The False Virgin

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘You are a witch,’ he hissed, ‘and the abbot will hang you. The best thing you can do is leave Whitby and never return.’

  The following morning saw grief and dismay in Lythe, which had lost not only its saint, but two popular villagers.

  To Reinfrid’s surprise, his brethren greeted Beornwyn’s arrival not with delight, but with consternation: it was not her doing, they breathed, but that of a rogue who had planned to sell her until assailed by fear of divine wrath – a thief who did not care that relations were now soured between the abbey and village.

  It was too near the truth for Reinfrid’s liking, so he took measures to convince the monks otherwise. He began a rumour that Beornwyn had been carried to the abbey by butterflies, the creatures that had covered her murdered corpse. He was somewhat startled when the cook and the almoner, who were impressionable and rather gullible men, claimed they had seen the casket arrive, borne on a cloud of iridescent wings. Everyone believed them, and the monks began to accept that Beornwyn’s appearance was indeed miraculous.

  Meanwhile, the villagers of Lythe marched in a body to the abbey and demanded their property back. They did so with such accusatory belligerence that Abbot Peter, whose first inclination had been to oblige them, could not possibly do so without acknowledging that his monastery was guilty of theft. The villagers left empty-handed and furious.

  That evening, the abbot sat in his solar with his brother, William, who was visiting him from the family home at Broomhill in the Malvern Hills.

  ‘Unfortunately, I suspect Beornwyn’s bones were filched by members of the abbey,’ he said unhappily, swirling his wine in his cup. ‘There was never any miracle, and the cook and the almoner are mistaken about what they saw.’

  ‘You do not believe in miracles, then?’ asked William, surprised.

  ‘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.’

  II

  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 thre
e-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.

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Sergeant Iefan, veteran of many campaigns and Cole’s right-hand man. ‘I have never seen the valley so dry.’

  Neither had Cole, and it grieved him to see the rich forest turned brown and parched, and the once-lush pastures baked to a dusty yellow. If there was no rain soon, the crops would fail completely, and they would all starve that winter.

  When the horses had finished drinking, they rode on, and Cole’s thoughts turned to the family that would be waiting for him. He had not wanted to marry Gwenllian ferch Rhys any more than she had wanted to marry him, but the King had been keen for a political alliance with a princess of Wales, so neither had been given a choice. After a stormy beginning, they had grown to love each other, and their marriage was now blessed with two small children. He hoped there would be more, and ached to see them again.

  As he reached the Austin priory, the gate opened and Prior Kediour stepped out. Kediour’s face was grim, and it became more so when Cole shook his head to indicate that he had not caught the raiders. The prior was an imposing man with thick grey hair, deep-set eyes and a dignified, sombre manner. He was respected by his brethren and the townsfolk alike. Like Cole, he had taken part in the Third Crusade, when he had been a Hospitaller – a warrior-knight. Penance for the lives he had taken in God’s name had later caused him to transfer to a more peaceful Order.

  ‘This cannot continue,’ he said testily. ‘We lost another cow last night, and we shall have no herd left if you do not stop these villains.’

  ‘They are well organised,’ said Cole, a little defensively. ‘One group distracts us while the others strike. Yet if I divide my men, we are stretched too thin.’

  ‘Then you will have to catch them by cunning. Ask your wife for ideas.’

  Cole smiled. Gwenllian was by far the cleverest person he knew, and while other men might have bristled at the implication that their spouses were more intelligent than they, Cole was inordinately proud of his, and was always pleased when her skills were acknowledged.

  ‘Much has happened since you left,’ Kediour went on. ‘You have visitors.’

  ‘From the King?’ asked Cole uneasily.

  John had been crowned the previous year, following the death of Richard the Lionheart. He was a weak, vacillating, deceitful man, and Cole, plain-speaking and honest, had been unable to shower him with the flowery compliments John felt he deserved. The silence had been noted, and Cole had acquired an implacable enemy. Cole’s marriage meant he had a lot of in-laws who would fight if he was dismissed without good cause, so John was busy looking for one, and a veritable flood of emissaries came to assess his accounts, watch the way he built his castle, and monitor his rule. Gwenllian was determined they should not succeed, and had managed to send each one away empty-handed. So far.

  ‘Nicholas Avenel,’ replied Kediour. ‘The new Sheriff of Pembroke. He has an evil reputation, and is accused of despoiling churches and kidnapping wealthy burgesses for ransom. His henchman William Fitzmartin comes with him.’

  ‘I do not know either.’

  ‘John’s creatures,’ said Kediour disapprovingly. ‘Here to find fault. They have not managed yet, but there are those in the town who aim to help them.’

  ‘Adam de Rupe,’ sighed Cole, knowing who he meant. ‘The mayor.’

  Kediour nodded. ‘You exposed him as corrupt, which means he will not be re-elected next month. And his servants Gunbald and Ernebald hate you for gaoling them last year.’

  ‘But they stole from the church,’ protested Cole. ‘They were caught red-handed.’

  ‘Yes, but all three think they were misused regardless. And then there are Miles de Cogan and Philip de Barri. I do not trust either, despite your kindness towards them.’

  ‘Miles is my deputy. He is not an enemy!’

  ‘He is jealous of what you have – namely Gwenllian. He is in love with her.’

  Cole gaped at him. ‘He is not!’

  ‘He is, and everyone knows it. However, Philip worries me more.’

  Cole made an impatient sound. ‘He is Gwen’s cousin – family. Besides, if I am ousted from Carmarthen, he will lose his post as chaplain.’

  ‘Just be careful,’ warned Kediour. ‘However, they and the raiders are not the only problem you need to solve. Come to the Market Square, and I shall show you another.’

  Cole would rather have gone straight to Gwenllian and the children, but he dutifully followed the prior into the town centre. A crowd had gathered, and there was an atmosphere of excited anticipation, all centred on two young men in Benedictine habits.

  ‘They claim they are taking a holy relic to Whitland Abbey,’ explained Kediour with obvious disapproval. ‘The hand of a saint named Beornwyn, no less. But they are Benedictines and Whitland is Cistercian. Why would one Order bestow such a favour on another?’

  ‘I suppose it is odd,’ said Cole. ‘But hardly my business.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it is,’ said Kediour firmly. ‘They announced earlier that Beornwyn grants most prayers if her palm is crossed with silver, and several people plan to invest in a boon. However, I have never heard of this saint, and I suspect they are charlatans.’

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Cole. He hated problems where religion was involved.

  ‘I shall look her up in my library this evening. However, even if she does transpire to be genuine, I do not see why scruffy lads like these should have been entrusted with her.’

  ‘I will speak to them tomorrow and suggest they leave.’ Cole glanced towards the castle and wished he was in it. Not only was he acutely uncomfortable standing in the sun in full armour, but he objected to being kept from his family.

  ‘They have offered to end the drought for a shilling,’ said Kediour, scowling at both the monks and the crowd they had attracted. ‘Mayor Rupe thinks we should pay.’

  ‘Perhaps we should,’ said Cole, squinting up at the cloudless sky. ‘We are desperate for rain, and I am sure no Benedictine would cheat us.’

  Kediour regarded him askance. The constable had a reckless habit of taking people at their word, a facet of his character that often stunned the prior. ‘Do you really believe that everyone who wears a habit is a good man?’

  Cole considered the question carefully, although it had been rhetorical. ‘Yes, generally. I may not like them, but God does or He would not have called them to serve Him.’

  Kediour gaped his disbelief, but was spared the need to reply by the appearance of Cole’s family – Gwenllian, raven-haired and l
ovely; his little son, Meurig; and the gurgling bundle that was baby Alys. Even Kediour’s stern visage relaxed into a smile as he watched the unbridled joy of their reunion.

  Gwenllian was relieved to have her husband home. Despite the recent appointment of a deputy, everyone knew it was really she who was in charge when Cole was away, and she had found the responsibility burdensome. Not only was it difficult to keep Sheriff Avenel and his unsavoury companion, Fitzmartin, entertained, but the unrelenting heat was driving even the mildest of men to ill-tempered spats. Moreover, there was a decision about the new tower that only Cole could make, and people were beginning to fear that drought and the cattle thieves would see them all starve that winter.

  As soon as she could, she sent the children home with their nurse, and pulled Cole into the shop owned by Odo and his wife, Hilde, knowing the couple would leave them to talk undisturbed. Odo and Hilde sold cloth, and had been Gwenllian’s friends for years, although Cole was lukewarm about Odo’s gentle manners and unmanly fondness for the arts.

  ‘There is trouble,’ she began. ‘Avenel and Fitzmartin arrived shortly after you left, and have been prying into every aspect of our lives ever since. They have a letter from the King, giving them leave to do whatever they like here.’

  Cole sighed wearily. ‘Perhaps I should resign and retire to my estates in Normandy. John will win in the end and I am tired of trying to outwit him.’

  ‘No,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘I will not allow him to oust us from our home. You have been constable here for years, and—’

  ‘Quite. Perhaps it is time for a change. It was never intended to be a permanent post – not by King Henry, who put me here, or by King Richard, who confirmed the appointment.’