Relics

Wait, wait,' I called after him. 'Deacon Jean is dead! Sir Hugh killed him! Help me!'

Now the other people in the Yard were staring. A woman screeched once and fell to her knees. I was still running, but seeing the horror on the faces before me I slowed to a stagger.

'Good people, fetch the Watch! There is a murderer in the cathedral! Fetch the Watch now!' I was hardly aware of my own voice: it sounded thin and reedy. Stretching my arms out to the kneeling woman and her escort, a stocky man in livery, I caught sight of myself.

Jean de Nointot's blood, still hot, was steaming in the freezing air. The sleeves of my habit hung, soaked and heavy, and my hands were dark and shiny. I found I was still holding the hand of St Euphemia, and the bright gold was gore-splattered. Then another voice, loud and full of authority, rang behind me.

'Stop that man! In the name of Bishop Ranulph, stop him! Murderer and thief – hold him fast!'

It was Sir Hugh, and he was not laughing now. I glanced back. He stood under the arch of the west door, tall and commanding, pointing a long white finger. He started to walk towards me. I turned again. People were beginning to edge forward, forming a loose crescent that was closing slowly.

'He is the murderer! He's a butcher,' I pleaded. 'He is bloody. He has a knife!'

'Poor Deacon Jean caught him stealing the hand of St Euphemia,' Sir Hugh shouted. 'See, he has it. Beware, he is possessed! He cut at the deacon like a beast. I saw him tear at his guts with his teeth!'

The fine lady toppled forward in a dead faint. Some of the men had drawn blades. But I was far more terrified of the man behind me than of the frightened folk ahead. I bolted, running straight at the stocky man-at-arms who knelt by his fallen lady. His eyes bulged with fright and he threw himself out of my way. The people nearest scattered too. Legs pumping, I was across the Yard in an instant, and ran up the first street that opened before me. I was lucky: this was Silver Street, a narrow thoroughfare that led away from the cathedral precinct and the Bishop's palace. Unlike the Yard, the street was empty, and I raced down the cobbles unhindered. I heard angry shouting behind me, but no one seemed to be following. But as the street began to curve, following the contours of the hill, I turned into a narrow alley that sloped steeply down towards the river. I dimly remembered that it came out not far from the Crozier. If I had a thought in my head other than escape, it was to wash myself of the foul, clinging blood that clung to me and chafed me as I ran. At that moment I knew I was doomed, but I did not wish to meet my end fouled with the stink of another man's death.

My steep and precipitous descent soon had my legs scissoring in wider and wider strides, and my arms flailed as I tried to keep my balance on the slippery cobbles. Before I knew what was happening I had catapulted from the mouth of the alley and was running headlong across Long Reach, the wide street that bordered the river on this side. There was a yell, a clatter of hooves and the high whinny of a frightened horse, and I found myself sprawled next to a high-sided cart. The horse, a big old beast, was lunging in its traces and regarding me sidelong with one bloodshot eye. A man was standing on the front of the cart, yanking on the reins and almost doubled over with the effort of shrieking curses at me.

In a blind panic I wriggled away from the crazed man and his horse, scrambled to my feet and fled down Long Reach towards the bridge, a dim, crook-backed shadow perhaps fifty paces away. There were other people on the street. This was a busy place of commerce by day, but after dark was trawled by bawds and harlots, and a few of them now watched me with vague interest as I hurtled past, a young cleric in wet robes, carrying some sort of artificial hand.

The hand. I had forgotten what I was clutching, but now I felt the weight of all that gold. Something rattled slightly within it. I stuffed it down my habit. As I ran, it began to slip down between my skin and the woollen undershirt I was wearing, leaving an icy trail, as if a huge slug were crawling down my body. Finally it came to rest on my stomach, held in place by the rope belt cinched round my waist. I felt its fingers cupping my belly, cold and reproachful.

Here was the bridge. I slowed down: there were more people here, people who might know me. Many students lived, like me, in the shabbier districts on the east side of the river, and their taverns were here on this side. I stopped, and leaned, panting, on the end of one of the bridge's stone parapets. I could smell myself: fresh blood, horse-shit and refuse from the street, and the sharp tang of fright. Touching my face, I felt a scabby crust of congealed gore. Thus masked, my friends would not recognise me, I thought now. But recognisable or not, I looked like a fiend escaped from hell. No safety lay in this disguise.

My mind, frozen by shock and the panic of flight, began to thaw. Like blood returning to numb limbs, reality crept back, painfully. I found myself taking stock of the situation. There had been a murder. I was to blame. No, that wasn't right. I had been blamed. The knight was the killer, but was leading the hunt for me. Because the hunt must be on. I had escaped so far. I had to explain what had really happened… No. Ridiculous. My word against the Steward. I was dead. No! I was alive, and perhaps I could remain so.

This debate with myself took mere seconds, but already people were stopping, staring in my direction. With no plan but a growing desire for life, I took a deep breath and set off across the bridge. I looked neither left nor right, and tried to keep my steps regular and slow. If I could reach my lodgings I would have clean clothes, a little money. But perhaps that wasn't a good idea. Sir Hugh had known my name – why not my lodgings? I shook my head, trying to clear it of the returning hum of panic.

It would take me two or three minutes to reach Ox Lane. For some reason there was no hue and cry behind me: through some quirk of good fortune I seemed to have eluded pursuit. Perhaps Sir Hugh had led the chase the full length of Silver Street, thinking I was making for the tannery district and the water-meadows beyond. But as I dithered, my steps less sure now, the great bells of the cathedral began to toll. The sound, pure and deep, rolled out across the town. This was no call to prayer, no striking of the hour. It was a death-knell, and an alarm. St Euphemia's hand stroked my guts like a baleful premonition.

I had no time to think now, only to act. I sprinted the few paces to where Ox Lane cut across Bridge Street, stopped short of the corner and peered round. The lane was dark and seemed empty, so I ran for the door to my lodgings. Opening it cautiously, I saw nobody in the hall. Taking the stairs two at a time I reached the top landing, badly out of breath. Panting and smarting from a stitch in my side, I pushed open the door – there was no lock – and stepped into the dark room.

Except that the room was not dark. A candle was burning in the pewter holder by my pallet. And on the pallet sat a man.

My heart lurched. I could actually hear it bang against my ribs, so quiet was the room. Fright had mastered thought, and I leaped backwards, only to meet the edge of the door, which had swung half-closed behind me. Now my weight slammed it shut and I was trapped on the wrong side, fumbling with the old latch, which as usual had seized for want of the dab of tallow I always meant to give it, but never did. My back was to the figure on the bed, but part of me waited numbly for the blow to fall, glad not to be facing my death. 'I have been waiting for you,' said the presence behind me.

My hand stopped its convulsive scrabbling. Everything was suddenly very still and silent. I inhaled the mildew reek of the thatch, felt a stinging in my face where I had mashed it against the splintery pine of the door. Very slowly I turned around and edged to one side, until I had my back to the wall.