The map! Buying it for the monastery had seemed such a good idea at the time! That man who called himself Vladimir, who spoke his Latin with the funny accent, had been so plausible! He described how he had guided the last crusade across the Bulgar lands to Constantinople, and how he had found an map in a church wrecked by Turkish raiders; and then, with the most reverent air possible, had uncovered the amazing parchment. The Abbot could not read the writing on it, which he understood was in Hebrew, but Vladimir had translated it for him. It was a map on which Saint Paul’s journeys were marked by the hand of the Apostle himself, miraculously preserved over the centuries. He had demanded a very high price for the map, but the Abbot’s head was filled with visions of the countless pilgrims who would flock to the abbey, and he had scarcely bothered to bargain. Indeed, since he lacked the available money to meet the price, he had pledged the monastery’s land as security that the balance would be produced by Michaelmas. The fame of the map had quickly spread, and now the King himself was soon to arrive to admire the amazing relic. How jealous the Bishop was! All he had to boast about in his cathedral was a fragment of a knucklebone of Saint Hilarius, patron saint of professional fools and clowns, and even that was of the most dubious provenance!
All had been going so well until that miserable travelling scholar Brother Cedric had paid a visit. He had examined the map and immediately pronounced it a clumsy forgery. “Not so much a Mappa Mundi and Mappa Tuesday!” he had snorted scornfully. “I verily believe it was drawn not much earlier than last Tuesday; and as for the writing; it is not Hebrew, it is gibberish!” How fortunate it was that the aforesaid Brother Cedric had shortly afterwards been caught in a compromising situation with a milkmaid from the village, and been ordered to walk all the way to Santiago di Compostella as a penance! That should keep him out of the way for a couple of years at least; but rumours were bound to spread.
The more the Abbot reflected on it, the more he was haunted by the uneasy feeling that the wretched Brother Cedric might perhaps have been right. In which case, what in heaven’s name was he going to do now? He had no authority to pledge monastic land as security for a purchase without consulting the head of his Order. Not only that; he had summoned the famous goldsmith Master Thomas from Paris, and commissioned him to make the most gorgeous frame for the map. More money: unimaginably vast sums of money!
The Abbot kicked moodily at the path. One small stone flew up in the air and landed painfully on his toes. Muttering an anathema under his breath, he bent down to examine in offending object. It was an unusual stone, perfectly round, and of a peculiar colour and texture. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. He had long been irritated by the custom of the local people to pray to a certain local saint when they suffered from internal disorders. According to legend, the saint was a hermit who in the dim and distant past had miraculously cured one Queen Bertha of a longstanding digestive affliction. Personally, the Abbot believed this so-called saint lacked any canonical justification, but was merely a deplorable peasant superstition; and it was a matter of deep regret that the unauthorised cult was even becoming widespread amongst the nobility. But now …..
For the first time for many days, the Abbot laughed, as new and exciting vistas opened up before him. This little oddment that he held in his hand was none other than the gallstone of Queen Bertha, which a saint - shall we call him Saint Gastric? the nobles would be vaguely aware that they'd heard the name somewhere before, and the peasants could easily transfer their worship once it won official approval - had miraculously extracted from her body by the power of prayer alone, without need of surgery! A holy relic indeed! The Abbot was suddenly feeling much better, and it occurred to him that he could now swear, with perfect truth, that holding the sacred gallstone in his hand had instantly relieved his indigestion! In his mind he saw a procession of pilgrims, clutching their bellies, noisily burping and breaking wind, flocking to his abbey to seek relief from the saint. Why, even the King was said to be a sufferer, which was hardly surprising, given the prevalence of highly-spiced food at his court.
How to account for the sudden appearance of this new holy relic? Not a problem: he would say he had bought it from Vladimir, alongside that accursed map. Two treasures for the price of one would seem a reasonable bargain to anyone; and he was sure that Vladimir would co-operate in the plan, once it was explained to him that this new development would greatly increase his chances of actually getting his money. Then he could tell Master Thomas the goldsmith that the terms of his employment had been changed, and what was now required was a reliquary for a much smaller object.
Humming a Te Deum, the Abbot turned around and strode towards his chapter-house, rehearsing in his mind the account he would shortly be giving to his amazed brethren.
