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had told Blundus that the present abbot had plans to remodel the chapel and either consign the relic to a remote corner of the crypt or even send it to Rome for others to deal with the unwelcome object as they saw fit.
    Robert Blundus had been making his way back through Aquitaine and Anjou to reach the Channel ports to return home after his autumn forage for relics as far south as Santiago de Compostela in Spain. He had called at Fontrevault on the off-chance of picking up a final bargain, perhaps from one of the other relic hawkers trying their luck at selling to the famous abbey. He followed his usual practice of seeking out and bribing some servant of the religious house who knew all the local gossip, and this time struck lucky with the abbey clerk. On the basis of what he learnt from him, Blundus hired a thug from a low tavern to steal the fragment, the side chapel being virtually deserted at certain times of the day. The thief easily levered open the reliquary with his dagger and removed the gilded box. It could well be days or even weeks before anyone noticed that the shunned relic had vanished–and according to the clerk, the abbey authorities might well be relieved at its disappearance.
    Without opening the box, the incurious thief had promptly handed it over to collect his reward, and by nightfall Blundus was well on his way north astride his pony. He kept a wary eye open for pursuit, in case the ruffian had given him away, but he reached St-Malo without incident and here sold his steed and took ship for England.
    Now he settled back on his bag of straw and contentedly looked forward to going home to his house and his wife in Salisbury. Once he had sold the relics he had acquired, he could live in comfort on the proceeds throughout the winter, until the spring sent him off again on his travels.
     
     
    Blundus set out soon after dawn, buying a couple of mutton pastries and a small loaf at a stall in Topsham High Street. He ate as he trudged along, well used to long journeys on foot–he felt it was not worth haggling for another pony on this side of the Channel. He was aiming for Glastonbury in the next county of Somerset, before turning eastward for home, but there was no great hurry. He reckoned on covering at least fifteen miles before each nightfall, even during the shorter days of late autumn.
    He had enquired of the best route at the inn and the tactiturn landlord had directed him as far as Honiton, beyond which the man had no idea of the roads. The chapman was told that the village of Clyst St Mary was his first landmark, and within an hour he had passed through the small hamlet, the manor of which belonged to the Bishop of Exeter.
    There was the usual straggle of people on the rough track beyond the village, a man herding goats to market, an old woman with a pig on a rope and a number of pilgrims in their wide-brimmed hats, on their way back from Canterbury. An ox-cart rumbled past him, filled with turnips, then the road was empty as it curved through a dense wood of tall trees, their browned leaves fluttering to the ground in the east wind. It was hardly a forest, as just around the bend behind him the strip fields of Clyst St Mary ran up the slopes on either side of the road, but it was a substantial wood, a westerly extension of the forest that stretched eastward for miles towards Ottery St Mary and Sidmouth.
    Robert Blundus was not a nervous man and he was used to tramping alone along the tracks of several countries. He had no sword, but carried a stout staff which was mainly for support. He reasoned that a common chapman was hardly worth the attention of highway robbers, though when he could, he tried to travel in the company of others for safety.
    Today there was no one going the same way on this part of the road and he stepped out along the empty avenue of trees with no particular apprehension, thinking more of the pitch he was going to make to the Abbot of Glastonbury, to get the best price for his