The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

Dismounting, he tethered the horse a little further down the road in the shelter of the trees and crept back again, until he had the courtyard at the back of the house within his sights. He could hear a horse stirring in the ramshackle stable in the yard, though it was too dark to make out much beyond dark smudges which might have been a cart and stacks of kegs.

Slivers of flickering yellow light crept out around the edges of the shutters on the upper storey, but they were too feeble even to reach the ground, never mind illuminate the spot where Grey stood. At least, Grey thought, it proved the man he sought must be at home. No one would go out and leave candles burning. The question was – would he leave? If the murderer realised the reliquary was still being sought, he might be panicked into moving it. In the meantime, there was nothing Grey could do but wait, watch and hope.

But by the time the lights were finally extinguished in the upper storey, Grey was so numb with cold and fatigue that he didn’t even notice. In fact, it wasn’t until he saw the light of the lantern coming across the yard and heard the whinnying of the horse in the stable that he realised the man was on the move. Grey’s legs were so cold that it took quite a time for him to move himself and it took several attempts before he could heave his stiff body onto his own mount. He had only just settled himself in the saddle when he saw the horse and its rider trot out of the yard.

He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, urging her to follow, while trying to keep as much distance as he could between himself and the rider ahead without losing sight of him. He quickly realised they were leaving the village and heading straight down the road that led to the Hutt. Grey felt his stomach tighten in excitement. The thief was doing exactly what Grey had hoped he would do: leading him to the reliquary.

On such a still night, the hoofbeats of the horse he was following rang out as clear as a church bell and as the iron struck the stones on the track it sent up a shower of blue sparks in the darkness. It occurred to Grey that if he could so clearly hear the other horse, its rider would also hear him following. He turned off the path and forced his beast to walk on the grass, but Grey was anxious to keep as close behind as he dared. If the murderer had hidden the reliquary in the forest then he could turn off the track without warning and Grey might lose him, just as Richard had done.

Low wisps of white mist wrapped themselves around the roots of the trees, snaking over the track. Grey prayed it would not rise any higher. As the road wound deeper into the forest, the bushes crept closer to the track and the grass verge disappeared, so that several times Grey was forced to leave the line of the road and weave his way through the trees. But that was no bad thing, he told himself. If the rider ahead did happen to glance round, the forest would hide him.

Then, as Grey emerged from the trees, he saw to his consternation the track ahead was empty. Only a swirl of mist hung between the trees, glowing like a spectre under the starlight. Grey reined in his horse and listened. Then he heard the sound of breaking twigs away to his right and a little ahead. He coaxed the horse forward and suddenly saw that they had reached the narrow path that wound away to the Hutt. Even as he stared along it he glimpsed a figure on foot moving towards the door and, moments later, slip inside.

Grey quickly dismounted and, tethering his horse in the cover of some trees close to the track, he edged along the path, keeping his eyes fixed on the door, ready to dart into the undergrowth should the man re-emerge. Several times, he heard the sharp retort of a twig snapping beneath his feet and cursed himself for his own clumsiness. But the door didn’t open and he guessed that the Hutt’s stone walls were thick enough to prevent such sounds being heard inside.

Briefly, the yellow glow from a lantern shone beneath the door, vanishing almost at once. Grey crept up to the door and put his ear cautiously to the wood. Inside he heard a scraping, as if something were being dragged across the stone floor. Someone was searching for the reliquary. It must have been in there all along, but so cunningly concealed that neither he nor his men had found it.

He waited until there were no more sounds of movement within, then, assuming that the thief must by now have it in his hand, Grey drew his sword with his right hand, while slowly and noiselessly lifting the latch with his left.

He edged into the room, every nerve and muscle taut, his sword arm braced for immediate action. But the man he expected to confront was not there. The room was empty. A lantern stood on the floor. The flames guttered, sending shadows stalking round the walls. But the only other thing moving in the Hutt was Grey himself.

His heart thumping, he cautiously began a systematic search, edging round the walls and using his sword blade to probe between barrels, stabbing it into piles of blankets and straw pallets. The man had to be in here somewhere. He couldn’t just vanish. Grey hadn’t taken his eyes from the door, and the walls were solid stone. There was no other way out. Unless… A sudden thought struck him and he stared up into the beams above. The candle flame in the lantern on the floor illuminated the boxes and piles of bedding on the floor, but by contrast the rafters above were in deep darkness. Anyone might have climbed up there and be looking down on him, ready to drop as soon as he stepped beneath.

Keeping the blade of his sword pointing upwards, Grey backed across the floor, feeling for the lantern behind him with his heels. He banged into it and heard it rolling across the floor, though mercifully the candle did not topple out of the socket. He crouched, grabbing the handle with his free hand, then raised both lantern and sword as high as he could, searching through the shadows between the dusty, cobwebbed beams.

So intent was he on searching the rafters that even when he felt a sudden draught on his legs, it did not at first register on his brain as significant. And when he sensed the movement behind him it was already too late, far too late. Even as he tried to turn, a sack was dragged down over his head and shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. He heard the clang as the lantern and sword fell from his hands. His wrists were grabbed and bound tightly behind him. He struggled to breathe through the coarse cloth.

‘You can shout if you want to, but you’d be wasting your breath. No one’ll hear you. I’m going to take the sack off now. We don’t want you breaking your neck on the steps, not just yet anyway.’

As the sack was pulled free, Grey, gasping for air, smelled at once the odour he had recognised in the church – the pungent stench of fish. He knew without even having to turn his head that the man standing behind him was Yarrow, the churchwarden.

‘Down there!’ Yarrow gave him a shove towards a dark hole, which had suddenly appeared in the corner of the floor. The slab of stone that had covered it stood tipped up against the wall directly behind it.

‘I warn you,’ Grey said, ‘I’m not alone. My men are keeping watch.’

Yarrow laughed. ‘I dare say they are keeping watch – over a flagon of mulled ale back in Blidworth. Do you imagine I didn’t see you following me long before we even left the village? I know you rode here alone. Now walk.’

Grey felt the prick of the knife in his back. He shivered, thinking of Edward’s torn and gashed throat, and he felt sick with fear, expecting any moment to feel the blade ripping at his own throat, but the point did not move from his back.

As he shuffled the three steps to the hole, he thought that he was about to be pushed down a deep pit or well. But when Yarrow retrieved the lantern and held it up over his head, Grey could see a set of stone steps leading downwards from the trapdoor in the floor.