The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

Thomas Banks was more interested in the papers than the stone. He almost snatched the item out of Hugh’s hands. The servant watched him unfurl the cylinder of parchment, which contained lines of script. Of no use to Hugh Hall, who was not able to read. He rubbed his fingers together. They were sticky with little flakes of dried blood and threads of material adhering to them. He felt he had earned the right to ask a question.

‘Do you know who this is, sir?’

‘What? Oh, yes, I know who it is. He is one of the Queen’s company.’

The steward spoke distractedly. His attention was on the parchment, which he angled so that the words captured the light. He nodded a couple of times as though what he read was familiar to him. He sighed. He glanced at Hugh.

‘These are verses,’ said Thomas. ‘A strange thing to find on the body of a dead man, eh?’

Hugh was not really surprised at anything done by the higher-ups in the palace. They had their own whys and wherefores. A corpse carrying a poem did not seem so very odd to him. The steward continued: ‘I have heard these verses before. I heard them recited only last night by the very man who composed them. It is the story of a saint. A virgin saint.’

Now Hugh held up the chain and the steward took it. The dark red stone echoed the blood that had spilled from the body.

‘That’s a ruby, isn’t it?’ said Hugh.

‘He wore it as a protection against poison and other evils,’ said Thomas Banks. ‘Much good it did him.’

Two Months Earlier

‘The last time you were here, a murder took place,’ said Richard Dunton.

‘More than one of them,’ said Geoffrey Chaucer, surprised that his friend was raising the subject at all. ‘I remember there was a mason and another workman, and then there was-’

‘A member of our order who also died,’ said the Prior of Bermondsey.

Geoffrey noted the tactful way in which Prior Richard was referring to the death of the monk, as if it had been a natural death or an accident. [1]And he still wondered why these unhappy events were being mentioned at all until the prior explained.

‘I know that the subject must be at the front of your mind. How can it be otherwise on your return to Bermondsey Priory? So I thought I would raise the matter first to get it out of the way. We are still grateful here for your discretion in that unfortunate business and we are glad to see you back, Geoffrey. I am glad.’

‘Let us talk no more of murder then,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I am here for some peace and quiet to write.’

‘And you have travelled from one mighty house on the Thames to another,’ said the prior. ‘The Palace of Savoy must be like a hive of bees, always busy, always buzzing.’

There was more than simple curiosity in Dunton’s tone. A note of envy was detectable too. From his previous visit to Bermondsey, Geoffrey Chaucer remembered how knowledgeable Richard Dunton was about the outside world, or at least the royal part of it.

‘Savoy is not so productive as a beehive. It’s more like a nest of wasps or hornets. I do not visit there much anyway.’

‘I remember you have a house in Aldgate as well.’

‘My books are there but the lodging is above the city gate itself, good for seeing life, not so good for writing about it.’

‘Where your books are, there your heart surely is, Geoffrey?’ The prior leaned forward in his chair and said, ‘But your wife, Philippa, spends most of her time at the Savoy Palace, doesn’t she?’

‘She is one of several ladies in the service of Queen Constance of Castile,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Or in the service of the Duchess of Lancaster, if you prefer her English title.’

‘And Philippa’s sister is also in royal service?’

‘Not exactly. Katherine helps to care for the children of John of Gaunt by his late wife.’

‘So she is the magistra to the Duke of Lancaster’s children, she is their director and guide.’

The prior spoke slowly as if instructing a class of children himself. Chaucer nodded but said nothing, hoping to cut off this line of talk. He did not want to talk about his sister-in-law. He was fairly sure that Richard Dunton wasn’t so ignorant about Katherine Swynford’s position in John of Gaunt’s household as he pretended. Was he probing Geoffrey for extra information, or was he testing how much Geoffrey himself knew?

As if sensing his guest would give away nothing more, Richard Dunton sat back in his chair and took another sip of wine. They were sitting on either side of the fire in the prior’s lodgings. It was a bright, cold evening in the spring. The abbey was poised between the canonical hours of vespers and compline. The day was drawing to a close. Soon supper would be brought in. Chaucer had little doubt that, because they were dining privately in the prior’s quarters, they would be eating better than the monks in the refectory. It was almost three years since he’d last seen Richard Dunton and in the interim the prior had grown a little plumper in the face. The old adage about self-denial, that ‘the sacrament makes a good breakfast’, did not apply to him. But then, Geoffrey reflected, the same might be said of himself. Those early years during which he did service as a squire and a soldier had been followed by a more sedate, indulgent existence.

‘Do you have a subject, Geoffrey?’ said the prior, his eyes darting to an item that lay on a nearby desk. ‘I mean, a theme to write about?’

Geoffrey shrugged. He did have a couple of possibilities – for example, the tale of a pair of star-crossed lovers in the ancient city of Troy – but he was curious to see what Richard Dunton was about to suggest. The prior rose from his seat and fetched a roll of parchment from the table. Still holding it, he returned to his chair by the fire.

‘Have you heard of a saint called Beornwyn?’

‘The virgin martyr? Yes, but she is little more than a name to me.’

‘So many saints, so many stories,’ said the prior. ‘But this one is unusual.’

‘They’re all unusual,’ was Geoffrey’s response, then, seeing the look on the prior’s face, somewhere between disappointment and disapproval, he drew up a fragment from the well of memory: ‘Wasn’t her modesty preserved by a veil of butterflies after her death?’

Prior Dunton looked pleased at that and then, deftly, he outlined the tale of St Beornwyn. The setting on the North Sea coast among local kings and warring tribes, the refusal of the noble-born Beornwyn to marry according to her father’s wishes, her growing reputation as a virgin dedicated to Christ, her charity to the poor, the way an angel materialised to assist her with copying out a psalm, and other marvels. Then came the darkness and violence as well as the real miracles that must appear in all saints’ stories.

There was the slaughter of Beornwyn at the hands of coastal raiders, a slaughter that involved violation and sacrilege when the young woman was taken by surprise, at prayer, inside a cliff-top church. Yet the dire details of Beornwyn’s death were transfigured by the butterfly veil, just as the story of her life transformed the lives of others. Her memory would draw warring peoples together. Her example would give heart to those embarking on the lonely path of virtue and self-denial. As he told this tale, Prior Richard’s tone and expression fitted the moment: doleful, earnest, joyous. He barely glanced at the manuscript but made jabbing motions with it to emphasise particular points.

Almost despite himself, Geoffrey’s imagination was stirred by what he heard. Perhaps it was the desolate scene of Beornwyn’s martyrdom in St Oswald’s church perched above the waves of the sea. Perhaps it was that blue winding-sheet composed of hundreds of butterflies.