The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘The dray-man who brought that special ale up from Ross said he saw no signs at all on his journey,’ offered the cellarer, Jude, as one of the servants placed a trencher of roast pork with beans and cabbage on the table before him.

‘Yet there are reports of some peasants fleeing with their belongings on the road from the west towards Hereford,’ contributed Arnulf, the hospitaller, who tended to get most news of the outside world because of his dealings with the visitors who stayed in his guest-house.

The conversation lapsed as the serving men hurried in with more food, placing thick slabs of yesterday’s bread before each member, loaded with meat and vegetables. These trenchers used to be laid directly on the scrubbed boards of the tables, but recently the brothers had become sophisticated enough to lay them on pewter platters. Another servant came around with a jug of wine and yet another with a large pitcher of ale, and soon the community was tucking in to an abundance of food and drink, far removed from the Spartan origins of the monastic movement.

As Prior Paul slowly ate his meal, he looked around at his brethren and wondered what some of them were thinking. In spite of his bland, amiable appearance, he was an astute judge of men, as well as being an able administrator. He was well aware that his deputy, Brother Matthew, hungered after his own position as prior and was no doubt patiently – or perhaps, impatiently – waiting for his death or retirement to a hermitage. However, Paul was only sixty years of age and had no intention of handing over the reins for some time yet.

He looked across at the sub-prior now, studying his cadaveric face and his unbending and humourless manner. A large Roman nose with deep furrows on each side of his mouth suggested that life at St Oswald’s would not be so comfortable under his authoritarian direction.

On his other side, Brother Pierre, the sacristan, sat fastidiously picking at his food with his eating knife and delicately washing his fingers in a bowl of rosewater set before him. Dedicated to his task of administering all the physical aspects of the priory church, his nature was tarnished by his permanent disdain for all things English, his French origins oozing from every pore. He had come two years earlier from a large monastery on the Loire and made no secret of the fact that he hoped to be recalled there before his life amongst the barbarians became intolerable.

The other Frenchman, the infirmarian, Louis, sat at the top of one of the side tables. Thankfully, Paul knew that his Gallic tendencies were not as blatantly obvious as those of Pierre, but his rather aloof and sarcastic manner was born of his pride in his professional background, as he never let an opportunity pass to remind his fellows that he had trained at the most eminent centre of medical learning in Europe.

As the prior’s eye roved over the other monks, almost a score in number, he mused on the fact that he knew many of their secrets. At least two of them regularly visited women in the nearby village. and he suspected another of attending cockfights. Though the monks were supposed to be confined to the priory, many of them had reason to leave during the day, to supervise work in the fields or travel about the nearby countryside collecting alms from other villages. Twice a year a retinue of brothers carried the feretory around the district, the ornate reliquary that usually rested on the altar of the church. This heavy embellished and gilded box contained the skull-cap and some bones of the blessed St Beornwyn and was hawked around the hamlets and churches of the area to collect donations for the priory, accompanied by the monks chanting and ringing handbells.

In the relaxed atmosphere of St Oswald’s, there was no code of silence at meals, as was usually enforced by the Cistercians and other stricter orders. There was hardly noisy chatter, but certainly plenty of subdued conversation as the brothers worked their way through their ample meal. The main topic of conversation was the threat from the advancing army, now not many miles away, and this continuing anxiety led Prior Paul to ask Louis, Matthew, Jude and Pierre to come to his parlour after the meal.

An hour later, they sat on stools before his desk, the prior’s secretary standing discreetly in the background.

‘We need to decide what preparations we should make should this rebellion overtake us,’ began Paul. The seriousness of the situation had by now caused even his habitual smile to fade somewhat. ‘Though it seems that these brigands have halted their advance, we cannot expect it to be other than a temporary reprieve.’

The thin lips of the sub-prior pursed in disagreement. He never missed a chance to contradict his superior.

‘One can hardly call their leader a “brigand”,’ he complained. ‘This Glendower is a landed gentleman of mature years, a qualified lawyer and one who, in the past, has given loyal service to King Henry.’

The physician, Louis, nodded his agreement. ‘I have heard from France that he is well looked upon there – and that he has been offered military assistance by the royal court in Paris.’

Pierre snorted in disgust. ‘Some gentleman! He has rebelled against his king and for five years he has rampaged throughout Wales, sacking and burning towns. He has killed thousands and God alone knows what damage he has done to religious houses!’

The prior held up a placating hand. ‘The politics of the matter are none of our concern, but our survival and the protection of our community and property most certainly are. We need to plan how we might best limit the damage should Glendower’s army overrun us.’

‘Damage has already been done, just because of the threat of this rebellion to the countryside,’ snapped the sub-prior. ‘We heard from Brother Arnulf at the chapter meeting this morning that the value of donations from pilgrims and supplicants has decreased appreciably in the past few weeks. People are becoming afraid to travel here, as we are in the path of this Welsh army advancing into England itself.’

The infirmarian nodded his agreement. ‘Several of our wealthy patrons who were due to come for my treatment have sent messages to say that they are remaining at home until all trouble has passed.’

The prior shrugged. ‘There is little we can do about an advancing army, save pray earnestly to God in the hope that He will divert it. However, we have treasure and valuables here which would be the first target of a despoiling horde.’

Brother Jude, whose mind worked more slowly than the sharper Frenchmen, frowned as he mulled over his superior’s comment. ‘You mean we should bury our money and hide our silver chalices and patens?’

Prior Paul nodded. ‘Perhaps not actually in a hole in the earth, but certainly in a good hiding place. We must think about this now, so that if Glendower’s rabble come close, we can rapidly hide our treasure away somewhere.’

They discussed this for several minutes and eventually came up with a provisional plan to use an old stone coffin in the crypt beneath the chancel. This crypt had not been used for a century, as the infrequent burials of deceased monks were now made in a plot alongside the church, near the chapter house.

‘We will keep this to ourselves for the time being,’ ordered Paul. ‘The lay brothers need not be made aware of it, as they might be forced by these rebels to disclose the hiding place.’

‘May God give me strength to keep this secret myself, if I am subjected to violence and torture!’ said Pierre fervently.

‘What about our saint’s reliquary?’ asked the cellarer. ‘The outside is finely chased with gold and silver, and there’s a heavy gold band around the relic itself.’

The prior nodded again as he agreed with Jude. ‘The reliquary is too large to conceal, but we must preserve the skull-cap. Indeed, that is our most prized possession and must be kept safe at all costs.’