The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘Has she?’ asked William sympathetically.

‘She was a nuisance when she was in Lythe, because pilgrims would insist on going there instead of here,’ the abbot continued waspishly. ‘And now she is here, the villagers accuse us of theft on a weekly basis. I have a good mind to send her packing.’

‘Really?’ asked William, regarding him intently. ‘Because if you are serious, I have a new monastery that is sadly bereft of relics. Beornwyn would make a big difference to us – perhaps even the difference between survival and ignominious dissolution.’

‘I wish you could take her,’ said Peter fervently. ‘But relations with Lythe would never recover if I were to dispatch their beloved saint to a place that none of them have heard of. I fear I am stuck with the wretched woman – and will be until the end of my days.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said William, settling more comfortably in front of the fire. ‘You are right in that you cannot give her away, but what if she were stolen? Lythe cannot blame you for that – it is how they lost her themselves.’

Peter laughed without humour. ‘I think they would guess what happened if Beornwyn suddenly appeared in the priory founded by my own brother!’

‘Would they?’ asked William seriously. ‘How? Broomhill and Lythe are many miles apart, and both are remote. How would your villagers find out?’

Peter stared at him. ‘Do you think it would work?’

‘Why not? Relics are always being filched by unscrupulous thieves, and this will be just one more instance of it.’

Peter considered the matter, but then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said with real regret. ‘It would make me no better than the young men I banished.’

‘It is not the same at all,’ argued William. ‘They took her for mischief, whereas you are trying to heal a rift that is damaging both the abbey and Lythe. Your monks gloat and the villagers hate them for it – such sentiments will see them all in Hell. Removing her will eliminate a source of discord and thus save their immortal souls.’

‘Well, if you put it like that…’

‘Good,’ said William briskly. ‘However, it will have to be done properly, so there can be no question of skulduggery on your part. Leave it to me, brother.’

He was as good as his word, and the following day, the monks reported with dismay that burglars had smashed a window in the chancel and made off with a number of relics, Beornwyn’s among them. A week later, most were found abandoned in a church in Scarborough, but Beornwyn was believed to have been tossed into the sea.

When William presented the relics to Broomhill, he told the new prior that he had bought them in France. No one ever questioned him, and the shrine thrived, especially after a wealthy Venetian merchant named Marco Giuliani was cured of deafness. Giuliani promptly made the abbey a handsome donation, then offered to double it if they would sell him one of Beornwyn’s fingers. The prior demurred, but William opened the reliquary one night and saw the hand lying on top, almost as if it were begging to be removed. Thus Giuliani had his relic, and the priory received funds for a beautiful new Lady Chapel.

But Lythe’s distress tore at Peter’s heart, and nothing he did relieved the ache of guilt every time he saw a villager kneeling at the altar where Beornwyn had rested. He lay awake at night wondering how he could make reparation, and then an idea came. He would write her story. He would set his best scribes to illuminate it, and he would present the finished manuscript to Lythe as an acknowledgement of the part Beornwyn had played in all their lives.

Filled with vigour, he snatched up his pen and began at once, transferring all he knew of her to parchment, and even inventing a few details, intended to make her sound more saintly. He wrote in the vernacular, thinking the villagers would prefer it to Latin. He laboured for days, watched wryly by his good friend Prior Richard, head of the Cluniacs in Bermondsey, who happened to be visiting.

Eventually, the manuscript was finished, and Abbot Peter summoned the villagers to receive his gift. They stared at it in bemusement, before informing him that it was very pretty, but not something that was much use in a place where no one could read.

‘Never mind,’ said Richard kindly, when they had gone. ‘God will appreciate what you have done, and that is the most important thing.’

‘Will He?’ asked Peter bitterly. ‘Then why do I feel as though Heaven is frowning on me? My headaches are worse than ever and I am very tired.’

Richard regarded him in concern, then became practical. ‘Beornwyn has caused you far too much trouble, and it is time for it to stop. We shall expunge all trace of her from your abbey, and the monks will be forbidden to speak her name. We shall use her shrine for other relics, and the people of Lythe will have to go elsewhere to petition her.’

Peter nodded wearily. ‘Very well. And I shall burn the manuscript.’

‘No, I shall take it to the library in Bermondsey,’ said Richard, loath to see such a beautiful thing reduced to ashes. ‘Then she will be truly gone, and you must forget her.’

‘Yes,’ said Peter, nodding. ‘I shall. It is for the best.’

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Then he started in alarm when something spiralled past his face to land on the table in front of him. It was a dead butterfly.

Historical Note

Nicholas Avenel was Sheriff of Pembroke in 1202, and he, along with William Fitzmartin, was accused of despoiling churches belonging to Gerald de Barri, Archdeacon of Brecon (more famously known as Gerald of Wales). They were also said to have harried parishioners by kidnapping them and holding them to ransom.

Symon Cole was Constable of Carmarthen in the 1190s, and Lord Rhys of Deheubarth had several daughters named Gwenllian.

In the last quarter of the twelfth century, one Adam de Rupe left provision for masses for his soul. He had a tenant named Gunbald, son of Ernebald. Witnesses to the deed included Philip de Barri and Odo of Carrau. A similar grant was made for the soul of Miles de Coggan.

There was an Augustinian priory in Carmarthen in 1200, but the name of its then prior is unknown, although Kediour is mentioned in deeds dating to the 1180s.

Finally, the first head of the Benedictine abbey at Whitby was Reinfrid, and Frossard was lord of the manor at Lythe. The abbot in 1200 was probably Peter, and Richard was Prior of Bermondsey from 1189 until about 1201.

It wasn’t my idea of paradise – a godforsaken lump of rock thrust up in a sea full of similar outcrops, where the population was outnumbered by the goats – but Katie loved it. As we got off the galley at Kamares, she looked up at the mountains that surrounded the harbour, and cried out with joy.

‘Oh, Grandpa, it’s beautiful… magical!’

I cringed at her calling me her grandfather, even though it was true. It made me feel old, though that was also true. You see, I gave up counting my years when I passed seventy. And I didn’t want to be reminded of the fact every time Katie opened her mouth. I pulled a face.

‘I told you to call me Nick.’

Katie frowned and tugged at the golden hair that cascaded down over her shoulders. It was a mixture of her grandmother’s ash-blond hair and my red locks. Though my hair was more salt and pepper now.

‘I’m sorry, Grand- Nick. But I haven’t known you all that long, and I love having a real grandfather.’

Maybe I should explain why she hasn’t known me all her life. My name is Niccolo Zuliani of Venice, though my friends call me Nick, a name my English mother gave me. And I have spent most of my life on the furthest edge of the world. The Mongol Empire of Kublai Khan had drawn me like a magnet from the earliest time I heard stories of its fabled wealth. I had travelled there and made some good friends, even becoming a high official at the Khan’s court. But I had always yearned for home, as all Venetians do. And finally I had returned to discover that my long-lost love, Caterina Dolfin – the lithe and sexy Cat of my younger days – was still alive and kicking, with a granddaughter called Katie Valier. It had turned out that the pretty girl, who now stood before me on the quay at Kamares, was my grandchild by the son I had never known. That son had been a seed that I had left spawning in Cat’s belly when I went to seek my fortune on the other side of the world. Now, having discovered my granddaughter, I was striving to make up for lost time. I sighed, knowing that I was already giving in to her every whim.