The False Virgin

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘If we go,’ said Gwenllian, drawing herself up to her full height with all the dignity of a princess of Wales, ‘it will be because we decide to leave. It will not be on the whim of a spiteful monarch who does not know how to rule what he has inherited.’

  Cole did not have the energy to argue. Instead, he suggested they go to the castle and inspect progress on the new tower. As they aimed for the door, Hilde and Odo approached.

  ‘What shall we do about these monks and their saint, Cole?’ asked Odo. He had one hand to his back as usual; a lifetime of lifting heavy bales had taken its toll. ‘Shall we pay them to pray for a miracle? Bad luck has dogged us all summer, so we could certainly do with one.’

  ‘He will decide tomorrow,’ said Gwenllian, to spare Symon the need to make a decision there and then. She smiled at her friends. ‘The monks told me that they plan to stay for a few days, so there is no immediate hurry.’

  She led Cole back into the blasting heat of the Market Square, where the Benedictines had finished their performance and were packing the reliquary away. Two men watched: Sheriff Avenel was a tall, bald man with the haughty bearing of the professional warrior; Fitzmartin was younger and smaller, but cast in the same mould.

  ‘Constable Cole?’ asked Avenel, coming to intercept them. ‘You have been gone a long time. Can a few miserable thieves really take so long to track down?’

  ‘He has not tracked them down,’ said Fitzmartin slyly. ‘They remain at large – I heard his sergeant make the announcement just now. Perhaps he would like us to help. I am sure the King will not mind us abandoning our more important duties to oblige.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cole amiably. He was not very good at recognising sarcasm and often wrong-footed people by taking acerbic comments at face value. ‘Shall we try tomorrow?’

  ‘No,’ said Avenel, once he realised that Cole was not being impertinent. ‘We have more pressing matters to concern us. And now you are home, I want to discuss them with you. Not with your wife.’

  Cole bridled at his tone, and Gwenllian rested a calming hand on his arm. She had not endured the sheriff and his creature for three trying weeks just to have Cole destroy the fragile bridges she had built with an imprudent remark.

  ‘You must excuse us, Sheriff,’ she said politely. ‘We have castle business to attend.’

  Avenel bowed in a manner that was more insult than compliment, and stepped away, although neither he nor Fitzmartin went far.

  Cole leaned down to whisper in Gwenllian’s ear, ‘Kediour tells me they are accused of despoiling churches. Is it true?’

  ‘They are John’s men, so it is possible.’ Her attention was caught by the monks. ‘Odo had a good question: what will you do about them? We do need a miracle, but I am not sure they are the ones to bring it about. Oh, no! Here comes Mayor Rupe!’

  Rupe was an overweight, slovenly man who hailed from nearby Dinefwr, a fact of which he was so proud that he always wore the curious conical hat for which its residents were famous. He had been greasily obsequious before Cole had caught him misusing public monies, but was now a bitter and intractable opponent. He had insisted on holding meetings to discuss how best to catch the thieves, which he had used as opportunities to make Cole look inept and foolish in front of the town’s other worthies. He was flanked by his two henchmen, an unsavoury father and son named Ernebald and Gunbald.

  ‘It is your fault we are short of water, Cole,’ he snarled without preamble. ‘You should have built cisterns, not squandered our taxes on beautifying your castle. And you accuse me of dealing corruptly!’

  ‘The King told him to do it,’ came a voice from behind. It was Deputy Miles, a gloriously handsome man with golden hair. ‘Would you have him flout a royal order?’

  ‘The town should come first,’ said Rupe stubbornly. ‘And if Cole does not think so, he should resign and let a better man take the post. Such as you, perhaps, Miles.’

  The deputy bowed. ‘You are kind, but I should need a Lady Gwenllian at my side, and there is only one of her. Thus the post of Constable of Carmarthen is not for me. But do not despair for water, Rupe. I have a plan – if the fair lady will permit me to explain.’

  Cole was not a perceptive man, but even he could not fail to notice the look of passionate longing that Miles directed at Gwenllian. He scowled, an expression that did not suit his naturally amiable face.

  ‘What plan?’ he demanded, before she could answer for herself. Avenel and Fitzmartin, aware that a possible altercation was in the offing, eased forward to listen.

  ‘I believe I have located a hidden stream,’ replied Miles, his eyes still fixed on Gwenllian. ‘I did it by holding hazel twigs in a certain way and—’

  ‘Witchery?’ interrupted Avenel in rank disdain, not caring that he was interrupting a discussion in which he had not been invited to take part.

  Miles continued to address Gwenllian, much to her increasing mortification. ‘No, of course not. It is a skill my mother taught me. She saved our village from drought many times. I have been surveying Carmarthen, and there is an underground stream between the town and the priory – it lies beneath the woods on Mayor Rupe’s land.’

  ‘An underground stream?’ scoffed Avenel. ‘What nonsense is this?’

  ‘Not nonsense, Sheriff,’ said Miles earnestly. ‘It is there, I assure you.’

  ‘You are mad,’ sneered Fitzmartin. ‘There is no such thing as an underground stream.’

  ‘Bring your report to Symon tomorrow,’ said Gwenllian briskly to Miles, ending the conversation before there was trouble. ‘He will discuss it with you then.’

  Miles was visibly crestfallen, and she was aware of Avenel and Fitzmartin chortling as they and the mayor walked away together, amused by the deputy’s unseemly infatuation. Cole turned angrily to Miles, and Gwenllian was relieved when he was prevented from rebuking him by the arrival of Philip de Barri, the castle chaplain.

  Philip was Gwenllian’s cousin, although she could not bring herself to like him. He was an unprepossessing soul, with a wealth of irritating habits. She had not wanted him as chaplain, but there had been a vacancy when he had arrived begging for employment, and it would have been churlish to refuse. She tried not to let her antipathy show as he approached, bringing the two visiting monks with him.

  She regarded them with interest. They were both young, and had clearly not enjoyed an easy journey – their habits were threadbare and dirty, and their sandals badly in need of repair. If they were charlatans, she thought, then they were not very good at plying their trade, or they would have been better attired. The larger of the pair, who introduced himself as Frossard, had a black eye.

  ‘A misunderstanding with a smith in Llandeilo,’ he explained, raising a tentative hand to touch it. ‘He thought I was going to steal a dagger.’

  ‘Why would you want a dagger?’ asked Cole, puzzled. ‘You are a monk.’

  ‘I did not want it,’ objected Frossard stiffly. ‘I was just looking. But since you ask, your domain is dangerous. Only yesterday we were obliged to watch a very desperate band of villains making off with sheep.’

  ‘Were you close enough to see their faces?’ asked Cole eagerly. The raiders tended to keep out of sight, and very few had witnessed them in action.

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Frossard. ‘They had hidden them with scarves.’

  ‘There was one thing, though,’ said Reinfrid quickly, seeing Cole’s disappointment and hastening to curry favour. ‘The fellow in charge was shrieking his orders in an oddly high-pitched voice. It made us laugh.’

  ‘There is nothing amusing about cattle theft,’ said Miles sternly.

  ‘We would like to hear about your relic, brothers,’ said Gwenllian, seeing Frossard gird himself up to argue. ‘But not now – it is too hot. Come to the castle this evening.’

  Gwenllian had invited a number of people to dine with her that night – Avenel and Fitzmartin, Mayor Rupe, Philip the chaplain and Deputy Miles. Then it had occurred to her tha
t they would quarrel, so she had added Prior Kediour, Odo and Hilde, to help her keep the peace. Now Symon was home, she wished she could cancel the whole thing and spend the evening with him, but that would have been ungracious. The meal would go ahead, and she and Cole would preside together.

  She had been to some trouble: the food was plentiful, the wine good, the hall had been swept and dusted, and Cole’s smelly hunting dogs banished to the bailey. Musicians had been hired to entertain, and summer flowers had been set in bowls in the windows.

  Cole had the pallor of exhaustion about him, so she placed Sheriff Avenel next to her, lest tiredness led to incautious remarks. Symon was not good at dissembling when he was rested, and there was no knowing what might slip out when he was tired. Miles, clad in a fine yellow tunic, had contrived to sit on Cole’s left, so as to be close to Gwenllian as possible, and the feast had not been going long before she detected signs of trouble.

  ‘. . . uncivil manner,’ Cole was snapping, unusually curt. ‘Do it again and I will—’

  ‘Symon!’ she hissed in alarm. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘Miles made a comment about your kirtle,’ explained Cole shortly.

  She smiled down at the dress in question, one that had been cut to show off her slender waist and lithe figure. ‘Yes. It is a new one.’

  Cole shot it a disinterested glance. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Odo and Hilde complimented it, too,’ she went on. ‘And even Kediour said the colour becomes me. In fact, you are alone in remaining mute on the subject. Doubtless you would pay it more attention if it was the colour of your favourite horse.’

  ‘Yes, I would. He is piebald – large black and white patches. A kirtle in such a pattern would certainly command attention. Mine and everyone else’s.’

  ‘I had better have one made then.’

  He laughed at the notion, his naturally sunny temper restored. When he turned back to Miles, she heard him begin a tale about the Crusade, which involved sufficient gore to keep the deputy’s horrified attention until the meal was over. However, when the music began, she felt Miles’s eyes on her again; drink had made him indiscreet in his ogling. She hastened to engage him in conversation, so he would at least have a reason for looking at her.

  ‘Tell us more about your underground stream,’ she said. The other guests pulled their attention away from the music to listen. Avenel and Fitzmartin were sneeringly sceptical, and Gwenllian hoped Miles’s theory was right, just to wipe the smiles off their faces.

  ‘As I said, it is beneath Mayor Rupe’s wood,’ replied Miles, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. ‘I shall survey it again in the next day or so, and then we shall sink a well. Our town will never lack fresh water again.’

  ‘That wood has always been boggy,’ said Kediour. ‘Yet I doubt it holds a stream, even so. The underlying rock is not the right type to support that sort of feature.’

  ‘Did you mention using hazel twigs?’ asked Gwenllian, before they could argue.

  ‘My mother swore by them,’ replied Miles, beaming lovingly at her.

  ‘So she was a witch,’ drawled Fitzmartin, exchanging a grin with his sheriff. ‘There is a sorceress’s whelp in a position of power at Carmarthen!’

  ‘She was a good lady,’ growled Cole, although he had never met her and aimed only to defend his castle from insults. ‘And I defy any man to—’

  ‘Your destrier seemed lame today, Symon,’ interrupted Kediour, earning a grateful look from Gwenllian. ‘It is the drought – it has rendered the roads unusually hard for hoofs.’

  ‘Lame?’ asked Cole in alarm. He loved his warhorse. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘A knight oblivious to the needs of his mount,’ said Fitzmartin censoriously. ‘King John will be interested to hear that.’

  ‘Will he?’ asked Chaplain Philip, sober and serious in his dark habit. ‘I would have thought he had more urgent matters to consider as regards Carmarthen.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Miles testily.

  Philip looked away. ‘The cattle thieves,’ he replied, although Gwenllian could tell he was lying, and it had been some other matter to which he had alluded. ‘His Majesty will be more concerned about them than the constable’s care of his animals.’

  ‘He will indeed,’ agreed Avenel slyly. ‘Especially when he hears that they are still at large after a hunt lasting three weeks.’

  Gwenllian saw a glance pass between him and Philip. Had the chaplain been telling tales, encouraging Avenel to think badly of her husband? She would not put it past him. Philip was a malcontent, only happy when he was causing trouble. Then she became aware that she was not the only one who had seen the exchange. Malicious satisfaction flashed in Rupe’s eyes, and it occurred to her that he might have encouraged Philip’s treachery. The mayor would, after all, lose the next election because of Cole. What better revenge than to have him dismissed?

  The evening was one of the longest and most awkward Gwenllian could ever remember spending. Tiredness rendered Cole unusually irritable, and his temper was not improved by the attention Miles kept paying her. Avenel and Fitzmartin were critical and argumentative, and Philip’s tongue wagged constantly. Gwenllian was grateful to Kediour, Odo and Hilde, who quelled many a burgeoning spat. Kediour flung priestly reproaches at anyone speaking intemperately, while Odo and Hilde kept up a flow of innocuous chatter to which no one could take exception.

  ‘Shall we have some more music?’ asked Odo, when even he had run out of bland conversation. ‘I do so love a long Welsh ballad.’

  ‘I would rather hear these monks tell us about their relic,’ countered Avenel.

  As Gwenllian doubted that he, Fitzmartin or even Miles would stay silent during a lengthy song in a language none of them could understand, the Benedictines seemed the better option. She stood to fetch them, but Miles anticipated her.

  ‘Let me go,’ he said, ‘for you, my lady.’ He smirked rather challengingly at Cole, and if Gwenllian had not been holding Symon’s hand tightly under the table, she was sure he would have surged to his feet and dismissed Miles from his post on the spot. Then sides would have been taken, and who could say how such a quarrel would have ended?

  The two monks were ushered in. They had smartened themselves up for their audience by washing and shaving, and their habits had been carefully brushed. They were still shabby, but at least they were clean. Reinfrid carried the little reliquary.

  ‘We are monks from Romsey Abbey,’ he began. ‘And our—’

  ‘Romsey is a house for nuns,’ interrupted Kediour, eyes narrowing.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Reinfrid with a bow. ‘The sun has addled my wits. I meant Ramsey. We are monks from Ramsey Abbey, en route to Whitland, to deliver this sacred relic—’

  ‘Why should Benedictines give Cistercians a gift?’ Kediour interrupted again.

  ‘I am coming to that,’ said Reinfrid, a little curtly. ‘Our abbot had a dream in which Beornwyn appeared and said she wanted her hand taken to Whitland. Obviously, he was no more keen to lose a relic than you would be, but she appeared a second night, and a third, until he appointed Frossard and me to do as she commanded.’

  ‘I see,’ said Kediour, still full of suspicion. ‘And why you, pray?’

  ‘Because we are the youngest, strongest and best able to travel,’ replied Reinfrid, so glibly that Gwenllian suspected the question had been put before. ‘We care nothing for the rigours of the road.’ He indicated his tatty habit. ‘As you can see.’

  ‘Who is this Beornwyn?’ asked Cole. ‘I have never heard of her.’

  ‘A virgin princess murdered by sea-pirates,’ supplied Frossard. ‘She was a good lady, and she has left a trail of miracles in her wake as we have journeyed west.’

  ‘Sea-pirates?’ asked Cole, startled. ‘But Ramsey is nowhere near the coast.’

  ‘She was not murdered in Ramsey,’ said Reinfrid, exasperated. ‘It happened in Lythe, a small village near Whitby. Have you heard of Whitby?’

 
; ‘I have heard of its Benedictine abbey,’ said Cole warily.

  ‘A fine place, so we are told,’ said Frossard blandly. ‘Are you interested in petitioning Beornwyn for a miracle? Perhaps she led us here so she can help you. She has never failed us yet when we have petitioned her for mercy, and this town is clearly in need of good fortune.’

  ‘May I see it first?’ asked Cole. ‘I am familiar with holy relics, having inspected many in the Holy Land – and touched them, too.’

  ‘You handled sacred objects?’ asked Kediour, shocked. Fitzmartin stifled a laugh at the prior’s horror, although Avenel’s face was stern and unsmiling.

  ‘Do you anticipate being able to sense the sanctity of this hand, then?’ asked Rupe. The question was innocent, but Gwenllian knew it was intended to cause trouble for Cole.

  ‘No one will touch her,’ said Reinfrid firmly. ‘She is not for mauling by seculars. In fact, we never open her box. It would be impious to expose her to gawpers.’

  ‘Very wise,’ said Fitzmartin drolly. ‘We would not want Cole struck down for irreverent behaviour, would we? It might make a mess in this beautifully clean hall.’

  Rupe sniggered, then tossed a coin on the table. ‘Here is a penny, and I will give you eleven more if Beornwyn brings us rain. A shilling is what you asked, is it not?’

  Reinfrid grabbed it quickly. ‘It is not for us, you understand. It is for Beornwyn – to continue her good works, and allow others to benefit from her munificence.’

  He scowled when Fitzmartin roared with mocking laughter, then he and Frossard kneeled with as much dignity as they could muster to begin their prayers. Kediour stood abruptly.

  ‘No,’ he said coldly. ‘This is sacrilege. You are imposters, and your saint is not one recognised by the Church.’

  Reinfrid regarded him balefully. ‘Yes, she is. She—’

  ‘Take your so-called reliquary and leave,’ ordered Kediour angrily. ‘No one will pay homage to your purported saint, and we certainly do not want “miracles” that we are obliged to pay for. Real saints give them freely. There will be no more touting for business in Carmarthen. Do I make myself clear?’