The False Virgin (33 page)

John’s lined face looked from one to the other of the men who were trying to soothe him, but the wildness did not leave his eyes.

‘St Oswald has chosen me as the channel to deliver the truth to the world!’ he declared. ‘I am in honour bound to carry out his sacred mission, no doubt ordered by the Almighty
Himself!’ He rocked on his stool as he crossed himself at these words, spilling more wine in the process.

Mark rolled his eyes at his superior and Paul sighed; even his fixed smile was weakening a little at the old man’s intransigence, and he responded more firmly.

‘Brother John, you must tell me what exactly
was
this vital message that you feel so fervently bound to convey it to the highest levels of our Mother Church!’

A life-time of vows of obedience surfaced in the monk and he bowed his head in submission. The secretary retrieved the cup from his fingers before what was left of the wine was spilled, as John
began to speak.

‘I have been troubled for some weeks by feelings of impending doom, Prior,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It was as if a malignant thunder-cloud was hovering over the Malverns and
over our house. I knew something bad was going to happen and at first I thought it was the destruction that might be wrought by these advancing Welshmen.’

Paul nodded sagely. ‘A natural enough fear, Brother. I doubt there is one of us who has not been touched by such apprehension.’

John shook his head, still looking down at the floor. ‘No, it was not that, for the blessed Oswald assured me that we would suffer little harm from Glendower, who he said was a devout man
and a protector of God’s houses in Wales.’

The prior privately thought that this might not apply to England, but he kept his doubts to himself. ‘So what was it?’ he persisted.

Brother John took a deep breath, then let it out in a long sigh as he committed himself to exposing his secret.

‘He told me that all those centuries ago, the woman Beornwyn, who has become our patron saint and whom we praise and revere every day, was a brazen hussy, a whore who even fornicated in
God’s house, in the church of St Oswald himself! She was not killed by berserk Norsemen, but rightly executed for her profligate lewdness.’

The prior’s face paled and his famous smile dropped from it like breeches falling when a belt breaks.

‘That is a terrible thing to say, Brother!’ he gasped. ‘I am your confessor and I will have to give you a severe penance for such evil thoughts.’

‘His mind is deranged, Prior,’ murmured Mark. ‘He is not responsible for his fantasies.’

But aghast at this sudden blasphemy, Prior Paul’s habitually placid nature crumbled and he rose to point a shaking finger at the old monk.

‘I will listen to no more licentious slander against our beloved Beornwyn!’ he howled. ‘Go to your bed and stay there until I have decided what to do about you!’

As John stumbled to his feet, the furious prior turned to his secretary.

‘On second thoughts, escort him to the penitentiary cell and make sure that he stays there. Say nothing to the others. We cannot have the rest of our brotherhood tainted with his vile
accusations!’

Mark took the culprit by the arm and gently led him away. John went unprotestingly, his eyes lowered to the floor as they left the prior to simmer down in his parlour.

As they walked across the inner courtyard, some of the other monks were still standing there, looking expectantly at the couple as they made their way to the chapter house, where a tiny cell was
attached to the side of the building.

Brother Matthew, the sub-prior, came across to intercept them. ‘What has happened?’ he demanded imperiously. ‘Why are you shutting him away?’

Mark raised a hand warningly at Matthew. ‘Our brother here is unwell. The prior wishes him to be kept alone for a time.’

Matthew glowered at the young secretary. ‘I am the sub-prior. I demand to know what’s going on!’

Stubbornly, Mark shook his head. ‘You must speak to the prior yourself, Brother. Those are his orders.’

Matthew angrily marched off towards the prior’s house, leaving Mark to shepherd the old man into the small room that was kept for those who had offended in some way. It was rarely used,
save for occasionally housing a brother who came home drunk from the village or was repeatedly late for holy offices.

Reluctantly, Mark ushered John to the hard chair, which, along with a lumpy mattress and blanket on the floor, was the only furniture, apart from an empty bucket and a large wooden cross on the
wall.

‘Sit there and rest, Brother,’ he said compassionately. ‘Lie down, if you wish, though it’s early in the day for sleep.’ As he went to the door, he turned to look
at the old monk sitting with downcast eyes. ‘I’ll get one of the kitchen boys to bring you some broth, bread and water.’

Getting no response, he went out and pulled the door shut behind him. There was a key on the outside, but the prior had not told him to lock the old man in, so he left it there and went back
across the precinct. Inside, John stirred himself and went to the small window, an unglazed square with bars across it. The only view was of the bare stone of the outside wall of the church, but as
he held on to the bars, a blue butterfly fluttered in and alighted on the back of his right hand. With a strangled cry, he jerked away and as the creature flew off, he collapsed onto the hard bed
and cried piteously, his chest heaving with sobs.

At about the ninth hour, after the office of prime, the monks all trooped into the chapter house for their daily session, which was part service, part business. As the priory
had no novitiates at the moment, all the brothers had taken their vows and could remain for the whole meeting. One began by reading a chapter from the Rule of St Benedict, then the date, calendar
and phase of the moon was announced, together with the names of the saints that were commemorated on that day. Prayers were said for the King and for the dead, then the daily schedule of services
and duties were read out.

At chapter, any brothers who had offended in any way were brought before their fellows and penances ordered where necessary by the prior or his sub-prior. Today, the usual dull routine had been
broken by John’s weird behaviour, and the monks were eager to hear it discussed. From his chair facing the half-circle of benches where the brothers were sitting, Prior Paul began the
proceedings, his face looking uncharacteristically drawn and sombre.

‘We need to consider what must be done about the affliction of our Brother John, who, I must remind you all, has been a faithful member of this community for more than thirty years. His
mind is now obviously deranged, but the distasteful nature of his recent fantasies is such that we must seriously consider how we should deal with him.’

At this, Brother Luke, one of the older monks, stood up to ask a question.

‘Prior, we have only heard rumours of what John alleged this morning. Can you please tell us what he said?’

Paul looked very uncomfortable at this, but he had little option in the fraternal nature of their closed community. He cleared his throat.

‘It is a hideous blasphemy, which I am loath to repeat, but you will have to acknowledge that it comes from a diseased mind. Brother John, in his demented state, alleges that St Oswald of
blessed memory had told him that our dear patron, Beornwyn, was not a pure virgin, but a fornicator who actually committed her sins in a house of God!’

There was a hiss of disbelief and a wave of muttering amongst the brothers, but it was cut short by the harsh voice of Matthew, sitting on a chair at Paul’s right hand.

‘Forgive me for interrupting, Prior,’ he snapped. ‘But I find to my horror that this is the most foul and terrible accusation that it has ever been my lot to hear! To malign
and slander our beloved patron, who cannot answer for herself, is an injustice that has no equal in my memory.’

He was almost quivering with anger at this slur on his heavenly heroine, the virtues of whom he had always extolled to an extent that bordered upon an obsession. He was not finished yet and,
red-faced with temper, addressed the prior directly.

‘I would advise that we should not proceed any further without John being brought before us to answer for his sin. It is always customary for brothers who have offended to be faced
directly with their misdeeds before this chapter and I feel it even more necessary now!’

Everyone knew that the sub-prior was flexing the muscles of his ambition, laying further claim to succeeding Paul when the time came. He rarely lost a chance to qualify or even contradict the
prior over any lapse of custom or procedure, to emphasise his dislike of the more lenient regime favoured by Paul.

This time, however, the prior dug his heels in.

‘All in good time, Brother! But first I wish to hear what others have to say about this unfortunate matter. We all have a right for our opinions to be heard.’

‘John claims that angels took him up to the Beacon where he met St Oswald?’ said Brother Arnulf, who was in charge of the guest-house.

‘I suppose that is not impossible, though it would indeed be a miracle! Are we to believe that part of his story, even if not the more scurrilous aspects?’

The sub-prior again jumped in to reply before Paul could answer. ‘Being taken up a mountain is not uncommon in religious history,’ he grated. ‘Was not the Muslim prophet
Mohammed taken on his night journey by angels from Araby to the Mount of Jerusalem? And did not our own Lord Jesus Christ Himself go up to a mountain with Peter, James and John to meet Moses and
Elijah?’

The prior’s smile came back fleetingly as he responded. ‘Indeed, Brother Matthew. And did not your namesake also record in his gospel that after forty days in the wilderness, Christ
Jesus was taken to a mountain to be tempted and that angels then came to minister to him?’

The sub-prior nodded his agreement, but used the opening to come back at his superior.

‘As always, you are right, Prior. But on that occasion it was Satan who transported him to that high place! Can we be sure that the same has not happened to Brother John and that this was
not possession by the Devil?’

There was a fresh bout of murmuring amongst the assembled monks, which the prior brought to end by raising his hand.

‘Then we will question our sick brother as he stands before us, as Matthew has suggested.’

He directed his secretary to fetch John from the penitent’s cell and there was an uneasy silence in the chapter house as the younger man went on his mission. The monks shuffled their feet
and looked uncomfortable, sensing the antagonism between their prior and Brother Matthew, as well as their concern over John, who until the last few days, they had looked on as a harmless, if
eccentric, old colleague.

Then the door jerked open and the prior’s secretary stood there, looking flustered. ‘‘He’s gone! The cell is empty!’

Paul jumped to his feet. ‘Gone? Where can he have gone? He must be somewhere in the priory!’

The irate Matthew strode towards the secretary and pushed him aside at the door. ‘Why was he not locked in?’ he snapped. ‘Do I have to check everything myself?’

He marched out, followed by Mark, then the prior himself at the head of a ragged procession of brothers.

‘When was he last seen, Mark?’ demanded the prior. ‘He can’t have gone far on those old legs of his.’

His secretary, feeling guilty for not turning the key, said that the last person to have seen him must have been the lay brother who took him some food, now several hours ago. The sub-prior was
barking out orders, and within minutes all the monks and a number of lay brothers and servants were combing the various buildings in the inner and outer courtyards. It was only when a door-ward,
disturbed by the commotion, stumbled out of a privy near the outer gate, that a sighting of the old monk was obtained.

‘He passed out onto the lane to the village about an hour ago,’ the porter announced in an aggrieved voice. ‘I didn’t know anyone was looking for him.’

The prior sighed. ‘John would try the patience of Job,’ he complained. ‘Mark, send a couple of servants after him – and go with them yourself, as you seem most able to
calm his madness.’

Two of the ostlers quickly saddled up a trio of ponies and minutes later, they were jogging briskly along the track that joined St Oswald’s priory to the outer world. It passed through the
handful of cottages that made up the village of Broomhill, almost all of whose inhabitants were dependent on the priory for their livelihood. As they passed, one of the ostlers called out to a
woman who was tying her goat to the stakes of her garden fence.

‘Good-wife, have you seen an old monk passing this way?’

She waved a hand onwards. ‘Brother John went by less than an hour ago. Never so much as returned my greeting, neither. He’ll surely be past the crossroads by now.’

They kicked their ponies into a trot and soon reached the junction of the track with the wider road that came up from the Forest of Dean and led towards Worcester.

‘Which way now, Brother?’ demanded one of the servants.

Mark rapidly considered this and felt that, given John’s threat to report his fantasies to a bishop, it was more likely that he was aiming for Worcester. They turned left and within half a
mile, they saw the old man limping ahead of them. When they caught up with him, Mark saw that John was exhausted, only his fanatical willpower keeping him on his feet.

‘John, John, what are we going to do with you?’ sighed the younger monk, as he gently helped to lift John on to his own pony.

‘I’ll be locked up this time, boy,’ croaked the old monk. ‘But St Oswald will find a way to get my news proclaimed abroad.’

Mark led the pony towards home, sending one of the grooms ahead to tell the prior that the fugitive had been found unharmed. When they reached the priory, they were met by a silent group in the
inner courtyard, a grim-faced sub-prior pointing at the infirmary building.

‘In there with you, John,’ he ordered in a voice of stone. ‘You are not to leave, on pain of excommunication.’