The False Virgin (37 page)

‘They move very slowly,’ said the lay brother who had gone scouting. ‘There are a few hundred mounted men in the lead, mostly French knights, but the main host is on foot, many
of the men without shoes. And the slowest of all are the stolen carts, laden with food and weapons. Their oxen can only keep up half a man’s walking pace.’

But eventually, they came.

The two porters were keeping a lookout from the top of the arch over the main gates, which were firmly closed and barred. The first signs they saw were a couple of men armed with spears,
appearing on ponies on the track out of the woods. Alongside them walked a pair of archers, each with the famous Gwent longbows slung across their back, the bowstrings coiled inside their leather
hats to keep them dry.

The lookouts cried a warning down to the crowd assembled anxiously in the courtyards below, then watched until they saw the advance guard reach the cottages a few hundred paces away. The men
began searching them and brought out a few objects from the humble shacks, then turned their attention to the mill placed over the small river, which meandered across the pastures until it vanished
into the woods beyond. There had been no time to bring the mill’s stock of grain and flour into the priory, but Jude had been storing as much as he could in his cellarium over the past
week.

When the soldiers emerged, they moved over to a point opposite the priory gates and began eating whatever food they had found in the cottages, sitting relaxed on the grass, obviously under
orders not to approach the priory until the army arrived.

‘Our hopes for the horde to pass us by seem dashed already,’ said Brother Mark, who had been looking out through a small spy-hole in the main gate. ‘These scouts are waiting
for their leaders to catch them up.’

He made way for the prior to peer through the flap. After a moment, Paul turned away and spoke gravely to his brothers.

‘I must go out and confront this Glendower when he comes, to plead with him that he leaves this religious house in peace, for I have heard that he is a devout man.’

An hour later, the prior had his chance of confrontation. The porters above the gate gave a cry of warning, as they saw the vanguard of the Welsh host appearing through the
trees, half a mile away.

The first to break out on the narrow forest track were horsemen, a score of whom rode in pairs. There was little by way of extravagant heraldry, as this was a fighting force wary of opposition,
but the leading pair held pennants aloft, attached to spears. One displayed a gold French fleur-de-lis, the other the red dragon of Cadwalader. As they advanced at walking pace, the next sight the
anxious watchers had was of a dozen men on larger steeds, some wearing armoured breastplates. As they came nearer, it was obvious which was the leader, as a very erect man on a horse with more
elaborate harness pulled slightly ahead of the others as they emerged from the narrow track on to the more spacious fields. Behind them came a stream of mounted knights, many in the more colourful
uniforms of the French, then a long cavalcade of foot soldiers with a motley mixture of clothing and weapons. Some carried swords or maces, others had spears or pikes, but many were archers. The
stream of men seemed endless and they were still emerging from the trees when the leaders had reached the cottages in front of the priory.

‘There’s thousands of them, Prior!’ shouted down one of the porters. ‘Looks as if they are going make camp in the fields outside.’

With the monks crowding around him, Brother Paul peered through the squint in the main gate and saw that the leading men had dismounted and were conferring amongst themselves.

‘I must go out and speak with their leader, this Glendower,’ he said stoically. ‘Throw ourselves on his mercy, if needs be.’

There was a babble of concern from his brothers.

‘It is too dangerous, Prior!’’ said his secretary, urgently. ‘Let me go in your place to see if they are amenable to reason.’

‘It will be equally dangerous for you, Mark,’ said Paul gently. ‘But you will come with me – and you both, Louis and Pierre, for you might be able to charm your fellow
Frenchmen!’

Amidst a chorus of concern from the other monks, the bar was raised from the gates and the four men stepped out on to the track leading from the priory to the village. As they walked slowly
towards the leaders of the army, more men were pouring across the fields, now followed by ponderous supply carts, pulled by both oxen and draught-horses.

When the quartet of monks got within fifty paces of Owain Glyndwr and his lieutenants, the front row of half a dozen riders dismounted, men running from behind them to hold the horses. In the
warm summer weather, with their scouts reporting no immediate threat of opposition, most of the knights had discarded their armour, though some still wore a breastplate or a hood of chain mail
which covered their necks and shoulders. Owain himself was bare-headed and wore a jupon, a short quilted jacket of green silk. His breeches were thrust into spurred riding boots and a heavy sword
hung from a low-slung belt.

As he walked to meet the Benedictines, two of his companions coming close behind for protection, the prior saw a powerful man with abundant grey-brown hair and a forked beard and moustache of
the same colour.

They stopped a few paces apart and regarded each other.

‘I am Paul, the prior of St Oswald’s,’ began the monk hesitantly. ‘Do you speak English, sir?’

The impassive face of the Prince of Wales suddenly cracked into a smile. ‘I do indeed – and French, Latin and Welsh! Take your pick, Father.’

Paul felt a sudden wave of relief. Uncertain whether this war-like host had intended to slay him on the spot, he now felt that whatever pillaging of their goods might happen, this civilised man
would not unleash an orgy of rapine and murder upon them.

‘What are your intentions here, Sir Owen? We are a small house, with few people and no great riches.’

‘How often have I had that said to me, Prior? But I have no quarrel with the Church – several of my most ardent supporters are of your cloth.’

He swept a hand behind him, where Paul noticed that several of the mounted men wore crosses around their neck

‘What then do you want of us?’ asked Paul.

Glyndwr regarded him coolly. ‘We must be given – or we’ll take – whatever sustenance we can gain here. Your grain, fodder and meat. And a place to rest up for a day, as I
have many tired and hungry men here.’

One of the men in French uniform spoke up from behind the leader. His English was heavily accented. ‘Are there no estates or great houses nearby? They are the places where we are more
likely to find worthwhile stores to plunder.’

Before Paul could reply, Louis spoke up in his native language, addressing the speaker. ‘None before Malvern or Upton. You need to move on a few more miles.’

Not to be outdone before a fellow-countryman, Pierre also made his nationality known, by using the same tongue. ‘It is a pleasure to hear God’s own language spoken in this outlandish
country, Monsieur.’

Glyndwr’s bushy eyebrows rose a little as he turned his head to speak to his Gallic comrade.

‘We seem to have come across a nest of Frenchmen, Comte de Salers!’ He swung back to Pierre and Louis. ‘And what are you doing here, sitting on the Welsh border?’

‘I am the sacristan, recently from the abbey of Fontrevault – and anxious to return there! This is Brother Louis, our infirmarian.’

‘A Doctor of Physic from Montpellier.’ Even in such a fraught situation, Louis could not resist flaunting his badge of fame, and the Welsh leader seemed interested.

‘One reason for our need to halt here for a day or so is that we have sick and wounded men. Will you look at them or have you scruples about helping the enemy?’

This was a challenge to Louis’s Hippocratic oath.

‘They are not my enemies,’ he snapped. ‘All men in distress deserve Christian aid. You seem to have many of my countrymen in your retinue, so I will ask them how we might best
aid the sufferers.’

Owain called the Comte de Salers forward and the two French monks went to confer with him, leaving the prior and his secretary facing the prince.

‘If you have many sick men, perhaps they would be better housed in our infirmary and in the guest-house, rather than lie in carts or on the cold grass out there,’ he suggested,
pointing to the mass of men who were now covering the field, many sitting or lying down.

Already some were forming into groups and lighting fires with sticks picked up on their journey through the woods.

‘Where are your own villagers now?’ demanded Glyndwr.

‘Inside our walls. The women and children are in the guest-house, but we can move them to the lay brothers’ dormitory if you wish to shelter your sick and wounded.’

Glyndwr regarded the plump prior critically. ‘You are a compassionate man, unlike some clerics we confront! They often abuse us, resist and even try to offer us violence.’

Mark thought it was time he said something to support his prior. ‘We are a house of healing, sir. The priory was founded centuries ago because of the miracle of the spring, above which the
church was built. Much of our work is treating the sick, either by the magic of Beornwyn’s fountain or by the expertise of physicians like Brother Louis.’

Glyndwr seized upon the idea of a magical spring. His fascination with divination and mystic signs made anything occult a welcome diversion from the years of warfare to which he had committed
himself.

‘We have a strong tradition of healing wells in Wales. Tell me of this spring you have here.’

Between them, Mark and the prior outlined the history of Beornwyn and St Oswald.

‘Some two hundred years ago, we were given some of the bodily relics of that saintly virgin to keep in the church,’ added Paul. ‘Since then, the power of healing has increased,
as has the reputation of the priory to attract pilgrims.’

The Welsh prince was no fool and knew that this meant that donations must have filled the coffers many times over since the spring and the relics attracted a stream of supplicants. But he was
interested in the more mystical aspects of the story.

‘I must see this famous fountain for myself – and touch your virgin’s relics,’ he announced. ‘They may confer good fortune upon our crusade!’

Paul realised that the gold-banded skull was now hidden away, and they had carefully avoided mentioning it in treating the sick. Thankfully, he thought, they still had several other mouldering
bones in the reliquary, which could be shown to Glyndwr to satisfy his curiosity. The more affable they could make their relationship, the better chance the priory had of getting away with a
minimum of looting.

‘Come in now, and bring your senior officers with you,’ he invited. He led them back to the priory gates and called to the porters to throw them wide. ‘And leave them open,
there will be sick and wounded coming in shortly,’ he commanded.

His two French brothers had gone off with some of Owain’s captains into the now dense crowd of soldiers, to find men in most need of medical care, but Mark kept close to the prior as they
led Glyndwr into the outer courtyard. Many of the villagers and lay brothers shrank back as the armed men strode through, but Paul called to the rest of his monks to follow them to the church.

He led the invaders up the steps and across the empty nave until they reached the marble fountain and the effigy of St Beornwyn. As Paul genuflected in deference to the high altar, he was
surprised to see that Owain Glyndwr dropped to both knees on the flagstones, crossed himself and held his hands before his bowed head, as he murmured some prayers. Then he climbed to his feet and
looked with interest at the unusual fountain that sat before the chancel arch.

‘This is where your pilgrims come for a taste of your miraculous water, Prior?’ he asked.

Paul nodded. ‘They are also shown part of our blessed patron’s relics kept in that reliquary up at the altar,’ he said, trusting that God would forgive his economy with the
truth – though he assuaged his conscience with the fact that the other bones they possessed in the casket were relics and that omitting to mention the skull-cap was not an outright lie.
‘And, of course, our infirmarian, a skilled physician, offers them medical treatment where necessary,’ he added, to cover up any hint of evasion in his voice.

‘I wish to avail myself of this same benediction from your saint,’ said Owain, bluntly. ‘She is an English saint, but no matter. Many of our Welsh saints were Breton or Irish
– and the apostles were Palestinian Jews. The Kingdom of God knows no nationality.’

Paul was pleasantly surprised to find the Welsh prince such a devout man. It might be a good sign for hoping that the priory might come off relatively lightly from the attentions of the horde of
invaders outside.

He beckoned to his sub-prior and the precentor and whispered in their ears, sending Matthew up to the altar to open the reliquary and reverently bring down a leg bone of Beornwyn, resting on a
linen cloth. Patrice was dispatched to the aumbry in the chancel wall, from where he retrieved a communion chalice made of pewter, chased with silver ornamentation. As they had hidden their
valuable vessels under the floor, this goblet was one used to take around the villages with Beornwyn’s relics, when holding Mass during pilgrimages to raise funds for the priory. Paul hoped
that it would look good enough for Glyndwr not to wonder if they had more valuable ones hidden away somewhere.

The monks filed into their places in the quire and began their familiar routine of chants as the prior extemporised on the ritual for administering the ‘cure’.

Accompanied by prayers in Latin, he filled the chalice from under the angel’s jet of clear water and set it on the rim of the large basin below. Then Matthew solemnly offered him the cloth
carrying the ancient bone, which with more ceremony was presented to Glyndwr, who had again kneeled before him. Several of the other lieutenants, including a couple of the French officers, kneeled
beside him and Paul gravely bent to present the crumbling thigh-bone to each man, who all touched it somewhat tentatively before making the sign of the cross.