The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘I told him I had heard of St Beornwyn and the tale of her saintly devotion to keeping her virginity. He blushed a little, but explained more of the saint’s history to me.’

It appeared that Beornwyn had been betrothed to a local lord in the north called Aethelbald, or some such barbaric name. Beornwyn, however, though being the daughter of another lord and therefore always likely to be married off for dynastic purposes, wished to dedicate her life to Christ. There was a belief that as long as she remained a virgin, the pagan invaders would not devastate her father’s lands. Refusing Aethelbald, she maintained a nightly vigil at a remote chapel. Hearing this, I snorted in derision.

‘It sounds like she had a younger lover and her vigils covered some sort of assignation with him. She didn’t want to give him up for some old baron.’

Katie pouted. ‘Grandpa, you are so coarse. The story is beautiful. Anyway, finally the invaders did come, and they murdered Beornwyn when she refused to give up her vigil. They even flayed the skin from her body and hung it on the chapel altar. And that is why she is the saint of virgins, and people with skin diseases.’

‘Hmm. And the relic?’

‘When he had finished his story, Brother Hugh produced this small gilded box from his sleeve. He opened it and inside, laid on red velvet, were the bones of St Beornwyn’s finger held together with gold wire.’

I pulled a face.

‘I have always thought there was something gruesome about holy bones. I mean, how is a saint to be clothed in flesh again at the Resurrection, if his body is scattered all over the Christian world?’

Katie’s laughter was like a tinkling silver bell. Unfortunately, at that very moment, Speranza Soranzo emerged from the great hall into the sunlight. Maybe it was our levity that caused her to screw up her face, or maybe it was the brightness of the sun. Whatever it was, she stormed past us and out the archway. And there went my chance of questioning her about Querini and the cult of virginity. I wearily pushed myself to my feet, my knees protesting at the effort. Katie almost put out a hand to assist me, but seeing my glare, stopped herself. I would be fooling myself if I thought that I still had the physique to give her a run for her money. She would soon outstrip me. However, my mind had not dulled yet, and it occurred to me that she could be my eyes and ears with Domina Speranza Soranzo. But I would leave that until later.

‘Come. Let’s take a look at Niccolo Querini before anyone prepares him for his funeral. They could wash away a lot of evidence.’

The interior of the great chamber was suitably sombre with no candles lit. The small slit windows let in little light as well as keeping the hall cool in high summer. Someone, presumably Speranza herself, had lighted a solitary candle inside the chapel, which was located at Querini’s head. I was glad of it, for it would give me some light for the next task. As we got closer to the body, I saw that she had also placed her husband’s hands in a prayerful pose on his chest. I moved them apart, examining the hands closely.

‘What are you looking for?’

Katie’s question was a good one. I wanted to see if there had been a struggle.

‘A man may have traces of blood on his hands, if he was in the act of defending himself when he died. I see nothing here, though.’

I placed his hands at his side, and proceeded to pull up his eyelids, peering into his eyes. Katie was full of curiosity.

‘I thought it was nonsense to imagine that the image of the murderer was left fixed on the victim’s eyes. Is it then true?’

I smiled at her misunderstanding of my actions.

‘You are right to think it ridiculous. And in response to your enquiry, I was looking to see if the eyeballs were spotted with blood in any way. Masudi al-Din told me that if a person were strangled or smothered, blood vessels in the eyes would be burst. Again nothing.’

I gazed at the torso of Querini, stroking my hands over his chest.

‘Ah, here is something odd.’

‘What?’

Katie leaned forward eagerly. I smoothed out the outer jacket, which was laced up the front over his undershirt, and pulled the opening a little wider. There was a patch of blood on the dark red shirt that had not been noticeable before. And I could see a small hole in the shirt, which I could just poke my finger in. Not caring about the evidence I was now destroying – for who but I cared about it? – I ripped open the hole and revealed a similar hole in Querini’s chest. Swallowing the bitter taste of vomit rising in my throat, I poked my finger in the hole. It ran deep, probably as far as his heart. The wound made a sucking noise as I withdrew my finger. Katie was fascinated, quite unmoved by the presence of blood and violent death.

‘Is this how he was killed? Stabbed to death? Such a small wound and so little blood.’

‘I have seen this before, though. A thrust to the heart with a slim bassillard can kill as effectively as chopping a man to pieces with a sword. And the blood can stay inside the body because the puncture in the skin is so small. You heard how it sucked closed after I pulled my finger out.’

Katie stared at me, her eyes big with an excitement that I suddenly regretted exposing her to. She whispered the word that was in my head.

‘Murder for certain, then.’

I nodded, and added the inevitable question.

‘But who did it?’

The following morning I had my first intimation of what might have happened. Katie had already left for Mongou monastery in the hope of speaking again to both Brother Hugh and Domina Speranza. We had spoken briefly about what information she should gather. Ostensibly, her task was to discover more about the cult of St Beornwyn, and Speranza’s adherence to it. But if in the process she learned more about Querini and his life on Sifnos, then that too would be very useful.

All I knew about him was that he had no obvious income other than his wife’s money, but was living the life of a lord with a heavy drinking habit. It was Antonio, the manservant, who began to explain that conundrum. I requested his presence soon after I had finished my breakfast. I found the heat of midday intolerable, causing my brain to boil and prevent concise thought. Mornings and evenings had become the time on Sifnos for me to apply myself, leaving the middle of the day to eat and rest. A timid tapping on the door alerted me to the arrival of Antonio. I called him in, and observed him closely for the first time. He was a dark-complexioned man with thick black hair, more like a Saracen than a Venetian, and it confirmed that he must be a local man. The Greeks were closely intertwined in physique to the Turks who ruled them, though they were loath to admit it.

‘Is your name really Antonio?’

The man blushed, and shook his head. ‘That is what my master called me. He liked to imagine he was still in Venice, I think. My real name is Antonis.’

‘Antonis, I want to ask you about your master, and why he should have been on the strand in the first place. It is pretty much out of his way if he was coming back here from Kamares harbour. Even drunk, he would know his way home.’

Antonis dropped his gaze to the floor, examining his sandals quite extensively. I had obviously hit a nerve, and needed him to explain. I waited only a moment, then bellowed in the most intimidating way I could muster.

‘Come, man. Tell me what you know, or by the will of the Doge, it shall go ill for you.’

The cowed servant looked over his shoulder, as if fearing that Querini would rise from the altar and stop his words with a ghostly hand.

‘Master, please tell no one or they will surely kill me too.’

This was getting interesting.