The Medieval Murderers - The False Virgin

The ninth book in the Medieval Murderers series, 2013

Prologue ; In which Karen Maitland tells how a grisly discovery in St Oswald’s Church in Lythe, near Whitby, turns a Saxon princess into a venerated saint.

Act One ; In which Susanna Gregory and Simon Beaufort tell how Beornwyn’s hand is stolen from Lythe by two unscrupulous thieves in the year 1200, and taken to drought-stricken Carmarthen. A violent thunderstorm follows… and so does murder.

Act Two ; In which Nick Zuliani and his grand-daughter Katie travel to a Greek island on a mission for the Doge of Venice, and encounter murder and the cult of virgin saint Beornwyn.

Act Three ; In which Philip Gooden describes how John of Gaunt’s Thames-side place is shaken by a murder linked to a poem about Saint Beornwyn, composed by Geoffrey Chaucer, Gaunt’s protégé.

Act Four ; In which Bernard Knight tells how Saint Beornwyn led to a murder enquiry in 1405 in an obscure priory near the Malverns, which was resolved by Owain Glyndwr.

Act Five ; In which Karen Maitland relates how a Master of the Butcher’s Guild is determined to conceal the guild’s valuable reliquary of Saint Beornwyn, to prevent Thomas Cromwell’s most feared enforcer from destroying it. But when Cromwell’s enforcer arrives in Sherwood Forest, murder follows in his shadow and threatens to destroy more than the precious relic.

Epilogue ; In which Philip Gooden tells of an encounter between a dealer in saints’ relics and a Russian oligarch.

Lythe, near Streanæshalch (Whitby), AD 848

On the dais at the far end of the mead hall, Badanoth, the grey-bearded ealdorman, slammed his huge fist down on the table, causing the horn beakers on it to tremble as violently as the men around him.

‘Oswy is a coward and a traitor, with the heart of a bleating sheep. He will never again be received in this hall. I will not share my cup with any man who crawls on his belly to hide from the enemy. I swear on the skulls of my fathers, if Oswy or his sons set so much as a toe on my lands, I shall impale them on stakes and set them up on the beach for my men to use as targets for archery practice. That at least would put some metal into those wretches.’

One of the bondmaids, Mildryth, glanced over at Badanoth’s daughter, who was staring miserably down at her clenched fists. Beornwyn’s father had never been the most mild-tempered of men – not that any leader could afford to be gentle and forbearing if he had any hope of maintaining a strong rule – but since the death of his wife, Badanoth had grown increasingly irascible and violent. It was as if her passing had made him realise he was growing old and, like an ageing hound, he had to growl and snap ever more savagely to keep the young dogs from turning on him.

And turn on him they might very well do, for Badanoth was the King’s thane, sworn to uphold the law in these parts, but a king’s thane is only as strong and secure as his king, and with the death of King Aethelred of Northumbria, the would-be successors were squabbling over the throne like gulls over a dead fish, with even blood brothers feuding on different sides.

The heavens, too, seemed to have joined in the argument, and the skies had sullenly refused to yield any rain for weeks, leaving the streams dry, crops withering and the livestock needing to be watered by hand from the deep wells. Mildryth sighed. More bad news at this time was the last thing Badanoth needed, but it had arrived, none the less, whether it was welcome or not.

The messenger had come not an hour since with news of another Viking raid on the east coast of the kingdom, the third since the full moon. This last attack had been against the lands of their neighbour, Oswy, a lesser thane, who’d been granted the land that lay along the coast to the north of Lythe, which he was sworn to defend. But, according to the messenger, Oswy had made no attempt to fight to defend the abbey and village where the sea-wolves had landed. His men had simply shepherded the villagers and monks to safety inland, leaving the Vikings to take whatever spoils they pleased, then torch the village and abbey before they sailed away. The flickering orange glow of the flames had been seen for miles in the darkness, making women clutch their children to them and moan.

‘My own countrymen have grown soft,’ Badanoth bellowed, ‘too content to warm their backsides by their fires, telling stories of past glories, instead of practising for war. Ploughing fields and milking cows are all our young men are fit for now.’

He seized the arm of one of the young lads who had the misfortune to be standing close behind him. He pulled back the boy’s sleeve and savagely pounded the hilt of his dagger into the muscle of his forearm.

‘You think this scrawny arm could wield a sword from dawn to dusk in battle? This squab couldn’t even overpower his own grandmother, much less a berserker. At his age I could fire off a dozen arrows in the time it took for the enemy to raise his bow.’

Mildryth saw the lad gritting his teeth, trying not to flinch and desperately attempting to look as if he were ready to fight the entire crew of a Viking warship single-handed. To his credit, when Badanoth finally released his arm, the boy manfully resisted the temptation to massage the bruises, though his jaw was clenched hard. But there was no mockery on any of the faces in the hall. Recounting tales of ancient wars was one thing, but Badanoth was right: it had been several generations since any in those parts had been forced to don a helmet and fight in bloody battle.

They were farmers and fishermen now. They might draw knives or even swords over slights to their honour, but who among them would have the stomach to face the fiercest of all the Viking warriors, the berserkers, men who hurtled into battle clad only in bearskins or wolfskins, who ran howling like wild beasts to hack their victims into pieces? Their onslaughts were so violent that not even hardened warriors could stand against them. Men said that the berserkers became so crazed with bloodlust that when they had slaughtered every man, woman and child in a village they would even turn upon their own comrades, disembowelling one another in their frenzied madness, and all in the name of their murderous god Odin.

Of course, Mildryth knew that all men exaggerate the strength of the enemy, especially when they’ve been defeated, but she had spoken to enough travellers who had seen the horribly mutilated bodies and smoking ruins of abbeys and villages to shudder whenever she heard the name.

She glanced up again at the long table where Badanoth was growling orders for the daily training of all the men, more watches to be posted along the coast, additional traps to be dug and new weapons forged. The thanes and freeborn ceorls around him looked sulky and resentful, as well they might. Trying to wrest a living from the land and sea was hard enough without squandering precious daylight hours on this.

The women shook their heads at the folly of all men. Mildryth knew many privately thought that thane Oswy had chosen the wiser path. Bury the valuables and take the families to safety. Wattle and daub houses could quickly be rebuilt, even a church could be replaced, not so people. Though Christ promised the resurrection of the dead, there were few who were so eager to reach Heaven they wanted to be sent there in pieces, hacked down by a Viking axe.