Winston is a professional relic thief. But when a relic he stole ends up in Malta, he has to get it back or die trying in “Furta Sacra.”

Today’s story is “Furta Sacra” by Rose LaCroix. A version of this story with human characters was recently published on Spillwords. You might know Rose from her novels, like Basecraft Cirrostratus and The Vimana Incident, both published by Furplanet. Recently her short story “The Bad Things” was also published on Spillwords, and many of her early short stories are available to read for free on Furaffinity. 

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

and Today’s story is “Furta

Sacra” by Rose LaCroix.

A version of this story with human characters was recently published on Spillwords.

You might know Rose from her novels, like Basecraft Cirrostratus

and The Vimana Incident,

both published by Furplanet.

Recently her short story

“The Bad Things” was also published on Spillwords,

and many of her early short stories are available to read for free

on Furaffinity. Please enjoy

“Furta Sacra” by Rose LaCroix

Through the square,

round the old stone cross in the market to Church Street,

down the Vicar's Close,

through the gate midway to the old Saxon church.

You could cross Cratheley in three hops from the old boundary stone to the vicarage.

The vicarage was a stately stone hall,

gifted to the vicar

twenty-five years ago;

nowadays, it was in need of repair.

In fact the whole village looked shabbier than it did only three years before.

I crept through the unlocked vicarage gate,

round to the servants' door and rapped three times.

The door opened into a darkened scullery.

A young polecat in a plain brown dress peered out,

carrying a brass lantern perforated with crosses.

I tipped my hat, festooned with pilgrim pins and shells from Santiago de Compostela.

"Straw for a pilgrim?"

I said, my twitching tail betraying my unease.

"Oh, you're that cat my master said to look out for?

The burglar?" she asked.

"A burglar? No! Not at all,

just a humble pilgrim!"

I replied, wringing my hat.

"Well, he can't see you,"

she huffed. "He said no one is to disturb him,

not even you." She made to close the stout wooden door in my face.

I shoved a booted foot in the doorway

and felt the full weight of the door slam on it,

but I didn't cry out.

"Might I come in and warm myself by your kitchen fires at least?

It's cold out," I asked,

pressing my weight against the door.

"Let me talk to him,"

the scullery girl growled.

"And take your foot out of the door before I crush it.

I won't warn you again!"

"Be quick about it, this is urgent business!"

I cried, shifting my restless body from one foot to the other.

The scullery girl returned a few moments later. "He'll

only be a bit,"

she said. "May I please come in?

It's very cold tonight!" I begged,

shivering and drawing my cloak around me.

She turned up her nose.

"You'll just have to wait.

You've got your cloak on, don't you?

I promise you won't freeze in an hour."

The door snapped shut, as if on springs.

I shuffled and paced on the green outside the vicarage for more than an hour.

At least the sleet had stopped

and I could see starlight,

but now a crisp wind was blowing through my damp cloak.

The scullery maid returned.

"Right this way," she said,

gesturing for me to follow.

The scent of bowls and spoons recently washed in tubs of rancid water made my nose wrinkle.

How did that vicar not have dysentery day and night?

It smelled like the vile soup that formed in baptismal fonts when the holy water stopped being holy

after a few of the village cubs had pissed in it.

Is that what he washed his bowls in?

We took the servant's entrance into a great hall painted bright

and lavished with rich tapestries,

all of them dusty and covered in monstrous cobwebs,

up a magnificent wooden spiral stairway

carved from a single oak,

to a narrow landing in front of three doors set in stone arches.

The scullery girl knocked on the middle door.

It opened into pitch

black darkness. "Well, go on!"

the polecat grumbled,

shoving me in. I stumbled into the dark room,

my eyes adjusting a bit.

There was the vicar,

a sickly old wolf,

dressed in a silk nightgown,

sitting at a table sipping

a hot beverage that smelled of ginger and honey.

A single weak candle lit the table,

leaving the corners of the room in deep shadow.

"Terribly sorry," the vicar said.

"My stomach's been giving me grief all day.

This is the calmest it's been since Evensong."

"Quite alright, Father,"

I said, taking a seat across from him at the table.

"So, what may I do for you?"

The vicar set his drink down. "I know you're the one who translated St. George's dew claw to Shrewsbury,

and I've decided to forgive you."

"Forgive me?" I muttered.

"I don't..." "But on one condition.

I need you to bring it back to our church.

We're suffering! No pilgrims means no offerings, and no offerings means no money to fix that crumbling old church.

That's unacceptable, Winston,

don't you agree?" "Indeed, Father,"

I said, biting my tongue about how much money the Vicar could make

if he sold his outrageous house,

or didn't waste his money on the blasphemy of hiring a professional relic thief.

"If you'll retrieve the relic for me,

I'll pay the cost of your trip,"

the Vicar declared.

"And I'll pay you a few livres extra,

just in case." "You're very generous,

but it's not that much trouble to go to Shrewsbury,”

I said. "Oh, the relic isn't in Shewsbury any more,"

he groaned, clutching his gurgling stomach.

"It's been translated to Malta.

Malta." "Malta? I'm afraid a trip to Malta would be too far out of the way...

way..." I sputtered, sliding out of my chair and backing toward the door.

"I beg you to reconsider,"

said a deep voice from the shadows.

Two muscular wolves in armor stepped into the dim light,

blocking the doorway.

"Ah, Winston, how rude of me!

I forgot to introduce you to my nephews,

Sir William de Simon

and Sir Henry Fitz Robert,"

the Vicar rumbled.

"I knew you might get cold feet, so I thought these fine boys might convince you otherwise."

"If you don't want us to hang you right now,

take the money and go to Malta,"

Henry growled. "But that relic wanted to be translated!"

I protested. "The Almighty Himself let it happen!"

"Don't tempt God!" William warned,

eyes full of hate

as he leveled a rondel dagger at my neck.

The vicar crossed his arms and shook his head.

"Sorry, Winston. Malta or the gallows.

Make your choice, we haven't got all night."

"Alright," I murmured.

"I'll go to Malta.

Malta." The vicar smiled.

"I thought you'd see things my way.

William, Henry, give this rascal six livres and a mark

in gold and send him on his way.

way." With that he moaned in agony

and ran to the garderobe.

Henry threw a fat clanking sack at me,

and he and William dragged me out of the house

and tossed me out the gate.

"If you're not back by next Michaelmas,

we'll find you and cut you down!"

William barked. # There are several ways for a pilgrim to get to Malta from the shores of England.

If you're pious, for example,

you can take a day's sail from Dover into Sambre,

and from there it's another forty or fifty day's walk down the Via Francigena

through most of Nord,

Savoy, and Lombardy

until you get to Venice

via Parma or Ostia via Rome.

Then you climb inside the stinking holds of a ship for another twenty or thirty days

and hope you don't die in a storm.

If you're in a hurry,

you can climb inside the stinking holds of a ship carrying tin from Cornwall

and travel the whole way there by sea

in fifty to seventy days.

I was in a hurry.

There were four other passengers on this ship:

a nervous rabbit from London

who was probably trying to escape the gallows too;

a surly Flemish fox knight

from that lowest order of chivalry

who never wash and whose maille is all rusty;

a squirrel monk from Canterbury

on his way to Rome on some church business;

and a hyena merchant from Ethiopia

on his way home from Iceland.

The scoundrel and the monk sat in their own corners,

one brooding in the darkness

and the other in deep reflection,

his rosary beads

twiddling between his delicate fingers.

The knight- Ferrand was his name- Was surly to me and sulked on the deck

when he wasn't down below sleeping.

At least the hyena- Tewodros was his name-

didn't sit on his own sulking like the others.

He was well-traveled and had his sea legs,

and had a story about nearly every corner of the world.

He made his coin buying and selling spices and trinkets.

But Tewodros only rode with us to Cadiz.

Meanwhile the scoundrel from London-

Dunstan was his name-

bolted as soon as his feet touched land in Barcelona,

and Ferrand, the smelly knight,

became friendly after that.

He spent many a loud hour boasting of the daring exploits he and his prick had gotten into.

Ferrand left at Ostia,

gateway to Rome, along with that monk whose name I never did catch.

From then on I was the only passenger,

and the holds had gradually filled with cargo until I had only a tiny corner I could squeeze into.

Outbound from Palermo,

riding low on the waves,

we hit rough seas.

Waves as tall as houses

tossed the ship about,

and the wind cried like the spirits of the damned.

But, by God's grace,

after sixty long days at sea

we arrived in Malta

under blue skies.

Malta is an island of pale earth colors,

arid and barren, with few trees.

It's a shepherd's land,

and one of the furthest outposts of Christendom. At its heart

stands St. Paul's Cathedral,

a great stone church

with thick walls and squat columns,

very little light,

and gold mosaics floor to ceiling

like a Roman basilica.

I'd been there once before,

on my way to Jerusalem to search for relics.

At the time St. Paul's didn't have any relics that interested me;

I saved my trouble for the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,

hoping to leave with a piece of stone

from Calvary. That trip didn't end well;

the Templars didn't take kindly to anyone carrying a chisel into the Chapel of the Crucifixion,

and I was told to leave without my piece of the holy site or they'd string me up by my bowels.

But, by my honor, I took a stone from right outside the blessed chapel

and it was close enough to Calvary to bring the Countess of Essex a healthy son!

Outside the door of St. Paul's,

pilgrims were lined up across the square.

Every so often the line would break into a crowd,

and two large monks would shove the line back into shape.

We were front-to-back,

scarcely any room to breathe,

and held up for more than an hour until we were shoved toward the shrine of St. George.

The reliquary was tiny,

shaped like a golden egg with one side open

and St. George's dew claw held inside by golden wire.

Pilgrims were shoved uncomfortably against each other,

each touching a strip of cloth to the claw only once before being shoved forward by the seething mass behind them.

There was no way I was going to take it but I tried anyway.

No luck; the crowd surged forward

and I was jostled back into the sanctuary.

My stomach growled.

I hadn't eaten all day,

and the last thing I'd eaten was salted hake washed down with beer that was mostly seawater.

Hunger and thirst gnawed at me.

But if I hesitated,

I could lose the relic again and I'd never be able to return to England.

I had nothing to lose by trying again.

Four times. I went around that line four times.

By the last time I squeezed into the line,

one of the friars who kept the crowds in order, a big badger,

gave me a death glare as if he recognized me.

I gave up after that;

hunger and exhaustion got the better of me.

I hurried away to a nearby tavern for a pint

and a couple bites of fish

before trudging back to the cathedral,

my room for the night.

There was no getting close to that relic by night either;

pilgrims from across the world were there, swarming at all hours.

I heard conversation in Greek,

Venetian, Lombardic,

High and Low German,

English, Basque, Occitan,

Norman, Norse, and Irish, and many other languages I didn't recognize at all.

While some pilgrims collapsed in exhaustion and slept soundly,

others carried on long into the night,

praying before shrines and relics,

conversing, dining, or even singing.

One pilgrim, a fallow deer dandy from Lombardy,

played the lute while his friends played dice for small stakes.

I heard two voices in English

near the west end of the nave

and I sidled up to them.

"Ah, hello!" I exclaimed.

"Is it usually this crowded at night?"

"I don't know, friend," said an otter in a green tunic

with a bandage over one eye.

"We've come to offer a prayer to St. George,

but we're also here for the feast of St. Publius tomorrow.

tomorrow." I raised an eyebrow.

"Saint who?" "Saint Publius,

the governor who welcomed the blessed St. Paul on this very spot," said a vixen in blue next to a fox with a knight's girdle about his waist

and a bandaged leg.

"A prayer at his shrine brought my husband and his squire home from Jersusalem!"

"We nearly drowned,"

the knight added.

"Are you hungry?" the otter asked,

tearing off a piece of a loaf

and handing me a bit.

I devoured it. "Mmf!

Thank you!" "Where do you come from?

I'm Mary Mallory

and that's my husband Sir John de Milford,"

the vixen in blue said.

"I'm Winston of Grantham.

I'm only passing through, on my way to Jerusalem,"

I lied. "First time?"

the otter asked.

"Second," I said. "You're very blessed!"

Mary said. "Forgive me, I'd love to talk more but I've traveled a long way.

I need my rest. Good night,"

I said, curling up in a corner.

"Good night, Winston,"

said Mary. "God bless." #

The next day was St. Publius' day,

and the crowds of pilgrims were distracted by a rusty old cloak pin.

I decided to make my move.

Sneaking round the shrine of St. George,

I had my hand on the small egg-shaped reliquary

and nearly had it stuffed inside my tunic when a large, heavy hand landed on my shoulder.

It was the badger from the day before.

"AHA! I knew it!" he bellowed, his brown eyes bloodshot with hate.

"Unhand me!" I yowled, trying to pull away.

"I've been sent by the Lord to translate the relic of the blessed Saint George

back to the Parish Church of St. George at Cratheley

where it belongs!"

"God has forsaken you,"

the badger huffed,

dragging me by the arm to a narrow door at the corner of the transcept,

up a set of spiral stairs,

and into a small office with a writing desk and books chained to shelves.

An old ibex in a bishop's robes

sat at the desk. He had gray eyebrows that swept in wild arcs like the wings of seagulls,

and an oddly flabby chin that looked like a scrotum. "What is it Andreas?"

he asked in clear English.

"This cat is a thief!" Andreas

declared. "He tried to steal the claw!"

"How far did he get?"

the bishop asked.

"He nearly had it up his sleeve, Your Grace,"

Andreas said. "I've come to translate this relic!" I protested,

twisting away from Andreas.

"God Himself told me in a dream to come here!"

The bishop pushed his spectacles up his nose

and looked me over.

"Let's assume you're telling the truth then, erm..."

"Winston, Your Grace.

Winston of Grantham."

"Winston, if the Lord has sent you I expect a miracle to prove it.

Let's see if you can survive in this chapel on nothing but communion host for forty days.

No bread and no water.

If you try to leave the sanctuary or if we catch even a crumb of food in your mouth

we'll let the magistrates deal with you.

you." That was bleak. I'd heard of celibate nuns

who could live for forty days on the host but

I was neither celibate nor a nun.

But at least this way

I had plenty of time to think of a way out.

I swallowed my fear,

put on a look of pious indifference,

and made the cross over myself.

"Very well. God will see me innocent!"

I declared. "If he eats anything but the Host,

take him to the magistrates and make sure he hangs,"

the bishop said. "Take him back to the sanctuary.

Forty days! No less!" #

The first three days of hunger were the hardest.

Brother Andreas would tell the pilgrims

"You see that ragamuffin cat over there?

He's trying to live for forty days on nothing but the blessed host,

but he wants you to make it as hard as possible.

Go, tempt him. Tempt him like St. Anthony!"

And of course they did,

waving bread and biscuits

and nuts and smoked fish in my face while Brother Andreas tied the cords of his robes

like a noose and waved them to and fro.

That prick! But after three days

it became easy to refuse food.

My appetite was gone.

My stomach had shrunk from a wineskin to a coin purse.

It was thirst that nearly drove me mad.

The communion wafers stuck to my tongue after a while, and became hard to swallow

even with a bit of wine.

I was weak, my vision blurred,

and my muscles cramped.

By the end of the day,

I had collapsed by a puddle in a low part of the old stone floor, fighting the urge not to take the drink.

I regained consciousness an hour or two later,

the left side of my tunic soaked in rancid water.

I dragged myself

away into a dark corner,

absolutely stung.

Then I had a strange thought.

Taking my sleeve in my mouth,

I sucked a bit of water from it.

It tasted dreadful,

but I didn't care.

I gazed around at the sanctuary,

expecting to see a group of priests

charging in to hand me over to the magistrates.

No one saw me. Everyone was gathered

near the altar and I,

over by the Little St. Ann shrine at the far end of the nave,

was left to soak up the ever-shrinking puddle.

But by the eighth day of my fast, the puddle had run dry.

Shafts of bright sunlight

through the clerestory windows

warmed the nave during the day

and the nights were warm and starry.

The dry season had begun.

I was weak too. Communion thrice a day-

the most I was allowed-

was only enough to remind me of food but not enough to sustain me.

I could barely stand any more;

I moved through the Cathedral on my hands and knees.

The priests, of course,

liked this. I heard them

mumble about the remarkable humility this relic thief displayed,

about how I didn't deserve to be treated this way.

If any of that talk reached the bishop's ears,

he wasn't moved. The few times I saw his horned face

he stared me down,

daring me to complain,

daring me to plead for mercies he'd never show me,

daring me to curse him

so he could catch a sniffle

and accuse me of witchcraft.

I refused to give him that satisfaction,

and began to believe I had done nothing wrong.

God had seen me through a week and a day

and I had maybe three days worth of life left in me before I died of thirst.

Three days to figure out how I would survive.

By the tenth day, the temperature in the nave had become unbearably hot,

and I was at my wit's end.

Crawling forward during the mass

to receive the communion

I gave a mighty cry with the last of my strength.

"Oh Lord!" I pleaded,

my voice like broken glass.

"Deliver me from my tormentors!

Spare my life and let me go home!"

I fell before the altar,

certain I would die. #

I woke to a cold sponge against my mouth,

droplets of sweet wine

cut with vinegar

trickling past my lips.

I sat bolt upright,

pushing away the fox monk

who held the sponge.

"No! No!" I protested.

"I'm fasting!" The fox shook his head.

"Son, the Bishop has died.

died." My heart sank. "I'm...

sorry to hear it,"

I mumbled. "No, it's quite alright,"

the fox murmured.

"Old scrotum-face had it coming a long time."

"So I can eat and drink?"

I asked. "You've proved your intentions were holy and not selfish,"

the fox said. "Your fast is over."

"I'll believe it when I hear from the priests themselves,"

I grumbled. "Brother Andreas especially.

He wanted to see me hang!"

The fox gave a nod.

"Do you want me to fetch Brother Andreas?

I can if you like,"

he offered. "Yes, bring him to me,"

I said. "I want to hear it from his mouth. All of it!"

When Andreas came a few minutes later,

his back was bent

and his steps short and uncertain.

"I'm so sorry for how we treated you.

The Lord heard your prayer and delivered justice upon the Bishop.

I'll bring you any food or drink you want.

Name it, I'll have it for you!"

At that point I could have asked for anything.

I wanted so badly to devour an entire tuna

and slop up the grease with my tongue right in front of the brothers while they sipped their cold pottage.

No. I had a point to prove.

I sat up and held my hands together as if in prayer,

bowing my head. "Bring me only the body and the blood of Christ,"

I said, making the sign of the cross over myself.

"And don't be stingy with the blood."

"Iesu Maria!" Andreas mumbled, crossing himself.

"Right away, My Son.

Son." Minutes later, in marched a wolf priest

and two feline altar boys, followed by two deer monks who swung large censers.

The wolf presented the communion wafer and dipped it

in a very large chalice. "Corpus et sanguis domini nostri Iesu Christi custodiat animam

tuam in vitam aeternam,

amen," he chanted, making the cross over me before putting the chalice to my lips.

Normally, only the priest may drink from the chalice.

To let an ordinary ruffian like me drink from the chalice was unthinkable;

that honor was reserved for living saints!

That was when I noticed

every eye in the infirmary was on me.

Even a few curious pilgrims had followed along with the procession

and were clutching their beads in suspense.

After I'd drunk maybe a half pint of watery wine from the chalice,

I felt some of my strength return.

I sat up on the edge of the cot

and trudged back to the chapel on shaky feet.

Pilgrims strung along behind me,

touching stinking rags to my body,

trying to soak up some of my saintliness.

By the time I arrived at the altar,

I could barely stand.

I fell- the second time I'd fallen before the altar-

and pulled myself to my feet,

raising my hand to the crowd for silence.

"Listen," I called to them,

my voice still a bit hoarse but stronger than it was a few hours before,

"The Lord has said to me, that I shall neither eat

nor drink a single thing

except for the communion host until this relic of St. George is translated

back to Cratheley, in England,

where it once lay.

lay." The crowd murmured.

Andreas stepped forward.

"We can't do that,"

he said. "As chapel custodian I forbid it!"

A wave of dizziness came over me.

I collapsed again before the reliquary.

"He's fallen three times,

like Christ himself!"

someone cried. The crowd knelt and crossed themselves before me.

"Kyrie Eleison!"

Andreas sobbed, kissing the hem of my penitent's robes and bawling.

"Go! God be with you, son!"

"Bring me the relic,"

I said, sitting up.

"And give me something to eat on my way.

way." The pilgrims dug in their bags for loaves,

fruit, nuts, cheese,

flasks of wine, and every single kind of biscuit and cake there is and piled them next to me.

"Does anybody have a spare sack?"

I asked. About forty goathair sacks landed at my feet.

The monk from the infirmary

helped me gather up all the food.

Brother Andreas fetched the small gilded egg of the inner reliquary

and placed it in my hands.

"Here, Son. If you can walk out of the church without stumbling a fourth time,

you're free." Easier said than done.

I was barely able to stand on my own two feet,

let alone walk fifty feet or so with a heavy sack full of food. I threw the sack over my shoulder

and, with the reliquary clutched in my right hand,

I staggered toward the door.

The crowd cleared a path for me.

Every step was a struggle.

But I made it. As I left the cathedral I saw the square outside,

now in twilight, full of pilgrims bearing candles.

They bowed before me

as I trudged through the square,

some in tears of ecstasy.

I lost the crowd entirely somewhere near the wharf

and collapsed a fourth time, safely out of view.

I put the reliquary in a spare sack

and slumped against a wall in an out-of-the-way corner,

gnawing on a wedge of cheese.

I did it. I did it! #

Through the square,

round the old stone cross in the market

to the Church Street,

down the Vicar's Close,

through the gate midway to the old Saxon church.

I walked the same familiar route

across Cratheley in triumph,

the blessed claw in hand.

This time the vicarage gate was locked.

I hoisted myself to the top of the gate.

"Hullo!" I called. Silence.

Again I called, "Hullo!"

at the top of my lungs.

I heard the scullery door open.

The vicar's scullery maid came round the corner,

carrying her lantern.

"Who is it?" she called.

"It's me, Winston," I called.

"I have something very important for your master!"

"One moment!" she called, scurrying back to the house.

Out came the vicar's nephews a few minutes later,

though one of them- was it Henry?-

wasn't wearing armor any more.

He'd swapped his maille for a long modest tunic,

dark-colored hose,

rounded shoes, and a large gilded crucifix about his neck.

"Where's the Vicar?"

I demanded. "Speaking,"

Henry grumbled. "But your uncle...?"

I began. "He's with the saints now,"

Henry said. "Dysentery did for him three months ago."

"Dreadfully sorry to hear it.

But I did bring the relic and I believe we've still got several days until Michaelmas.

Michaelmas." I opened my hand, displaying the gilded egg.

"We don't need it any more,"

the young vicar sneered.

"It wasn't even a genuine relic,

my uncle got it off a corpse the dogs dug up in the churchyard!

We've got something much better now."

"What could possibly be better than this?"

I demanded, waving the reliquary in his face.

"Come along, I'll show you,"

the vicar said, unlocking the gate

and leading me toward the church a short distance away.

The old Saxon church had a new lead roof on it,

and had been expanded with a beautiful Gothic cloister.

Henry unlocked the heavy old oak door and took the candle from his lantern,

lighting candles all around the sanctuary

until the place glowed bright enough to see.

Near the altar was an enameled box of gilded brass

lined inside with quilted white silk.

A piece of tan desert stone rested inside.

“My friend the Countess of Essex donated this.

It's a piece of Calvary.

The very rock where the Savior was crucified!

Better than anything I could ever get fro the likes of you.”

I bowed before him, stifling a grin.

“I must admit, Father,

I've been outdone.”

"No hard feelings,"

said Henry, handing me a gold noble.

"Now, take that dirty old claw back to Shrewsbury and never show your face here again." ###

This was “Furta Sacra”

by Rose LaCroix, read for you by Khaki,

your faithful fireside companion.

You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

Thank you for listening

to The Voice of Dog.