The False Virgin

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘You were right,’ said Kediour, following the direction of her gaze. ‘The spring is half the size it was, and the town’s ardour for Beornwyn is fading fast. However, a dogged minority remains, and they are fervent in their love for this so-called saint. Odo and Hilde are among them, and I fear for their souls.’

  Gwenllian could see both kneeling at a makeshift altar. Then Philip approached and whispered something to them. They held a brief conversation, but all three had gone by the time she had left Rupe’s house and reached the chapel.

  Determined to have answers, she visited the Eagle. The landlord was reluctant to discuss his customers at first, and it took an age to persuade him, so she was tired and irritable by the time she had cajoled him into confirming that the sheriff and his friend had indeed visited the previous evening. However, Avenel had pleaded exhaustion and had left around midnight; Fitzmartin had stayed, eventually falling asleep on the table.

  ‘His snores kept me awake all night,’ the landlord grumbled. ‘I would have poked him, but he has a nasty temper so I did not dare. He slept until dawn, when word came about Rupe.’

  So, thought Gwenllian, Fitzmartin was not the killer, but the landlord’s testimony put Avenel out alone at the salient time. She walked slowly back to the castle, deep in thought.

  As she passed the shrine she saw Avenel slouching towards it from the direction of the town. Hilde was right, she thought, watching him covertly: the sheriff had changed from the arrogant, superior man he had been when he had first arrived. He was quieter, sombre and definitely troubled. Was it his conscience, uneasy with murdering civilians?

  After a moment, Fitzmartin appeared, and stalked towards the priory gate, where Kediour was chatting to a lay-brother. The henchman snarled something in a low voice, and ended his words with a hard poke in the chest that made Kediour stagger. Gwenllian ran towards them, ready to berate Fitzmartin for laying hands on a priest. He sneered at her before going on his way.

  ‘He is vexed with me for asking questions about the churches he is said to have despoiled,’ explained Kediour, rubbing the spot where he had been jabbed. ‘He threatens to kill me if I persist, which hardly leads me to think him innocent.’

  ‘Then stop,’ said Gwenllian, alarmed. ‘Symon will lose his post for certain if you are murdered. A mayor and a deputy may be overlooked, but not an important churchman.’

  Kediour smiled fondly at her. ‘Do not worry about me. I have not forgotten all the skills I learned as a Hospitaller, and besides, I suspect Fitzmartin is all wind.’

  Gwenllian was not so sure. Then she frowned. ‘Is Odo rubbing his back?’

  ‘Unfortunately, his “cure” was only temporary. It is a pity. I would have liked to have seen something good come out of this miserable business.’

  They glanced up at the sound of hoofs, and Gwenllian felt a surge of joy when she saw Cole. Behind him, his soldiers grinned as they escorted a score of bound men. The prisoners were sullenly defiant, and nearly all wore the conical hats popular in Dinefwr – the kind that Rupe had favoured.

  ‘There is a good reason why we caught them so quickly this time,’ said Cole as he dismounted. ‘Their leader – and fellow Dinefwr man – was not available to give them details of our patrols and plans.’

  Gwenllian gaped as she struggled to understand the import of his remark. ‘What are you saying? That Rupe controlled them?’

  Cole nodded. ‘I should have guessed when Reinfrid described what he had observed about the thieves – that their leader shouted orders in an unusually high voice.’

  Gwenllian recalled Rupe’s falsetto screeches during the scuffle in which Gunbald had been killed. ‘A local leader would explain a great deal.’

  ‘Especially one who attended meetings in which our strategy for tracking the thieves was discussed. Moreover, several prisoners have already told me that the raids were all his idea.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Gwenllian, shocked by the betrayal. ‘He is . . . was our mayor.’

  ‘Dinefwr is also suffering under the drought, and Rupe has family there. He knew he was finished here, so he decided to avenge himself by stealing our livestock – and helping his kin at the same time. Of course, that was before the “miracle” he claimed to have funded. After it, he must have begun to hope that he might be re-elected.’

  They both turned as someone approached. It was Fitzmartin, Avenel at his side.

  ‘We have just been informed that Rupe was behind these raids,’ the henchman growled. ‘When the King hears, he will confiscate every last penny that villain owned. He will crush his treacherous relations, too.’

  ‘No,’ said Cole sharply. ‘The dry summer has brought death and famine to Dinefwr, and there is nothing to be gained from persecuting them.’

  ‘Besides, I suspect Rupe has already given them most of what he owned,’ added Gwenllian. ‘You must have noticed the shabby furnishings in his home. And there is the fact that he was obliged to ask for donations to help him build Beornwyn’s chapel.’

  ‘But he publicly accused you of murdering your deputy,’ said Avenel softly to Cole. ‘Why not let his thieving kin pay the price for his flapping tongue?’

  ‘Because it is better for the region that we do not,’ replied Cole. ‘It would lead to all manner of feuds. Please do not mention it to the King. Simply say the culprits have been caught.’

  Avenel stared at him with an expression that was impossible to fathom. It made Gwenllian acutely uneasy, but there was no time to ponder, because Iefan had arrived. The sergeant’s face was pale with shock as he blurted his news to Cole.

  ‘Those two monks are dead, sir,’ he gasped. ‘Strangled, like the others.’

  ‘Well,’ drawled Fitzmartin slyly. ‘I suppose that proves their innocence.’

  It did not need a close look to see that Reinfrid and Frossard had died by the same hand as Miles and Rupe. The only difference was that Frossard had a bruise on his temple.

  ‘He must have been stunned by a blow to the head,’ surmised Cole, ‘allowing the killer to dispatch them one at a time. Frossard is larger, and would have put up more of a fight, so he was disabled first.’

  ‘When did you last see them alive?’ asked Gwenllian of the gaoler.

  ‘Noon,’ said the gaoler wretchedly. ‘Two hours ago.’

  ‘I assume you were at your post all that time,’ said Cole. ‘Who came down here?’

  The gaoler was as white as snow. ‘It is so hot today, sir, so I went to the kitchen for a cool ale . . . But no one ever comes down here! I did not think it would matter if I left them alone for a short while.’

  He stopped when he saw Cole’s disgust, and scurried away with relief when he was ordered to remove the bodies so that the cell could be used for the cattle thieves. Their arrival and the interviews that followed kept Cole busy for the rest of the day. Gwenllian spent her time with the children, but they were asleep by the time Cole had finished with his prisoners. He trudged wearily into their bedchamber just as the last of the daylight was fading.

  ‘If your gaoler is telling the truth about the time,’ Gwenllian began, having thought about the most recent murders all afternoon, ‘we can eliminate Odo and Hilde as suspects, not that they were ever serious contenders in my eyes. They were at the shrine when the monks were killed. I saw them there myself.’

  ‘Who is left then? Fitzmartin? He seemed unmoved by the news of their demise.’

  ‘He has an alibi for Rupe, which means he did not kill the monks either – I am sure we only have one garrotter at large. Our sole remaining suspects are Philip and Avenel. I cannot see my little cousin as a killer; he does not have the strength.’

  ‘It takes no great power to strangle a man from behind,’ said Cole soberly.

  ‘I was alluding to a different kind of strength. I do not believe he has the fortitude to dispatch four victims.’

  Cole was about to argue when there was a commotion at the bottom of the stairs. Within moments Avenel burst in, an indignant Iefan a
t his heels. The sheriff was agitated, and made no apology for invading their privacy.

  ‘I cannot find Fitzmartin. He was meant to meet me in the Coracle, but he is not there.’

  ‘Are you his keeper then?’ asked Cole archly. ‘He cannot look after himself ?’

  ‘Of course he can,’ snapped Avenel. ‘But he told me that he knew the killer’s identity, and would reveal it when I arrived at the tavern. I have a bad feeling that he has put himself in danger in his eagerness to make amends.’

  ‘Make amends?’ queried Gwenllian. ‘With whom? You?’

  ‘Yes. Your chaplain has uncovered evidence that proves Fitzmartin has desecrated churches and ransomed their parishioners. Needless to say I am unimpressed, and Fitzmartin has been at pains ever since to win back my approbation.’

  ‘It is a trap, Symon,’ whispered Gwenllian as Cole stood. ‘Do not go.’

  ‘I never thought you were the killer, Cole,’ said Avenel, stepping closer as he tried to hear what she was saying. ‘I would not have saved your life if I thought you were. Fitzmartin disagrees, but he is a fool – he thinks you weak for declining to expose Rupe’s perfidy, but I see wisdom in the decision. You and your lady are good rulers, and I shall say so to the King.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gwenllian coldly. ‘However, Symon is still not going with you. We shall lend you some soldiers, and they will help you search for your friend.’

  Avenel smiled slyly. ‘I outrank him – he cannot refuse me. However, I would rather he came willingly. It would be so much more pleasant for us all.’

  ‘Then I shall come, too,’ determined Gwenllian.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Cole in alarm.

  ‘Of course you may,’ said Avenel smoothly. He held out his hand. ‘I shall escort you myself.’

  With the sense that matters were moving far too fast for her to understand, Gwenllian allowed the sheriff to lead her down the stairs and into the bailey.

  The dark streets were oddly empty as they hurried through them, because people had sought cooler places to be – taverns, the church and even the parched river, where some still bathed in its fetid shallows or slumped on its banks in the vain hope of catching a breeze.

  Gwenllian’s heart pounded with anxiety. She knew, with every fibre of her being, that something bad was about to happen, and wished she had had the presence of mind to grab one of Symon’s daggers before she had left.

  ‘Look,’ said Avenel suddenly, ducking into a doorway and indicating that Gwenllian and Cole should do the same. ‘Odo and your cousin. They have been together a lot of late, but when I ask them why, they tell me they are praying.’

  ‘Perhaps they are,’ said Gwenllian, trying to control the tremor in her voice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Avenel, with one of his unfathomable looks. ‘But it is an odd alliance, do you not agree? And where can they be going at such an hour?’

  Gwenllian had no answer, but was indignant when Avenel began to follow them. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but the furious look he shot her made her close it again. Cole held her hand as they walked, and together they saw Odo and Philip stop briefly in the church, then aim for the road that led north. The moon was almost full, and was shockingly bright in the clear sky, so trailing them was ridiculously easy.

  ‘They must be going to the shrine,’ whispered Avenel.

  But Odo and Philip continued past it and the priory, so that Gwenllian could only suppose they intended to visit Merlin’s Hill, from which Odo liked to study the stars. She wondered why Philip should have chosen to go with him: the chaplain had shown no interest in astronomy before. Avenel stooped suddenly and picked something up from the road. It was a buckle, distinctive for being elaborately engraved.

  ‘Fitzmartin’s,’ he said, peering at it in the moonlight. ‘From his tunic. There must have been a struggle and it fell off.’

  ‘Here is blood,’ said Cole, bending to inspect dark spots in the dust. He soon found more on the well-worn path that led to the shrine. ‘It is damp, so it has not been here long.’

  ‘The killer has abducted Fitzmartin,’ declared Avenel. ‘The fool! He should have confided his suspicions to me, and we would have tackled the villain together.’

  ‘I do not trust any of this,’ hissed Gwenllian, plucking at Cole’s sleeve to whisper in his ear. ‘It has a contrived feel. Avenel intends to win the King’s approval by luring you to the chapel – it will be deserted at this time of night – and killing you.’

  ‘Hurry,’ ordered Avenel sharply, and Cole had no choice but to obey.

  Gwenllian could not move fast enough to keep up with them. She lagged behind, hampered by her skirts, and feeling sick when she saw more splashes of blood. Absently, she noticed that the stream flowing from the spring was now no more than mud; it would not be long before it dried up altogether.

  The shrine looked forlorn in the dark, with no roof and no pilgrims, although there was a rosy glow inside where candles had been left burning. Then she heard a familiar voice. It was Kediour.

  ‘Gwenllian?’ he called. ‘It is safe now. A sharp blow to Avenel’s head has put an end to his mischief. Symon is tying him up for me.’

  Gwenllian hurried forward, but stopped in alarm when she saw not Cole securing the sheriff, but both men sprawled senseless on the floor. Then the door slammed behind her, and she turned very slowly to see Kediour holding a crossbow.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said the prior softly. ‘I had hoped to resolve this business without further loss of life. Now I am afraid you must die, too.’

  Gwenllian gaped at Kediour in disbelief. There was a knife in his belt and the crossbow was unwavering. With lurching terror, she recalled that he had been a Hospitaller, a warrior-knight who had earned his spurs in the bloody slaughter of the Crusade. Then she glanced at Cole and Avenel. The sheriff was beginning to stir, hand to his head, but Cole lay still.

  ‘I was obliged to stab poor Symon,’ said Kediour, in the same apologetic voice. ‘I wish it could have been avoided. I liked him, even if he did admit to manhandling sacred relics in the Holy Land. I only stunned Avenel, though, as I shall need his help to arrange the bodies.’

  ‘Bodies?’ whispered Gwenllian.

  ‘Fitzmartin,’ replied Kediour, and she saw a third man on the floor. He had been garrotted, and drips from the wound had left the trail that Cole had followed. She noticed the fine metal chain that held Kediour’s pectoral cross, and recalled what Symon had said about the murder weapon: that it was something hard, not rope that would have left tell-tale fibres. ‘He made accusations, so I had no choice. I brought him here, knowing it would be empty. You were right: people are already forgetting Beornwyn and her so-called miracle spring.’

  ‘Fitzmartin is the King’s man,’ said Gwenllian shakily. ‘So are Symon and Avenel. His Majesty will send emissaries to discover what has happened to them, and—’

  ‘His Majesty will have heard the rumours about churches despoiled and parishioners ransomed,’ said Kediour in the same soft, sad voice. ‘He will not look too carefully at the disappearance of Fitzmartin and Avenel, while you and Symon have long been thorns in his side.’

  Gwenllian looked at Cole, and felt anger replace shock. ‘I suppose you think you acted righteously,’ she said contemptuously. ‘To prevent a shrine being founded for a saint not recognised by the Church.’

  ‘I did act righteously,’ averred Kediour. ‘God will not want a blasphemous cult on the doorstep of a holy priory, and it was my duty to crush it. I sincerely doubt those monks had Beornwyn’s real hand, given the inconsistencies in their tale, and the whole thing was based on deceit. The souls of hundreds were in peril, and I did the right thing.’

  ‘I see it all now,’ said Gwenllian, not concealing her distaste. ‘Indeed, I should have known you were the killer when you refused to have Miles’s body in your priory. You could not bear to let a victim into your domain.’

  Kediour grimaced. ‘A foolish superstition for which I am sorry. I was doing God’s
will, and I have no cause to feel guilt or remorse.’

  ‘You were never a suspect because Symon did not know that you had sneaked out of the priory after he had taken you home. But sneak out you did, and you saw Rupe, his men and the two lads praying to Beornwyn. You could not fight five of them, so you decided to secure Symon’s help in cleansing the spot the following day. But Miles was there, too—’

  ‘Performing heathen tricks with his hazel twigs,’ said Kediour in rank disapproval.

  ‘And you feared that if he did discover water near where Rupe and his companions prayed, it might be interpreted as the saint’s doing.’

  ‘Well, I was right,’ said Kediour acidly. ‘That is exactly what happened. I thought the affair would be over with Miles dead and the wood defiled by murder, but then the storm came, and what I had hoped to avoid came to pass anyway. The Devil was busy that night.’

  ‘He still is busy,’ said Gwenllian coldly.

  ‘I cannot tell you how shocked I was when I saw the spring the following day,’ Kediour went on, his eyes distant. ‘Of course, the really irritating thing was that it did not flow from the place where they prayed – as Symon noted, it was further to the left. Rupe lied.’

  ‘And so you killed him, too.’

  Kediour regarded her bleakly. ‘He was not only deceiving people with his false miracle, he was profiting from it – taking money from the desperate and the poor. I cannot imagine a greater crime. And now it transpires that he was a cattle thief, too.’

  ‘Reinfrid and Frossard were next,’ said Gwenllian. ‘It was easy for you, a regular visitor to the castle, to wait for the gaoler to slink away for ale. But why bother with them?’