The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘Then we must hide it,’ Richard said firmly.

Edward scraped the chair back and stood up. ‘It’s too late, Richard. You can’t hide St Beornwyn in the church. Grey’ll tear the whole village apart till he finds her. As Guild Master you should have seen this coming and whipped our little saint out of sight long before this. But no, you wanted to keep her on view just a bit longer to puff up the importance of your new rank. Was that why you moved here to this piss-poor church as soon as you became Master? You always wanted to be Guild Master for the glory of it, never for the good of the guild.’

Richard sprang to his feet. ‘How dare you? We all know that’s why you were so keen to be Master, because you were the one who wanted to possess the reliquary for yourself. I moved her to St Mary’s so that she could be given every reverence. If you’d been Master you would have had her hidden away and deprived the people of her blessing.’

‘Blessing!’ Edward gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Since when have you sought any saint’s blessing except to beg them to make you Guild Master? I would have kept her safe until this madness is over. How does it feel to be the Guild Master who’s lost the guild its most valuable possession? You can be sure they’ll remember you for the next two hundred years for this.’

He strode to the door and flung it open. ‘I came to give you a friendly warning, Richard, to try to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid, like try to bribe Grey and get yourself arrested. But now I’m going to give you another warning. You carry on roaring at all those around you, like a bull with a bee up its arse, and you’ll end up losing more than just St Beornwyn.’

Father James shifted his feet, trying to seep up the last little warmth left from the warming pan that his housekeeper had used to take the chill from the bed. It was a bitter night. The old rectory had been built a century before and the incumbents of St Mary of the Purification had struggled to wrest enough tithes from the parishioners to maintain the church, let alone make improvements to the house. Most of the ground floor was still taken up by a long open hall, which in winter was as cold as a crypt, and what little heat was produced by the fire vanished instantly up into the open rafters far above his head.

The priest was finally beginning to doze off when he was dragged awake by the sound of the bell clanging in the hall below, followed by the hum of voices. He turned over and tried to bury his head beneath the blankets, hoping that his housekeeper would send the caller packing. But it was not to be. Moments later he heard her footsteps on the stairs and the door to the solar being opened.

‘Father James, are you awake? It’s Master Richard Whitney to see you. I’ve told him it’s too late to disturb you, but he says it’s urgent and won’t wait until morning. He insists on seeing you, Father.’

Father Jones let out a curse that was far from godly, wrapped himself in a balding rabbit-fur robe to cover his nakedness and pushed aside the hangings round his bed. He forced his cold feet into his colder shoes, still cursing, and padded down the steps.

Richard was pacing impatiently up and down the hall.

‘If this is about that wretched candle…’ Father James said crossly.

Richard flapped his hand impatiently. ‘It is not. This is a far more pressing matter. But don’t imagine I’ve forgotten about the candle. If it isn’t returned I shall insist on being paid the worth of it. But that matter will have to wait now. I’ve heard some disturbing news.’

He suddenly glanced up the staircase and Father James, turning, glimpsed the movement of a shadow on the bend of the stair. He guessed his housekeeper was standing just out of sight, doubtless listening to every word. Richard must have realised it too, for he beckoned urgently to the priest.

‘Come with me and bring the church key. I shall tell you on the way.’

Father James felt his fury mounting. The boorish oaf actually thought he could turn up at this late hour, drag his priest out of bed and demand he go wandering through the village on a freezing night. What was it this time – a missing coin? Or did Richard want himself painted on the church wall sitting next to Christ in heaven? It wouldn’t have been so bad if the butcher had even half the faith of his own apprentice, but Father James was certain the only reason Richard ever set foot in any church was to lord it over others, for it certainly wasn’t to pray.

He folded his robe more tightly around his shivering body. ‘Unless someone is dying and in need of the last rites, nothing can be so urgent that it cannot wait till morning. In case you haven’t noticed, Master Richard, I have already retired. Now go home to your wife. God knows, the poor woman could do with some company.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Richard demanded. ‘What has my wife been saying?’ His face had flushed red with fury. ‘If she’s confessed to you… if she’s admitted… it’s your duty to tell me.’

‘Tell you what?’ Father James blinked bemusedly at him. ‘I only meant that you’re so often away on business and guild matters that your wife must be glad of your company when you are at home.’ He shivered again as the icy draughts in the hall crept up his bare legs. ‘If I had a wife to warm my bed on a night like this, I’d be only too anxious to get into it and stay there.’

But Richard was not a man to be denied anything he had set his mind to, and against his will the priest found himself dressed and out in the street, hurrying up to the church with Richard striding along beside him. It was as dark as the Devil’s armpit and bitterly cold outside. The street was deserted and in many houses the oil lamps and candles had already been extinguished.

Richard held the lantern at his side, half-muffled by his cloak, and several times Father James stumbled on the path already slippery with frost. Finally he snapped at Richard that if he wasn’t going to light their path, there was little point in having brought a lantern at all.

‘I don’t want to be seen entering the church at this hour.’

‘Believe me, I don’t want to be entering the church at this hour,’ Father James retorted. ‘And I think we can be certain no one is going to be standing at a freezing casement watching you or anyone else at this time of night.’

But Richard continued to hoard the light as if it was gold. Not until they were actually inside the church did he uncover the lantern, and then he was careful to set it where it wouldn’t be seen shining out through the windows.

It felt even colder in the church than it had been on the street. Having spent a year in a monastery as a young man, before deciding that the life of a priest offered more prospects and considerably more comforts, Father James thanked God he was not required to attend those midnight services that the monks had once had to endure. He sometimes thought King Henry had done the monks a favour by closing the monasteries. He clamped his hands beneath his armpits to warm them.

‘Now that you’ve dragged me here what do you want?’ Father James asked irritably.

Richard could use words sparingly when he chose and he swiftly recounted the news Edward had brought.

‘… so we must hide St Beornwyn without delay. She’s the patron saint of the Butchers’ Guild and we cannot lose her.’

For once Father James was in agreement, though he couldn’t help thinking her value to the guild, and to Richard in particular, had less to do with the precious strips of skin flayed from the holy saint’s dismembered corpse than with the gold and jewels that even now glittered in the softly flickering lantern light.

The priest nodded. ‘I’ve been considering what we should do if they came for her.’ He nodded towards the church tower. ‘I thought about moving her up there, hiding her in a box beneath the coils of rope stored there, but the Royal Forest Wardens sometimes climb up the tower to search for fires or signs that men are poaching. If they’re left on watch for several hours, they might easily stumble upon her, especially if they start moving things to make themselves comfortable.’