‘We seek the reliquary of St Beornwyn.’
Richard drew in his breath as if the man had just slapped him.
‘Why . . . why come to me?’ he blustered. ‘I know nothing about it. I’ve no idea where it is. It’s probably been destroyed.’
‘It is to prevent the destruction we are here. If you were to stumble across its whereabouts – by accident, of course – we would be pleased to take it to a place of safety, where no enforcer would ever find it. We’d keep it safe until this troubled time has passed. I assure you we would treat it with all reverence.’
Richard almost laughed. ‘Smash it up to get to the gold and jewels, more like. Do you take me for a fool?’
The second man moved closer and Richard hastily took a step back, thinking he was about to push his way through the door, but he carefully laid his stave against the wall and held up both hands to show he was unarmed.
‘We would never destroy a holy relic,’ he said. His startlingly blue eyes darted nervously from side to side, as if he too feared to be overheard. ‘We are Austin canons. The priory of St Mary at Newstead was our home until it was seized and we were evicted, ordered to leave the religious life God had called us to. We were thrown out like beggars with nothing, and our lands sold to Sir John Byron, who is even now tearing the priory apart so that he may live in it. He’s even pulling our church down stone by stone to build his stables and pigsties. May God curse John Byron and all his descendants. But . . .’ He hesitated, glancing at his companion, evidently seeking permission to say more.
The other man gave the briefest of nods.
‘Some of us continue to maintain the order in secret, hidden from the eyes of Henry and that Devil’s spawn Cromwell. We need no gold or silver. Ours was never a wealthy order. And any stone can be fashioned into a table, but it does not become a consecrated altar until a holy relic is placed on it, and without a consecrated altar we cannot say Mass and transform the bread and wine into the body and blood of our Lord. We need the reliquary of St Beornwyn. She’s our only hope. Without that reliquary our order will die as Cromwell intends that it should, and we will not permit his evil to triumph. I assure you the reliquary will find no safer hiding place than with us. And we will pray to her for the health and protection of the man who entrusts her to us, and after his death we would offer Masses daily for his soul.’
To ensure that Masses were said to shorten the soul’s suffering in purgatory was a costly affair, and most men would have agreed to such a bargain at once. But money for such Masses was usually left in a will, and to Richard’s mind there was all the difference in the world between giving away his valuables when he was dead and no longer had any use for them and parting with them now while he was still alive.
‘I can’t help you,’ he said firmly. ‘And I cannot imagine why you should have come to me at all. The reliquary is the Church’s affair.’
The man with the bright blue eyes reached inside his ill-fitting jerkin; again Richard jumped back fearing he might be reaching for a knife, but he withdrew nothing more threatening than a worn leather pouch. The man loosened the drawstrings of the pouch and tipped the contents into his grubby hand – a few gold coins, a garnet ring and other scraps of precious metal and semi-precious stones that had evidently been levered from some box or chalice. He thrust his palm up towards Richard’s face.
‘We’ve gathered together what valuables we could find to offer for the reliquary.’
Richard plucked at one of the broken fragments. ‘And I don’t doubt this is all that would remain of the reliquary of St Beornwyn if you laid hands on it.’
He let the scrap of silver fall back into the man’s hand. ‘As I told you, I know nothing of the reliquary. Now take this rubbish and buy yourselves another relic for your altar. There are bound to be dozens that have dropped off the back of the enforcers’ wagons. And don’t come knocking on my door again.’
He kicked the man’s stave away from the lintel and slammed the door shut, bolting it as swiftly as his trembling fingers would allow. He leaned against the door, breathing hard. It was no coincidence the men had come to the door. They knew St Beornwyn was here or at the very least they must suspect that, as Guild Master, he knew where the statue was.
Only the priest knew he’d brought it to the house. Father James had opposed it being taken from the church. Was he behind this, trying to trick him into returning it? Did he really think Richard could be persuaded to part with the guild’s most treasured possession for the offer of a few prayers or a bag of scrap that wasn’t even worth the value of the gold in the saint’s crown? Those men probably weren’t monks at all, just rogues Father James had hired to intimidate him. But one thing was now clear to Richard: he’d have to find a much more secure hiding place, and swiftly too.
There were few men more fitted to the names that birth had seen fit to bestow upon them than Roger Grey. He was a short, spare man whose hair and eyes were the hue of gathering rain clouds, and his dark, sober clothes only served to accentuate the lack of any colour in the cleric, as if he was a rag that had been washed rather too often. But his appearance belied a nature that was as hard as steel. And though his fond parents had simply thought Roger a pleasing forename for their infant, it was as if from birth their son had determined to become that very spear from which his Christian name derived, pressing the sharpened point of his zeal into the tender side of every priest and abbot in the land.
As Grey walked into the church of St Mary of the Purification in Blidworth in the company of Father James, his skin prickled in the presence of unseen idolatry, just as a hunter senses when a dangerous boar lies hidden in a thicket.
Grey cleared his throat with a dry cough. ‘Since the observance of Candlemas is doubtless more important to this parish than to many others, as this church is dedicated to that feast, I trust, Father James, that you remind your parishioners that the candles are to be lit on that feast day only in memory of Christ himself, and not for his mother, nor are the candles to be used in divination to tell men’s fortunes for the coming year.’
Grey addressed the empty air, before suddenly turning his gaze upon Father James at the end of his speech. It was a trick he found usually caught men unawares, leading them to betray their guilt in their glances. And Father James did indeed betray himself. His gaze had darted at once to the Candlemas cradle. But Grey was not concerned with such petty customs, not on this occasion at least, and he made no comment, preferring to leave Father James to sweat a little.
Grey left the priest’s side and prowled about the church. His practised eye could always spot where candles had recently been lit before the statues of saints, or fragments of leaves showed where images had been decorated with garlands or offerings had been left. But he was not on the hunt for such things now. His objective in this careful search had only one purpose and that was to make the priest nervous. They both knew why Grey was here, but the longer he delayed coming to the point the more likely it was that Father James would give himself away. Grey’s father had been a tanner, and he’d learned as a boy that the longer a hide is left to soak, the easier it is to scrape clean.
Finally, when he judged Father James had sweated enough, he turned without warning to confront him.
‘And where is the reliquary of the false saint?’
Father James moistened his lips. ‘Many believe St Beornwyn to be a true saint. She’s performed many miracles and her story is well attested. There is a book which details—’
‘The story of Judas is well attested. That does not make him a saint. As to her miracles, it is God who grants miracles, not saints, and it is to him your parishioners should be lighting their candles and offering their prayers. But that aside, I am here to take the reliquary away to be examined. If my superiors find the relic inside to be genuine and the saint to be worthy of presenting an example of a holy life to sinners, then rest assured the reliquary will be returned to you.’
‘Have many been returned?’ Father James
asked.
Grey allowed himself a faint smile. ‘You would be shocked, Father, to discover just how many of these relics have proved false. Bull’s blood purporting to be our Lord’s, chicken bones to be the finger of a saint, filthy scraps of cloth from martyrs, which were doubtless cut from some old beggar’s clothes, and skin of holy men that is nothing more than pig hide . . . Your reliquary is supposed to contain fragments of Beornwyn’s skin, is it not?’
‘But the saint was flayed,’ Father James protested. ‘Her skin would have been reverently preserved.’
‘As no doubt is her reliquary, but I do not see it. I understood it was kept on the altar in the chantry chapel. It was the property of the Butchers’ Guild, was it not?’
‘It was removed,’ the priest said carefully. ‘Cromwell said the people shouldn’t place offerings before relics or light candles to the saints.’
For such a cold day, Grey noticed Father James was beginning to look rather warm.
‘Removed to where exactly?’
Father James spread his hands. ‘I honestly don’t know. It has most likely been destroyed, broken up. As you say, it belonged to the Butchers’ Guild.’
‘And do you honestly believe they would destroy their own property?’ Grey asked. ‘Smash a relic that you have just told me everyone revered? No, Father, I can’t believe it has been destroyed, though it has been concealed. Perhaps I should bring in men to search the church and help you find it. My men are known for their enthusiasm and thoroughness, though I regret they are inclined to be clumsy.’
He saw to his satisfaction a spasm pass across the priest’s face and beads of sweat break out on his brow. Grey, however, was convinced the reliquary was no longer in the church. He could usually tell, catching the nervous glance towards the hiding place to check that nothing had been disturbed, the clumsy attempts to lead him away from the spot.
He had fought these kinds of priests all his life. Men granted an easy living as a vicar by reason of their privileged birth. Men who had little faith and less learning, who were more interested in hunting than in their devotions and yet were only too willing to fleece gullible parishioners, like his own parents, of what little they possessed. Grey, from his humble origins, had had to fight his way into the Church with all the zeal and persistence of the crusader storming the gates of Jerusalem, and he was not going to yield the battlefield to such a man now.
And indeed he did not, though Father James didn’t confess easily. But fear of having his own church demolished about his ears and, as Grey hinted, losing his living entirely if he was seen to be obstructing Cromwell’s injunctions was eventually enough to loosen his tongue. Grey left the church quite satisfied with the information he had received.
It was to Grey’s lasting regret that he did not make his way straight to the house of the Master of the Butchers’ Guild on leaving the church. But on learning from Father James that Richard’s wife and servants were unlikely to be aware that the reliquary was even in the house, never mind where it was hidden, he decided to save himself a wasted journey by calling upon Richard Whitney when the butcher returned home after his shop was closed. According to Father James, Richard had little respect for the authority of the Church and was likely to resist if ordered to surrender his treasure, so Grey resolved to collect the two sergeants-at-arms who were currently warming themselves at the inn and take them with him when he went to search the butcher’s house.
Father James had been sternly warned not to try to get word to Richard, and having put the fear of Cromwell, if not of God, into the priest, Grey permitted himself the luxury of lingering over the first good meal he had enjoyed in many days. To his surprise, the inn’s meat pie was every bit as succulent as the serving maid had promised, as was the pork seethed in a honey and onion sauce, so it was a contented man who chivvied his reluctant sergeants-at-arms away from their ale and out into the cold night.
The moon and stars glittered like shards of ice in the black sky, and the men shuffled impatiently as Grey tugged the bell rope outside the door of the Master of the Guild of Butchers. They were ushered into a great hall by an anxious-looking girl and, before the servant had time even to summon her master or mistress, a woman came hurrying down the stairs, stopping in evident surprise when she saw the three men in the hall, for it was clear she was expecting someone else.
Alarm flashed in the woman’s eyes when Grey introduced himself. She made a hasty curtsy.
‘My . . . husband is not here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I was out most of the afternoon, paying a call on a friend. She’s not long been brought to bed with child and I went to take gifts. Jennet, my maid, accompanied me. We stayed until it was near dusk. I hadn’t intended to stay so long, but another friend came and we were all talking, and the baby was—’
‘And your husband?’ Grey interrupted, trying to get her back to the point.
‘It was as we were returning home, that’s when we saw him. We’d just rounded the bend in the path when we saw Richard galloping away from the house at such a furious pace I was afraid he’d fall from the horse and break his neck.’
‘And you’ve no idea why he left in such a hurry? Did a message come for him?’
Mary shook her head. ‘Maybe it was guild business. He didn’t often tell . . .’ She suddenly pressed her hand to her mouth, as if she was trying to stop herself crying, reaching for the back of a chair for support.
Grey eyed her suspiciously. A wife would hardly be so distressed if she thought her husband had simply gone out on business. There was something more to this, which she was not telling him. Did she perhaps think her husband was visiting another woman?
‘In the absence of Master Richard, I must trouble you with the matter that brings us here. Your husband brought the reliquary of Beornwyn into this house. I am here on Cromwell’s orders to take it to be inspected and authenticated.’
The colour drained from Mary’s face and she took a pace forward, sinking into the chair.
‘I don’t . . . know anything about a reliquary,’ she muttered, without looking at him.
Grey paced slowly, very slowly, towards her. Not until he was standing over her with his knees almost touching hers did he speak again. He kept his voice low and even.
‘Mistress Mary, understand I have the power to arrest anyone, man or woman, who tries to conceal a relic. I will take them for questioning and those who are suspected of deliberately defying Cromwell’s orders or thwarting the purposes of the King’s enforcers will be punished, that I can assure you.’
Mary gave a wrenching sob, shrinking back in her chair. ‘I don’t—’
But Grey cut her off, pressing his fingers to her mouth. He could feel her trembling beneath his hand, her breath coming in short, hot snorts.
‘Think, Mary, think very carefully before you lie to me. I know the reliquary is in this house, just as I know that the hiding of it here was none of your doing. A wife cannot gainsay her husband. It’s her duty to obey him. No one will consider you other than a virtuous woman for your loyalty to him, but now is the time to help him.’
Grey took a pace back from Mary and raised his voice so that the maidservant and any others who might be listening should hear him.
‘Just tell me where the reliquary is, or where you suspect it to be, and I shall take no further action against either you or your husband. You’ll be saving him by surrendering it to me. But if you don’t tell me the truth, then both you and he and all your servants will be arrested, for you will all be deemed as guilty as Master Richard.’
He was gratified to hear a terrified squawk from the maid, behind him in the hall. It was exactly the reaction Grey had hoped for.
Jennet rushed to her mistress’s side. ‘Tell him, Mistress. Please tell him! You heard what he said, they’re going to arrest us all. You have to tell him.’
Mary shook her head, struggling in vain to control her sobs.
Jennet stared at her, then
turned to Grey. ‘It was in the chest in the solar. Leastways, I think it was . . .’
Grey nodded. ‘You’re a sensible girl to tell me the truth. Your master and mistress will have much cause to be grateful to you.’ He motioned to the sergeants-at-arms. ‘Bring the reliquary here. The maid will show you where it is.’
But the girl shook her head, twisting the cloth of her apron in her hands. ‘I can’t . . . that’s what I was telling you. It was there, but it’s not now, sir. You go and look. You can see the lock’s been forced; wrenched off, it has. I found it so when we returned. St Beornwyn’s gone!’
Grey spent a restless night in the inn, lying awake in a guttering candlelight, for ever since he was a boy he’d never been able to bring himself to extinguish the light and fall asleep in the dark. The feather pallet on the narrow bed was hard and thin from being compressed by countless sweating bodies. The straw mattress beneath had evidently not been replaced for years, judging by the stink of it. But Grey had slept on much worse and it was not entirely the fault of the bed that he tossed and turned now. It was the missing reliquary that kept him from sleep.
William, the manservant, had been questioned thoroughly and finally admitted that contrary to his master’s instructions he had left the house unattended to take meat to his mother and bedridden father, as he did most days. But, he was swift to add, only what meat the master allowed him as part of his wages. William hadn’t troubled to wait for the mistress to return. He’d never done so in the past, and couldn’t see any need to do so now. Though his master had told him about the gang of robbers, no houses had been broken into in Blidworth, and nor were they likely to be, for what cause would any robbers have to come to a little village when there were much better pickings in Nottingham or Mansfield?
William had had no reason to go upstairs to the solar on his return, so had seen nothing amiss. He’d occupied himself with chopping wood for the fire and drawing the water that the women would need for cooking on their return. He was adamant that while he knew the reliquary had vanished from the church, as indeed did the whole village, he did not know it was in the house.
The False Virgin Page 32
