The Lirey Shroud Mystery

By Trevor Whitton

Collette Dubois, the wife of the Bailli of Troyes, is discovered plunging a dagger into the chest of man who had attacked her several weeks earlier. She escapes, leaving her husband (Henri) and his deputy (Jean Bellimont) to unravel the web of intrigue which led up to this event. The two men become convinced of her innocence, and are eventually led to a mysterious artefact which the murdered man had been commissioned to produce for a local noble. The Bishop of Troyes is also implicated, and Henri must balance his personal interest in the case against the involvement of two of the town's most influential citizens. The investigators are presented with a bewildering array of suspects and motives, before the pieces finally fall into place and the puzzle is solved.
This is the fourth of the Jean Bellimont novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trevor Whitton
• Release date: Aug 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476402567

Trevor Whitton

I am a retired recruitment consultant with a strong interest in European medieval history, and endeavor to weave that knowledge into my story lines. My travels throughout Europe (and particularly France) over the past thirty years allows me to bring a first hand account of the places I describe, and provides an air of authenticity to my narrative. I am a passionate and committed writer, and Pilgrimage is the first of a trilogy featuring Jean Bellimont, Scribe of Troyes.

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The Lirey Shroud Mystery

A Jean Bellimont novel

By Trevor Whitton

Copyright 2012 Trevor Whitton

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Preface

With thanks and due recognition to Joe Nicholl (Relics of the Christ), and Mark Oxley ("The

Challenge of the Shroud History, Science, and the Shroud of Turin").

A shroud bearing the image of a crucified man was placed on view in the small church of Lirey, several miles to the south of Troyes, in 1357. The church had been founded 4 years earlier by the celebrated Knight Geoffroy de Charny, son of Jean de Charny (Lord of Lirey) and author of three works on chivalry. It is believed that he donated the cloth to the dean of the proposed abbey, and soon the artefact was attracting pilgrims from far and wide across France and adjacent Burgundy. The phenomenon was such that the event was commemorated by a medallion (one of which survives to this day and is exhibited in the Cluny museum, Paris) and eventually attracted the ire of the nearby Bishop of Troyes, Henri de Poitiers. Henri launched a lengthy and well documented investigation, concluding that the so-called relic was, in fact, a fake. When he tried to have the offending article confiscated, the dean had it hidden away (it is presumed by its owner, Geoffroy de Charny).

Nothing more was heard of the shroud for more than 30 years, until the then dean of Lirey, Nicole Martin, sought and received Royal Honour for it to be again exhibited. Anticipating renewed opposition, the 2nd Geoffroy de Charny contacted his close relation, Pope Clement, who instructed the Bishop of Troyes (now Pierre d'Arcis) to be silent on the matter. Despite the edict, d'Arcis decided to draft a letter (now known as the d'Arcis Memorandum) to the Pope, declaring that; the Dean of..Lirey, falsely and deceitfully..procured for his church a certain cloth cunningly painted.. and, of the findings of his predecessor; eventually, after diligent inquiry and examination, he discovered the fraud and how the said cloth had been cunningly painted, the truth being attested by the artist.

Whether the d'Arcis Memorandum was ever sent to the Pope is still debated, as is the veracity of the original claim that an artist had actually laid claim to producing the forgery (he was never named). However, what is known is that Pope Clement eventually ordered that the cloth be described as a painted copy, although some claim that this may simply have been judicious diplomacy on his part, as the family declined to attest to the item's provenance.

The shroud continued to be displayed as such until it was transferred to the de Charny family castle in Montfort in 1418. It was then gifted by the family to the House of Savoy in 1453, who began to again claim its authenticity. It was damaged in a fire at the Savoy chapel in Chambery in 1532, and transfered to the capital in Turin in 1578. Finally, it was transferred to its current resting place in the Cathedral of Jean the Baptist, and is now known as the Shroud of Turin.

Various tests were undertaken in 1969, 1973, and 1978, mostly finding the shroud to be a forgery (although each of these claims have been challenged). In 1998 a sample was carbon dated to the middle ages, although this was also challenged (amongst other things, it was claimed that the samples were taken from repairs undertaken during the time in question).

The de Charny family were minor nobles during the early 1300's, and appeared to have had sympathies, if not direct familial connections, with the Knights Templar. Another Geoffroy de Charny, who was Templar Master of Normandy and closely associated with the border region between Champagne and Burgundy (that is, in the region of Troyes), was burnt at the stake in 1314, and there is some anecdotal evidence to suggest that he was related to the de Charny family from Lirey. Given these linkages, along with the belief that the Templars worshipped the image of a head during their initiation ceremonies (the so-called Mandylion), some have conjectured that this was noneother than the Lirey or Turin Shroud, folded in such a way that only the head was visible.

If the so-called forger of the Shroud ever did exist, it is presumed that he flourished around the time of the first appearance of the cloth (that is, the 1350's). The following story speculates upon an alternative point of view, and in no way reflects the writer's views on the authenticity or otherwise of the information provided above.

Chapter 1

January 1315 - Troyes, Kingdom of France:

Collette Dubois, wife of the Bailli of Troyes, straddled the recumbent man's thighs - snow glancing off the dagger poised high above her head. Then, just as a woman turned the corner into the narrow laneway, she took a deep breath and plunged the razor-sharp blade deep into her victim's chest. She glanced up to meet the gaze of the shocked onlooker briefly, before leaping to her feet and dashing away as fast as she could run.

Her life in Troyes was now effectively over.

Two weeks earlier:

It wasn't unusual for madame Dubois to be out at night - she'd long ago learned how to take care of herself and the dark now held few perils for her. But that evening her feet had taken her - unconsciously- into one of the seedier areas of town. Even when she realised where she was, there was little concern on her part. She took a moment or two to get her bearings, but still wasn't absolutely certain which way to turn. The lanes were narrow and wound torturously around ramshackle dwellings, and Troyes possessed no landmarks tall enough to stand out above its houses. After taking several wrong turns she remained more annoyed than afraid, and began looking around for someone to ask the way. It was only then that she realised how isolated the streets had become and the first hints of panic began to emerge. She placed a hand ready on the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath her cloak and tried to recall what had possessed her to wander into this neighbourhood in the first place.

It had begun with an argument with her husband over - over what? She hardly even remembered now, it was so trivial. Whether or not to have the last of the year's mutton for supper - was that it? Well, that's how it began, certainly. But it soon degenerated into something altogether more nasty and personal. They each said things they shouldn't have - spiteful, hurtful things that neither of them had meant. Collette had stormed off in a huff, hardly noticing where she was going, and, after an hour or more wandering with her head bowed low against the rain, had ended up in her current predicament. Eventually she decided to just keep walking until she reached the town walls, and would then follow its course until she came across a gate she recognised.

Having at last settled on a plan, she began to relax and hurried off down the widest throughway she could find. What she hadn't reckoned with, however, was the fact that so many of the streets in this area led to dead ends. Finding herself at her third in a row, she decided that this strategy just wasn't going to work. To make matters even more difficult a thick fog was slowly descending, creeping down the decrepit walls of the surrounding buildings and reaching exploratory fingers into the street. The far away tolling of the midnight bell was of little help - the sound bounced around so that there was no way of telling from which direction it had come. She slumped against a nearby doorway dejectedly, almost resigned to the thought that she would have to spend the night where she was. Eventually she slipped to the ground, buried her head in her lap, and dozed off into an uncomfortable and fretful sleep.

When she awoke it was to discover that it was still dark, and that a man was standing over her. Her hand went instinctively to her dagger, but the stranger - who was clearly drunk - looked more confused than threatening.

'What do you want?' demanded Collette, dragging herself to her feet warily. The man's frowned deepened.

'This is my house.' He said simply. Collette let out a deep breath and relaxed, the stranger's presence suddenly losing some of its menace. She stepped aside as he fumbled for his keys, and was about to ask for directions back to the centre of town when she suddenly felt his hand on her shoulder and was pushed backwards through the open doorway. She heard her dagger fall to the ground somewhere to her right and was gripped by fear for the first time in many, many years. Before she could react she felt his hot, stinking breath close to her face and he was on her. She struggled to free her hands from his grasp but, despite his inebriation, he proved surprisingly strong. A scream welled up instinctively inside her, but he struck her before she could make a sound. She felt the blood pouring from her mouth, before another punch brought blessed oblivion.

When Collette came to she was lying in the gutter, rain pouring on her face and her clothes ripped to shreds. She choked back a sob and gingerly raised herself into a sitting position. Her face felt numb and swollen all over, and she reached a tentative finger towards her aching cheek, wincing as it traced the deep cut down to her lip. Reluctantly she reached beneath her dishevelled skirt and wasn't surprised to find that she was no longer wearing any underwear. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her first reaction was anger at having let her guard down. She prided herself on her self-reliance and tenacity, and to be overcome by some drunken slob was more than she could bear. She berated herself for her weakness, but it didn't take long for that anger to direct itself towards her attacker. Eventually her confusion resolved itself into one burning question - what to do now? Recovering some modicum of dignity was uppermost in her mind - she mustn't let anyone find her like this. She pulled herself to her feet and immediately felt sick. She retched violently and leant against a nearby wall for support.

Collette's memory of the incident was patchy at best, although there was little doubt what had happened. A part of her was immediately aware that her attacker was going to suffer the worst retribution he would ever know. Somehow the thought both terrified and reassured her, and gave her the strength she needed to stand upright and gather her bearings. The fog had lifted to reveal a pale dawn, and it was soon obvious that she was in a different street to the one in which she had been attacked. It was wider and longer for a start, and the houses were slightly less ramshackle. No doubt she had been dumped well away from the scene of the crime, but the bastard was mistaken if he thought that was going to save him. She brushed herself down and began to inspect her appearance in more detail. She was breathing quickly and her heart was pounding hard against her chest, and she found it difficult to concentrate on anything but revenge. Fortunately her instinct for survival was still strong, and told her that her first action had to be to find a way home. Home! How was she going to tell Henri? She choked back another sob and closed her eyes tight, trying to regain control of her emotions. Eventually she lifted her head and tried to take her bearings. There appeared to be a large thoroughfare at the far end of the street, and she began to make her way towards it. She shook her head slowly as she anticipated the revenge she would exact upon the man who had dared violate her. She was Collette Dubois, and no man was going to get away with that!

Chapter 2

Jean knew straight away that something was amiss when he saw Francois standing guard outside the still-locked Baillerie. He cocked an eyebrow by way of enquiry and was met with a sullen shake of the head.

'I dare say Henri will be glad to see you,' said the lieutenant glumly. The man was almost twice the size of the Bailli's deputy (who had long ago outgrown the title scribe, although - technically - this was still his designation) and it was almost comical to see the two men standing together.

'What's happened?' Francois had stood aside and was beginning to unlock the Baillerie door. Several people made as if to enter behind Jean, but a glare from the lieutenant was enough to deter them.

'Better let him tell you himself,' said Francois. Then, to the crowd: 'Baillerie's closed today. Come back tomorrow.'

Jean made his way across the broad expanse of the Baillerie's hall, before ascending the stairs to Henri's office - with not a little trepidation. It took a lot to shake Henri Dubois, and Jean was not looking forward to finding out whatever it was that had done so.

When he entered the room he was relieved to find that Henri's good friend and the town's Dean of the Guild, Richard Beauchamp, was also there. He had never seen either of them look so grave, and there was hardly a flicker of recognition as he drew a chair up beside them.

'Francois wouldn't tell me - what's happened?' It took a long time for anyone to answer, and in the end the explanation was left to Richard.

'Collette was attacked last night,' he said gravely. Jean could have sworn that his heart missed a beat.

'Is she alright?'

'Depends what you mean by alright, doesn't it?' growled Henri, uttering his first words.

'She's very upset,' explained Richard. Henri surprised them all by thumping the desk. A jar of ink fell to the floor and smashed.

'Upset! That's like saying - well, I don't know what it's like saying, but a greater understatement I have never heard. She's going out of her mind with fury. We've had to get a nun in just to stop her from beating her brains out against the wall! If it was up to her she'd have taken a sword and gone looking for the bastard.' Jean didn't know what to say. What could he say? He knew that nothing but time would calm his friend down, and that any attempt at mollification would be met with a swift knock about the head - if he was lucky. He cast a quick glance at Richard, who just shrugged and looked away. There was a long, awkward silence, before Henri finally regained control of his temper.

'Someone else will have to lead the investigation, of course.'

'Another Bailli?' asked Jean.

'No - Francois,' said Henri decisively. His response surprised Jean, given the lieutenant's propensity for heavy-handedness, but then he realised that this was exactly what Henri was hoping for. He took a moment to summon his courage before replying.

'You can't do that,' he said - almost under his breath. Henri cast him a malevolent glare.

'Oh yes I can,' he said through clenched teeth. 'Who's going to stop me - you?' Richard swung around and frowned at his friend, who was immediately contrite. 'Sorry,' he said. 'It's just..' There was another extended silence, during which all three of them gave close consideration to the situation. Normally under such circumstances it would be reasonable for the Dean of the Guild to step in, but Richard's close relationship to the Dubois family rendered this course impractical. The other option was for Jean to undertake the investigation, but he was powerless to make an arrest. The choices seemed very limited.

'What about Bailli Deverelle from Provins?' suggested Richard. 'He's someone you know you can trust and he could be here within the week if he had to.' Henri glanced towards Jean, who could tell that he was still weighing up the possibility of using Francois. He met his stare steadily and nodded without saying a word.

'Very well,' said Henri at last. 'But I insist that the trial be held in Troyes.'

When Jean arrived home before noon his wife Marguerite didn't know whether to be pleased or concerned. She continued with her sweeping but regarded her husband closely.

'Please don't tell me that Henri finally got sick of your insubordination and decided to replace you?' Jean couldn't find it in him to smile.

'I'm afraid it's no laughing matter, he said. 'Henri's shut the Baillerie for the day.' Marguerite couldn't remember such a thing ever happening before, and immediately stopped what she was doing.

'Why?' Jean threw himself onto the nearest chair and ran a hand through what little hair he had left on his head. He took a moment before answering, unsure how his wife would respond to the news and how he, himself, would respond to her response. Marguerite was no admirer of the Bailli's wife and may think that she had got just what she deserved.

'Collette Dubois was assaulted last night,' he said at last. A number of emotions passed across his wife's