The Medieval Murderers: The False Virgin

One bleak evening, when a bitter wind turned all to ice, the two young men chanced to meet in the monastery grounds. It was Reinfrid’s turn to prepare the church for compline, while Frossard had been charged to clean the stables.

‘The abbot has been vexed with us ever since we let that pig into the scriptorium,’ said Frossard, chuckling at the memory of scribes scurrying around in dismay while the greedy animal feasted on finest vellum. ‘So I have a plan that will take his mind off it.’

Reinfrid brightened. Life had been dull since their last escapade, and his quick mind chafed at the strictures of a cloistered existence. He had never wanted to be a monk, but as the youngest child of an impoverished knight, he had been given no choice. His unhappy situation was what drew him to Frossard – the solidarity of two youngsters whose lives were blighted by circumstances of birth.

‘It concerns Beornwyn,’ Frossard went on, ‘the virgin killed by sea-pirates up in Lythe three and a half centuries ago. She was chopped into pieces, and her flayed corpse was found covered in butterflies the following day.’

‘She is not a saint,’ said Reinfrid, haughty in his superior knowledge. ‘The Church does not recognise her, and Abbot Peter deplores the fact that pilgrims visit her shrine.’

‘Yes, and do you know why? Because it means they do not spend their money here. He would be the first to acknowledge Beornwyn if her bones were in his abbey.’

Reinfrid laughed. ‘So what do you suggest? That we steal them for him?’

‘Yes.’

The blunt reply made Reinfrid’s jaw drop. ‘But that would be impossible! They are watched day and night. We would never get near them.’

Frossard smirked. ‘Oh, yes, we will. I met two of the guards yesterday, and we got talking. They are on duty tonight. They mentioned a liking for wine, so I sent them a flask – and in it is some powder from old Mother Hackness, which will make them sleep like babies. All we have to do is walk to Lythe, collect the relics and bring them back here.’

Reinfrid raised his eyebrows archly. ‘And present the abbot with stolen property? I doubt that will go down very well!’

‘We shall say that Beornwyn appeared to us in a dream and told us to fetch her. The fact that the guards slept through her removal will be proof that we acted with her blessing.’

Reinfrid was thoughtful. Saints were always appearing to people in visions, asking to be toted from one place to another, so it was not beyond the realms of possibility that Beornwyn might prefer an abbey to the paltry little fishing village four miles up the coast. Frossard grinned when his friend made no further objection.

‘It is a good plan, Reinfrid. What can go wrong?’

At midnight, Reinfrid slipped out of the dorter and ran to the postern gate, where Frossard was waiting. They set off together, descending the hill to the little village clustered below, where the familiar smell of fish and seaweed assailed their nostrils, along with the sweeter scent of ale from a tavern that kept notoriously late hours. Bawdy songs and womanly squeals gusted from within. The pair borrowed a boat to cross the river, then climbed past more cottages until they reached the cliff path that ran north.

It was a clear night, and bitingly cold, so they walked briskly. Both knew the shrine well. It was a pretty place near St Oswald’s church, which had been built shortly after the saint’s martyrdom and not changed since. It comprised a stone chapel with an altar, on which stood a plain wooden box that contained the relics. The villagers had decorated the chapel with pictures of butterflies, and candles always burned within. Relics were vulnerable to unscrupulous thieves so the shrine was never left unattended.

Frossard grinned triumphantly when they reached the building and saw the two guards slumped on the floor. The empty wine flask lay between them. Reinfrid was uneasy, though, and crept towards them to make sure they were really asleep. He touched one cautiously, then jerked his hand back in alarm at the cold skin.

‘Christ in Heaven! They are dead!’

‘No!’ Frossard grabbed a candle to look for himself, but it took only a glance to see that Reinfrid was right. He backed away in horror. ‘Mother Hackness said her powder was safe!’

‘How much did she tell you to use?’

Frossard looked stricken. ‘Three pinches, but I needed to be sure it would work, so I added the lot. But I did not know it would…’ He trailed off, appalled by the turn of events.

Reinfrid forced down his panic, and began to make plans to extricate them from the mess. ‘You must burn the shrine with their bodies in it. Then everyone will assume they fell asleep, and failed to wake when a candle fell and set the place alight.’

‘And you?’ asked Frossard nervously. ‘What will you do?’

‘We cannot incinerate a valuable relic, so I will carry Beornwyn to the abbey and be as surprised as anyone when she is discovered on the high altar tomorrow. It will be declared a miracle – she did not want to burn, so she took herself to Whitby. Obviously, we cannot take the credit now; we must distance ourselves from the whole affair.’

‘Yes!’ breathed Frossard, relieved. ‘The guards’ families know I sent wine, but they will not want it said that their menfolk were drunk while they were minding Beornwyn, so they will keep the matter quiet. Your plan will work.’

Reinfrid shoved the casket in a sack and tossed it over his shoulder, leaving Frossard to deal with the fire. Frossard’s hands shook as he set his kindling, and it was some time before he had a satisfactory blaze. He waited until the flames shot high into the night sky before turning to follow his friend. Then it occurred to him that Mother Hackness might guess the truth, so he went to her shack in the woods, shaking her awake roughly to inform her that her powder had killed two men.

‘You are a witch,’ he hissed, ‘and the abbot will hang you. The best thing you can do is leave Whitby and never return.’

The following morning saw grief and dismay in Lythe, which had lost not only its saint, but two popular villagers.

To Reinfrid’s surprise, his brethren greeted Beornwyn’s arrival not with delight, but with consternation: it was not her doing, they breathed, but that of a rogue who had planned to sell her until assailed by fear of divine wrath – a thief who did not care that relations were now soured between the abbey and village.

It was too near the truth for Reinfrid’s liking, so he took measures to convince the monks otherwise. He began a rumour that Beornwyn had been carried to the abbey by butterflies, the creatures that had covered her murdered corpse. He was somewhat startled when the cook and the almoner, who were impressionable and rather gullible men, claimed they had seen the casket arrive, borne on a cloud of iridescent wings. Everyone believed them, and the monks began to accept that Beornwyn’s appearance was indeed miraculous.

Meanwhile, the villagers of Lythe marched in a body to the abbey and demanded their property back. They did so with such accusatory belligerence that Abbot Peter, whose first inclination had been to oblige them, could not possibly do so without acknowledging that his monastery was guilty of theft. The villagers left empty-handed and furious.

That evening, the abbot sat in his solar with his brother, William, who was visiting him from the family home at Broomhill in the Malvern Hills.

‘Unfortunately, I suspect Beornwyn’s bones were filched by members of the abbey,’ he said unhappily, swirling his wine in his cup. ‘There was never any miracle, and the cook and the almoner are mistaken about what they saw.’

‘You do not believe in miracles, then?’ asked William, surprised.