boil them,'he stared critically at the reeking cauldron, 'they go all brown.'

Theyoungest novice, who had been a favourite of the bishop, blew hisnose on his sleeve and dabbed his eyes with the hem. 'It doesn't seemrespectful,' he said.

'Whoasked you?' demanded the sacristan. 'You can clear off out of this.Go and bang the dormitory mats outside!'

Theboy mustered a flimsy courage to protest that a lay brother hadbanged the mats only that morning, but all that got him was a clipround the ear from the jittery sacristan, and he scurried off,snivelling.

'Allthe same,' said Brother Maurice, 'we probably shouldn't be doingthis, not right away. We ought to wait a while. The new bishop ...'

Theothers looked shiftily at one another. There was no new bishop yet,nor likely to be for a long time, what with the Interdict, and HisGrace King John so intransigent. But eventually there would beanother bishop, who might very well take a dim view of them turninghis predecessor into relics so precipitately. As it was, they'd getplenty of stick from the other religious houses in the diocese. Itwas sheer luck that the bishop had dropped dead at Hallowdene. Hecould have done it anywhere during his visitations, and those craftyAustin buggers, next on the road at Carderford, would have had himparcelled out among their fellow canons before you could say knife,with not even a knuckle-bone for the Benedictines.

'Well,it's too late now,' said the almoner briskly, peering into the greasysteam. 'How long does it usually take?'

'Hours,'said Brother Maurice. 'All day. And all night to cool off, if youdon't want to burn your fingers.'

Thealmoner's high-bridged Norman nose flared with distaste, thoughwhether at the greasy kitchen reek in the crypt or the thought of thegrisly task still to come was not evident. But the abbey felthard-done-by in the matter of relics, having lost its chief treasure,the priceless girdle of the Blessed Virgin Mary, to thieves as longago as the year 1160 almost fifty years before.

Inhis private chamber, the abbot, who was keeping a discreet distancefrom the goings-on in the crypt in case at some future date it mightbe politic to assert his disapproval, was closeted with hissecretary, discussing that very matter the pilfered HolyGirdle.

Ithink,' the abbot's secretary said, 'that there's no hope of gettingit back now, My Lord. That man of yours has failed.' The abbotsighed. If he has failed, Petronius,' he said, in his weak whistlyold man's voice, 'he would have reported back to us.' 'Why should he,My Lord? He was paid in advance, half his fee, and a very shockingsum it was, too. I think he simply pouched our gold and went offlaughing at us. He never intended even to try and steal our relicback.'

'Hewas very strongly recommended,' the abbot said wearily. He had beenfielding his secretary's arguments all afternoon and had just abouthad enough. 'My Brother in Christ, the Archbishop of York himself,spoke highly of him. He is no trickster. He was employed on a similarcommission a few years ago, for the nuns of Sheppey, when a wickedGreek priest stole their Holy Foreskin. This man Straccan got it backfor them.' So there, he thought with satisfaction. His secretary'sopinions were too often exercised, the abbot was heartily sick ofthem; sick too of the man's dirty bitten fingernails and the coarseblack hairs sprouting from his nostrils and ears.

Ithas been almost a year, My Lord,' sniffed his secretary. I think hopeis lost, along with the relic and our gold.'

Idon't believe so,' said the abbot stubbornly. He shifted his thin oldfeet in the silver bowl of warm rose-scented water. Petronius,seizing a gold-fringed towel from where it warmed beside the fire,knelt and patted the abbatical feet dry, easing them into lambswoolsocks. The old man sighed with pleasure, eyeing his secretary withmore tolerance. 'It is no simple task,' he said patiently, acceptingthe cup of spiced Rhenish which Petronius offered. 'The thieves ofWinchester guard the Holy Girdle with tenacious devotion, all themore so because they stole it and know they have no right to it. Itis kept under lock and key. All these years they have feared ourregaining it. Straccan cannot just walk in, pick it up and walk outagain with it.'

'Iwonder our Blessed Lady has not smitten them,' muttered the secretarypettishly, hanging the damp towel by the fire again. 'She has eternalpatience,' said the abbot.

'Shemay, My Lord, but we who are only human would be glad of an end tothis affair. / think we should send to enquire for this Straccan.Where does he come from?'

'Idon't know. York bade him, and so he came to us.'

'Thenwe should send to His Grace of York to ask where we may find thefellow.'

'Notnow,' said the abbot. 'The weather is treacherous. There will besnow. Look at the sky.'

Itwas an unpleasant sky, the massed low slate-coloured clouds hazedwith a dirty threatening yellow.

'Aswift rider could reach York before the snow,' Petronius suggested.

'Andbe snowed in until spring thaw, running up bills at our charges forfood and drink,' said the abbot. 'No. We will give Straccan moretime.'