The False Virgin (40 page)

Richard gripped the arms of his chair, his face flushing and not just from the heat of the fire. ‘That reliquary belongs to the guild! It’s been our property for nigh on two hundred
years. It’s Butchers’ Guild money that paid for the jewels on that butterfly of hers, not to mention the gold crown on her head. He can’t take that.’

‘All very well to say he can’t – he
will
, and he’s got Cromwell’s backing to do it.’

Richard shook his head impatiently. ‘Every man has his price. When I was at the Mansfield fair, I heard about an enforcer who came to one town where the Guild of Cordwainers had a relic of
St Crispin. They simply collected some money from the members and slipped it to the enforcer. Told him the relic had been destroyed two years since. He gave them the wink and went off to make his
report, while they hid the reliquary in their church crypt. So what we must do is call an urgent meeting of the guild and—’

Edward did not let him finish. ‘We could offer to pay twice what the reliquary is worth and we’d still lose it. I know some of the enforcers just take on the role to ingratiate
themselves with Cromwell, hoping for advancement by clinging to his backside, and most do it to cream off what profits they may for themselves in jewels or bribes. But Roger Grey’s an
enforcer of the worst kind, a fanatic, one of those radical clerics who really believes he’s doing God’s work by destroying idols. If you’d heard him preach you’d know that
any man who tries to buy him off is likely to end his days burning on a pyre along with the relics, with Grey warming his hands over the blaze.’

‘Then we must hide it,’ Richard said firmly.

Edward scraped the chair back and stood up. ‘It’s too late, Richard. You can’t hide St Beornwyn in the church. Grey’ll tear the whole village apart till he finds her. As
Guild Master you should have seen this coming and whipped our little saint out of sight long before this. But no, you wanted to keep her on view just a bit longer to puff up the importance of your
new rank. Was that why you moved here to this piss-poor church as soon as you became Master? You always wanted to be Guild Master for the glory of it, never for the good of the guild.’

Richard sprang to his feet. ‘How dare you? We all know that’s why you were so keen to be Master, because you were the one who wanted to possess the reliquary for yourself. I moved
her to St Mary’s so that she could be given every reverence. If you’d been Master you would have had her hidden away and deprived the people of her blessing.’

‘Blessing!’ Edward gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Since when have you sought any saint’s blessing except to beg them to make you Guild Master? I would have kept her safe until
this madness is over. How does it feel to be the Guild Master who’s lost the guild its most valuable possession? You can be sure they’ll remember you for the next two hundred years for
this.’

He strode to the door and flung it open. ‘I came to give you a friendly warning, Richard, to try to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid, like try to bribe Grey and get yourself
arrested. But now I’m going to give you another warning. You carry on roaring at all those around you, like a bull with a bee up its arse, and you’ll end up losing more than just St
Beornwyn.’

Father James shifted his feet, trying to seep up the last little warmth left from the warming pan that his housekeeper had used to take the chill from the bed. It was a bitter
night. The old rectory had been built a century before and the incumbents of St Mary of the Purification had struggled to wrest enough tithes from the parishioners to maintain the church, let alone
make improvements to the house. Most of the ground floor was still taken up by a long open hall, which in winter was as cold as a crypt, and what little heat was produced by the fire vanished
instantly up into the open rafters far above his head.

The priest was finally beginning to doze off when he was dragged awake by the sound of the bell clanging in the hall below, followed by the hum of voices. He turned over and tried to bury his
head beneath the blankets, hoping that his housekeeper would send the caller packing. But it was not to be. Moments later he heard her footsteps on the stairs and the door to the solar being
opened.

‘Father James, are you awake? It’s Master Richard Whitney to see you. I’ve told him it’s too late to disturb you, but he says it’s urgent and won’t wait until
morning. He insists on seeing you, Father.’

Father Jones let out a curse that was far from godly, wrapped himself in a balding rabbit-fur robe to cover his nakedness and pushed aside the hangings round his bed. He forced his cold feet
into his colder shoes, still cursing, and padded down the steps.

Richard was pacing impatiently up and down the hall.

‘If this is about that wretched candle . . .’ Father James said crossly.

Richard flapped his hand impatiently. ‘It is not. This is a far more pressing matter. But don’t imagine I’ve forgotten about the candle. If it isn’t returned I shall
insist on being paid the worth of it. But that matter will have to wait now. I’ve heard some disturbing news.’

He suddenly glanced up the staircase and Father James, turning, glimpsed the movement of a shadow on the bend of the stair. He guessed his housekeeper was standing just out of sight, doubtless
listening to every word. Richard must have realised it too, for he beckoned urgently to the priest.

‘Come with me and bring the church key. I shall tell you on the way.’

Father James felt his fury mounting. The boorish oaf actually thought he could turn up at this late hour, drag his priest out of bed and demand he go wandering through the village on a freezing
night. What was it this time – a missing coin? Or did Richard want himself painted on the church wall sitting next to Christ in heaven? It wouldn’t have been so bad if the butcher had
even half the faith of his own apprentice, but Father James was certain the only reason Richard ever set foot in any church was to lord it over others, for it certainly wasn’t to pray.

He folded his robe more tightly around his shivering body. ‘Unless someone is dying and in need of the last rites, nothing can be so urgent that it cannot wait till morning. In case you
haven’t noticed, Master Richard, I have already retired. Now go home to your wife. God knows, the poor woman could do with some company.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Richard demanded. ‘What has my wife been saying?’ His face had flushed red with fury. ‘If she’s confessed to you . . . if
she’s admitted . . . it’s your duty to tell me.’

‘Tell you what?’ Father James blinked bemusedly at him. ‘I only meant that you’re so often away on business and guild matters that your wife must be glad of your company
when you are at home.’ He shivered again as the icy draughts in the hall crept up his bare legs. ‘If I had a wife to warm my bed on a night like this, I’d be only too anxious to
get into it and stay there.’

But Richard was not a man to be denied anything he had set his mind to, and against his will the priest found himself dressed and out in the street, hurrying up to the church with Richard
striding along beside him. It was as dark as the Devil’s armpit and bitterly cold outside. The street was deserted and in many houses the oil lamps and candles had already been
extinguished.

Richard held the lantern at his side, half-muffled by his cloak, and several times Father James stumbled on the path already slippery with frost. Finally he snapped at Richard that if he
wasn’t going to light their path, there was little point in having brought a lantern at all.

‘I don’t want to be seen entering the church at this hour.’

‘Believe me, I don’t want to
be
entering the church at this hour,’ Father James retorted. ‘And I think we can be certain no one is going to be standing at a
freezing casement watching you or anyone else at this time of night.’

But Richard continued to hoard the light as if it was gold. Not until they were actually inside the church did he uncover the lantern, and then he was careful to set it where it wouldn’t
be seen shining out through the windows.

It felt even colder in the church than it had been on the street. Having spent a year in a monastery as a young man, before deciding that the life of a priest offered more prospects and
considerably more comforts, Father James thanked God he was not required to attend those midnight services that the monks had once had to endure. He sometimes thought King Henry had done the monks
a favour by closing the monasteries. He clamped his hands beneath his armpits to warm them.

‘Now that you’ve dragged me here what do you want?’ Father James asked irritably.

Richard could use words sparingly when he chose and he swiftly recounted the news Edward had brought.

‘. . . so we must hide St Beornwyn without delay. She’s the patron saint of the Butchers’ Guild and we cannot lose her.’

For once Father James was in agreement, though he couldn’t help thinking her value to the guild, and to Richard in particular, had less to do with the precious strips of skin flayed from
the holy saint’s dismembered corpse than with the gold and jewels that even now glittered in the softly flickering lantern light.

The priest nodded. ‘I’ve been considering what we should do if they came for her.’ He nodded towards the church tower. ‘I thought about moving her up there, hiding her in
a box beneath the coils of rope stored there, but the Royal Forest Wardens sometimes climb up the tower to search for fires or signs that men are poaching. If they’re left on watch for
several hours, they might easily stumble upon her, especially if they start moving things to make themselves comfortable.’

Father James rasped his stubbly chin. ‘No, the only safe place I can think of is to lay her in one of the tombs beneath the flagstones, though I am loath to disturb the resting place of
the dead. Yet her presence would surely hallow the grave of any man and I cannot think the dead would object to protecting her, as she does them.’

‘Out of the question,’ Richard said. ‘Have you forgotten that beneath the gilding her statue is made of wood? It would rot. Besides, tombs are the first places a man like Grey
would look. He must be well used to all the hiding places in churches by now and he’s bound to notice if a slab has been loosened.’

Richard unfastened his cloak and dragged down a large empty sack that was draped across one shoulder. Then he unwound a length of soft woollen cloth from around his waist. No wonder he
didn’t seem cold when we were walking, the priest thought.

‘The only safe thing to do,’ Richard announced, ‘is to remove the reliquary from the church. I will take it.’

‘What!’ Father James said. He couldn’t believe that he’d heard correctly. ‘You can’t take her. Where would you keep her? Your house is wooden – suppose
there was a fire? Besides, as soon as the enforcer finds the statue missing he’s bound to come questioning the members of the guild and he is sure to start with its Master, especially once he
discovers you live in the village and had every opportunity to remove the reliquary.’

But Richard was already striding towards the saint. ‘If he should question me, I assure you I’m more than capable of handling some snivelling little cleric.’

He laid the woollen cloth out on the ground, ready to wrap it around the reliquary. ‘Don’t worry, Father. I’ll not burden you with the knowledge of where I shall conceal it.
Then you may say in all conscience that you don’t know where it is. I’d have thought you’d be relieved that you will not be forced to lie to a brother in holy orders.’

The morning sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky, but it may as well have been the moon for all the warmth it had in it. In the small slaughter yard Richard prised open the
mouth of the freshly killed pig, searching beneath the purple tongue for any signs of the white ulcers that would give a man leprosy if he ate the flesh. Thomas, his journeyman, glowered at him
behind his back. Thomas had inspected the pig thoroughly before buying him from the farmer and resented Master Richard checking up on him as if he couldn’t be trusted to know his job.

Oblivious to Thomas’s malevolent stare, Richard studied the line of the eviscerated carcass of a bullock hanging from the beam above to ensure the troughs placed beneath it would catch the
dripping blood. He didn’t intend to see a single drop go to waste. All the goodwives in the village were making blood puddings to keep out the cold. The carcass steamed in the cold air, as if
it was already roasting.

Richard glared at young Alan, who was struggling to heave the wooden pail of guts and lights to the shed. He was a tall lad, but weedy as a sapling starved of light. Once again the boy had
bungled the throat-cutting of the pig, forcing Thomas to step in and finish the job swiftly and cleanly.

‘Swift and deep, lad, put some muscle into it. Then the beast will drop like a stone.’

Even then the brat had closed his eyes against the sight, rather than watching carefully and learning.

‘You’ll have to learn to kill, boy, if you’re ever to make a butcher,’ Richard said. ‘What do you intend to do, lead the cow out to the shop and tell the customers
to hack a leg off themselves if they want a joint of beef ?’

Both men laughed and Alan flinched.

Thomas gave him a shove. ‘You’ll get the hang of it soon. After you’ve killed the first one, rest is as easy as shelling peas. Anyway, what’s up with you? You’ve
been right mardy this past week. Pining after some lass, are you?’

Alan turned and gave Richard a reproachful look, before lowering his gaze to the bloody pail again.

Richard knew at once what ailed the boy. He’d been sulking ever since he’d discovered the reliquary had been removed from the church three days ago.

‘Beornwyn has gone, Alan. And it’s as well that she has, for your sake. At least you’ll not be tempted to break the law again and risk dire punishment.’

The boy flashed him a look of resentment and pain. ‘I’m not afeared of the King’s men. St Beornwyn risked her life for her faith. I’d risk my life for her too.’

The journeyman snorted. ‘You’ll be risking your life all right if you don’t get a move on and shift those pails. Saints won’t put food in your belly or a roof over your
head, but a good sharp butcher’s knife will. That’s the only thing you want to be kissing, that and a buxom lass.’