The False Virgin

by The Medieval Murderers

  The next morning Chaucer returned to the Savoy Palace, intending to see Thomas Banks and to report on his progress, or lack of it. He had it in mind to question John Hall again. But Geoffrey had no sooner entered the cell-like chamber set aside for him, than there came a tap at the door.

  He was surprised when the round-faced priest, Luis, entered and asked to speak to him. Chaucer noticed that he avoided using his name. Otherwise his English was good. Geoffrey motioned Luis towards the only other chair in the room. But the priest shook his head.

  ‘Not in here, if you please, Master . . . Here there are too many sharp ears. Please come to our side.’

  Curious, Geoffrey followed the black-clad figure along passages and up and down flights of stairs until they arrived at a part of the Savoy that was quite strange to him. It was probably no coincidence that they were at the opposite end of the palace to the area where Katherine Swynford and Philippa Chaucer were lodged. For these were the apartments belonging to Queen Constance and her retinue. Luis led Chaucer into a chamber that was as finely furnished as any he’d seen. There was an abundance of gold and silver plate, and of silk hangings. It was a room that openly proclaimed the pious nature of its occupant. Geoffrey observed the images of the Virgin in recesses and a sculpted relief of the crucifixion set on an altar-like table. Scattered across other surfaces, with casual deliberation, were devotional books bound in gem-encrusted leather. There was an ornamental folding screen in one corner, the wooden handiwork of which, to Geoffrey’s eyes, looked Spanish. In the air hung a faint incense-like smell.

  Luis, more at ease now that he was back in his own surroundings, indicated that Chaucer should seat himself in a chair to one side of the fireplace. He sat down opposite. For a moment he dabbed at the gem-studded pectoral cross, uncertain how to begin.

  ‘You told a story in this house quite lately, a story about a saint whose name I find it difficult to get my teeth around.’

  ‘Beornwyn,’ said Chaucer, before adding half under his breath, ‘Beornwyn, yet again.’

  ‘Yes, just so. I too have a story to tell you. It is a short story, Geoffrey – can I call you that? I can get my teeth more easily round Geoffrey. Yes, good. It is a short story about a lady. She is from my homeland of Castile. She marries a man of rank and wealth but, of the two of them, it is she who brings more to the union because her title raises him up higher. They live together under one roof, away from her homeland.’

  Chaucer sighed inwardly. Had he been brought to the priest’s chamber to listen to a tedious allegory about Constance and John of Gaunt? Some impatience must have shown on his face because Luis waved a soft, placatory hand.

  ‘No, no, this is not what you think, Geoffrey. I am not speaking here of the Queen in whose service I toil. I am not speaking at all of your master, Lancaster. I am talking of someone else. This lady, as I say, lives under the same roof as her husband. But her husband has an eye that will not stay still. Is that how you say it in English? An eye that moves all the time?’

  ‘A wandering eye, you mean? He can’t keep his gaze away from other women.’

  ‘It is not a question of eyes only. Ever since they have arrived in this foreign land, husband and wife, he has wandered with his eyes and with more besides.’

  ‘Let me be clear,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We are talking here about Carlos—’

  ‘Hush,’ said Luis. ‘No names, no names. In the end, the lady can bear it no longer. Perhaps her position is made worse because she is dwelling in a foreign land. Her husband will not moderate his behaviour but he becomes more shameless, more lacking in honour. One night not long ago, she finds him emerging from a chamber where he should not be. In her anger she pursues him until they meet and they are – how do you say it? – face to face. They are by the river. Fearing he is about to do her violence, she seizes a knife, which he carries, and she turns it upon him, like this.’

  The priest leaned forward and, with surprising nimbleness, mimed a thrust with a dagger. The jewelled cross swung like a little pendulum.

  ‘He falls to the earth. At first she tries to stem the flow of blood by tearing a strip from her chemise and applying it to the wound. But it is too late. She runs away. The next day the body is discovered by the river. The lady, she comes to me. She confesses her crime.’

  ‘She comes to you because you are a priest? Because you are from the same country as her?’

  ‘Not for either of those reasons. Wait, and you will understand. I know how much the lady has been provoked, but it is still a crime. Geoffrey, believe that I break no secret of the confession. I say again she did not tell this to me as a priest . . .’

  Chaucer felt the ground slipping from beneath his feet. What was the purpose of telling him this confession, relaying it at second-hand? Who was the woman? The wife of Carlos de Flores? He didn’t know de Flores had a wife. But then why should he know? What response was the priest expecting from him?

  ‘I ask you, Geoffrey, what would happen to the lady under English justice?’

  Chaucer hesitated. He did not know. A nobleman had the right to be tried before his peers. But a noble lady? And, anyway, this was a killing of a stranger by a stranger, not by an Englishwoman of an Englishman. Whose business was it to adjudicate?

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Probably better not to bring it to the test?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘I am glad you agree, Geoffrey.’

  There was a pause. Chaucer detected that incense-like scent in the air again.

  The priest continued: ‘I offer a contract, not one that is written down or signed, but a contract all the same. Lately there has been some agitation on this side of the Palace of Savoy about a certain lady who dwells on your side. Indeed, I believe she is a kinswoman of yours by marriage, Geoffrey. Various people on my side have been stirring themselves to cause doubt and confusion on your side – including the gentleman who met his fate down by the river. My idea is this. All doubt and confusion will cease. There will be no more whispers about your lady. In return, the story will be put about that the gentleman died by drowning. We can all agree on that, the English and the Castilians. An unfortunate accident. The dangers of the river. Our troubles will be over. The whispers will stop. We shall live happy and be together.’

  ‘And the lady?’ said Chaucer. ‘What of her?’

  ‘Oh, she has agreed to all of this. She is ashamed of what she has done, deeply ashamed. She wishes to retire from life in this great house. Indeed, she wishes to retire from the life of the flesh altogether, as far as one can do so and still remain on this earth. The lady will join the Benedictines near here at . . . I cannot recall the name of the place but it begins with the letter B—’

  ‘Barking, the abbey at Barking,’ said Geoffrey. That made sense. It was a place that enjoyed royal patronage. Only the daughters of the wealthy and the well connected were admitted there.

  ‘If you doubt my words, you can ask her yourself,’ said Luis, rising to his feet. Indicating that Geoffrey should follow him, he moved towards the Spanish screen in the corner. He folded back one of the panels. Sitting behind it, on a stool, was a young woman. She was handsome, with a hawk-like nose and bold dark eyes. Geoffrey was shaken to realise that, all this time, there had been a third person in the room. He realised too that the pleasant incense-like smell was the scent that she was wearing. She said nothing but nodded her head, once, with abrupt decision.

  ‘Behold,’ said Luis. ‘My niece, Isabella, widow of the late Carlos de Flores.’

  Still she said not a word. Simply nodded, as if assenting to everything her uncle had said.

  She rose to her feet. She was tall, taller than Geoffrey and her uncle. After a moment she leaned forward and took hold of the cross that the priest wore about his neck. She touched her lips to the ruby set on the crosspiece. Then she strode out of the room.

  So it was solved. Or at least it was resolved. The lady Isabella, whose uncle was the priest Luis, took he
rself away from the world and retreated into Barking Abbey. The story got around the Savoy Palace that the unfortunate Carlos de Flores had, after all, and despite those earlier rumours, been a victim of the river. At the same time, the whispers and the stories against Katherine Swynford and her connection with John of Gaunt also died away, at least for a time.

  Thinking about the whole matter later, Geoffrey reflected on the strange parallels in what had occurred. Carlos de Flores had gone in quest of a poem that he could use against Katherine Swynford, a woman whose devout exterior masked her real and passionate self. The Beornwyn poem had dealt with the same subject, a woman with a hidden life, buried feelings. And de Flores had met his fate at the hands of a woman whose fires of rage and jealousy, banked down for so long, had finally burst forth. For all that, the woman, Isabella, said not a word in Chaucer’s hearing. She had been a mute witness to the discussion of her crime and its consequences. Was this silence a self-imposed penance? He could not forget the way she had stooped and kissed her uncle’s cross. In that gesture was surely acceptance, though he could not tell whether it was angry or resigned.

  Quiet returned to the Savoy Palace, although not to the life of John of Gaunt, for his older brother died very shortly after the events related here and the Duke of Lancaster became the most powerful man in the kingdom, in reality if not in title. His liaison with Katherine Swynford continued in the precincts of the Savoy and elsewhere.

  Sir Edward Jupe was reconciled with his lady, Alice Osterley. It seemed that the impetuous, drunken letter that he wrote to her was not couched in such disparaging terms after all. It may have been mildly reproachful but it was also truly loving. Elsewhere, the death of Carlos de Flores might have caused a few female hearts in the Savoy to skip a beat but, if so, there was no one ready to own up to it, and certainly not the unknown lady from whose chamber de Flores had been spied creeping on the night of his murder. Geoffrey returned to Luis the ruby on the gold chain, which had been worn by de Flores. He had no wish to retain something worn by a murdered man.

  And it happened, some weeks after all this, that Geoffrey Chaucer and John of Gaunt were talking together. Good humour was restored. The poem of St Beornwyn was all but forgotten. As far as Geoffrey was aware, every copy had been destroyed.

  John of Gaunt said: ‘I heard a most absurd story the other day, a story about myself.’

  ‘You did, my lord?’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘A rumour appears to be circulating in London that I am the issue of a dragon and a mermaid.’ Gaunt’s tone suggested mockery at the credulity of ordinary folk, but there was also just a note of pleasure in the rumour. ‘Where do you suppose that started?’

  ‘A dragon and a mermaid, eh?’ said Geoffrey Chaucer. ‘I really have no idea.’

  Act Four

  Herefordshire, August 1405

  Prior Paul wore his usual benign smile, which was pasted on as he woke every morning in the affluent little priory of St Oswald and lasted until he went to bed. However, secretly he was very worried. A gnawing concern was eating away at his placid nature and every few minutes, he wandered restlessly over to one of the windows of his parlour in the prior’s house to stare across at the woods to the west. The morning was perfect, the warm sun dappling the bright green of summer and the swelling fruit in the orchards, but he was looking beyond these, fearfully seeking the approach of what might be their nemesis.

  Soon he moved over to another window in his corner room, where he had relief from the westerly view, as he could look up at the blunt end of the Malvern Hills, where the earthworks of the so-called ‘British Camp’ crowned the Herefordshire Beacon. It was an ancient place, where some said the hero Caractacus had fought against the Roman invaders, but the prior pushed aside any thoughts of armies and battle, as they reminded him too clearly of his present concerns.

  The door opened and a mellow voice caused him to turn from his sombre meditations. It was his secretary, Brother Mark – a good-looking and ambitious young man who quite openly admitted his intention of one day becoming an abbot in their Benedictine order. He came across with a couple of sheets of parchment, which he laid on the prior’s table.

  ‘Brother Patrice’s order of services for the coming week, Prior,’ he said. ‘And Brother Arnulf’s accounts for the visitors’ donations last month, as he described in chapter this morning.’

  Paul laid a hand on the documents and thanked his secretary, but his mind was not on chanting or money, important though they were.

  ‘Is there any news from Wales?’ he asked, his smile still in place, but his tone anxious.

  ‘The porter was told by one of the carters who takes our wool that he saw thousands of men camped in the fields beyond Monmouth,’ replied Brother Mark. ‘But that is a good many miles away from here.’

  The prior nodded and sank into the chair behind his table.

  ‘We can only pray to God that they will pass by this place,’ he said fervently. ‘Tell Brother Patrice that we will include extra prayers in every service until this danger is past.’

  After discussing a few more routine matters, the younger monk left the prior to his worries and went down the stairs and out into the inner courtyard of the monastery. Although he had been there for almost a year, Mark was still beguiled by the attractive appearance of the place. Surrounded by a high wall of warm Cotswold stone, the priory was a stout oblong nestling under the shelter of the Malvern Hills, a high ridge that stretched northward for some twelve miles. It was virtually the boundary of Wales, and it was said that eastwards there were no other hills worthy of the name until one reached Muscovy.

  At the end of the priory nearest the hill lay the church, a neat cruciform building with a squat tower surmounted by a pointed roof. The church was built almost against the wall, this situation being dictated by the spring that came up under the floor of the chancel, directly in front of the altar. Brother Mark knew that the priory had been founded here before Norman times because of this spring, which had a wide reputation for healing, especially of ailments of the skin.

  When he looked away to the right, he saw that a score of yards in front of the main door of the church, a transverse wall ran across the oblong compound, cutting it in half. It was pierced by a central gate and beyond this, the more secular part of the establishment lay separated from the monastic area around the church. It contained the guest-house, kitchen, stables, laundry, brewhouse and accommodation for the lay brothers, who did all the manual work in the priory and in the fields outside.

  As he stood on the steps of the prior’s house, built at the inner angle of the cross wall, Mark looked again at the creamy stone of the frater and dorter on his left, where the monks ate and slept. The dorter was connected to the south transept of the church by a passageway that led to the night stairs. This allowed the monks to enter the church for the nighttime services directly from their dormitory over the refectory, without being exposed to the elements. The young monk was well aware that the Benedictine Order was often accused of soft living, which had given rise to several splinter groups, who practised a more ascetic way of life.

  His contemplation of the architecture complete, Mark crossed the inner courtyard to the opposite side of the church, where the chapter house and infirmary occupied that corner of the enclosure.

  As he approached the infirmary, he saw the infirmarian coming towards him.

  ‘Have you much trade today, Brother?’ he asked Brother Louis in a mildly jocular way. The French infirmarian, who had studied medicine at the prestigious school of Montpellier, looked sternly at the younger man, critical of his light-hearted manner.

  ‘If you mean that we have a number of souls needing treatment for their ailments, then yes, trade is good,’ he said haughtily. In fact almost everything about Brother Louis was haughty. He was a thin, erect and stiff-necked man of about fifty, very conscious of his good education and medical skills.

  Not at all chastened by this, Mark delivered a message from Brother Paul.
<
br />   ‘The prior wishes to know how Brother John is faring,’ he said. ‘We were all worried about him last evening when he had another of his seizures.’

  The infirmarian shook his head, more in exasperation than concern.

  ‘Our Brother John is getting on in years. In fact, that is his main problem, as there is little physically wrong with him. He is frail and all we can do is humour him and keep him comfortable for the remaining years of his life, which I fear may not be all that many.’

  Having put the younger man in his place, Louis stalked on towards the long building in the lower corner of the inner compound, opposite the prior’s house. This was the domain of Brother Jude, the cellarer, who was responsible for all the stores, including those that made life comfortable for the residents. A couple of lay brothers were unloading casks of wine from an ox-cart and carrying them through the large doors into the capacious storerooms, but the Frenchman entered through a smaller door into the cellarer’s office.

  Brother Jude was a large, somewhat obese, monk with a full pink face and a red nose, which suggested that he was conscientious in sampling much of the liquor that entered his vaults. Indeed, the first thing he did was to offer the infirmarian a cup of best Burgundy wine and keep him company with a similar libation while they discussed the list of medical supplies that Louis had placed before him.

  When this was done, Jude also enquired after the health of the older brother, John, who had collapsed on his way to matins the previous midnight, after having one of his shaking fits.

  ‘He has been getting worse for months,’ commented Jude as he finished the last of his wine. ‘I often see him from here, walking about the precinct talking to himself, staring up at the sky with his hands clasped as if he is speaking directly to God himself!’

  Louis shrugged indifferently. ‘Perhaps he is, for all we know. There is little I can do about it, as he has no physical infirmity that I can treat. He has been having these fits these many years, but at least they are not getting worse.’