The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘Stand up, Sheriff,’ said Kediour abruptly. ‘And drag Fitzmartin and Symon to the altar. There is wood enough for a fire, I think.’

‘A fire?’ asked Gwenllian in alarm. She straightened quickly, her hand dripping with thick brown muck.

‘I shall follow the example set by those false monks, whose wickedness began this miserable affair. They started a blaze to conceal what they had done, and so shall I.’

‘Why should I?’ asked Avenel, although he scrambled upright. ‘You will kill me anyway.’

‘Because there are many ways to die,’ said Kediour softly. ‘Quickly with a crossbow bolt, or slowly in an inferno. The choice is yours.’

Avenel moved towards Fitzmartin, regarded him sadly for a moment, and then grabbed his legs. ‘None of your victims were good men,’ he said quietly. ‘Miles lusted after the constable’s wife, Rupe was a thief, Reinfrid and Frossard lived by deceit, and Fitzmartin did some terrible things. But Gwenllian is innocent. Let her go.’

‘I wish I could,’ said Kediour sadly. ‘But no one can know what I have done. They will not understand, and might turn against my priory. Now pull Symon to the altar and let us end this miserable business. I have no wish to prolong the agony.’

Avenel bent, and in one smooth move had snatched the knife Cole passed him and lobbed it at the prior. Unfortunately, his aim was poor and it passed harmlessly over Kediour’s head. The prior’s eyes blazed with fury, and the crossbow started to come up. Gwenllian knew it would not miss. More out of desperation than rational thought, she flung the grainy sludge that clung to her fingers at him.

Her aim could not have been better, and the crossbow discharged harmlessly into a wall as mud flew into Kediour’s eyes. Avenel lunged towards him, and there followed a furious tussle. Gwenllian tried to pull Symon to his feet, but he was heavy, and she could not do it. Then Avenel knocked Kediour into a row of candles, all of which went flying. They caught the tinder-dry wood of the walls, and she saw the prior was going to have his fire after all.

The flames took hold quickly, and a shower of sparks sprayed across Kediour’s habit. The wool began to smoulder, then it ignited. Kediour tried to bat out the blaze with his hands.

‘Help him,’ gasped Cole, when Avenel came to haul him to his feet. ‘Do not let him die in here.’

Avenel ignored him, but once they were outside there was no question of anyone going back. The entire chapel was ablaze, sending orange flames leaping high into the night sky.

‘You asked me to keep the truth about Rupe’s evil deeds from the King,’ said Avenel softly. ‘Well, let us do the same for this misguided prior. We shall invent a passing outlaw to take the blame for these murders, and we shall say Kediour died trying to save the chapel.’

The fire burned itself out quickly, and by the time the townsfolk came hurrying to see what was happening, there was nothing left but smouldering planks. Kediour’s body was retrieved and carried back to a priory that would genuinely miss him, and Avenel took the opportunity afforded by the canons’ stunned distress to reclaim Beornwyn’s hand with none of them any the wiser. He offered to return it to Whitby, and left the next morning. By the evening of the same day it had started to rain.

The land recovered quickly once the weather reverted to the cool, wet, grey days its people knew and loved. The river ran full and fat, trees and hedgerows regained their colour, farmers reported that some of the harvest might be saved, and livestock began to fatten.

‘Miles was mistaken,’ said Gwenllian one evening. Cole’s wound was taking too long to heal, and she was concerned by his continued pallor. ‘There is no underground stream in Rupe’s wood, and the water that bubbled from the ground was just a result of that unusual storm. There is a lot of water around now, yet there is no sign of it.’

‘Good,’ said Cole. ‘I am sure shrines are good things, generally speaking, but they do bring out the worst in people. In the Holy Land…’ He trailed off when she shot him a warning glance. ‘Well, suffice to say they are not always sites of peace and serenity.’

‘We were wrong about Avenel,’ said Gwenllian. ‘He had nothing to do with despoiling churches or holding people to ransom – that was all Fitzmartin.’

‘And Cousin Philip found the truth,’ added Cole. ‘Odo said we were lucky to have him as a chaplain, and he was right. I do not know why we had to send him to Brecon.’

‘He deserved a promotion after all he did,’ said Gwenllian. Then she grimaced. ‘He might have been on the right side in the end, but he is still a very slippery character, and I was glad to see him go. Much of what he discovered was with the help of Odo and Hilde, yet he never acknowledged the role they played. He kept the credit for himself.’

Cole smiled his understanding. ‘So that is what they were doing with their muttered discussions and secret glances! But why did they go to Merlin’s Hill on the night of the fire?’

‘To talk without being overheard. It was a sensible precaution. Fitzmartin had intimidated a number of people into spying for him. He would have killed them if he had found out what they had discovered and were passing to Avenel.’

‘Avenel was horrified by their revelations. He is a decent man. Incidentally, I advised him to hide his goodness when he visits the King. John does not want honourable, intelligent men in his service.’

‘No,’ agreed Gwenllian, ‘although it was unwise of you to say so. However, I trust Avenel to be diplomatic. He might even persuade the King to leave us alone.’

‘It was good of him to take Beornwyn’s hand to Whitby,’ said Cole, more gloomily than was his wont. ‘It might be some time before I would have been able to do it.’

‘It would indeed,’ she said with mock indignation. ‘You have been gone far too much of late, and I intend to keep you here with me for several months at least.’ Then she became serious. ‘Yet I am glad Beornwyn has gone. She did no good here.’

‘Perhaps she objected to her limbs being toted around the country and exploited by unscrupulous men. When I am well, I shall light a candle for her in the church. She was a real person, whether a saint or not, and does not deserve to be treated so.’

Gwenllian made no reply, and they sat in companionable silence, listening to rain patter in the bailey below and the other familiar sounds of castle life – the clatter of pans from the kitchens, the rumble of soldiers’ voices from the barracks and the contented cluck of hens scratching in the mud. Then a butterfly flitted through the window, dancing haphazardly until it landed on Cole. He let it stay, studying its pretty blue markings and the way it flexed its wings. Then it took to the air again and was gone.

‘I hope that was not the same one that danced over the wound in Miles’s neck,’ said Gwenllian in distaste. ‘Or kin to the dead one I saw on Rupe’s conical hat.’

Cole laughed, the first time he had done so since the fire. ‘I would not think so. But do you know, Gwen, I am feeling much better. Perhaps we can light Beornwyn’s candle tomorrow.’

Whitby, Winter 1200

Abbot Peter was appalled when Sheriff Avenel brought him the sorry tale of Reinfrid and Frossard. The hand’s theft had been noticed, of course, and had caused even further friction between Lythe and the abbey. Now, a year after the original affair, Peter had had more than enough of Beornwyn and everything connected to her.

‘She has been a bane to me ever since I came here,’ he said irritably to his brother, William. He rubbed his temples. His headaches had grown worse since the trouble, although the medicine William had brought would ease them. He had somehow mislaid the last box, and had had to manage twelve months without it. William had been too busy to bring a replacement batch sooner, because he had been busy founding his own priory. It was to be near their family home at Broomhill in the Malvern Hills.