The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘This is where your pilgrims come for a taste of your miraculous water, Prior?’ he asked.

Paul nodded. ‘They are also shown part of our blessed patron’s relics kept in that reliquary up at the altar,’ he said, trusting that God would forgive his economy with the truth – though he assuaged his conscience with the fact that the other bones they possessed in the casket were relics and that omitting to mention the skull-cap was not an outright lie. ‘And, of course, our infirmarian, a skilled physician, offers them medical treatment where necessary,’ he added, to cover up any hint of evasion in his voice.

‘I wish to avail myself of this same benediction from your saint,’ said Owain, bluntly. ‘She is an English saint, but no matter. Many of our Welsh saints were Breton or Irish – and the apostles were Palestinian Jews. The Kingdom of God knows no nationality.’

Paul was pleasantly surprised to find the Welsh prince such a devout man. It might be a good sign for hoping that the priory might come off relatively lightly from the attentions of the horde of invaders outside.

He beckoned to his sub-prior and the precentor and whispered in their ears, sending Matthew up to the altar to open the reliquary and reverently bring down a leg bone of Beornwyn, resting on a linen cloth. Patrice was dispatched to the aumbry in the chancel wall, from where he retrieved a communion chalice made of pewter, chased with silver ornamentation. As they had hidden their valuable vessels under the floor, this goblet was one used to take around the villages with Beornwyn’s relics, when holding Mass during pilgrimages to raise funds for the priory. Paul hoped that it would look good enough for Glyndwr not to wonder if they had more valuable ones hidden away somewhere.

The monks filed into their places in the quire and began their familiar routine of chants as the prior extemporised on the ritual for administering the ‘cure’.

Accompanied by prayers in Latin, he filled the chalice from under the angel’s jet of clear water and set it on the rim of the large basin below. Then Matthew solemnly offered him the cloth carrying the ancient bone, which with more ceremony was presented to Glyndwr, who had again kneeled before him. Several of the other lieutenants, including a couple of the French officers, kneeled beside him and Paul gravely bent to present the crumbling thigh-bone to each man, who all touched it somewhat tentatively before making the sign of the cross.

Then he went along the row of kneeling warriors and offered each a sip of blessed water from the cup. After more prayers, and amid the soporific chanting from the quire-stalls, Matthew and Patrice returned the relics and the goblet to their resting places. The ceremony over, the soldiers rose to their feet and the prior rejoined them below the chancel steps.

‘I see that your beautiful basin has recently suffered some damage,’ said the observant Owain, pointing at the rim of the bowl. ‘Is that not fresh cement in that repair?’

Hoping perhaps to increase the prince’s sympathy for their house and further strengthen the good relations that seemed to be building between them, Paul began to recount the events of the past week.

‘We have recently had a tragic episode, sir. One of our oldest brothers, weak in the mind from age and illness, caused us much anguish by his strange behaviour – and was murdered for his demented fantasy!’

His secretary, Mark, seeking to consolidate the prior’s tactics, began to give Owain the details of Brother John’s weird claims that he had been transported up to the ancient site on the hill above, to meet St Oswald and be told the shocking news of their patron’s infidelity. Before he could continue with the description of John’s violent death, the Welsh leader interrupted him, seemingly in a state of excited interest.

‘What? And you all ridiculed the man? It may well have been true! Such visitations have occurred throughout history.’ He glared around at the circle of monks, who began to look sheepish, then apprehensive as the Welsh leader’s anger became obvious.

‘We had no reason to believe the old man’s claims,’ said Paul, falteringly. ‘He had been having fits for years and recently had been acting strangely.’

‘That may be a manifestation of his contact with forces beyond our comprehension,’ snapped Glyndwr. ‘Many visionaries in the past have suffered from such seizures as they were used as a channel by mystical powers. You should have listened more diligently to what he had to say through your patron saint!’

The prior rallied his defence against these accusations.

‘His claims that our beloved Beornwyn, revered for many hundreds of years, was a libidinous fornicator who desecrated a house of God, were repugnant to us,’ he cried. ‘It also damaged our reputation and threatened to ruin our healing of the sick!’

‘And, no doubt reduced the contributions to your treasure chest,’ observed Owain, scathingly. ‘So who killed this poor man?’

‘We do not know, sir,’ said Mark, seeing that the prior had become too emotional to speak wisely. ‘All we know is that to our great regret and anguish, it must have been one of us, as the circumstances permit of no other explanation.’

‘And you have not exposed this villain?’ roared Glyndwr. ‘Is he one of these?’ He flung a brawny arm around to indicate the group of monks now cowering on the steps.

Prior Paul stepped forward again, red-faced with a mixture of anger and apprehension.

‘This is our business, Prince! It is not a secular matter, but one to be settled by the Church – even by the Pope, if need be!’

‘Pope! Which one, eh? The true father in Avignon or the imposter in Rome?’

He had recently transferred the allegiance of his new parliament and Church in Wales to the pontiff in the south of France.

‘We have done all we can to make the culprit confess,’ cut in Mark, hoping to calm the developing dispute. ‘But all the prior’s efforts have been in vain.’

Glyndwr glared around at them all, his forked beard jutting forward aggressively. ‘I’ll soon alter that, priest! No one slays a man of vision chosen by God and gets away with it in my presence!’

He swung around and barked orders at Rhys Gethin, one of his principal compatriots, to call in a score of soldiers from outside.

‘I want these monks hanged, for one of them is a murderer!’

‘How do we know which one?’ queried Rhys.

The reply he received was the one that the papal legate Arnaud Amalric had uttered during the Cathar heresy several hundred years earlier, when he ordered the killing of twenty thousand people in Beziers. ‘Kill them all, for God will know which are the innocent!’

There was instant confusion, with the prior making vociferous protests, some of the brothers falling to their knees, hands clasped in supplication and others try to escape back into the chancel. But well-disciplined men-at-arms surrounded the monks, though the two French brothers who had gone to see the sick troops had been forgotten. The monks were dragged into a line before Glyndwr, though he spared the loudly protesting prior the indignity of being a suspect.

‘This is your last chance to save yourselves!’ he said in an ominously level voice, full of menace. ‘Don’t think I will spare you, for King Henry’s armies have slain scores of monks in Wales, burned their abbeys and massacred men, women and children by the hundred.’

He glared along the line as the ashen faces and trembling knees. ‘Whichever amongst you is guilty, step forward!’ he roared. ‘This is your last chance to join the martyrs! Otherwise the weight of your consciences in letting your innocent fellows join you in death will load you down as you all take the last few steps to the hanging trees outside!’