The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘It is not sacred,’ said Kediour impatiently. ‘Water often oozes from odd places after a violent storm, especially after weeks of drought. It will run dry in a day or two.’

‘It will not,’ stated Rupe loftily. ‘I paid Beornwyn for a miracle and she gave me one. This wood belongs to me, and I shall build a chapel here to protect her spring, and to accommodate the pilgrims who will come. No one will block it with rocks.’

There was a determined jut to his chin, and next to him, his henchmen Gunbald and Ernebald gripped cudgels, obviously eager to use them on anyone inclined to argue. Cole’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword and he drew breath to speak, but Gwenllian stopped him.

‘Let them be,’ she whispered. ‘As Kediour says, the spring will soon run dry. It is not worth a quarrel.’

‘No,’ cried Kediour, overhearing. ‘I will not permit it. Not so close to my priory. It would be blasphemous!’

‘It is the will of God,’ said Rupe gloatingly. ‘You cannot stop it and neither can Cole. The land is mine, and so is the spring. If you interfere, I shall complain to the King.’

‘And the King will support you,’ said Sheriff Avenel. ‘He will say that a man has a right to use his own woods as he pleases. Especially when a percentage of the takings are sent to the royal coffers as an expression of fealty.’

Rupe scowled, but nodded reluctant agreement. Kediour also knew when he was beaten, although his face was black with anger as he stalked away.

‘Well, I am pleased there will be a shrine,’ said Odo, while Hilde nodded at his side. ‘If any town deserves a miracle, it is Carmarthen. I am delighted with Beornwyn’s favour.’

‘The King’s coffers will be, too,’ smirked Fitzmartin.

‘We need to catch Miles’s killer quickly,’ said Gwenllian to Cole, as they walked after the bier a little later. ‘Too many people know you disliked his unseemly ogling, and Rupe will relish the opportunity to hurt you with malicious lies. We must find the real culprit.’

‘Miles did annoy me last night,’ admitted Cole. ‘However, he was garrotted, and I am not a man to sneak up behind rivals and strangle them.’

‘That will not stop Rupe and his henchmen from saying so, and Avenel and Fitzmartin will delight in carrying such a tale to the King. So might Cousin Philip, who is remarkably treacherous for a kinsman. You saw all six and those two monks on that road last night – one might be the villain, and may accuse you to draw attention away from himself.’

‘So how do we catch him?’ asked Cole, touchingly confident that she would know.

‘You examined Miles’s body.’ As a warrior, used to violent death, he was well qualified for such a task. ‘Were you able to deduce anything from it?’

‘Only that he was choked with something hard – not rope, which would have left fibres. And he was cold, so I imagine he died last night rather than this morning. However, it is impossible to be certain of such things. In the Holy Land, there was once a corpse-’

‘What about the place where Miles died?’ interrupted Gwenllian. Few of Symon’s tales from the Crusade made for pleasant listening. ‘Or was it too thoroughly trampled?’

‘We would not have found footprints anyway – the ground is too hard.’

Gwenllian nodded. ‘So all we have is what you saw last night: Miles walking alone to the coppice to look for water, ignoring your order to hunt for cattle thieves. And six suspects out here with an opportunity to kill him. Eight, if we include those two monks.’

‘I saw Odo and Hilde, too,’ Cole reminded her.

‘Odo and Hilde are not killers.’

Cole sighed. ‘Well, the culprit is obvious to me. Rupe did not want Miles telling everyone that the water was under his wood all along – and thus not holy – so he murdered him.’

‘It is certainly a possibility,’ agreed Gwenllian. ‘Although it would mean that he did it after the storm, and only pretended to be surprised by the discovery of the spring today.’

‘I would not put it past him,’ said Cole. ‘Do not forget his corrupt activities as mayor. He is more skilled at lies and deception than anyone I have ever known.’

They delivered Miles to the chapel, where Cole ordered Philip to keep vigil until the deputy was buried the following morning. The little chaplain was not amused.

‘But so much is happening! The discovery of a sacred spring, talk of a holy storm. I will miss it all if I am stuck in here with a corpse. And I wanted to talk to the sheriff about…’

‘About what?’ asked Gwenllian coolly, as he trailed off guiltily.

‘About Sir Symon’s hunt for the cattle thieves,’ said Philip with a sickly and unconvincing smile. ‘How hard he has tried to lay hold of them with patrols and traps.’

‘Right,’ said Gwenllian flatly. ‘You can do it tomorrow, when I am there to hear you. Until then, you can say Masses for poor Miles.’

‘Poor Miles indeed,’ muttered Philip. ‘He did not deserve such a terrible death.’

‘No one ever does,’ said Cole grimly. ‘But since we are discussing him, tell me where you went last night.’

‘I was here,’ said the chaplain. ‘Praying for rain.’

Cole regarded him askance. ‘Was it your twin I saw trailing after Avenel then?’

Philip looked away. ‘Oh, yes. I forgot. The sheriff wanted me to write him a letter, so I went to the Eagle to oblige. It was afterwards that I prayed for rain.’

‘What manner of letter?’ asked Gwenllian, not bothering to point out that it was an odd time for clerkly activities. Most people preferred to do it in daylight, when they could see.

Philip became haughty. ‘A confidential letter to the King. More than that I cannot say.’

Gwenllian nodded calmly, but she was alarmed. What had the spiteful chaplain and the sheriff written together at such a peculiar hour?

‘Did you see Miles?’ asked Cole.

‘No, and I assumed he was out patrolling for cattle rustlers, as you had ordered. I was as surprised as anyone to hear he was discovered in the wood.’

Leaving Philip to his vigil, Gwenllian suggested that she and Cole revisit the scene of the murder to resume their hunt for clues. They walked through the town slowly, enervated by the heat, and arrived at the wood to find the little clearing thronged with people. Avenel and Fitzmartin were standing to one side, watching, while Rupe and his henchmen had filled a barrel with water from the spring, and were selling it in bowls. The two Benedictines were giving an impromptu sermon, and Gwenllian was dismayed to see Odo and Hilde among the eager listeners. Kediour was there, too, tight-lipped with disapproval.

‘It is just as I feared,’ he said, coming to speak to her and Cole. ‘The rain did more harm than good, yet those monks – if they are monks – bask in their role as saviours.’

‘They certainly wasted no time in buying themselves new sandals with the money intended for Beornwyn,’ remarked Gwenllian. ‘And they reek of ale.’

Kediour was obviously distressed. ‘Desperate people are easily led, and there is something of the Devil in this cult of theirs. I fear for people’s souls.’

‘I fear for their purses,’ said Cole. ‘If the monks do not empty them, Rupe will. I thought exposing his corruption would make him mend his ways, but he is just as greedy and unscrupulous as ever.’

Gwenllian watched the mayor, who was proclaiming that last night’s deluge was just the beginning of the favour Beornwyn would show him. While Kediour strode forward to inform the crowd that the Church did not recognise this particular saint, Cole drew the mayor aside. Rupe’s henchmen followed, and Gwenllian did not like the way that Gunbald pulled a dagger from his belt and looked as though he would very much like to use it. She beckoned to the two monks over, too, hoping the presence of monastic habits would forestall any violence.