The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘And the lady?’ said Chaucer. ‘What of her?’

‘Oh, she has agreed to all of this. She is ashamed of what she has done, deeply ashamed. She wishes to retire from life in this great house. Indeed, she wishes to retire from the life of the flesh altogether, as far as one can do so and still remain on this earth. The lady will join the Benedictines near here at… I cannot recall the name of the place but it begins with the letter B-’

‘Barking, the abbey at Barking,’ said Geoffrey. That made sense. It was a place that enjoyed royal patronage. Only the daughters of the wealthy and the well connected were admitted there.

‘If you doubt my words, you can ask her yourself,’ said Luis, rising to his feet. Indicating that Geoffrey should follow him, he moved towards the Spanish screen in the corner. He folded back one of the panels. Sitting behind it, on a stool, was a young woman. She was handsome, with a hawk-like nose and bold dark eyes. Geoffrey was shaken to realise that, all this time, there had been a third person in the room. He realised too that the pleasant incense-like smell was the scent that she was wearing. She said nothing but nodded her head, once, with abrupt decision.

‘Behold,’ said Luis. ‘My niece, Isabella, widow of the late Carlos de Flores.’

Still she said not a word. Simply nodded, as if assenting to everything her uncle had said.

She rose to her feet. She was tall, taller than Geoffrey and her uncle. After a moment she leaned forward and took hold of the cross that the priest wore about his neck. She touched her lips to the ruby set on the crosspiece. Then she strode out of the room.

So it was solved. Or at least it was resolved. The lady Isabella, whose uncle was the priest Luis, took herself away from the world and retreated into Barking Abbey. The story got around the Savoy Palace that the unfortunate Carlos de Flores had, after all, and despite those earlier rumours, been a victim of the river. At the same time, the whispers and the stories against Katherine Swynford and her connection with John of Gaunt also died away, at least for a time.

Thinking about the whole matter later, Geoffrey reflected on the strange parallels in what had occurred. Carlos de Flores had gone in quest of a poem that he could use against Katherine Swynford, a woman whose devout exterior masked her real and passionate self. The Beornwyn poem had dealt with the same subject, a woman with a hidden life, buried feelings. And de Flores had met his fate at the hands of a woman whose fires of rage and jealousy, banked down for so long, had finally burst forth. For all that, the woman, Isabella, said not a word in Chaucer’s hearing. She had been a mute witness to the discussion of her crime and its consequences. Was this silence a self-imposed penance? He could not forget the way she had stooped and kissed her uncle’s cross. In that gesture was surely acceptance, though he could not tell whether it was angry or resigned.

Quiet returned to the Savoy Palace, although not to the life of John of Gaunt, for his older brother died very shortly after the events related here and the Duke of Lancaster became the most powerful man in the kingdom, in reality if not in title. His liaison with Katherine Swynford continued in the precincts of the Savoy and elsewhere.

Sir Edward Jupe was reconciled with his lady, Alice Osterley. It seemed that the impetuous, drunken letter that he wrote to her was not couched in such disparaging terms after all. It may have been mildly reproachful but it was also truly loving. Elsewhere, the death of Carlos de Flores might have caused a few female hearts in the Savoy to skip a beat but, if so, there was no one ready to own up to it, and certainly not the unknown lady from whose chamber de Flores had been spied creeping on the night of his murder. Geoffrey returned to Luis the ruby on the gold chain, which had been worn by de Flores. He had no wish to retain something worn by a murdered man.

And it happened, some weeks after all this, that Geoffrey Chaucer and John of Gaunt were talking together. Good humour was restored. The poem of St Beornwyn was all but forgotten. As far as Geoffrey was aware, every copy had been destroyed.

John of Gaunt said: ‘I heard a most absurd story the other day, a story about myself.’

‘You did, my lord?’ said Geoffrey.

‘A rumour appears to be circulating in London that I am the issue of a dragon and a mermaid.’ Gaunt’s tone suggested mockery at the credulity of ordinary folk, but there was also just a note of pleasure in the rumour. ‘Where do you suppose that started?’

‘A dragon and a mermaid, eh?’ said Geoffrey Chaucer. ‘I really have no idea.’

Herefordshire, August 1405

Prior Paul wore his usual benign smile, which was pasted on as he woke every morning in the affluent little priory of St Oswald and lasted until he went to bed. However, secretly he was very worried. A gnawing concern was eating away at his placid nature and every few minutes, he wandered restlessly over to one of the windows of his parlour in the prior’s house to stare across at the woods to the west. The morning was perfect, the warm sun dappling the bright green of summer and the swelling fruit in the orchards, but he was looking beyond these, fearfully seeking the approach of what might be their nemesis.

Soon he moved over to another window in his corner room, where he had relief from the westerly view, as he could look up at the blunt end of the Malvern Hills, where the earthworks of the so-called ‘British Camp’ crowned the Herefordshire Beacon. It was an ancient place, where some said the hero Caractacus had fought against the Roman invaders, but the prior pushed aside any thoughts of armies and battle, as they reminded him too clearly of his present concerns.

The door opened and a mellow voice caused him to turn from his sombre meditations. It was his secretary, Brother Mark – a good-looking and ambitious young man who quite openly admitted his intention of one day becoming an abbot in their Benedictine order. He came across with a couple of sheets of parchment, which he laid on the prior’s table.

‘Brother Patrice’s order of services for the coming week, Prior,’ he said. ‘And Brother Arnulf’s accounts for the visitors’ donations last month, as he described in chapter this morning.’

Paul laid a hand on the documents and thanked his secretary, but his mind was not on chanting or money, important though they were.

‘Is there any news from Wales?’ he asked, his smile still in place, but his tone anxious.

‘The porter was told by one of the carters who takes our wool that he saw thousands of men camped in the fields beyond Monmouth,’ replied Brother Mark. ‘But that is a good many miles away from here.’

The prior nodded and sank into the chair behind his table.

‘We can only pray to God that they will pass by this place,’ he said fervently. ‘Tell Brother Patrice that we will include extra prayers in every service until this danger is past.’

After discussing a few more routine matters, the younger monk left the prior to his worries and went down the stairs and out into the inner courtyard of the monastery. Although he had been there for almost a year, Mark was still beguiled by the attractive appearance of the place. Surrounded by a high wall of warm Cotswold stone, the priory was a stout oblong nestling under the shelter of the Malvern Hills, a high ridge that stretched northward for some twelve miles. It was virtually the boundary of Wales, and it was said that eastwards there were no other hills worthy of the name until one reached Muscovy.

At the end of the priory nearest the hill lay the church, a neat cruciform building with a squat tower surmounted by a pointed roof. The church was built almost against the wall, this situation being dictated by the spring that came up under the floor of the chancel, directly in front of the altar. Brother Mark knew that the priory had been founded here before Norman times because of this spring, which had a wide reputation for healing, especially of ailments of the skin.