The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

‘Of course, but this affair smacks of mischief – of a prank gone wrong. And I have my suspicions as to who was behind it.’

‘Then be careful how you deal with him,’ warned William. ‘A man who abuses sacred objects is a man with the devil on his shoulder.’

Abbot Peter worked hard for the next few days, hunting for evidence. When he had found enough, he summoned Frossard and Reinfrid to his presence. He studied them as they stood in front of him. Frossard was nervous, attempting to disguise his unease with a sullen scowl; Reinfrid, the clever one, was all innocent smiles.

Peter leaned back in his chair and picked up a beautiful silver box that William had given him. It contained a potent remedy for headaches, from which he suffered cruelly when he was under stress. And he had certainly been tense since the Beornwyn incident.

‘You two have committed a terrible crime,’ he began.

‘Whatever do you mean, Father Abbot?’ cried Reinfrid, his expression half-way between hurt and indignation.

Peter glared at him. ‘Let us not play games. You both know what I am talking about.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Reinfrid, beaming suddenly. ‘You refer to me slipping away from the abbey once, to pray at Beornwyn’s shrine. I told her that if she ever wanted to come here, she would be welcome. I admit I should not have done it, but it is hardly a crime .’

‘No,’ agreed Frossard, taking courage from his friend’s cool composure. ‘And I am sure she will be much happier here with you, sir, than in that dirty little chapel at Lythe.’

The abbot regarded them with a mixture of sadness and disgust. Reinfrid had been blessed with a keen mind, so what had possessed him to befriend the foolish Frossard? Peter blamed himself: he should have seen years ago that they were no good for each other. If he had kept them apart, they would not be standing in front of him now, with the devil on their shoulders. He set the box on the table with a snap.

‘The guards’ families told me about the wine you sent,’ he said. ‘And Mother Hackness did not go far. She told me what you threatened to do to her.’

Frossard gulped in alarm. ‘Whatever she said about me is a lie. She is a witch, trying to cause friction between the abbey and Lythe.’

‘Well, I believe her,’ said Peter firmly. ‘Meanwhile, you were both seen walking through Whitby on the night of the fire – by patrons from the tavern that stays open late.’

‘Drunks,’ declared Reinfrid promptly, ‘whose testimony cannot be trusted.’

‘You stole the relics, killed two good men and set a blaze to cover your tracks,’ said Peter harshly. ‘You are reckless, selfish and stupid. Unfortunately, the abbey’s reputation might never recover if people find out what you have done, so I cannot make your guilt public.’

Frossard sighed his relief. ‘Shall we consider the matter closed then?’

Peter eyed him in distaste. ‘I want you out of my sight – permanently. Your punishment is to suffer the same fate that you tried to impose on poor Mother Harkness: you will leave Whitby and never return.’

Reinfrid frowned, confused. ‘You mean you are transferring me to another abbey?’

‘And letting me go with him?’ added Frossard eagerly. ‘Good! I shall be afforded the respect I deserve in a different monastery. They will not order the son of a lord to demean himself with tasks beneath his dignity. I shall never clean stables again.’

Peter smiled without humour. ‘I would not inflict you two on another foundation. No, I am releasing you from your vows, Reinfrid. As from today you are no longer a Benedictine. You have always despised us, no matter how hard we tried to nurture your talents. Well, now you have your wish: you are free. Go, and take Frossard with you.’

Reinfrid regarded him with dismay. ‘But go where? The abbey is all we know. And how will we live when neither of us has a trade?’

‘You have your wits and your capacity for mischief,’ said Peter. ‘And hardship might make you reflect on the harm you have done. You will leave immediately, and if you ever come back, you will be hanged. Now get out of my abbey.’

Stunned, the two youths went to collect their belongings. Then they stared at the road that lay ahead of them, lonely, snow encrusted and unwelcoming.

‘Oh God!’ moaned Frossard. ‘How will we survive?’

‘With this.’ Reinfrid reached inside his cloak and pulled out the abbot’s silver box.

Frossard regarded it in alarm. ‘Are you mad? His brother gave him that, and it contains medicine for his headaches. Now we shall hang for theft!’

‘We did not steal it,’ said Reinfrid haughtily. ‘We took it as payment for the shabby way in which we have been treated. And it is not the only thing the abbey has provided for us: I also filched two nice warm habits from the laundry, along with this.’

He unwrapped a small bundle, and Frossard recoiled in revulsion when he saw the skeletal hand within, its delicate bones held together by blackened sinews.

‘Christ God!’ he blurted. ‘Please do not tell me it is Beornwyn’s!’

‘Who else’s would it be?’ asked Reinfrid scornfully. ‘Do not look so appalled! It is the basis for our new occupation. As soon as we are away from Whitby, we shall don these habits and present ourselves as two pious monks who have been entrusted to deliver sacred relics to another abbey.’

‘Which abbey?’ asked Frossard warily.

‘One that lies in the direction we happen to be travelling,’ replied Reinfrid with a grin. ‘People will give us alms, and they will pay to petition the saint in our charge.’

Frossard regarded him doubtfully. ‘Really?’

‘Of course! We shall earn a fortune, and no one will harm two men of God. Beornwyn will be our protection as well as our path to a better life.’

Carmarthen, Summer 1200

It was the hottest August anyone could remember, with not so much as a drop of rain seen in weeks. Crops withered, cattle grew thin and the wide River Towy was reduced to a muddy trickle. Carmarthen reeked with no fresh water to wash away its filth, and its people baked under an unrelenting sun.

Sir Symon Cole dragged his heels as he rode the last few dusty miles home. His three-week foray in the forest had been unsuccessful – the ground was so hard and dry that he had been unable to track the cattle thieves who had been plaguing the town – and he was not looking forward to telling the victims of the raids that he had failed to catch the culprits yet again. As Constable of Carmarthen Castle, he had a duty to protect the town and its livestock, and its people had a right to expect more of him.

He wiped the sweat from his face, wishing he could dispense with his mail and surcoat – it would have been far more comfortable to ride without them. Unfortunately, southwest Wales had never really appreciated being ruled by Normans, and there were plenty who would love to strike a blow against the King by shooting one of his officers. As Cole had no wish to invite assassination, the armour had to stay.

His horse was panting from the heat, so he took it to the river to drink, although it was a while before he found a stretch that was not choked by the foul-smelling algae that proliferated when there was no current to wash it away. While the animal slaked its thirst, he stared downriver at the little town that had been his home for the past fifteen years.

It was dominated by four main features: the Austin priory, pretty St Peter’s church, the castle and the bridge. Cole was proud of the castle. It had a motte and two baileys, and when he had first arrived, it had been a grubby collection of huts and wooden palisades. Now it boasted comfortable living quarters, a chapel and a gatehouse, while the curtain walls were of stone. He was in the process of building watchtowers along them.