The False Virgin (32 page)

Later, one of the supplicants took advantage of this invitation and sought out Louis in his consulting room. A rotund cloth merchant from Evesham, he was suffering from severe flatulence and
pains in his belly after eating. After examining him, which included prodding his corpulent belly, Louis suspected that much of his problem was due to overweight, but produced an earthenware pot,
sealed with a wooden stopper.

‘At the end of each meal, swallow as much of this as would fill half an eggshell,’ he commanded. ‘And cut down drastically on your victuals, especially fatty pork and other
greasy food.’

Handing the jar to the merchant, he told him to return when it was all used, or go to an apothecary in Evesham and buy more. He handed the man a slip of parchment on which were written some
cabalistic marks, as a prescription for the apothecary.

Gratefully, the clothier departed, placing a liberal pile of silver pennies on Louis’s table. Before he left, he enquired about the saint who, he hoped, would work miracles upon his belly,
aided by the infirmarian’s mixture of chalk, valerian and peppermint.

‘How did this priory come to be established in such a lonely place?’ he asked.

The infirmarian was quite willing to engage in conversation with this intelligent and liberal fellow.

‘It is said that a healing well has been here since time immemorial,’ he said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Even in the time of those Ancient Britons that we read about in
Geoffrey of Monmouth’s famous book, people came from far and wide to drink and wash in its waters. There are several such wells along the Malvern hills, but this one has the best
reputation.’

‘But why did this one have a Benedictine house placed over it?’ persisted the inquisitive merchant.

‘Before the Normans came, a daughter of the Earl of Hereford suffered from the falling sickness, which was cured by the waters of this spring,’ replied Louis. ‘The Earl was so
impressed that he granted not only twenty hides of land here, but also gave a generous endowment for the priory.’

‘But why dedicated to St Oswald and St Beornwyn?’ asked the merchant.

‘The earl was influenced by his confessor, a Benedictine monk, who came from the Shire of York and was devoted to the memory of St Oswald, so the priory is named after him. Oswald was King
of Northumbria in ancient times and, although a ferocious soldier, became a saint after his death in battle at Oswestry, because he had converted the pagan Northumbrians to the way of
Christ.’

The clothier’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. ‘So why is the church dedicated to this St Beornwyn? Who was she?’

Brother Louis, ever an impatient man, was beginning to get a irritated by the merchant’s persistence, thinking that he was demanding a lot for his silver pennies. However, he decided to
humour him one last time.

‘Several hundred years after Oswald’s death, which was a violent dismemberment, the same thing happened to a devout virgin in a church dedicated to St Oswald near Whitby. She was
horribly mutilated by Viking berserkers on one of their raids upon the Northumbrian coast, and for her virtue and martyrdom she was herself elevated to sainthood. Some two hundred years ago, some
of her bones were given to this church as holy relics.’

Satisfied at last, the clothier ambled away clutching his pot of stomach medicine and with a sigh of relief, the infirmarian rose and went into the ward where Brother John was sitting up on his
pallet. After a perfunctory examination, Louis stood back and told the old monk that there was no reason why he should not rejoin his fellow monks.

‘You can eat in the frater and sleep in the dorter as usual,’ he declared. ‘Tomorrow you can go back to your duties in the scriptorium. Doing your usual tasks will keep your
mind off your strange delusions.’

Brother John had become too feeble and unreliable to continue his old duties about the farm or dealing with the pilgrims, so the prior had relegated him to the scriptorium, a small chamber above
the chapter house. This housed the priory’s small library and was where any work on manuscripts was carried out, directed by the sacristan. John had been given the task of making copies of
psalms and chants for the choir and any other calligraphic work that was needed.

After supper, in the mild light of the summer evening, most of the monks congregated for a social hour in the ‘warming room’ situated at the end of the refectory. The fireplace was
now empty, but in the cold weather it contained the only fire in the monks’ accommodation, apart from that in the prior’s parlour.

They sat around the stone benches built into the walls to discuss their activities and any local news and gossip. Of course, the rumours about the advancing Welsh army were a major topic.

‘I am told on good authority that Glendower has a sizeable contingent of French troops with him now,’ declared Jude, the cellarer, without disclosing who his good authority might
be.

‘I still fail to understand how this Welsh barbarian is able to command the support of the French,’ grumbled Brother Pierre. ‘Nor why he is able to defeat a much mightier
nation like England.’

‘In the hills and valleys of his rugged country of Wales, he is able to run rings around the English forces,’ replied Mark. ‘In a pitched battle on the open field, the
King’s troops would defeat him, but as they have done since Roman times, the Welsh wage a guerrilla war, darting down from their rocks and crags upon tired soldiers, wet and dispirited after
their long march from the Midlands into the forbidding mountains.’

Louis, ever contentious, pointed out that the Welsh leader had virtually annihilated a much stronger English army at the battle of Brynglas.

‘Their archers are the most skilful in Europe, which is why they are hired as mercenaries by many countries, even including England itself !’

The conversation and argument about warfare and tactics went on for some time, a somewhat incongruous subject for a group of monks, but eventually one of them changed the subject to Brother
John, who like some of the other monks, had taken himself to his bed, to get as much sleep as possible before they were awakened at midnight for matins.

‘Old John is becoming a serious liability to the welfare of this priory,’ grumbled the cellarer. ‘I sometimes see him stumbling about the courtyard, mumbling to the sky and
waving his arms about. It is an embarrassment to the supplicants who come here. They must wonder what sort of place this is to have a madman wandering about.’

Brother Arnulf, the hospitaller, agreed with him.

‘Several of the guests who stayed with me have been concerned about him and it cannot do the reputation of this place any good. The prior should think about settling him in one of our
sister abbeys, which have places for such aged brothers in their declining years.’

The younger secretary, Mark, was not so ready to condemn the old man.

‘He seems quite harmless, surely little damage can be done by him. His fantasies can be quite interesting, for only a few days ago he told me that he had spoken with an angel during the
previous night, who informed him that we need have no fear of the advancing army for at least another two weeks.’

Some of the monks chuckled, others clucked their tongues at this further evidence of Brother John’s dementia.

‘Perhaps our Lord God has set one of his Angels with the keenest eyesight on top of the Malverns, to spy out the movement of Glendower’s troops for us!’ suggested Pierre
sarcastically.

For the next two days, little was seen of Brother John, as he spent most of his time in the quiet of the scriptorium, seated at his high desk with a quill and ink. He was copying out a dozen
duplicates of a new chant, which Patrice, the precentor, intended to add to the choir’s repertoire. In spite of his age and other problems, John still had a sharp eye and produced excellent
black-letter copies on sheets of parchment. He attended the frater at mealtimes and his appetite seemed undiminished. He was very quiet, but otherwise did nothing to give the other monks any cause
for concern or irritation.

However, on the third morning all this changed.

At dawn, the brothers went down the night stairs into the church for prime, the first service of the day. The fact that Brother John was not amongst them failed to register, due to their
sleepiness, until the office was over, when they trooped out into the early morning light of the inner courtyard. Here they found the old monk pacing up and down, shaking his fists at the heavens
and muttering angrily at some unseen person apparently hovering above him.

‘This is becoming insufferable!’ snapped Matthew, the sub-prior. ‘Someone call Brother Paul. He must do something about this man.’

As Arnulf hurried across the precinct to the prior’s house, Mark went to the old man and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘What is troubling you, John?’ he asked. ‘Have you been hearing voices again?’

The aged Benedictine lowered his arms and turned an angry face towards the younger man. ‘A message directly from St Oswald, no less! We are undone, this house is a sham and must be
abandoned!’

Some of the other monks had begun to drift towards the refectory for their breakfast, but the vehemence of John’s voice caused them to turn back and stare at him. The infirmarian, in his
role as a doctor, joined Mark at the old man’s side in an attempt to pacify him, for he seemed to be in a towering rage.

‘John, John! Why are you so troubled?’ Louis asked soothingly.

John glared at him scathingly. ‘I tell you, all is lost with this place! We have been tricked for centuries.’

‘Have you had more strange dreams?’ asked Mark gently, but this seemed to annoy the elderly brother even more.

‘Dreams? Not dreams, boy!’ he ranted. ‘St Oswald came to me in the night – or rather, I went to him.’

Louis decided to humour him once more. ‘You went to him? Just where was this meeting – in the dormer?’

The elder monk’s lined face looked at him pityingly. He raised an arm and pointed a quivering forefinger at the hill visible above the priory wall.

‘Up there, at the British Camp.’

Brother Louis’s eyebrows rose. ‘On the top of the Herefordshire Beacon? Really, Brother, you test my patience. Those old legs of yours would hardly take you to the foot of that
hill.’

John scowled at him. ‘I was taken up there by a pair of angels. They held my arms and we drifted up there as gently as a butterfly.’

‘And St Oswald was there waiting for you, I suppose?’ said Pierre sarcastically.

‘He was indeed, standing in the centre of that great earthen circle built by the ancients.’

By this time Arnulf had returned with the prior hurrying behind him. Paul went straight to John and held both his hands in his.

‘Brother, you must try to restrain yourself with these wild tales. They do no good for the reputation of our house.’

‘Our house no longer has a reputation!’ bellowed the old man defiantly. ‘We have been living a lie these past two centuries.’

The prior turned to the infirmarian. ‘Brother Louis, will you take our old friend to your sickroom and give him something to calm his spirits? Perhaps a good sleep will settle his
mind.’

He laid a calming hand on the sleeve of John’s habit, but the old monk irritably shrugged it off.

‘I’ll not go to bed. It’s not long since I rose!’ he declared loudly. ‘I must proclaim this message of deceit to the world.’

He began shuffling towards the gate between the inner and outer precincts, repelling all attempts to restrain him. However, at a sign from the prior, his secretary ran forward and closed the
large wooden gate that sealed the archway.

‘Brother, where do you think you are going?’ coaxed Paul. ‘Come back with me to my parlour and take a cup of wine to settle your spirit.’

Frustrated at having his exit cut off, John began mumbling again and waving his hands to heaven, but after few moments, he seemed to sag into submission, allowing Mark and the prior to lead him
slowly back towards the house in the corner of the inner court. The dozen monks, who had congregated around them, watched as they reached the entrance porch.

‘The poor man has lost his mind altogether now,’ observed the sub-prior, not without a tinge of satisfaction unbecoming in a servant of God. ‘If I was the prior, I would get
him to a place of refuge without delay. He does this house no good with his bizarre behaviour.’

Pierre, the sacristan, privately had his own ungodly thoughts, thanking Heaven that the austere Brother Matthew was not yet prior, but aloud he joined in the general agreement that something
must be done about old John.

‘I wonder what our patron saint told him up there?’ mused Arnulf, the hospitaller, pointing up towards the Beacon, which hovered over the priory.

Jude grunted. ‘As always, no doubt our prior will listen politely to John’s ramblings. He has the patience of a saint himself.’

A few minutes later, the agitated old monk was seated on a stool before the prior’s table, behind which Paul was beaming at him with his inevitable fixed smile. Mark was
hovering to one side, after providing the other two with cups of wine from the prior’s cupboard.

‘Now, Brother John, tell us why you were so set on leaving the priory just now,’ asked Paul gently, ‘and where did you think you were going?’

The seemingly innocent question set off the old man’s temper once again. His hand shook and some of the red wine spilled onto the polished floorboards.

‘Where? Anywhere, out of this accursed place!’ he quavered. ‘But I will soon direct my feet towards the bishop in Hereford or Worcester – and then to Canterbury, or even
Rome, if needs be!’

Paul shot a look at his secretary, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Mark shrugged, then spoke to the aged brother.

‘John, that is an ambitious enterprise! I doubt you have been further than Worcester in your life?’

‘I will find a way. The Lord and St Oswald will guide my steps.’

Prior Paul felt it was time that they got down to essentials.

‘John, dear brother, what exactly is it that so disturbs your mind?’ he asked gently. ‘You speak of betrayal and shame, but what is in your turbulent mind that so distresses
you, at a time of life when peace and tranquillity should be your lot?’