The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘Were you close enough to see their faces?’ asked Cole eagerly. The raiders tended to keep out of sight, and very few had witnessed them in action.

‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Frossard. ‘They had hidden them with scarves.’

‘There was one thing, though,’ said Reinfrid quickly, seeing Cole’s disappointment and hastening to curry favour. ‘The fellow in charge was shrieking his orders in an oddly high-pitched voice. It made us laugh.’

‘There is nothing amusing about cattle theft,’ said Miles sternly.

‘We would like to hear about your relic, brothers,’ said Gwenllian, seeing Frossard gird himself up to argue. ‘But not now – it is too hot. Come to the castle this evening.’

Gwenllian had invited a number of people to dine with her that night – Avenel and Fitzmartin, Mayor Rupe, Philip the chaplain and Deputy Miles. Then it had occurred to her that they would quarrel, so she had added Prior Kediour, Odo and Hilde, to help her keep the peace. Now Symon was home, she wished she could cancel the whole thing and spend the evening with him, but that would have been ungracious. The meal would go ahead, and she and Cole would preside together.

She had been to some trouble: the food was plentiful, the wine good, the hall had been swept and dusted, and Cole’s smelly hunting dogs banished to the bailey. Musicians had been hired to entertain, and summer flowers had been set in bowls in the windows.

Cole had the pallor of exhaustion about him, so she placed Sheriff Avenel next to her, lest tiredness led to incautious remarks. Symon was not good at dissembling when he was rested, and there was no knowing what might slip out when he was tired. Miles, clad in a fine yellow tunic, had contrived to sit on Cole’s left, so as to be close to Gwenllian as possible, and the feast had not been going long before she detected signs of trouble.

‘… uncivil manner,’ Cole was snapping, unusually curt. ‘Do it again and I will-’

‘Symon!’ she hissed in alarm. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

‘Miles made a comment about your kirtle,’ explained Cole shortly.

She smiled down at the dress in question, one that had been cut to show off her slender waist and lithe figure. ‘Yes. It is a new one.’

Cole shot it a disinterested glance. ‘Is it?’

‘Odo and Hilde complimented it, too,’ she went on. ‘And even Kediour said the colour becomes me. In fact, you are alone in remaining mute on the subject. Doubtless you would pay it more attention if it was the colour of your favourite horse.’

‘Yes, I would. He is piebald – large black and white patches. A kirtle in such a pattern would certainly command attention. Mine and everyone else’s.’

‘I had better have one made then.’

He laughed at the notion, his naturally sunny temper restored. When he turned back to Miles, she heard him begin a tale about the Crusade, which involved sufficient gore to keep the deputy’s horrified attention until the meal was over. However, when the music began, she felt Miles’s eyes on her again; drink had made him indiscreet in his ogling. She hastened to engage him in conversation, so he would at least have a reason for looking at her.

‘Tell us more about your underground stream,’ she said. The other guests pulled their attention away from the music to listen. Avenel and Fitzmartin were sneeringly sceptical, and Gwenllian hoped Miles’s theory was right, just to wipe the smiles off their faces.

‘As I said, it is beneath Mayor Rupe’s wood,’ replied Miles, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. ‘I shall survey it again in the next day or so, and then we shall sink a well. Our town will never lack fresh water again.’

‘That wood has always been boggy,’ said Kediour. ‘Yet I doubt it holds a stream, even so. The underlying rock is not the right type to support that sort of feature.’

‘Did you mention using hazel twigs?’ asked Gwenllian, before they could argue.

‘My mother swore by them,’ replied Miles, beaming lovingly at her.

‘So she was a witch,’ drawled Fitzmartin, exchanging a grin with his sheriff. ‘There is a sorceress’s whelp in a position of power at Carmarthen!’

‘She was a good lady,’ growled Cole, although he had never met her and aimed only to defend his castle from insults. ‘And I defy any man to-’

‘Your destrier seemed lame today, Symon,’ interrupted Kediour, earning a grateful look from Gwenllian. ‘It is the drought – it has rendered the roads unusually hard for hoofs.’

‘Lame?’ asked Cole in alarm. He loved his warhorse. ‘Are you sure?’

‘A knight oblivious to the needs of his mount,’ said Fitzmartin censoriously. ‘King John will be interested to hear that.’

‘Will he?’ asked Chaplain Philip, sober and serious in his dark habit. ‘I would have thought he had more urgent matters to consider as regards Carmarthen.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Miles testily.

Philip looked away. ‘The cattle thieves,’ he replied, although Gwenllian could tell he was lying, and it had been some other matter to which he had alluded. ‘His Majesty will be more concerned about them than the constable’s care of his animals.’

‘He will indeed,’ agreed Avenel slyly. ‘Especially when he hears that they are still at large after a hunt lasting three weeks.’

Gwenllian saw a glance pass between him and Philip. Had the chaplain been telling tales, encouraging Avenel to think badly of her husband? She would not put it past him. Philip was a malcontent, only happy when he was causing trouble. Then she became aware that she was not the only one who had seen the exchange. Malicious satisfaction flashed in Rupe’s eyes, and it occurred to her that he might have encouraged Philip’s treachery. The mayor would, after all, lose the next election because of Cole. What better revenge than to have him dismissed?

The evening was one of the longest and most awkward Gwenllian could ever remember spending. Tiredness rendered Cole unusually irritable, and his temper was not improved by the attention Miles kept paying her. Avenel and Fitzmartin were critical and argumentative, and Philip’s tongue wagged constantly. Gwenllian was grateful to Kediour, Odo and Hilde, who quelled many a burgeoning spat. Kediour flung priestly reproaches at anyone speaking intemperately, while Odo and Hilde kept up a flow of innocuous chatter to which no one could take exception.

‘Shall we have some more music?’ asked Odo, when even he had run out of bland conversation. ‘I do so love a long Welsh ballad.’

‘I would rather hear these monks tell us about their relic,’ countered Avenel.

As Gwenllian doubted that he, Fitzmartin or even Miles would stay silent during a lengthy song in a language none of them could understand, the Benedictines seemed the better option. She stood to fetch them, but Miles anticipated her.

‘Let me go,’ he said, ‘for you , my lady.’ He smirked rather challengingly at Cole, and if Gwenllian had not been holding Symon’s hand tightly under the table, she was sure he would have surged to his feet and dismissed Miles from his post on the spot. Then sides would have been taken, and who could say how such a quarrel would have ended?

The two monks were ushered in. They had smartened themselves up for their audience by washing and shaving, and their habits had been carefully brushed. They were still shabby, but at least they were clean. Reinfrid carried the little reliquary.

‘We are monks from Romsey Abbey,’ he began. ‘And our-’

‘Romsey is a house for nuns,’ interrupted Kediour, eyes narrowing.

‘Forgive me,’ said Reinfrid with a bow. ‘The sun has addled my wits. I meant Ramsey. We are monks from Ramsey Abbey, en route to Whitland, to deliver this sacred relic-’