The False Virgin (5 page)

‘It is a good plan, Reinfrid. What can go wrong?’

At midnight, Reinfrid slipped out of the dorter and ran to the postern gate, where Frossard was waiting. They set off together, descending the hill to the little village
clustered below, where the familiar smell of fish and seaweed assailed their nostrils, along with the sweeter scent of ale from a tavern that kept notoriously late hours. Bawdy songs and womanly
squeals gusted from within. The pair borrowed a boat to cross the river, then climbed past more cottages until they reached the cliff path that ran north.

It was a clear night, and bitingly cold, so they walked briskly. Both knew the shrine well. It was a pretty place near St Oswald’s church, which had been built shortly after the
saint’s martyrdom and not changed since. It comprised a stone chapel with an altar, on which stood a plain wooden box that contained the relics. The villagers had decorated the chapel with
pictures of butterflies, and candles always burned within. Relics were vulnerable to unscrupulous thieves so the shrine was never left unattended.

Frossard grinned triumphantly when they reached the building and saw the two guards slumped on the floor. The empty wine flask lay between them. Reinfrid was uneasy, though, and crept towards
them to make sure they were really asleep. He touched one cautiously, then jerked his hand back in alarm at the cold skin.

‘Christ in Heaven! They are dead!’

‘No!’ Frossard grabbed a candle to look for himself, but it took only a glance to see that Reinfrid was right. He backed away in horror. ‘Mother Hackness said her powder was
safe!’

‘How much did she tell you to use?’

Frossard looked stricken. ‘Three pinches, but I needed to be sure it would work, so I added the lot. But I did not know it would . . .’ He trailed off, appalled by the turn of
events.

Reinfrid forced down his panic, and began to make plans to extricate them from the mess. ‘You must burn the shrine with their bodies in it. Then everyone will assume they fell asleep, and
failed to wake when a candle fell and set the place alight.’

‘And you?’ asked Frossard nervously. ‘What will you do?’

‘We cannot incinerate a valuable relic, so I will carry Beornwyn to the abbey and be as surprised as anyone when she is discovered on the high altar tomorrow. It will be declared a miracle
– she did not want to burn, so she took herself to Whitby. Obviously, we cannot take the credit now; we must distance ourselves from the whole affair.’

‘Yes!’ breathed Frossard, relieved. ‘The guards’ families know I sent wine, but they will not want it said that their menfolk were drunk while they were minding Beornwyn,
so they will keep the matter quiet. Your plan will work.’

Reinfrid shoved the casket in a sack and tossed it over his shoulder, leaving Frossard to deal with the fire. Frossard’s hands shook as he set his kindling, and it was some time before he
had a satisfactory blaze. He waited until the flames shot high into the night sky before turning to follow his friend. Then it occurred to him that Mother Hackness might guess the truth, so he went
to her shack in the woods, shaking her awake roughly to inform her that her powder had killed two men.

‘You are a witch,’ he hissed, ‘and the abbot will hang you. The best thing you can do is leave Whitby and never return.’

The following morning saw grief and dismay in Lythe, which had lost not only its saint, but two popular villagers.

To Reinfrid’s surprise, his brethren greeted Beornwyn’s arrival not with delight, but with consternation: it was not her doing, they breathed, but that of a rogue who had planned to
sell her until assailed by fear of divine wrath – a thief who did not care that relations were now soured between the abbey and village.

It was too near the truth for Reinfrid’s liking, so he took measures to convince the monks otherwise. He began a rumour that Beornwyn had been carried to the abbey by butterflies, the
creatures that had covered her murdered corpse. He was somewhat startled when the cook and the almoner, who were impressionable and rather gullible men, claimed they had seen the casket arrive,
borne on a cloud of iridescent wings. Everyone believed them, and the monks began to accept that Beornwyn’s appearance was indeed miraculous.

Meanwhile, the villagers of Lythe marched in a body to the abbey and demanded their property back. They did so with such accusatory belligerence that Abbot Peter, whose first inclination had
been to oblige them, could not possibly do so without acknowledging that his monastery was guilty of theft. The villagers left empty-handed and furious.

That evening, the abbot sat in his solar with his brother, William, who was visiting him from the family home at Broomhill in the Malvern Hills.

‘Unfortunately, I suspect Beornwyn’s bones
were
filched by members of the abbey,’ he said unhappily, swirling his wine in his cup. ‘There was never any miracle,
and the cook and the almoner are mistaken about what they saw.’

‘You do not believe in miracles, then?’ asked William, surprised.

‘Of course, but this affair smacks of mischief – of a prank gone wrong. And I have my suspicions as to who was behind it.’

‘Then be careful how you deal with him,’ warned William. ‘A man who abuses sacred objects is a man with the devil on his shoulder.’

Abbot Peter worked hard for the next few days, hunting for evidence. When he had found enough, he summoned Frossard and Reinfrid to his presence. He studied them as they stood in front of him.
Frossard was nervous, attempting to disguise his unease with a sullen scowl; Reinfrid, the clever one, was all innocent smiles.

Peter leaned back in his chair and picked up a beautiful silver box that William had given him. It contained a potent remedy for headaches, from which he suffered cruelly when he was under
stress. And he had certainly been tense since the Beornwyn incident.

‘You two have committed a terrible crime,’ he began.

‘Whatever do you mean, Father Abbot?’ cried Reinfrid, his expression half-way between hurt and indignation.

Peter glared at him. ‘Let us not play games. You both know what I am talking about.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Reinfrid, beaming suddenly. ‘You refer to me slipping away from the abbey once, to pray at Beornwyn’s shrine. I told her that if she ever wanted to come
here, she would be welcome. I admit I should not have done it, but it is hardly a
crime
.’

‘No,’ agreed Frossard, taking courage from his friend’s cool composure. ‘And I am sure she will be much happier here with you, sir, than in that dirty little chapel at
Lythe.’

The abbot regarded them with a mixture of sadness and disgust. Reinfrid had been blessed with a keen mind, so what had possessed him to befriend the foolish Frossard? Peter blamed himself: he
should have seen years ago that they were no good for each other. If he had kept them apart, they would not be standing in front of him now, with the devil on their shoulders. He set the box on the
table with a snap.

‘The guards’ families told me about the wine you sent,’ he said. ‘And Mother Hackness did not go far. She told me what you threatened to do to her.’

Frossard gulped in alarm. ‘Whatever she said about me is a lie. She is a witch, trying to cause friction between the abbey and Lythe.’

‘Well, I believe her,’ said Peter firmly. ‘Meanwhile, you were both seen walking through Whitby on the night of the fire – by patrons from the tavern that stays open
late.’

‘Drunks,’ declared Reinfrid promptly, ‘whose testimony cannot be trusted.’

‘You stole the relics, killed two good men and set a blaze to cover your tracks,’ said Peter harshly. ‘You are reckless, selfish and stupid. Unfortunately, the abbey’s
reputation might never recover if people find out what you have done, so I cannot make your guilt public.’

Frossard sighed his relief. ‘Shall we consider the matter closed then?’

Peter eyed him in distaste. ‘I want you out of my sight – permanently. Your punishment is to suffer the same fate that you tried to impose on poor Mother Harkness: you will leave
Whitby and never return.’

Reinfrid frowned, confused. ‘You mean you are transferring me to another abbey?’

‘And letting me go with him?’ added Frossard eagerly. ‘Good! I shall be afforded the respect I deserve in a different monastery.
They
will not order the son of a lord
to demean himself with tasks beneath his dignity. I shall never clean stables again.’

Peter smiled without humour. ‘I would not inflict you two on another foundation. No, I am releasing you from your vows, Reinfrid. As from today you are no longer a Benedictine. You have
always despised us, no matter how hard we tried to nurture your talents. Well, now you have your wish: you are free. Go, and take Frossard with you.’

Reinfrid regarded him with dismay. ‘But go where? The abbey is all we know. And how will we live when neither of us has a trade?’

‘You have your wits and your capacity for mischief,’ said Peter. ‘And hardship might make you reflect on the harm you have done. You will leave immediately, and if you ever
come back, you will be hanged. Now get out of my abbey.’

Stunned, the two youths went to collect their belongings. Then they stared at the road that lay ahead of them, lonely, snow encrusted and unwelcoming.

‘Oh God!’ moaned Frossard. ‘How will we survive?’

‘With this.’ Reinfrid reached inside his cloak and pulled out the abbot’s silver box.

Frossard regarded it in alarm. ‘Are you mad? His brother gave him that, and it contains medicine for his headaches. Now we shall hang for theft!’

‘We did not
steal
it,’ said Reinfrid haughtily. ‘We took it as payment for the shabby way in which we have been treated. And it is not the only thing the abbey has
provided for us: I also filched two nice warm habits from the laundry, along with this.’

He unwrapped a small bundle, and Frossard recoiled in revulsion when he saw the skeletal hand within, its delicate bones held together by blackened sinews.

‘Christ God!’ he blurted. ‘Please do not tell me it is Beornwyn’s!’

‘Who else’s would it be?’ asked Reinfrid scornfully. ‘Do not look so appalled! It is the basis for our new occupation. As soon as we are away from Whitby, we shall don
these habits and present ourselves as two pious monks who have been entrusted to deliver sacred relics to another abbey.’

‘Which abbey?’ asked Frossard warily.

‘One that lies in the direction we happen to be travelling,’ replied Reinfrid with a grin. ‘People will give us alms, and they will pay to petition the saint in our
charge.’

Frossard regarded him doubtfully. ‘Really?’

‘Of course! We shall earn a fortune, and no one will harm two men of God. Beornwyn will be our protection as well as our path to a better life.’

II

Carmarthen, Summer 1200

It was the hottest August anyone could remember, with not so much as a drop of rain seen in weeks. Crops withered, cattle grew thin and the wide River Towy was reduced to a
muddy trickle. Carmarthen reeked with no fresh water to wash away its filth, and its people baked under an unrelenting sun.

Sir Symon Cole dragged his heels as he rode the last few dusty miles home. His three-week foray in the forest had been unsuccessful – the ground was so hard and dry that he had been unable
to track the cattle thieves who had been plaguing the town – and he was not looking forward to telling the victims of the raids that he had failed to catch the culprits yet again. As
Constable of Carmarthen Castle, he had a duty to protect the town and its livestock, and its people had a right to expect more of him.

He wiped the sweat from his face, wishing he could dispense with his mail and surcoat – it would have been far more comfortable to ride without them. Unfortunately, southwest Wales had
never really appreciated being ruled by Normans, and there were plenty who would love to strike a blow against the King by shooting one of his officers. As Cole had no wish to invite assassination,
the armour had to stay.

His horse was panting from the heat, so he took it to the river to drink, although it was a while before he found a stretch that was not choked by the foul-smelling algae that proliferated when
there was no current to wash it away. While the animal slaked its thirst, he stared downriver at the little town that had been his home for the past fifteen years.

It was dominated by four main features: the Austin priory, pretty St Peter’s church, the castle and the bridge. Cole was proud of the castle. It had a motte and two baileys, and when he
had first arrived, it had been a grubby collection of huts and wooden palisades. Now it boasted comfortable living quarters, a chapel and a gatehouse, while the curtain walls were of stone. He was
in the process of building watchtowers along them.

‘Lord!’ muttered Sergeant Iefan, veteran of many campaigns and Cole’s right-hand man. ‘I have never seen the valley so dry.’

Neither had Cole, and it grieved him to see the rich forest turned brown and parched, and the once-lush pastures baked to a dusty yellow. If there was no rain soon, the crops would fail
completely, and they would all starve that winter.

When the horses had finished drinking, they rode on, and Cole’s thoughts turned to the family that would be waiting for him. He had not wanted to marry Gwenllian ferch Rhys any more than
she had wanted to marry him, but the King had been keen for a political alliance with a princess of Wales, so neither had been given a choice. After a stormy beginning, they had grown to love each
other, and their marriage was now blessed with two small children. He hoped there would be more, and ached to see them again.

As he reached the Austin priory, the gate opened and Prior Kediour stepped out. Kediour’s face was grim, and it became more so when Cole shook his head to indicate that he had not caught
the raiders. The prior was an imposing man with thick grey hair, deep-set eyes and a dignified, sombre manner. He was respected by his brethren and the townsfolk alike. Like Cole, he had taken part
in the Third Crusade, when he had been a Hospitaller – a warrior-knight. Penance for the lives he had taken in God’s name had later caused him to transfer to a more peaceful Order.