The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

Father James rasped his stubbly chin. ‘No, the only safe place I can think of is to lay her in one of the tombs beneath the flagstones, though I am loath to disturb the resting place of the dead. Yet her presence would surely hallow the grave of any man and I cannot think the dead would object to protecting her, as she does them.’

‘Out of the question,’ Richard said. ‘Have you forgotten that beneath the gilding her statue is made of wood? It would rot. Besides, tombs are the first places a man like Grey would look. He must be well used to all the hiding places in churches by now and he’s bound to notice if a slab has been loosened.’

Richard unfastened his cloak and dragged down a large empty sack that was draped across one shoulder. Then he unwound a length of soft woollen cloth from around his waist. No wonder he didn’t seem cold when we were walking, the priest thought.

‘The only safe thing to do,’ Richard announced, ‘is to remove the reliquary from the church. I will take it.’

‘What!’ Father James said. He couldn’t believe that he’d heard correctly. ‘You can’t take her. Where would you keep her? Your house is wooden – suppose there was a fire? Besides, as soon as the enforcer finds the statue missing he’s bound to come questioning the members of the guild and he is sure to start with its Master, especially once he discovers you live in the village and had every opportunity to remove the reliquary.’

But Richard was already striding towards the saint. ‘If he should question me, I assure you I’m more than capable of handling some snivelling little cleric.’

He laid the woollen cloth out on the ground, ready to wrap it around the reliquary. ‘Don’t worry, Father. I’ll not burden you with the knowledge of where I shall conceal it. Then you may say in all conscience that you don’t know where it is. I’d have thought you’d be relieved that you will not be forced to lie to a brother in holy orders.’

The morning sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky, but it may as well have been the moon for all the warmth it had in it. In the small slaughter yard Richard prised open the mouth of the freshly killed pig, searching beneath the purple tongue for any signs of the white ulcers that would give a man leprosy if he ate the flesh. Thomas, his journeyman, glowered at him behind his back. Thomas had inspected the pig thoroughly before buying him from the farmer and resented Master Richard checking up on him as if he couldn’t be trusted to know his job.

Oblivious to Thomas’s malevolent stare, Richard studied the line of the eviscerated carcass of a bullock hanging from the beam above to ensure the troughs placed beneath it would catch the dripping blood. He didn’t intend to see a single drop go to waste. All the goodwives in the village were making blood puddings to keep out the cold. The carcass steamed in the cold air, as if it was already roasting.

Richard glared at young Alan, who was struggling to heave the wooden pail of guts and lights to the shed. He was a tall lad, but weedy as a sapling starved of light. Once again the boy had bungled the throat-cutting of the pig, forcing Thomas to step in and finish the job swiftly and cleanly.

‘Swift and deep, lad, put some muscle into it. Then the beast will drop like a stone.’

Even then the brat had closed his eyes against the sight, rather than watching carefully and learning.

‘You’ll have to learn to kill, boy, if you’re ever to make a butcher,’ Richard said. ‘What do you intend to do, lead the cow out to the shop and tell the customers to hack a leg off themselves if they want a joint of beef?’

Both men laughed and Alan flinched.

Thomas gave him a shove. ‘You’ll get the hang of it soon. After you’ve killed the first one, rest is as easy as shelling peas. Anyway, what’s up with you? You’ve been right mardy this past week. Pining after some lass, are you?’

Alan turned and gave Richard a reproachful look, before lowering his gaze to the bloody pail again.

Richard knew at once what ailed the boy. He’d been sulking ever since he’d discovered the reliquary had been removed from the church three days ago.

‘Beornwyn has gone, Alan. And it’s as well that she has, for your sake. At least you’ll not be tempted to break the law again and risk dire punishment.’

The boy flashed him a look of resentment and pain. ‘I’m not afeared of the King’s men. St Beornwyn risked her life for her faith. I’d risk my life for her too.’

The journeyman snorted. ‘You’ll be risking your life all right if you don’t get a move on and shift those pails. Saints won’t put food in your belly or a roof over your head, but a good sharp butcher’s knife will. That’s the only thing you want to be kissing, that and a buxom lass.’

‘The boy doesn’t need his head filling with thoughts of women of any kind, saints or tavern girls,’ Richard said sharply. ‘He doesn’t even have room enough in his head to remember what he’s been taught. Now, finish up here and don’t be late opening the shop.’

Without even waiting for an acknowledgement of his orders, Richard strode out of the yard and made his way towards his house. Most tradesmen lived in the upper storeys above their shop, but Richard was wealthy enough to afford a separate house, well away from the stench of the slaughter yard, which had made the money to buy that house, at least what money he’d earned himself. Much of his wealth had come from his marriage to Mary, but Richard had long forgotten that inconvenient fact, as most men in his position did.

Ever since he found Edward sitting alone with his wife, Richard had taken to arriving home at unexpected times to see if Edward was paying any more visits. But each time he’d returned he’d found her alone or out walking or shopping with her maid. And on this occasion the house was once again deserted, with not even William, his manservant, answering his calls. This was not, he supposed, unexpected. The manservant had told him he was taking the wagon to fetch wood. With the nights as cold as they were, the stack of fuel for the fire had shrunk alarmingly these past few days.

But Richard was both annoyed and alarmed. He realised he should have left instruction that his wife and Jennet were to remain in the house whenever William was absent, and William should guard the house when they went shopping. Suppose someone broke in? It would be terrible to be robbed at any time, but with the reliquary in the house… Not that his wife or the servants knew he had the reliquary. Nevertheless, he must impress upon them that the house was never to be left unattended. He would invent some story about a gang of robbers being reported as heading to these parts. That would frighten them into staying close to the house.

After calling out once more to ensure the house was indeed empty, Richard hastened to the solar and checked the lock still remained in place on the stout iron-banded chest. It was rather too obvious a hiding place, but it was the first place he’d found, when he returned that night from the church, where he could place the reliquary unobserved by anyone in the house. But a locked chest was the first place any thief or prying cleric would examine.

Richard had been pondering the matter ever since and finally resolved that if he could remove some of the oak panelling, he might be able to create a niche behind it where the statue could be hidden. The question was, who could he trust to carry out the work without talking? He would have to employ a craftsman, for though Richard could slice a pig into neat parcels in less time than it took a goodwife to pluck a chicken, he had no skills with wood, and any false panelling must appear indistinguishable from the solid walls when it was finished, else the hiding place would be discovered at once.