Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(2)

The Prior affected an air of surprise.

“The body? ’Tis interred within the shrine,” he said. “A place of holy rest, for that most holy of saints. Surely, sirs, you must have heard of Cuthbert’s great healing power upon the afflicted—?”

“There’s much that can be said, yet remains unproven,” one of the other commissioners sneered. “It has been many years since any have looked upon Cuthbert’s form. It may be a jumble of bones, not flesh and ligament, as many are wont to say.”

There was a rustle of discontent amongst the small crowd of monks who had gathered in the nave, and the Prior held up an authoritative hand to silence them.

“You must excuse us,” he said softly. “There are few in these parts who would question the power of our patron, whose deathly touch has healed the sick and the dying these many hundreds of years.”

“Aye, and lined the Priory’s coffers, no doubt, with lands and gold aplenty,” the doctor replied. “So much the better, for now’s the time of reckoning. Come! Lead us to where the man lies, and we’ll have done with the matter.”

The Prior inclined his head, and called to the Keeper-of-the-Shrine.

“Brother William? Lead these good sirs to Cuthbert’s rest, and unlock the chains so they might look upon his form and behold it for themselves.”

*

The body of Saint Cuthbert was kept in a raised iron casket in front of a magnificent shrine, as befitted the status of one of the world’s most famous saints. In life, Cuthbert had been a Godly man; at times a hermit, a prior and a bishop, who lived a simple life in the Farne Islands during the seventh century. Years after his death, his coffin was reopened and his body found incorrupt, as though he were merely sleeping. As word spread of this phenomenon, talk of miraculous healing spread with it and people of all walks sought out the saint’s divine power, bringing offerings in exchange for his favour. But when Viking marauders advanced across the North Sea, the monks were forced to flee the island of Lindisfarne with Cuthbert’s body, travelling for seven years to protect him from those who sought to destroy all that he symbolised.

Five hundred years later, different marauders had come to pillage—and, this time, they brought with them a goldsmith by the name of Prycewinkle.

“You, there! Light up these candles and hold them aloft,” Doctor Ley commanded of Brother William. “The light grows dim and we’ve a mind to see this bony-piece before nightfall.”

William said nothing, capitulating to the demands of the King’s men with all the humility he could muster.

“Prycewinkle! Bring up your hammer. The lock will not open.”

“Sir, if I might help,” William began, casting an anxious glance towards the hammer the goldsmith wielded. “What lies within the chest is of delicate condition—”

“Stand aside, man,” the other doctor, Henley, said roughly. “Unless you wish to feel the King’s displeasure.”

William fell silent and watched the goldsmith heave himself up the wooden ladder to the top of Cuthbert’s iron casket, where Ley waited impatiently.

“Strike!” he said. “I’ve a wish to find a warm bed and a warm woman, afore the day is out.”

They shared a manly laugh and Brother William closed his eyes as Prycewinkle dealt the first blow, his iron hammer smashing through the casing and the inner coffin, connecting with the body within.

The goldsmith paused and let out another laugh.

“I fear I have broken the gentleman’s leg,” he called out. “Though I suspect he won’t be needing it!”

“Aye,” Henley laughed. “Mayhap he can heal it, himself!”

“Here, and I’ll ask him,” Ley boasted, clearing away the shards of wooden coffin to reveal the unfortunate recipient of their ministrations.

When he saw clearly what rested inside the folds of golden robes, now careworn with age and decay, the smile fell from his face and he let out a sharp cry.

“Good God!”

“What, man?” Henley called up, yawning widely. “I’m in no mood for japes.”

“The body—I can hardly say, but it be whole!”

The goldsmith peered into the open coffin to see for himself, and then let out a similar exclamation.

“By me, but it’s true!”

“It cannot be so!” Henley shouted.

“Come, and see with your own eyes!”

With much muttering and expletives, Doctor Henley joined his fellows on top of the casket and looked upon the pale, ghostly face of Cuthbert. His heart lurched against his chest when he saw, not a dusty skeleton but a body, wasted but whole, with a beard neatly kept, its fingers clasped around a magnificent pectoral cross of gold and garnet.

“What—what do we do?” the goldsmith whispered.

Henley recovered himself, eyeing the silver and gold trinkets tucked around the body.

“What, man? Have you forgotten your trade? Feast your eyes upon that cross of gold, then look to the rest. As for the corpse, we’ll have it removed to the vestry while the King decides its fate.”

“What of God’s wrath?” Ley wondered. “There may be bad omens for those who move a saint.”

He might not have believed such things, but finding a body instead of a skeleton after five hundred years could change a man’s perspective.