The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘Matins shall be devoted to prayers for our departed brother,’ announced the prior. ‘Naturally we shall be holding a full Requiem Mass for him when the time comes.’

As they filed into the quire stalls above the shattered function, Brother Matthew murmured into the prior’s ear. ‘We must discuss this in chapter as well as between we senior members. It may not be appropriate to offer the full rites of the Church to someone who may have been possessed by the Devil!’

Next morning, before the chapter meeting, the prior, his secretary, the sub-prior, the sacristan and the infirmarian went back into the empty church to examine the damage to the shrine of St Beornwyn. A couple of burly lay brothers lifted the heavy statue from across the wide bowl and laid it on the flagstones. A stonemason from the village, who did any building work that was required in the priory, was called to examine it. He declared it undamaged apart from some chips from the base, which fitted into a socket on the back of the bowl.

‘Someone has jammed a crowbar or such-like under there and levered her off the supporting peg,’ he declared confidently, causing Louis to smile smugly at this confirmation of his theory. The mason promised to return with cement to set Beornwyn more firmly back on her pedestal and to repair the broken rim of the basin. When he had departed with the lay brothers, the senior monks were left alone to consider the situation.

‘Much as it pains me to accept it,’ began the prior, ‘it seems that you were right about this being a deliberate act, Louis. But I feel it flies in the face of reason to believe that anyone would so cruelly murder this poor old man. What earthly motive could anyone have?’

The sub-prior was ready with an answer. ‘None of us was happy about Brother John’s lewd fantasies, especially as they were likely to drastically reduce our income from pilgrims, which finances the comfortable way of life enjoyed by this house!’

Brother Paul sighed. Matthew never missed a chance to snipe at what he considered a lack of asceticism at Broomhill.

‘That could never be a motive for murder, especially in an institution devoted to God and good works,’ he protested.

‘You are too unworldly to be fully aware of the working of men’s minds, Prior,’ retorted Matthew cynically. ‘Men will kill for a couple of pennies, let alone the many pounds that pilgrims and supplicants bring in to St Oswald’s.’

‘But we’re not just men here, we are a special breed who have given our lives to the Almighty,’ said Mark, vehemently.

Again the sub-prior gave one of his supercilious smiles. ‘You are young and innocent, Mark. When you have lived in the world for another twenty years, as I have, you will know that there are good monks and bad monks, just as in any other walk of life.’

The physician Louis decided to put an end to this pointless argument. ‘The fact remains that our Brother John was foully murdered. There is no avoiding that conclusion, so whatever the motive, there is a killer amongst us.’

Prior Paul became agitated, his hands fluttering in front of his ample stomach. ‘Amongst us? Surely we must look for some evidence that an outsider committed this foul crime?’

The infirmarian shrugged. ‘I am merely a physician, who can tell you that John was deliberately slain. I cannot venture any opinion as to why or by whom.’

‘What about when ?’ asked the prior’s secretary.

Louis nodded sagely. ‘I wondered when someone was going to ask me that. We found the body shortly before matins, at around midnight. He was still warm and his limbs were still pliable. I last saw John in his room when I gave him a sleeping draught earlier that evening.’

‘At what time would that be?’ asked the prior.

‘I took myself to my bed in the dorter at about the seventh hour, though it is difficult to be precise.’

Though some large abbeys and cathedrals had installed large clocks many years previously, they were still not common. At St Oswald’s, the bellringer who alerted everyone to the times of all holy offices, used a large graduated candle to inform him of the time.

‘So the despicable deed must have been perpetrated during the five hours between those times?’ persisted Mark.

‘It would appear so,’ agreed Louis. ‘But no one has asked me where it was committed. That is just as well, as I have no answer. Poor John could have been struck on the head in his room in the infirmarium – or in the church, or anywhere between. There is no way of telling.’

After this there was a strained silence as no one could think of any further questions – or, indeed, answers.

‘We must leave this now,’ ordered the prior. ‘When we all meet in the chapter house, I will solemnly enjoin every member to examine his conscience and to confess any sins that may have a bearing upon the tragedy.’

‘Not only any sins, but any information that might be useful,’ added the sub-prior, determined to get in the last word.

Twenty miles away, in a barn set on a piece of common land outside a village in the land of Gwent, another conference of a very different sort was in progress. Around a rough table taken from the reeve’s house, half a dozen men sat on a couple of benches looted from the same place. From a chair at the head of the table, Owain Glyndwr was listening to reports from his lieutenants and making plans for the morrow.

‘The further we go into England, the more difficult it will be to feed them and our horses,’ growled Evan ap Collwyn, one of the prince’s quartermasters.

‘Soldiers will always find a way of getting food from somewhere,’ retorted another giant of a man, Iestyn Goch.

‘Six thousand mouths need a lot of victuals,’ retorted Evan. ‘They have been on a very short commons since Brecon, and the way ahead looks unpromising.’

Owain, the true Prince of Wales, listened carefully to all the opinions, absently pricking the reeve’s table with the point of a small dagger. He was a large man, though not on the scale of Iestyn Goch. Handsome at fifty, with light brown hair and beard to match, he had an avuncular calmness that belied his prowess as a fighter and a politician. This rebellion – better termed a war of independence – had been running for five years and until Usk a couple of weeks ago, had been increasingly successful with every passing month. However, that battle at Pwll Melyn had seen the death of his brother, who was his chief supporter, as well as Bishop Thomas, a fighting cleric who had won over the priesthood of Wales to his side. Equally tragic was the loss of Crach Ffinant, his bard, soothsayer and prophet. In addition, his son had been captured and dragged to the Tower of London. However, this severe setback had not weakened his determination to advance into England, threatening the very heartland of the unpopular tyrant King Henry I V. Thankfully the French had now kept their promise and landed almost two thousand men at Milford Haven, who were now joining his forces. However, as Evan had pointed out, an army marches on its stomach, and at the moment those particular organs were pretty empty.

‘Until now, we have been campaigning in Wales and have seized our sustenance wherever possible from towns, manors, castles and courts belonging to Englishmen or Welshmen who have sold out to them,’ observed Glyndwr. ‘As I have always insisted, we have never stolen from our own peasantry, the very people for whom we are fighting. However, now that we are on the very edge of England, we need not be so sensitive. We have suffered oppression and humiliation, with untold cruelty from them for over a century, since they murdered Prince Llewelyn at Cilmeri. So now we will take what we need, to show them that the tables have turned.’