The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

Grey cleared his throat with a dry cough. ‘Since the observance of Candlemas is doubtless more important to this parish than to many others, as this church is dedicated to that feast, I trust, Father James, that you remind your parishioners that the candles are to be lit on that feast day only in memory of Christ himself, and not for his mother, nor are the candles to be used in divination to tell men’s fortunes for the coming year.’

Grey addressed the empty air, before suddenly turning his gaze upon Father James at the end of his speech. It was a trick he found usually caught men unawares, leading them to betray their guilt in their glances. And Father James did indeed betray himself. His gaze had darted at once to the Candlemas cradle. But Grey was not concerned with such petty customs, not on this occasion at least, and he made no comment, preferring to leave Father James to sweat a little.

Grey left the priest’s side and prowled about the church. His practised eye could always spot where candles had recently been lit before the statues of saints, or fragments of leaves showed where images had been decorated with garlands or offerings had been left. But he was not on the hunt for such things now. His objective in this careful search had only one purpose and that was to make the priest nervous. They both knew why Grey was here, but the longer he delayed coming to the point the more likely it was that Father James would give himself away. Grey’s father had been a tanner, and he’d learned as a boy that the longer a hide is left to soak, the easier it is to scrape clean.

Finally, when he judged Father James had sweated enough, he turned without warning to confront him.

‘And where is the reliquary of the false saint?’

Father James moistened his lips. ‘Many believe St Beornwyn to be a true saint. She’s performed many miracles and her story is well attested. There is a book which details-’

‘The story of Judas is well attested. That does not make him a saint. As to her miracles, it is God who grants miracles, not saints, and it is to him your parishioners should be lighting their candles and offering their prayers. But that aside, I am here to take the reliquary away to be examined. If my superiors find the relic inside to be genuine and the saint to be worthy of presenting an example of a holy life to sinners, then rest assured the reliquary will be returned to you.’

‘Have many been returned?’ Father James asked.

Grey allowed himself a faint smile. ‘You would be shocked, Father, to discover just how many of these relics have proved false. Bull’s blood purporting to be our Lord’s, chicken bones to be the finger of a saint, filthy scraps of cloth from martyrs, which were doubtless cut from some old beggar’s clothes, and skin of holy men that is nothing more than pig hide… Your reliquary is supposed to contain fragments of Beornwyn’s skin, is it not?’

‘But the saint was flayed,’ Father James protested. ‘Her skin would have been reverently preserved.’

‘As no doubt is her reliquary, but I do not see it. I understood it was kept on the altar in the chantry chapel. It was the property of the Butchers’ Guild, was it not?’

‘It was removed,’ the priest said carefully. ‘Cromwell said the people shouldn’t place offerings before relics or light candles to the saints.’

For such a cold day, Grey noticed Father James was beginning to look rather warm.

‘Removed to where exactly?’

Father James spread his hands. ‘I honestly don’t know. It has most likely been destroyed, broken up. As you say, it belonged to the Butchers’ Guild.’

‘And do you honestly believe they would destroy their own property?’ Grey asked. ‘Smash a relic that you have just told me everyone revered? No, Father, I can’t believe it has been destroyed, though it has been concealed. Perhaps I should bring in men to search the church and help you find it. My men are known for their enthusiasm and thoroughness, though I regret they are inclined to be clumsy.’

He saw to his satisfaction a spasm pass across the priest’s face and beads of sweat break out on his brow. Grey, however, was convinced the reliquary was no longer in the church. He could usually tell, catching the nervous glance towards the hiding place to check that nothing had been disturbed, the clumsy attempts to lead him away from the spot.

He had fought these kinds of priests all his life. Men granted an easy living as a vicar by reason of their privileged birth. Men who had little faith and less learning, who were more interested in hunting than in their devotions and yet were only too willing to fleece gullible parishioners, like his own parents, of what little they possessed. Grey, from his humble origins, had had to fight his way into the Church with all the zeal and persistence of the crusader storming the gates of Jerusalem, and he was not going to yield the battlefield to such a man now.

And indeed he did not, though Father James didn’t confess easily. But fear of having his own church demolished about his ears and, as Grey hinted, losing his living entirely if he was seen to be obstructing Cromwell’s injunctions was eventually enough to loosen his tongue. Grey left the church quite satisfied with the information he had received.

It was to Grey’s lasting regret that he did not make his way straight to the house of the Master of the Butchers’ Guild on leaving the church. But on learning from Father James that Richard’s wife and servants were unlikely to be aware that the reliquary was even in the house, never mind where it was hidden, he decided to save himself a wasted journey by calling upon Richard Whitney when the butcher returned home after his shop was closed. According to Father James, Richard had little respect for the authority of the Church and was likely to resist if ordered to surrender his treasure, so Grey resolved to collect the two sergeants-at-arms who were currently warming themselves at the inn and take them with him when he went to search the butcher’s house.

Father James had been sternly warned not to try to get word to Richard, and having put the fear of Cromwell, if not of God, into the priest, Grey permitted himself the luxury of lingering over the first good meal he had enjoyed in many days. To his surprise, the inn’s meat pie was every bit as succulent as the serving maid had promised, as was the pork seethed in a honey and onion sauce, so it was a contented man who chivvied his reluctant sergeants-at-arms away from their ale and out into the cold night.

The moon and stars glittered like shards of ice in the black sky, and the men shuffled impatiently as Grey tugged the bell rope outside the door of the Master of the Guild of Butchers. They were ushered into a great hall by an anxious-looking girl and, before the servant had time even to summon her master or mistress, a woman came hurrying down the stairs, stopping in evident surprise when she saw the three men in the hall, for it was clear she was expecting someone else.

Alarm flashed in the woman’s eyes when Grey introduced himself. She made a hasty curtsy.

‘My… husband is not here.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I was out most of the afternoon, paying a call on a friend. She’s not long been brought to bed with child and I went to take gifts. Jennet, my maid, accompanied me. We stayed until it was near dusk. I hadn’t intended to stay so long, but another friend came and we were all talking, and the baby was-’

‘And your husband?’ Grey interrupted, trying to get her back to the point.

‘It was as we were returning home, that’s when we saw him. We’d just rounded the bend in the path when we saw Richard galloping away from the house at such a furious pace I was afraid he’d fall from the horse and break his neck.’