The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘Did you see Miles here last night, Rupe?’ Cole was asking.

‘No,’ replied Rupe shortly, while the henchmen and the monks indicated with shaken heads that they had not either. ‘We were too intent on our prayers.’

‘He believed he had discovered an underground stream beneath this wood,’ pressed Cole. ‘Which means your spring is not sacred, but was here all the time.’

‘He was a fool with his hazel twigs and silly theories,’ spat Rupe. ‘And I would have told him so had I caught him poking around on my land. However, we did not see him.’

‘Perhaps Beornwyn struck him down,’ suggested Frossard. ‘She disliked what he was doing, so she took a killer to him. There was a butterfly on him, after all.’

‘Is she a spiteful kind of saint then?’ asked Cole.

‘No,’ said Reinfrid, shooting his companion a cautionary glance. ‘Yet it is strange that he should die next to her spring – the very thing he might have denied was miraculous.’

Gwenllian questioned all five closely for some time, but was unable to catch any of them in an inconsistency, and while she did not believe that this was indicative of innocence, it did mean that she was wasting her time. When she and Cole took their leave, Rupe was smug, the monks relieved, and the henchmen disappointed, as if they had hoped the encounter would end in the opportunity to stab someone.

As there were so many familiar faces in the crowd, it was a good opportunity to ask whether anyone else had seen Miles the previous night. One or two folk had spotted him near the castle, but no one admitted to seeing him near the wood. Cole, it seemed, was the last man to see him alive. Other than the killer. After a while, Rupe made an announcement.

‘We should show Beornwyn our appreciation for her miraculous gift. I have bought nails for the chapel that will cover her spring, but who will provide timber for the walls and tiles for roof? Who will build an altar, and purchase candles, crosses and flowers?’

‘Whoever does will be blessed,’ added Ernebald, and Gwenllian could tell he had been told what to say by his master. ‘Gunbald and I will give a door – you can see it over there.’

‘The moment we decided to make the donation, there was a miracle,’ added Gunbald, all pious gratitude. ‘Our cow, which has been dry all summer, gave us milk today.’

People hastened to pledge materials and labour, and it was with astonishment that Gwenllian saw a building begin to fly up in front of her eyes. Cole muttered something about the cow benefiting from drinking her fill of rainwater, but no one listened. Avenel and Fitzmartin watched it all, their expressions disdainful.

‘We should speak to them,’ whispered Gwenllian to Cole. ‘It will distract them from our people’s foolish gullibility, if nothing else.’

She began by asking whether Cousin Philip’s scribing skills had been satisfactory in the Eagle the previous night, maliciously adding that his writing was notoriously poor. Avenel exchanged a bemused glance with Fitzmartin.

‘We never asked Philip to write anything,’ said Fitzmartin. ‘Why would we? I can write myself – an unusual skill for a knight, I admit, but one that is useful even so.’

‘Did he meet you in the Eagle?’ pressed Gwenllian.

‘Yes.’ Avenel shrugged. ‘He has taken to following us around. It is a nuisance, but he wants what is best for Carmarthen. Indeed, he is rather fanatical about his hopes for the place.’

Gwenllian declined to ask what he meant, reluctant to acknowledge that she did not know her cousin as well as she had thought. ‘Did you see or hear anything that might allow us to catch the killer?’

‘No,’ replied Avenel. ‘We did not stay out long, and were back in the castle hours before the storm struck. You may confirm this with your guards. They saw us.’

They walked away, leaving Gwenllian thinking they might well have dispatched the deputy on their way home. They certainly could not prove otherwise. She glanced up as Odo approached, Hilde at his side.

‘I heard what the sheriff told you, and it is the truth,’ Odo said. ‘We were studying the stars last night, and we saw him and his friend. They did not stay long in the Eagle, perhaps because the heat had spoiled the ale.’

‘Then did you spot anything that might help us find Miles’s killer?’ asked Gwenllian.

Odo shook his head apologetically. ‘My attention was on the heavens, I am afraid. I saw the storm come in, though, like a herd of horses. It was a magnificent sight, and we are indeed blessed by Beornwyn. I spent the rest of the night praying to her.’

‘We both did,’ asserted Hilde. ‘We feel privileged to have witnessed her celestial power, and to prove our devotion to her, we shall pay for the altar in her new chapel.’

She smiled dreamily, then hurried to rejoin the builders. Odo was not long in following. Gwenllian watched, aware that there was more hammering and sawing around the shrine than there was at the new tower in the castle.

‘I know they are your friends, but I think it is odd that they spend hours staring at the sky,’ said Cole, also observing them thoughtfully.

‘They are good people,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘They would never commit murder. They are too devout, and would fear for their immortal souls.’

‘Not if they believe they were carrying out Beornwyn’s wishes,’ persisted Cole, then turned away to watch Rupe and his henchmen sanding the door. Gwenllian’s inclination was to ignore the remark, but then it occurred to her that Odo and Hilde did seem particularly taken by the saint and her so-called miracle, and they had been out all night with no alibi but each other. Then she shook herself. How could she question such dear friends?

Hot and dispirited, Gwenllian stepped into the shade of the trees to think. Her attention was immediately taken by Kediour, who had approached the two monks and was addressing them in a ringing voice.

‘Show us this hand you claim to have. You declined to do it last night, but now we have been “blessed” by this miracle, we must have earned the right to see the thing.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Rupe eagerly. ‘And then we shall dip it in the spring to make doubly sure of its holiness.’

He dropped to his knees and put his hands together in an attitude of prayerful expectation. The folk labouring on the shrine did likewise, and silence descended on the clearing, broken only by a faint breeze rustling through the trees. Reinfrid gave a strained smile as he picked up the little reliquary and handed it to Kediour.

‘We are not worthy to attempt such a thing, so perhaps you will oblige, Father.’

He stepped away, head bowed, leaving Kediour grimacing his annoyance. The prior tried to open the box, but something was wrong with the lock. After several moments of futile fiddling, he thrust it at Cole.

‘It is broken,’ Cole said, peering carefully at it. ‘Someone has tried to force it.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Frossard. ‘Perhaps poor Beornwyn just wants to be left in peace.’

All eyes were on Cole as he took a dagger to the lock. It clicked open after a moment, and the lid sprang up.

‘There is nothing here except a piece of folded material,’ he said, upending the box and shaking it with more vigour than was appropriate for a reliquary, even an empty one.

‘There! What did I tell you?’ said Kediour in satisfaction. ‘There is no hand, and this pair are frauds.’

‘No!’ Horrified, Frossard snatched the box to look for himself. ‘The hand is stolen! What shall we tell Whitby?’

‘Surely you mean Whitland?’ said Kediour, watching him closely. ‘That is where you claimed you were heading yesterday.’

‘He said Whitland,’ said Reinfrid. ‘You misheard. But how could this have happened? Beornwyn granted Carmarthen a miracle and look at how she is repaid – her relic stolen and a murder at her spring! What kind of town is this?’