Edward did not let him finish. ‘We could offer to pay twice what the reliquary is worth and we’d still lose it. I know some of the enforcers just take on the role to ingratiate themselves with Cromwell, hoping for advancement by clinging to his backside, and most do it to cream off what profits they may for themselves in jewels or bribes. But Roger Grey’s an enforcer of the worst kind, a fanatic, one of those radical clerics who really believes he’s doing God’s work by destroying idols. If you’d heard him preach you’d know that any man who tries to buy him off is likely to end his days burning on a pyre along with the relics, with Grey warming his hands over the blaze.’
‘Then we must hide it,’ Richard said firmly.
Edward scraped the chair back and stood up. ‘It’s too late, Richard. You can’t hide St Beornwyn in the church. Grey’ll tear the whole village apart till he finds her. As Guild Master you should have seen this coming and whipped our little saint out of sight long before this. But no, you wanted to keep her on view just a bit longer to puff up the importance of your new rank. Was that why you moved here to this piss-poor church as soon as you became Master? You always wanted to be Guild Master for the glory of it, never for the good of the guild.’
Richard sprang to his feet. ‘How dare you? We all know that’s why you were so keen to be Master, because you were the one who wanted to possess the reliquary for yourself. I moved her to St Mary’s so that she could be given every reverence. If you’d been Master you would have had her hidden away and deprived the people of her blessing.’
‘Blessing!’ Edward gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Since when have you sought any saint’s blessing except to beg them to make you Guild Master? I would have kept her safe until this madness is over. How does it feel to be the Guild Master who’s lost the guild its most valuable possession? You can be sure they’ll remember you for the next two hundred years for this.’
He strode to the door and flung it open. ‘I came to give you a friendly warning, Richard, to try to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid, like try to bribe Grey and get yourself arrested. But now I’m going to give you another warning. You carry on roaring at all those around you, like a bull with a bee up its arse, and you’ll end up losing more than just St Beornwyn.’
Father James shifted his feet, trying to seep up the last little warmth left from the warming pan that his housekeeper had used to take the chill from the bed. It was a bitter night. The old rectory had been built a century before and the incumbents of St Mary of the Purification had struggled to wrest enough tithes from the parishioners to maintain the church, let alone make improvements to the house. Most of the ground floor was still taken up by a long open hall, which in winter was as cold as a crypt, and what little heat was produced by the fire vanished instantly up into the open rafters far above his head.
The priest was finally beginning to doze off when he was dragged awake by the sound of the bell clanging in the hall below, followed by the hum of voices. He turned over and tried to bury his head beneath the blankets, hoping that his housekeeper would send the caller packing. But it was not to be. Moments later he heard her footsteps on the stairs and the door to the solar being opened.
‘Father James, are you awake? It’s Master Richard Whitney to see you. I’ve told him it’s too late to disturb you, but he says it’s urgent and won’t wait until morning. He insists on seeing you, Father.’
Father Jones let out a curse that was far from godly, wrapped himself in a balding rabbit-fur robe to cover his nakedness and pushed aside the hangings round his bed. He forced his cold feet into his colder shoes, still cursing, and padded down the steps.
Richard was pacing impatiently up and down the hall.
‘If this is about that wretched candle . . .’ Father James said crossly.
Richard flapped his hand impatiently. ‘It is not. This is a far more pressing matter. But don’t imagine I’ve forgotten about the candle. If it isn’t returned I shall insist on being paid the worth of it. But that matter will have to wait now. I’ve heard some disturbing news.’
He suddenly glanced up the staircase and Father James, turning, glimpsed the movement of a shadow on the bend of the stair. He guessed his housekeeper was standing just out of sight, doubtless listening to every word. Richard must have realised it too, for he beckoned urgently to the priest.
‘Come with me and bring the church key. I shall tell you on the way.’
Father James felt his fury mounting. The boorish oaf actually thought he could turn up at this late hour, drag his priest out of bed and demand he go wandering through the village on a freezing night. What was it this time – a missing coin? Or did Richard want himself painted on the church wall sitting next to Christ in heaven? It wouldn’t have been so bad if the butcher had even half the faith of his own apprentice, but Father James was certain the only reason Richard ever set foot in any church was to lord it over others, for it certainly wasn’t to pray.
He folded his robe more tightly around his shivering body. ‘Unless someone is dying and in need of the last rites, nothing can be so urgent that it cannot wait till morning. In case you haven’t noticed, Master Richard, I have already retired. Now go home to your wife. God knows, the poor woman could do with some company.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Richard demanded. ‘What has my wife been saying?’ His face had flushed red with fury. ‘If she’s confessed to you . . . if she’s admitted . . . it’s your duty to tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’ Father James blinked bemusedly at him. ‘I only meant that you’re so often away on business and guild matters that your wife must be glad of your company when you are at home.’ He shivered again as the icy draughts in the hall crept up his bare legs. ‘If I had a wife to warm my bed on a night like this, I’d be only too anxious to get into it and stay there.’
But Richard was not a man to be denied anything he had set his mind to, and against his will the priest found himself dressed and out in the street, hurrying up to the church with Richard striding along beside him. It was as dark as the Devil’s armpit and bitterly cold outside. The street was deserted and in many houses the oil lamps and candles had already been extinguished.
Richard held the lantern at his side, half-muffled by his cloak, and several times Father James stumbled on the path already slippery with frost. Finally he snapped at Richard that if he wasn’t going to light their path, there was little point in having brought a lantern at all.
‘I don’t want to be seen entering the church at this hour.’
‘Believe me, I don’t want to be entering the church at this hour,’ Father James retorted. ‘And I think we can be certain no one is going to be standing at a freezing casement watching you or anyone else at this time of night.’
But Richard continued to hoard the light as if it was gold. Not until they were actually inside the church did he uncover the lantern, and then he was careful to set it where it wouldn’t be seen shining out through the windows.
It felt even colder in the church than it had been on the street. Having spent a year in a monastery as a young man, before deciding that the life of a priest offered more prospects and considerably more comforts, Father James thanked God he was not required to attend those midnight services that the monks had once had to endure. He sometimes thought King Henry had done the monks a favour by closing the monasteries. He clamped his hands beneath his armpits to warm them.
‘Now that you’ve dragged me here what do you want?’ Father James asked irritably.
Richard could use words sparingly when he chose and he swiftly recounted the news Edward had brought.
‘. . . so we must hide St Beornwyn without delay. She’s the patron saint of the Butchers’ Guild and we cannot lose her.’
For once Father James was in agreement, though he couldn’t help thinking her value to the guild, and to Richard in particular, had less to do with the precious strips of skin flayed from the holy saint’s dismembered corpse than with the gold and jewels that e
ven now glittered in the softly flickering lantern light.
The priest nodded. ‘I’ve been considering what we should do if they came for her.’ He nodded towards the church tower. ‘I thought about moving her up there, hiding her in a box beneath the coils of rope stored there, but the Royal Forest Wardens sometimes climb up the tower to search for fires or signs that men are poaching. If they’re left on watch for several hours, they might easily stumble upon her, especially if they start moving things to make themselves comfortable.’
Father James rasped his stubbly chin. ‘No, the only safe place I can think of is to lay her in one of the tombs beneath the flagstones, though I am loath to disturb the resting place of the dead. Yet her presence would surely hallow the grave of any man and I cannot think the dead would object to protecting her, as she does them.’
‘Out of the question,’ Richard said. ‘Have you forgotten that beneath the gilding her statue is made of wood? It would rot. Besides, tombs are the first places a man like Grey would look. He must be well used to all the hiding places in churches by now and he’s bound to notice if a slab has been loosened.’
Richard unfastened his cloak and dragged down a large empty sack that was draped across one shoulder. Then he unwound a length of soft woollen cloth from around his waist. No wonder he didn’t seem cold when we were walking, the priest thought.
‘The only safe thing to do,’ Richard announced, ‘is to remove the reliquary from the church. I will take it.’
‘What!’ Father James said. He couldn’t believe that he’d heard correctly. ‘You can’t take her. Where would you keep her? Your house is wooden – suppose there was a fire? Besides, as soon as the enforcer finds the statue missing he’s bound to come questioning the members of the guild and he is sure to start with its Master, especially once he discovers you live in the village and had every opportunity to remove the reliquary.’
But Richard was already striding towards the saint. ‘If he should question me, I assure you I’m more than capable of handling some snivelling little cleric.’
He laid the woollen cloth out on the ground, ready to wrap it around the reliquary. ‘Don’t worry, Father. I’ll not burden you with the knowledge of where I shall conceal it. Then you may say in all conscience that you don’t know where it is. I’d have thought you’d be relieved that you will not be forced to lie to a brother in holy orders.’
The morning sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky, but it may as well have been the moon for all the warmth it had in it. In the small slaughter yard Richard prised open the mouth of the freshly killed pig, searching beneath the purple tongue for any signs of the white ulcers that would give a man leprosy if he ate the flesh. Thomas, his journeyman, glowered at him behind his back. Thomas had inspected the pig thoroughly before buying him from the farmer and resented Master Richard checking up on him as if he couldn’t be trusted to know his job.
Oblivious to Thomas’s malevolent stare, Richard studied the line of the eviscerated carcass of a bullock hanging from the beam above to ensure the troughs placed beneath it would catch the dripping blood. He didn’t intend to see a single drop go to waste. All the goodwives in the village were making blood puddings to keep out the cold. The carcass steamed in the cold air, as if it was already roasting.
Richard glared at young Alan, who was struggling to heave the wooden pail of guts and lights to the shed. He was a tall lad, but weedy as a sapling starved of light. Once again the boy had bungled the throat-cutting of the pig, forcing Thomas to step in and finish the job swiftly and cleanly.
‘Swift and deep, lad, put some muscle into it. Then the beast will drop like a stone.’
Even then the brat had closed his eyes against the sight, rather than watching carefully and learning.
‘You’ll have to learn to kill, boy, if you’re ever to make a butcher,’ Richard said. ‘What do you intend to do, lead the cow out to the shop and tell the customers to hack a leg off themselves if they want a joint of beef ?’
Both men laughed and Alan flinched.
Thomas gave him a shove. ‘You’ll get the hang of it soon. After you’ve killed the first one, rest is as easy as shelling peas. Anyway, what’s up with you? You’ve been right mardy this past week. Pining after some lass, are you?’
Alan turned and gave Richard a reproachful look, before lowering his gaze to the bloody pail again.
Richard knew at once what ailed the boy. He’d been sulking ever since he’d discovered the reliquary had been removed from the church three days ago.
‘Beornwyn has gone, Alan. And it’s as well that she has, for your sake. At least you’ll not be tempted to break the law again and risk dire punishment.’
The boy flashed him a look of resentment and pain. ‘I’m not afeared of the King’s men. St Beornwyn risked her life for her faith. I’d risk my life for her too.’
The journeyman snorted. ‘You’ll be risking your life all right if you don’t get a move on and shift those pails. Saints won’t put food in your belly or a roof over your head, but a good sharp butcher’s knife will. That’s the only thing you want to be kissing, that and a buxom lass.’
‘The boy doesn’t need his head filling with thoughts of women of any kind, saints or tavern girls,’ Richard said sharply. ‘He doesn’t even have room enough in his head to remember what he’s been taught. Now, finish up here and don’t be late opening the shop.’
Without even waiting for an acknowledgement of his orders, Richard strode out of the yard and made his way towards his house. Most tradesmen lived in the upper storeys above their shop, but Richard was wealthy enough to afford a separate house, well away from the stench of the slaughter yard, which had made the money to buy that house, at least what money he’d earned himself. Much of his wealth had come from his marriage to Mary, but Richard had long forgotten that inconvenient fact, as most men in his position did.
Ever since he found Edward sitting alone with his wife, Richard had taken to arriving home at unexpected times to see if Edward was paying any more visits. But each time he’d returned he’d found her alone or out walking or shopping with her maid. And on this occasion the house was once again deserted, with not even William, his manservant, answering his calls. This was not, he supposed, unexpected. The manservant had told him he was taking the wagon to fetch wood. With the nights as cold as they were, the stack of fuel for the fire had shrunk alarmingly these past few days.
But Richard was both annoyed and alarmed. He realised he should have left instruction that his wife and Jennet were to remain in the house whenever William was absent, and William should guard the house when they went shopping. Suppose someone broke in? It would be terrible to be robbed at any time, but with the reliquary in the house . . . Not that his wife or the servants knew he had the reliquary. Nevertheless, he must impress upon them that the house was never to be left unattended. He would invent some story about a gang of robbers being reported as heading to these parts. That would frighten them into staying close to the house.
After calling out once more to ensure the house was indeed empty, Richard hastened to the solar and checked the lock still remained in place on the stout iron-banded chest. It was rather too obvious a hiding place, but it was the first place he’d found, when he returned that night from the church, where he could place the reliquary unobserved by anyone in the house. But a locked chest was the first place any thief or prying cleric would examine.
Richard had been pondering the matter ever since and finally resolved that if he could remove some of the oak panelling, he might be able to create a niche behind it where the statue could be hidden. The question was, who could he trust to carry out the work without talking? He would have to employ a craftsman, for though Richard could slice a pig into neat parcels in less time than it took a goodwife to pluck a chicken, he had no skills with wood, and any false panelling must appear indistinguishable from the solid walls when it was finished, else the hiding place would be discovered at once.
He was pacing the rooms, tapping on walls and trying to find exactly the best place for such a concealed compartment, when he heard someone else tapping on the door that led into the passage from the courtyard at the back of the house. Assuming it must be one of the servants, somewhat irritably he went to unfasten it.
But it was not one of the servants who stood there. Instead he was confronted by two men, both dressed in patched and ill-assorted clothes, their heads and half their faces muffled against the cold. Richard’s first instinct was to slam the door, but one had already wedged his stave inside, preventing that.
Richard tried to muster as much authority as he could. ‘What . . . what do you want? If you want alms, go to the dole window in the church. I tolerate no beggars here.’
‘We are not seeking alms, Master Richard. We have a matter of the utmost importance we would like to discuss with you.’
Richard was taken aback by the gentle, cultured tones of the man, in contrast to his appearance, but that only made him more wary. An educated man had no business to go around dressed as a beggar. He was obviously a knave or a thief.
‘Come and see me at my place of business. I don’t barter for beasts in my own home.’
‘We are not here to sell you a cow, Master Richard. It concerns something altogether more valuable and it is we who wish to purchase it from you.’
Richard hesitated. He had no intention of admitting these men into the house. Two of them together could easily overpower him and he had no way of knowing if they were concealing any weapons beyond the staves in their hands. But the man seemed to understand Richard’s wariness, for beyond holding the door open he made no move to force his way in.
The stranger glanced behind him. The courtyard was deserted save for Richard’s own horse in the stable, but even so, he lowered his voice, still keeping the cloth across his mouth and nose so that Richard had to lean towards him to make out the words.
The False Virgin Page 31
