The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

Historical Note

Robert of Oseney succeeded Dunstan to become prior of the Austin house of St Gregory’s, Canterbury in 1213; he remained for only two years, and resigned to become a simple monk at Clairvaux, although no reason is given. Hurso was another Canterbury Austin from the late twelfth century, and Robert de Luci was a Kentish knight active in 1199. Prior (later Abbot) Wigod ruled Oseney near Oxford for thirty years until his death in 1168; Hugh was elected Abbot in 1184 and died in 1205.

Roger Norrys was constable of Carmarthen in the 1170s, and Symon Cole was constable in the 1190s. Osbert was Archdeacon of Carmarthen at this time, while Cethynoc, Tancard, William the corviser, Kedi, Jung and Sir Robert de Burchill are all listed as witnesses to deeds in the diocese in the late 1100s.

Today, Gerald de Barri (Gerald of Wales) is best known for his travels. He was not popular with his contemporaries, who saw him as arrogant, vain and abrasive – and he really did read his books at Oxford over several consecutive days. To them, he was the man desperate to be Bishop of St Davids, and he was elected to the post twice (in 1176 and 1198) by the cathedral’s canons. He also wanted to establish the See as an archbishopric, thus placing it on a par with Canterbury. Needless to say, this did not meet with approval in England.

His second attempt to gain the See was blocked by both Canterbury and the King, and the dispute dragged on for four years. He made three journeys to Rome to put his case to the Pope, all with the support of archdeacons Pontius, Osbert and Reginald Foliot. Eventually, though, his followers were persuaded to change their minds, and the See went to another contender.

Furious at what he saw as a betrayal, Gerald wrote about them in his book De Jure , noting how they had been rewarded for their treachery: ‘Faithless Foliot’ was given the church at Llanstephan, while the ‘Goitre of Carmarthen’ (Osbert) got a manor on the Gower. Gerald remained angry and bitter about his defeat for the rest of his life.

Wilbertone, Cambridgeshire Fens, Spring 1361

‘You cannot ask that of me!’ Horrified, the young monk sprang to his feet, backing away from the elderly priest as if he was the devil himself.

‘I do ask it, Brother Oswin. More than that, I demand it.’ The old man’s voice was cracked with age, but his eyes blazed with determination.

‘But it is sacrilege,’ Oswin protested. ‘A sin, a terrible sin. I would cut off my own hand rather than use it to commit such a deed. How could you ask any man to carry out such a wicked act, let alone a man in holy orders?’

‘Because only a monk can do this,’ the old man growled. ‘Come back here and sit down. I said, sit down!’

Brother Oswin, trained like a hound to obey the voice of command, perched on a low wooden stool that had been placed beside the priest’s chair, and gnawed at his fingernails, which were already bitten down to the quick. As soon as he’d entered Father Edmund’s tiny cottage he’d noticed the bunch of dried poppy heads hanging from the beam. The syrup made from the white poppies eased the shivers of the marsh fever and soothed the crippling joint pains that tormented those who lived in the dank fenland. It even dulled the gripes of hunger, but sup it too often and it would drive a man’s wits from his head for ever. Was that the cause of Father Edmund’s madness? For mad he certainly must be, even to contemplate such a dreadful act.

Brother Oswin had known the old priest ever since he was a boy. In fact it was Father Edmund who had helped him to gain admittance as a novice at Ely Priory. So when the priest had sent word to him, asking him to come back to the village, he had sought leave to depart right away, assuming his old confessor was sick or in desperate need of his help. But nothing could have prepared him for what Father Edmund had asked of him.

‘Why, Father, why would you ask such a thing?’

‘Look around you,’ the old man commanded.

The young man’s gaze ranged around the dingy cottage. He had not visited Father Edmund for several years and had been shocked to see the misery in which the frail old man was living. Surely it hadn’t always been as bad as this. In the blackened hearth, a pitiful fire was struggling for life against the icy blasts whistling through the gaps in the walls, and the ragged blankets strewn across the bed were so threadbare there could be little warmth left in them. A few crumbs of coarse, dry bean-bread still clung to a wooden trencher on the table, the remains of the priest’s supper, no doubt, and more than likely the only meal he’d eaten that day.

Spring was always the hungry time, when the winter stores were running low and the new crops were not yet harvested, but the prolonged drought of the previous year had meant that the barns were already three-quarters empty even before the first frosts, and many a man and beast had perished long before the green mist returned to cover tree and field. That this old crow had managed to survive was nothing short of a miracle, but then there were always some villagers willing to sacrifice their last crust to a priest or a monk, in the hope of receiving a whole loaf in the afterlife.

Father Edmund lifted a leather beaker from the table and thrust it under Brother Oswin’s nose. It only took one sniff to tell that the ale was sour, not fit even for the hogs.

‘Even beggars at the alms gate drink better ale than this,’ the old priest said bitterly. ‘Is this the way God rewards His faithful servants?’

‘But when you’re granted your new living-’

‘What new living, boy? They’ve left me here to rot for over twenty years. It’s been ten, fifteen years since the Bishop of Ely sent word to me. I doubt he even remembers I’m still alive. I’ll stay here until I die. That’s my reward for all I accomplished for the Church.’ Father Edmund huddled closer to the fire, spreading his mottled hands over the feeble embers. ‘When I think of all I did for Bishop de Lisle. If it hadn’t been for me, he would be dead and rotting in his grave now.’

‘The bishop is fled abroad,’ Oswin told him. ‘But he’s a man of compassion. They say that all through the Great Pestilence he was not afraid to administer the last rites to the dying, though many others refused for fear of the contagion. When he returns, I’m sure-’

‘Sure, are you? De Lisle may be many things, but a fool is not one of them. He won’t return to Ely again. He daren’t. There are still plenty who think him guilty of theft, if not of murder. And now I hear rumours that the Great Pestilence is once more prowling across England. Is this so?’

The young monk bowed his head as he made the sign of the cross. ‘It is, Father. But you should not fear it. This time, they say, it’s the children and the fit young men that death is snatching first.’

The old man shuddered. ‘I have lived through it all before and I prayed I would never do so again – the putrid stench of the bodies, the fires, the mass graves with the corpses thrown in like shoals of rotting fish, then the looting and the murder. Bands of cutthroats roaming through the towns and villages taking whatever they wanted from the living and the dead. They cared nothing for any law, nor for any man. They were worse than savage wolves.’

‘But you survived, Father, when all around you perished. Even though you daily ministered to the dying and buried the dead with your own hands, yet you did not fall sick. You knew how to defend yourself, and Bishop de Lisle too. They say you conjured the angels and demons to protect him. You will survive the pestilence again, Father.’