But suppose some sick person asks and receives permission to touch the relic ... and the people open the reliquary and find two hands? Someone is going to put two and two together and come up with our late night visit to the cathedral."
Seamus gave in. "You take the rope to the midwife, I'll go rob the church."
"It is not robbery, Seamus," the priest protested in alarm. "That would be a sin. Besides, we put the arm there ourselves."
"Then why can't we go and tell Beaton what we have done and ask for the arm back so we can bury it?"
The priest looked troubled. "I wish it were that simple. But you don't know our Cardinal Protector Beaton. He might well consider our act, at best, desecration not just of the reliquary or the altar or the relic but the whole church." A note of hysteria entered his voice. "Suppose, just suppose, he considers it blasphemy? In Leviticus it says 'whoever blasphemes shall be put to death.' I know, I have heard him say it myself."
"Father, control yourself. No one in his right mind would accuse you of blasphemy." Seamus tried to think of something mat would reassure the priest, but he was no more learned in theology than he was in midwifery. "What about your bishop, have you asked his advice?"
"No, I tried. But he is away visiting his monastery of St. Raymond of Penafort. Seamus," he confessed, "I don't know what overcame my judgment that night. Do you think I was possessed?"
"You, father?" Seamus laughed, a genuine laugh. "No father, of all the people, you the devil would avoid most. Whatever work you did that night was not the work of the devil, rest assured of that!"
The priest unclasped his hands with relief. "I pray you are right. But we must get that thing out of mere before it begins to stink and draws the attention of the celebrants of the Mass."
"Do no' call my godchild a 'thing.'" Seamus pretended mock umbrage, but the priest took him seriously. "No, no, it's all right, father. I was only making a joke. Look, here's the rope. I'll get me a lantern and go fetch the arm back right now, this minute. You go pray for Nelly, and I'll meet you back in the chapel before Martins, or Lauds at the latest. And, father, say a prayer for me while you are at it."
The priest was at prayer when a pale, nervous Seamus returned with his burden. How long he'd been gone, the priest didn't know; when he was praying he lost track of time. But he could see the beeswax candles that Seaforth supplied for him had burned almost to the bottom.
"The same door was undone," Seamus reported, "and the brother did not skip a snore during the whole of my visit." He put his package on the altar and, though the priest protested, began to unwrap it. "No, father, I insist, you must look at this."
The last covering came off. "You have brought the wrong one!" exclaimed the priest in horror. The arm before him, although cool to the touch and grayish in color as if drained of blood, showed no signs of rot. It looked newly cut off.
"No, father, this is Seaforth's arm. Look, you can see the marks on the finger where he wore his signet ring."
"It can't be, Seamus. It has been a month or more since I baptized that arm. It should be ripe by now and sweet-smelling to high heavens. This must be the Saint's arm, it smells too fresh."
"Father, the other arm in the reliquary—it had a wound in its palm, and the wound bled when I touched it."
"A wound? Oh, aye, I remember. Saint Giles had his hand pierced by an arrow while protecting a hind from some hounds."
"Did they have to cut his arm off too, like Seaforth?"
"Oh, no, not till years later when he was dead. Then they divided up the body to sanctify as many altars as possible. Only because of Lord Preston—he of the Preston aisle in the cathedral—did we get the whole arm. Some churches only got a lock of hair, a tooth or toe. We were honored above most because ours was to be the cathedral of Scotland's fust bishop." The pride in his voice vanished as realization sunk in.
Seamus gave in. "You take the rope to the midwife, I'll go rob the church."
"It is not robbery, Seamus," the priest protested in alarm. "That would be a sin. Besides, we put the arm there ourselves."
"Then why can't we go and tell Beaton what we have done and ask for the arm back so we can bury it?"
The priest looked troubled. "I wish it were that simple. But you don't know our Cardinal Protector Beaton. He might well consider our act, at best, desecration not just of the reliquary or the altar or the relic but the whole church." A note of hysteria entered his voice. "Suppose, just suppose, he considers it blasphemy? In Leviticus it says 'whoever blasphemes shall be put to death.' I know, I have heard him say it myself."
"Father, control yourself. No one in his right mind would accuse you of blasphemy." Seamus tried to think of something mat would reassure the priest, but he was no more learned in theology than he was in midwifery. "What about your bishop, have you asked his advice?"
"No, I tried. But he is away visiting his monastery of St. Raymond of Penafort. Seamus," he confessed, "I don't know what overcame my judgment that night. Do you think I was possessed?"
"You, father?" Seamus laughed, a genuine laugh. "No father, of all the people, you the devil would avoid most. Whatever work you did that night was not the work of the devil, rest assured of that!"
The priest unclasped his hands with relief. "I pray you are right. But we must get that thing out of mere before it begins to stink and draws the attention of the celebrants of the Mass."
"Do no' call my godchild a 'thing.'" Seamus pretended mock umbrage, but the priest took him seriously. "No, no, it's all right, father. I was only making a joke. Look, here's the rope. I'll get me a lantern and go fetch the arm back right now, this minute. You go pray for Nelly, and I'll meet you back in the chapel before Martins, or Lauds at the latest. And, father, say a prayer for me while you are at it."
The priest was at prayer when a pale, nervous Seamus returned with his burden. How long he'd been gone, the priest didn't know; when he was praying he lost track of time. But he could see the beeswax candles that Seaforth supplied for him had burned almost to the bottom.
"The same door was undone," Seamus reported, "and the brother did not skip a snore during the whole of my visit." He put his package on the altar and, though the priest protested, began to unwrap it. "No, father, I insist, you must look at this."
The last covering came off. "You have brought the wrong one!" exclaimed the priest in horror. The arm before him, although cool to the touch and grayish in color as if drained of blood, showed no signs of rot. It looked newly cut off.
"No, father, this is Seaforth's arm. Look, you can see the marks on the finger where he wore his signet ring."
"It can't be, Seamus. It has been a month or more since I baptized that arm. It should be ripe by now and sweet-smelling to high heavens. This must be the Saint's arm, it smells too fresh."
"Father, the other arm in the reliquary—it had a wound in its palm, and the wound bled when I touched it."
"A wound? Oh, aye, I remember. Saint Giles had his hand pierced by an arrow while protecting a hind from some hounds."
"Did they have to cut his arm off too, like Seaforth?"
"Oh, no, not till years later when he was dead. Then they divided up the body to sanctify as many altars as possible. Only because of Lord Preston—he of the Preston aisle in the cathedral—did we get the whole arm. Some churches only got a lock of hair, a tooth or toe. We were honored above most because ours was to be the cathedral of Scotland's fust bishop." The pride in his voice vanished as realization sunk in.
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