The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

I smiled broadly, and tried, albeit half-heartedly, to extract myself from her embrace.

‘You can let go of me now. And I am sorry I didn’t come last night. I didn’t get back until late myself, and assumed you were already abed. It was only this morning that I knew otherwise.’

She finally pulled away, much to my regret. I was glad of her warmth, as I had feared deep down that I might have next seen her cold and dead. If this was what it was to have family and blood relatives, it was not entirely pleasant. I shook the bad thoughts from my brain, and asked her what all the fuss was about.

‘I have not seen the black crows so agitated.’

‘Nor I. They are usually hidden away in their cells. Women are not something they like to feast their eyes on in such holy surroundings, I am told. But I can tell you why the monks are so excited.’

Her eyes gleamed with a burning desire to tell me what she had discovered yesterday, and the reason why she had been unable to return last night. But she restrained her natural exuberance in the desire to lay out her facts cogently.

‘I must tell you the story in sequence, so that you understand how it came about.’

She dragged me over to a stone bench that was in the shade created by the walls of the church. As she spoke, her tale was embellished by the hypnotic chanting of the monks inside.

‘When I arrived yesterday morning, I couldn’t get in to see Speranza because the door to her cell was locked. From the inside. Brother Hugh was already at the door trying to talk to her, but she wasn’t answering.’

Katie explained to me that Hugh expressed a worry that something might have happened to Speranza. But on putting her ear to the door, Katie heard sounds from within. It was a low mumbling and the rustle of a linen dress. She reckoned that Speranza was alive and talking to herself. Assuming she was in no immediate danger, she convinced Hugh to leave his benefactor alone for a while. She brought him to the very bench we were now sitting on, and asked him why he thought Speranza had done this.

She looked at me. ‘He said that since her husband’s death, she had been distant and uncommunicative. He had been concerned for her sanity.’

I snorted. ‘More concerned that his meal ticket was slipping away from him.’

‘Perhaps. He did seem to be showing real concern, but I can’t fathom his true feelings. What Grandma told me about him left me with an impression he was a fraud and a charlatan. And it’s true, he did seem more worried about the disappearance of the relic than for Speranza.’

‘The relic has gone?’

‘Yes.’

Apparently, Hugh had placed the saint’s finger on the altar, where Speranza liked to pray, that morning. And when he returned, both the domina and the relic were nowhere to be found. He at first suspected the monks because they had expressed admiration of the relic when he had first shown it to them. And he didn’t think Speranza would have taken it, as she had always left it for Hugh to collect after her prayers. But now that she had locked herself in her cell, he was beginning to suspect otherwise. Katie had asked him if it truly was the finger of St Beornwyn.

‘Oh, yes. Her hands were once brought to Carmarthen by clerics from Whitby. She had lived her mortal life nearby in Lythe. What we know of her comes from the very lips of her constant companion, Mildryth. She was St Beornwyn’s maid in life, and cared for her. After her mistress’s death, Mildryth became the virgin saint’s guardian and protector. Many pilgrims went to her to kiss her hand, for if you touch the hand of the person who touched the saint, then her blessings will flow to you. Mildryth herself told the story of her virgin mistress many times. As for the relic, I wasn’t born when the saint’s hands were in Carmarthen, but I traced them to Broomhill Priory. It was there I learned that a Venetian merchant had obtained one of the fingers. I have to admit to my shame that I coveted a relic of St Beornwyn, so I followed the trail to Venice…’

Katie then told me that Hugh failed to get any further because at that moment a piercing scream came from the direction of Speranza’s cell. He and Katie leaped up and ran across the courtyard. Her door was now ajar, and Katie, arriving ahead of the monk, pulled it open.

Katie stopped her story for a moment and stared at me wide-eyed.

‘Oh, Grandpa Nick, you should have seen the blood.’

‘Blood?’

I was chilled by Katie’s revelation. Was Speranza dead too, and the monks’ chanting a Mass for her? Katie grasped my hands tightly with hers.

‘She stood in the centre of the room with her arms out-stretched, making the shape of Christ on the cross. And her hands – her palms were oozing blood.’

Katie’s eyes were wide open, as if she had witnessed some miracle.

‘You mean that she was marked with…?’

‘Stigmata, yes.’

No wonder the monks were singing. They had a genuine miracle taking place in their own obscure monastery, which could be very lucrative for them. Of course, you would have to put me in the category of sceptic when it came to miracles. Like Doubting Thomas, I needed to see this for myself.

‘Come, show me.’ I could not keep the irony out of my voice. ‘Is the domina approachable by the mere mundane?’

‘Oh, yes. She has calmed down now, and even let me bind her wounds yesterday. She slept last night, but I have not checked on her this morning yet. We can go and see how she is, if you like.’

I followed Katie to the range of buildings where the monks’ cells stood. I refrained from suggesting we should be relieved it was merely the Lord’s wounds that marked Speranza. If she had copied the virgin saint’s affliction, she would have been flayed alive. Katie poked out her tongue in response to my scepticism. She knocked on the cell door, announcing herself to the woman within. A muffled voice gave us permission to enter.

Speranza Soranzo was kneeling beside a simple pallet bed, which was the only furniture in the room. In fact, it was the only item in the room other than the woman herself and a wooden cross on the wall. It was truly a bare, ascetic cell. Believe me. I scanned it carefully, expecting to see something with which the supposed stigmatist could have wounded herself. But there was nothing.

She turned to look at me, a nauseatingly beatific look on her bland face. I could see a growing crop of boils on her neck, though. The saint had not seen fit to cure her of those. Perhaps I was being too cynical, and decided to ask if I could see her wounds. As if more than willing to display the evidence of her special status, Speranza held out her bound hands, and I noticed the bandage on her left hand was partly unwound. I kneeled before her and took the hand in mine, unwinding the loose bandage fully. There was indeed a puncture wound the size of a finger in the centre of her palm, and it was still oozing blood slightly. I sniffed the wound because it is said that holy wounds, like the bodies of dead saints, exude the odour of sanctity. I could smell nothing. I wrapped the bandage back around her hand, and thanked her for her courtesy. It was a puzzle that I could not explain, and I didn’t like the fact.

Having retreated back to our bench in the courtyard, I asked Katie where Brother Hugh was.

‘I don’t know. I have not seen him this morning. You would think, wouldn’t you, that he would be fussing around his great prize? I mean, he not only has a well-connected convert to St Beornwyn’s cause, he now can parade her as a stigmatist.’

A voice spoke up from the porch of the church.

‘Is that what you think of me? That I am doing all this for fame and fortune?’

It was the missing Brother Hugh, still worked up about his missing relic. Apparently he had been hunting in the church for it again, when the Greek monks had filed in. He had been trapped in a side chapel, and had to endure the whole service, which was a lengthy one as Orthodox services are. He had only just been able to escape.