The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

His own followers had increased in numbers as curious soldiers had pushed into the nave to see what was going on. Their leader turned to them and waved an imperious hand towards the group of terrified monks.

‘Help Rhys Gethin to take these murderous men to the nearest wood and hang them!’ he commanded.

There was a sudden commotion as one of the brothers abruptly dropped to his knees in front of Owain Glyndwr and grasped his ankles in desperate supplication.

‘Sire, have mercy! If I confess, I can tell you where the treasures of this house are hidden. But spare my life, I beseech you!’

The Welsh leader kicked him aside contemptuously, so that the monk fell onto his side on the cold stones.

‘Don’t try to bargain with me, you dog!’ he bellowed. ‘If you wish to confess, it can only mean that you are the guilty one. You should be hanged twice over for betraying your brothers, you treacherous coward!’

Arnulf, for it was the hospitaller who had caused this dramatic turn of events, clasped his hands before his face, tears running from his eyes, as he looked up at the grim figure of Glyndwr.

‘It was not me who delivered the blows,’ he gabbled desperately. ‘Jude was the killer. I was drawn into helping him against my will!’

At this the cellarer, Jude, lunged from amongst the crowd of quaking brothers and tried to leap on his fellow monk, who was cowering on the floor. He was grabbed by a couple of soldiers, but still managed to screech denials of his guilt.

Arnulf continued to blabber his confession. ‘Jude killed the old man after we agreed to get rid of him, as he was responsible for maliciously ruining the reputation of this house.’

‘You liar, may you rot in hell!’ yelled Jude, struggling in the grip of the two brawny soldiers. ‘It was you that was afraid that your fleecing of visitors to the guesthouse would be damaged if their numbers were reduced!’

From his position on the flagstones, where he was now being held down by the riding boot of one of the French officers, Arnulf screamed his counterclaims.

‘Be damned yourself, Jude! You feared that old John’s slander would reduce the profits you make from selling priory stores to outsiders!’

At this, Prior Paul became so incensed that he even forgot the presence of the invading troops around him.

‘You evil, foul men! How dare you shelter in this house of God merely to embezzle our substance! I have long had my suspicions about you, but had no means of proving it.’

At a sign from Glyndwr, the men holding Jude threw him to the ground to join his partner in crime.

‘You miserable wretches, how dare you masquerade as holy men while all the time you were lining your own purses? I suppose when you had stolen enough ill-gotten gains, you would vanish to spend your loot in comfort.’

He turned to the prior, who was so devastated that his familiar smile had vanished, probably for ever.

‘At least our invasion has solved your crime, Prior! I think, in return for our help, we deserve to see this treasure of yours.’

He aimed a kick at the prostrate form of Arnulf, still lying on the floor. ‘Show us where it’s hidden, swine! Though it won’t save your neck from being stretched.’

Looking as if he had aged ten years during the past few minutes, the prior intervened, shaking his head in resignation.

‘Let him be, Prince. I will show you where our hard-earned savings and our treasured relics are hidden.’

Wearily, he led a strange procession of armed men and monks towards the altar and indicated the slab beneath which the spring was concealed. It took hardly a moment for soldiers to use their pikes to lever up the loosened flagstone, revealing the wrappings that held the priory’s wealth.

Glyndwr looked with great interest at the contents of the woollen blankets. The weight of the treasure chest brought a smile to his face, but his fascination was with the skull of Beornwyn, of now-dubious fame, as the prior’s secretary explained how the calvarium was used in their healing ritual.

Owain held it up reverently and examined the wide gold band with its butterfly decoration. Then he kneeled on the edge of the well and reached down to fill the skull-cap with the clear water that was bubbling from the earth. He stood up again and offered it to Paul, who was by now totally bemused by the actions of this superstitious Welsh leader.

‘Prior, though you gave me water in a goblet just now, I wish to take it again in its proper holy vessel. It may have a greater power in blessing my campaign with success.’

He handed the skull to Paul and, with his lieutenants grouped around him, Glyndwr kneeled again before the prior. Gathering his wits together with an effort, the monk held the libation aloft and murmured a stream of Latin as a form of blessing. This time, there was no background chanting from the monks, who were saving their prayers for their own souls in imminent anticipation of being hanged. Then, with more muttered incantations, Paul held Beornwyn’s relic to Owain’s lips and waited until he had taken a mouthful.

Then the prince rose to his feet. ‘I think that we can now leave you in peace, Prior. I will spare the innocent brothers – though you will need to recruit two new ones after we have gone!’

This threat revived Paul’s agitation and he thrust the relic at Owain, the remaining holy water slopping onto the floor.

‘I beseech you, do not vent your anger upon these two men! Evil though they be, this is a matter for the Church’s retribution, not for earthly princes.’

He attempted to push the calvarium into the Welsh leader’s hands. ‘Take this relic of our beloved patron. It may bring you good fortune, and there is much valuable gold around its rim.’

Glyndwr refused to accept the offering and gently pushed it back towards the prior.

‘I will not take your treasured relic, priest. Keep it and continue to do good in the name of that woman, whether she was virgin or whore. The gold is tempting, as I am sorely in need of the wherewithal to feed my troops, but I will not desecrate something that has been in God’s service for centuries. Neither will I risk my immortal soul by committing the sacrilege of taking your communion vessels.’ He gave a rare smile as he qualified this. ‘However, I have no religious qualms about taking your treasure chest.’

Giving a sign to one of his captains, two soldiers lifted the heavy chest and made off with it towards the church door.

‘We shall starve this coming winter without our money!’ wailed Prior Paul, but the Welsh leader was unmoved.

‘I doubt that, monk!’ he growled. ‘I’ll wager you have cattle hidden in the forest and grain and silver stored elsewhere. If you insist on saving the necks of these two treacherous villains, then I will leave them with you and be damned to them! I will take your treasure chest instead, which seems a fair exchange.’ With that he swung on his heel and marched to the main door of St Oswald’s church, his retinue and soldiers following behind.

As he walked across the inner precinct, the blue butterfly that had been sunning its wings on the cross of old John’s grave took to flight and fluttered twice around the head of the Welsh prince. Then it rose above him and flew off as straight as an arrow, up towards the peak of the Herefordshire Beacon, far above.

Historical note

The year of this story, 1405, was the zenith of Glyndwr’s twelve-year campaign for Welsh freedom sparked by more than a century of indignity and cruelty heaped on the population since the crushing of independence by Edward I. Within five years he had regained most of the country, was recognised as Prince of Wales by King Henry I V, established a parliament at Machynlleth, had plans for an independent Welsh Church and two universities, and had formed alliances with the Scots and the French, the latter sending a large force to assist him. He invaded England itself, the first such foray since the Norman Conquest, and penetrated almost to Worcester, but his lines of supply were now too fragile and, faced by a large English army, there was a standoff, then both forces retreated, His wife and two of his daughters were captured and died in the Tower of London and by 1412 he was reduced to fighting a guerrilla war. He soon vanished and there was never any record of his death or burial place, though it is possible that he took refuge with another daughter, Alys, who had married Sir John Scudamore, the Sheriff of Herefordshire and sheltered him in their home in Kentchurch in that county – where the Scudamores still reside. As with King Arthur, a legend arose that he was not dead, but would appear again when Wales was in peril.