The False Virgin

by The Medieval Murderers

  Of course, William would have had every opportunity to steal the reliquary himself or to carry it off on his master’s instructions to hide it elsewhere. But Grey suspected Richard would never have entrusted such a task to a servant, and as for William having stolen it, even broken up, the gold and jewels would be impossible for a servant to sell locally without arousing instant suspicion.

  But if William was telling the truth, then either the reliquary had been stolen that afternoon and Richard, discovering the theft, had charged out in pursuit of the culprit, or more likely, Richard had removed it himself, breaking the lock on the chest to make it appear stolen, and had carried it off to a safer hiding place. It would explain why Master Richard had unexpectedly returned home in the afternoon without apparent cause.

  Grey had waited in the butcher’s hall until well past ten of the clock, but Richard had not returned to the house, and, utterly weary, Grey had finally made his way back to the inn, leaving the sergeants-in-arms in Richard’s house, ready to seize him the moment he returned.

  The following morning, Grey was half-way through his breakfast of mutton chops and ale, when one of the sergeants-in-arms appeared in the doorway of the inn. He scanned the dark little ale room rapidly and when he spotted Grey he came hurrying over.

  Grey wiped his greasy mouth on a napkin. ‘Did he return? Have you taken him?’

  The man gazed longingly at the remains of the juicy chops and flagon of ale, almost drooling like a hound. ‘Master Richard’s been seized all right, but it wasn’t at his house. It was at the Royal Hutt in the forest.’

  Grey flapped the napkin at him. ‘I don’t care where he was captured, so long as he is safely held. But what of the reliquary, was that found with him?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘No sign of it whole or in pieces. But that’s not the worst of it. There’s been murder done.’

  Grey leaped to his feet, almost overturning the table. ‘Richard Whitney’s been murdered!’

  ‘Not him, sir. Master Richard’s not the victim, he’s the murderer.’

  It was nearly noon before Grey and his two sergeants-at-arms arrived at the Royal Hutt in Sherwood Forest. It had taken some time to find a man who was prepared to guide them there. Most villagers denied even knowing of its existence, though Grey suspected that they knew very well where it was, but were not going to help an enforcer whom they all knew had come to take their saint from them.

  Eventually, but only after he’d been offered a good purse, a wagoner who lived in another village offered to show them the track that wound through the trees. Grey and his men travelled behind the wagon on horseback at the wagon’s infuriatingly slow pace until it eventually ground to a halt, and the wagoner pointed down a narrow path that led to a small stone lodge among the trees. It had, so he told Grey, been built to shelter the Royal Wardens of Sherwood Forest as they made their rounds searching for poachers and for any man cutting wood without leave or illegally carrying a bow in the forest. For centuries it had been a welcome refuge for the King’s men, especially in the bitter winters.

  Grey dismounted and tethered his horse close to the track. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘We may have need of your wagon to move the body. Where is the nearest village?’ He gestured ahead down the track. ‘Is it that way?’

  The wagoner shook his head. ‘That way leads to Newstead Priory. Leastways, it was the priory till the bastards thieved it from the Black Canons and gave it to one of the King’s fat lapdogs.’

  Both of Grey’s men took a menacing step towards the wagoner, their hands reaching for the hilts of their swords, but Grey motioned them back. Much as he was in favour of cleansing England of the foul corruption of the monasteries, he did not like the way in which such lands were falling into the hands of the wealthy supporters of the King, men no less corrupt than the abbots and priors they were displacing. He could understand only too well the wagoner’s bitterness. Besides, it would not do to annoy the only man who had shown any inclination to assist him, even though Grey knew he would have helped the Devil himself if he were paid enough.

  Leaving the wagoner, Grey and his men followed the path round until they came to the Hutt. Two men in forest wardens’ livery were sitting on a bench warming their hands over a small fire burning in a shallow pit. A third man was sitting on the ground, his back to a tree to which he was tightly lashed. He was a stout man, and a wealthy one too, judging by his fine clothes, but his face was drawn and pale, the flesh sagging as if he’d scarcely slept at all, although a night spent out in the cold had evidently not been sufficient to cool his temper.

  ‘I demand you release me at once,’ he barked the instant he caught sight of the three men.

  ‘Master Richard Whitney?’ Grey stared down at him.

  ‘If you know I’m Richard Whitney you must also know I’m Master of the Butchers’ Guild, and I am not accustomed to being trussed up like one of my own pigs and left to freeze to death in a forest. It’s a miracle I’m still alive after the way I’ve been treated.’

  The forest wardens exchanged weary glances as if they’d been forced to listen to his protestations all night.

  ‘Coroner’s already inside if it’s him you’re looking for. It’s Sir Layton,’ one said, jerking his head towards the Hutt.

  Grey nodded and pushed open the stout wooden door and peered into the gloomy interior. The Hutt was large enough to provide rough shelter for half a dozen men. Pallets and blankets were heaped in one corner, while in the opposite corner were several boxes and barrels of pickled pork and flour. A bundle of dried salt fish swung from a low beam. Deer antlers and goat horns were stacked up in a heap near the door. The thick stone walls were hung with spades, bows, bundles of arrows, coils of rope and mantraps, together with grappling hooks and long brooms for beating out fire. Between them, hanging in what little space was left, were the bleached skulls of foxes and wild boar.

  Two men were bending over what looked at first sight like a heap of cloth, but as they straightened up Grey could clearly see it was a man who lay crumpled up on the stone floor in a puddle of his own dark congealed blood. His head was twisted to one side, revealing a gaping wound in his throat, wide enough for a man to put all the fingers of one hand through.

  Growing up in a tanner’s yard strengthens a man’s stomach, and Grey didn’t flinch or avert his eyes, but found himself, as always, wondering what must go through a man’s mind as he takes the life of another.

  He stepped forward and briefly introduced himself, and the coroner frowned.

  ‘Cromwell’s enforcer? What business brings you out here then?’

  ‘I believe Master Richard Whitney – the man you have tied up outside – to be in possession of a reliquary that he was trying to conceal. It’s that reliquary I’ve come for. I’ve no wish to interfere in your investigation into this death.’

  ‘Reliquary?’ Sir Layton shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask the wardens about that. It was they who caught Whitney, red-handed too, in every sense. Gave a good account of what happened. Observant men, the wardens. Makes a change from most of the witnesses I have to question. Most of the halfwits wouldn’t notice if their own backsides were on fire.’

  ‘The wardens saw the murder then?’ Grey said.

  ‘As good as,’ the coroner replied. ‘They were heading to the Hutt through the trees last night when they saw a rider come galloping up the other way. He sprang off his horse and ran inside. Naturally, they ran towards the Hutt too, thinking it might be a poacher. Burst in to find Whitney kneeling over the body, his hands covered in blood. Soon as he saw he’d been discovered, he barged the wardens aside and ran out, but one gave chase and threatened to put an arrow between his shoulder blades if he didn’t stop. He had the sense to give himself up.’

  ‘So he’s admitted killing this man?’

  Sir Layton gave Grey the kind of withering look schoolmasters reserve for particularly stupid pupils. ‘Have you ever known a man confess to murder except to a priest, and then only wh
en he’s standing on the gallows? Naturally Whitney said what they all say when they’re caught with a corpse: that he stumbled over the body in the dark and was just feeling to see if the man was actually dead. But the forest wardens have slaughtered enough beasts to be able to tell how long a man’s been dead. They’re certain this man had only just been killed when they burst in.

  ‘According to them it was a clear night. Said they could see the walls of the Hutt glistening in the moonlight as they were coming through the trees. They’re certain no one went in, save for Whitney, and there’s only one door in or out.’ Sir Layton jerked his chin towards the small opening on the back wall of the Hutt, which served as a window. ‘A scrawny child might crawl through that, but not a grown man.’

  The man who stood beside Sir Layton was evidently his clerk. He grinned broadly, showing a mouth full of blackened teeth. ‘Master Whitney doesn’t have to admit to murder. He’s been shouting his mouth off ever since we arrived about how he’s Master of the Butchers’ Guild. And you’ve only got to look at this poor sod’s throat to see it’s been slit the same way as a butcher would cut the throat of one of his beasts. Be second nature to a man like him to whip out a knife and draw it across a neck quicker than you can say “I fancy a nice piece of mutton”.’

  Grey crouched down and peered at the gaping wound in the man’s throat. The jagged and torn edges of the flesh were beginning to peel back as the cut skin dried. There was no arguing that this man’s throat had been slashed. He straightened up.

  ‘Have you got the knife he used?’

  Sir Layton shrugged. ‘Found one knife on Whitney, but that was clean. But a butcher would carry more than one – a knife for the table and another for slaughter at least. He doubtless hurled it into the undergrowth as he ran from the cottage.’ He nudged the body with the toe of his shoe. ‘But if you know the murderer, Master Grey, do you recognise his victim?’

  Grey shook his head. ‘I hadn’t even met Master Richard until just now, though I knew he’d taken the reliquary, and I’ve not seen this man before.’

  Sir Layton grimaced. ‘Pity. We need to identify the corpse and Whitney keeps saying he doesn’t know him, though I don’t believe him.’ He sighed. ‘But since we don’t know where the victim comes from, the only thing we can do is take the body back to the village where his murderer lives and see if anyone there can put a name to him. If the two men did know each other, it’s likely others will also recognise him.’

  The body, wrapped in a blanket borrowed from the Hutt, was carried out to the wagon and the reluctant wagoner was persuaded, with the inducement of an even larger sum and promise of a bed in the inn, to drive the corpse back to Blidworth. Two horses had been found, one belonging to Richard, the other was assumed to belong to the victim. Both were tethered behind the wagon. Richard was hauled to his feet and had to be dragged to the wagon, for his legs were so numb from cold he could barely stand. He was forced to sit in the bottom of the wagon along with the corpse and the two forest wardens, despite demanding to be allowed to ride home on his own horse and insisting he would not be carried into the village like a common felon. But he was told firmly by one of the wardens that if he didn’t hold his tongue, there’d be a second corpse in the wagon before the journey’s end.

  After Sir Layton and his clerk had departed, following the wagon, Grey and his men searched for the reliquary. They painstakingly took apart the stack of pallets and blankets, rooted through the boxes and poked sticks down to the bottom of the flour barrels, a common hiding place for valuables in many households, but there was no sign of it. Grey even sent the men to search through the dry brown undergrowth around the Hutt in case Richard had hidden it there, but they found neither reliquary nor knife.

  Grey gazed into the mass of trees and heathland that lay all about him. Suppose Richard had hidden the reliquary somewhere in Sherwood Forest before he ever reached the Hutt? They could search for a year and not find it. But why would Richard have cause to murder a man if he had already safely hidden the reliquary? Unless, of course, the man had seen where he’d hidden it and Richard needed to ensure he couldn’t talk.

  Grey caught his men glancing anxiously up at the sky. The pale winter sun was already tangled in the tops of the bare branches of the oak tree. They were right to be concerned; if they didn’t set out for the village now they might still be on the forest track when darkness fell and no one but a knave or a fool wanted to be on such a road then, for even strangers knew it was a notorious hunting ground for robbers and kidnappers.

  Grey and his men reached the inn without mishap, and when he entered the ale room in search of supper, he found the coroner already seated at one of the tables, devouring a large wedge of rabbit pie. Sir Layton, wiping the pastry crumbs from his lips with a stained napkin, beckoned Grey to join him and, when the serving maid appeared, ordered brawn and sharp sauce for Grey and some of the roast tongue, which Sir Layton had evidently consumed as the first course. Grey, who didn’t care much for either dish, found his objections swept aside.

  ‘You’ll be glad to know we’ve identified the victim,’ Layton said breezily. ‘Man by the name of Edward Thornton, fellow guild member of Whitney’s, by all accounts. It seems the two men fought a hard contest to become Master.’ He beamed contentedly. ‘It would seem the two men were rivals. Quarrelled, no doubt, and Whitney killed him. From these past few hours I’ve spent in Whitney’s company it’s plain to me the man’s of a choleric disposition, loses his temper at the slightest thing, I’d say. That’s why Whitney refused to identify Thornton, do you see? Knew as soon as we learned who his victim was, it would put a rope round his neck without question.’

  Grey frowned. ‘I’d have thought Edward Thornton had more cause to kill Richard Whitney, not the other way round. After all, it was Richard who won the title of Master of the Guild. Edward would surely have the greater cause for jealousy and may even have thought that, with Richard dead, he’d become the next Master. I’ve known monks commit murder over who will become cellarer, so I supposed we can expect no better from laity.’

  Sir Layton chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of rabbit meat, before swallowing it. ‘Perhaps Thornton attacked Whitney first out of jealousy, as you say, but Whitney got the better of him. He’s much the weightier man. Could easily have knocked him to the ground and then in temper killed him, though if he’s going to claim it was self-defence, he’ll be hard put to prove it. We found no weapon on the corpse except for his knife, and that was still in its sheath.’

  Grey poked listlessly at the unappetising slab of tongue. ‘But that’s the other thing. How did the two men come to be miles out in the forest? If they’d quarrelled in the village, I could understand it, but what business would butchers have in such a remote spot?’

  ‘If, as you claim, Thornton was jealous, he could have lured Whitney out there to kill him. Ambushed him as he came through the door.’

  ‘On what pretext, though?’ Grey asked.

  Sir Layton was beginning to look impatient. ‘Buying deer or boar for his butcher’s shop. I imagine the forest wardens often do a little poaching of their own, but they’d have to sell their kills quietly, well away from the towns. Half the butchers’ shops in these forest villages are probably trading in poached venison. With the Christmas feasts almost upon us, both butchers might have been after the same carcass and quarrelled as to who should have it.’

  He pushed his trencher aside irritably. ‘Besides, it doesn’t matter to me why they went out there. My job is simply to determine how the man died, see the body is identified and make sure Richard Whitney is arraigned at the next assizes. Who attacked who first is up to the judge and jury to decide.’ He glanced sharply at Grey. ‘And I’d have thought quarrels among butchers were of no concern of Cromwell’s enforcers either.’

  Layton was right, Grey thought, neither quarrels nor murders among butchers were any of his concern, except that one of those butchers had been trying to conceal a reliquary and now it was mis
sing. Whatever Richard had been doing out at the Royal Hutt, Grey was convinced he hadn’t been in pursuit of poached venison, and he wasn’t about to let Richard take the knowledge of the hiding place of that reliquary to the gallows.

  ‘Stinks a mite in there, Master Grey,’ the constable said cheerfully. ‘Bailiff sometimes uses it to hold stray beasts. There’s certain men in these parts would think nothing of hauling their animals over the pinfold wall to get out of paying the fine for letting them wander.’

  They were standing in front of the village lockup, a small round building shaped like a dovecote, built to hold felons until the sheriff’s men could collect them, or to sober up drunks who had got into a brawl. It was still too early in the morning for many to be abroad, but the few who were stared at them with undisguised curiosity. The constable was taking an age unlocking the stout door. Although there were only three keys on the iron ring, the choice seemed to baffle him. Finally, the door creaked open and the constable stood aside.

  ‘I’ll have to lock you in with him, Master Grey, in case anyone tries to rush the door and help him escape, though I doubt even his own wife would do that. Terrible thing to do to a man, and one of his own guild brothers. I thought they were meant to look out for each other. Master Richard near enough cut his head off, he did. You should have seen the mess.’

  ‘I did,’ Grey said shortly, and marched in.

  In the few moments it took for the constable to slam the door shut behind him, he saw Richard blinking up at him. He was looking even worse today than he had been after his night in the forest. His hair was matted with straw and his face was filthy, with dark rings under his eyes. There seemed to be a purple bruise on his cheek too, under the grime.