The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘Why should Benedictines give Cistercians a gift?’ Kediour interrupted again.

‘I am coming to that,’ said Reinfrid, a little curtly. ‘Our abbot had a dream in which Beornwyn appeared and said she wanted her hand taken to Whitland. Obviously, he was no more keen to lose a relic than you would be, but she appeared a second night, and a third, until he appointed Frossard and me to do as she commanded.’

‘I see,’ said Kediour, still full of suspicion. ‘And why you, pray?’

‘Because we are the youngest, strongest and best able to travel,’ replied Reinfrid, so glibly that Gwenllian suspected the question had been put before. ‘We care nothing for the rigours of the road.’ He indicated his tatty habit. ‘As you can see.’

‘Who is this Beornwyn?’ asked Cole. ‘I have never heard of her.’

‘A virgin princess murdered by sea-pirates,’ supplied Frossard. ‘She was a good lady, and she has left a trail of miracles in her wake as we have journeyed west.’

‘Sea-pirates?’ asked Cole, startled. ‘But Ramsey is nowhere near the coast.’

‘She was not murdered in Ramsey,’ said Reinfrid, exasperated. ‘It happened in Lythe, a small village near Whitby. Have you heard of Whitby?’

‘I have heard of its Benedictine abbey,’ said Cole warily.

‘A fine place, so we are told,’ said Frossard blandly. ‘Are you interested in petitioning Beornwyn for a miracle? Perhaps she led us here so she can help you. She has never failed us yet when we have petitioned her for mercy, and this town is clearly in need of good fortune.’

‘May I see it first?’ asked Cole. ‘I am familiar with holy relics, having inspected many in the Holy Land – and touched them, too.’

‘You handled sacred objects?’ asked Kediour, shocked. Fitzmartin stifled a laugh at the prior’s horror, although Avenel’s face was stern and unsmiling.

‘Do you anticipate being able to sense the sanctity of this hand, then?’ asked Rupe. The question was innocent, but Gwenllian knew it was intended to cause trouble for Cole.

‘No one will touch her,’ said Reinfrid firmly. ‘She is not for mauling by seculars. In fact, we never open her box. It would be impious to expose her to gawpers.’

‘Very wise,’ said Fitzmartin drolly. ‘We would not want Cole struck down for irreverent behaviour, would we? It might make a mess in this beautifully clean hall.’

Rupe sniggered, then tossed a coin on the table. ‘Here is a penny, and I will give you eleven more if Beornwyn brings us rain. A shilling is what you asked, is it not?’

Reinfrid grabbed it quickly. ‘It is not for us, you understand. It is for Beornwyn – to continue her good works, and allow others to benefit from her munificence.’

He scowled when Fitzmartin roared with mocking laughter, then he and Frossard kneeled with as much dignity as they could muster to begin their prayers. Kediour stood abruptly.

‘No,’ he said coldly. ‘This is sacrilege. You are imposters, and your saint is not one recognised by the Church.’

Reinfrid regarded him balefully. ‘Yes, she is. She-’

‘Take your so-called reliquary and leave,’ ordered Kediour angrily. ‘No one will pay homage to your purported saint, and we certainly do not want “miracles” that we are obliged to pay for. Real saints give them freely. There will be no more touting for business in Carmarthen. Do I make myself clear?’

His voice was so loud and authoritative that the two monks scrambled quickly to their feet, and even Fitzmartin’s derisive guffaws died away. After a brief and rather tense silence, Cole announced that it was time for everyone to retire.

‘Go to the kitchen,’ he said kindly to the monks, seeing them look hungrily at the remains of the feast. ‘The cook will feed you. You may sleep there, too, if you wish.’

‘It is more than they deserve,’ grumbled Kediour, watching the two lads hurry away. ‘They are scoundrels, aiming to take advantage of the gullible, and their relic is a fake.’

The guests dispersed, stretching and yawning, all complaining about the sultry heat of the night. Cole escorted Kediour to his priory – he always did after dark, despite Kediour’s assurance that an ex-Hospitaller was perfectly capable of looking after himself. It was some time before he returned to the castle.

‘The weather must be preventing people from sleeping,’ he reported, sitting wearily on the bed. ‘I must have met half of Carmarthen when I was out.’

‘Who?’ Most of Gwenllian’s attention was on little Meurig, who was shifting uncomfortably in his sleep, face flushed from the warmth of the room.

Cole listed a number of friends and acquaintances he had seen on his way to the priory, which lay on the northern outskirts of the town; he and Kediour had been obliged to stop and exchange pleasantries with them all. Then he came to those he had encountered on his way home, when he had been alone.

‘Odo and Hilde were near the priory gate as I came out. They claimed they were going to walk to Merlin’s Hill, to watch the stars from the top of it.’

‘Then they were,’ said Gwenllian sharply, not liking the scepticism in his voice. ‘Odo is interested in astronomy, and he sleeps badly because of his sore back. They often rise in the night to study the heavens together.’

‘Then I met Avenel and Fitzmartin, who said they were going to the Eagle tavern – the one out past the priory. Your cousin Philip was not far behind, and he told me he was following them to ensure they caused no mischief. I did not believe him.’

Nor did Gwenllian, and she wondered whether the chaplain had been going to tell the sheriff more gossip about Cole, his castle and his family. If so, the town’s most remote alehouse was a good place to do it.

Cole continued, ‘But the oddest thing was Rupe, with his henchmen and those two monks. They were in his wood. I saw a lamp there, you see, and went to investigate. All five were praying to Beornwyn. I suppose I should have stopped them, after what Kediour said, but I do not see what harm it can do. I left them to it.’

‘Good,’ said Gwenllian, not liking to imagine Rupe’s reaction to being told where he could pray. His righteous indignation would have known no bounds.

‘And finally there was Deputy Miles,’ said Cole, disapproval thick in his voice. ‘He hid behind a tree when he saw me coming, so I rousted him out like a rat.’

‘You did not fight him, did you?’ asked Gwenllian in alarm.

‘I merely asked why he was not out on patrol, guarding our cattle as I had ordered. He said he was going to survey the coppice for that underground stream.’

‘At night?’ queried Gwenllian.

‘I asked the same thing: he said he prefers to work without an audience. I told him to forget wild theories and concentrate on the thieves, but I doubt he will oblige. He wants to impress you with an endless supply of water. The wretched man is head over heels in love with my wife, and I was the last one to know it.’

Later that night there was a colossal clap of thunder, so loud that Cole was not the only one who thought the castle was under attack from war machines. He and Gwenllian stood at the window, watching lightning illuminate the entire countryside in almost continuous flashes.

‘Is this Beornwyn’s doing?’ asked Cole in an awed voice, as the first drops of rain began to fall. ‘Rupe paid for a miracle, and here it is?’

‘Of course not,’ said Gwenllian, although she was less sure than she sounded. ‘It is just a coincidence.’

Then all conversation was impossible as the heavens opened, and the rain pounded down with such force that she feared the roof might cave in. The deluge stopped as quickly as it had started, and all that could be heard was water splattering from overtaxed gutters.