The False Virgin (7 page)

‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Frossard. ‘They had hidden them with scarves.’

‘There was one thing, though,’ said Reinfrid quickly, seeing Cole’s disappointment and hastening to curry favour. ‘The fellow in charge was shrieking his orders in an
oddly high-pitched voice. It made us laugh.’

‘There is nothing amusing about cattle theft,’ said Miles sternly.

‘We would like to hear about your relic, brothers,’ said Gwenllian, seeing Frossard gird himself up to argue. ‘But not now – it is too hot. Come to the castle this
evening.’

Gwenllian had invited a number of people to dine with her that night – Avenel and Fitzmartin, Mayor Rupe, Philip the chaplain and Deputy Miles. Then it had occurred to
her that they would quarrel, so she had added Prior Kediour, Odo and Hilde, to help her keep the peace. Now Symon was home, she wished she could cancel the whole thing and spend the evening with
him, but that would have been ungracious. The meal would go ahead, and she and Cole would preside together.

She had been to some trouble: the food was plentiful, the wine good, the hall had been swept and dusted, and Cole’s smelly hunting dogs banished to the bailey. Musicians had been hired to
entertain, and summer flowers had been set in bowls in the windows.

Cole had the pallor of exhaustion about him, so she placed Sheriff Avenel next to her, lest tiredness led to incautious remarks. Symon was not good at dissembling when he was rested, and there
was no knowing what might slip out when he was tired. Miles, clad in a fine yellow tunic, had contrived to sit on Cole’s left, so as to be close to Gwenllian as possible, and the feast had
not been going long before she detected signs of trouble.

‘. . . uncivil manner,’ Cole was snapping, unusually curt. ‘Do it again and I will—’

‘Symon!’ she hissed in alarm. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

‘Miles made a comment about your kirtle,’ explained Cole shortly.

She smiled down at the dress in question, one that had been cut to show off her slender waist and lithe figure. ‘Yes. It is a new one.’

Cole shot it a disinterested glance. ‘Is it?’

‘Odo and Hilde complimented it, too,’ she went on. ‘And even Kediour said the colour becomes me. In fact, you are alone in remaining mute on the subject. Doubtless you would
pay it more attention if it was the colour of your favourite horse.’

‘Yes, I would. He is piebald – large black and white patches. A kirtle in such a pattern would certainly command attention. Mine and everyone else’s.’

‘I had better have one made then.’

He laughed at the notion, his naturally sunny temper restored. When he turned back to Miles, she heard him begin a tale about the Crusade, which involved sufficient gore to keep the
deputy’s horrified attention until the meal was over. However, when the music began, she felt Miles’s eyes on her again; drink had made him indiscreet in his ogling. She hastened to
engage him in conversation, so he would at least have a reason for looking at her.

‘Tell us more about your underground stream,’ she said. The other guests pulled their attention away from the music to listen. Avenel and Fitzmartin were sneeringly sceptical, and
Gwenllian hoped Miles’s theory was right, just to wipe the smiles off their faces.

‘As I said, it is beneath Mayor Rupe’s wood,’ replied Miles, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. ‘I shall survey it again in the next day or so, and then we shall sink a
well. Our town will never lack fresh water again.’

‘That wood has always been boggy,’ said Kediour. ‘Yet I doubt it holds a stream, even so. The underlying rock is not the right type to support that sort of feature.’

‘Did you mention using hazel twigs?’ asked Gwenllian, before they could argue.

‘My mother swore by them,’ replied Miles, beaming lovingly at her.

‘So she
was
a witch,’ drawled Fitzmartin, exchanging a grin with his sheriff. ‘There is a sorceress’s whelp in a position of power at Carmarthen!’

‘She was a good lady,’ growled Cole, although he had never met her and aimed only to defend his castle from insults. ‘And I defy any man to—’

‘Your destrier seemed lame today, Symon,’ interrupted Kediour, earning a grateful look from Gwenllian. ‘It is the drought – it has rendered the roads unusually hard for
hoofs.’

‘Lame?’ asked Cole in alarm. He loved his warhorse. ‘Are you sure?’

‘A knight oblivious to the needs of his mount,’ said Fitzmartin censoriously. ‘King John will be interested to hear that.’

‘Will he?’ asked Chaplain Philip, sober and serious in his dark habit. ‘I would have thought he had more urgent matters to consider as regards Carmarthen.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ demanded Miles testily.

Philip looked away. ‘The cattle thieves,’ he replied, although Gwenllian could tell he was lying, and it had been some other matter to which he had alluded. ‘His Majesty will
be more concerned about them than the constable’s care of his animals.’

‘He will indeed,’ agreed Avenel slyly. ‘Especially when he hears that they are still at large after a hunt lasting three weeks.’

Gwenllian saw a glance pass between him and Philip. Had the chaplain been telling tales, encouraging Avenel to think badly of her husband? She would not put it past him. Philip was a malcontent,
only happy when he was causing trouble. Then she became aware that she was not the only one who had seen the exchange. Malicious satisfaction flashed in Rupe’s eyes, and it occurred to her
that he might have encouraged Philip’s treachery. The mayor would, after all, lose the next election because of Cole. What better revenge than to have him dismissed?

The evening was one of the longest and most awkward Gwenllian could ever remember spending. Tiredness rendered Cole unusually irritable, and his temper was not improved by the
attention Miles kept paying her. Avenel and Fitzmartin were critical and argumentative, and Philip’s tongue wagged constantly. Gwenllian was grateful to Kediour, Odo and Hilde, who quelled
many a burgeoning spat. Kediour flung priestly reproaches at anyone speaking intemperately, while Odo and Hilde kept up a flow of innocuous chatter to which no one could take exception.

‘Shall we have some more music?’ asked Odo, when even he had run out of bland conversation. ‘I do so love a
long
Welsh ballad.’

‘I would rather hear these monks tell us about their relic,’ countered Avenel.

As Gwenllian doubted that he, Fitzmartin or even Miles would stay silent during a lengthy song in a language none of them could understand, the Benedictines seemed the better option. She stood
to fetch them, but Miles anticipated her.

‘Let me go,’ he said, ‘for
you
, my lady.’ He smirked rather challengingly at Cole, and if Gwenllian had not been holding Symon’s hand tightly under the
table, she was sure he would have surged to his feet and dismissed Miles from his post on the spot. Then sides would have been taken, and who could say how such a quarrel would have ended?

The two monks were ushered in. They had smartened themselves up for their audience by washing and shaving, and their habits had been carefully brushed. They were still shabby, but at least they
were clean. Reinfrid carried the little reliquary.

‘We are monks from Romsey Abbey,’ he began. ‘And our—’

‘Romsey is a house for nuns,’ interrupted Kediour, eyes narrowing.

‘Forgive me,’ said Reinfrid with a bow. ‘The sun has addled my wits. I meant Ramsey. We are monks from
Ramsey
Abbey, en route to Whitland, to deliver this sacred
relic—’

‘Why should Benedictines give Cistercians a gift?’ Kediour interrupted again.

‘I am coming to that,’ said Reinfrid, a little curtly. ‘Our abbot had a dream in which Beornwyn appeared and said she wanted her hand taken to Whitland. Obviously, he was no
more keen to lose a relic than you would be, but she appeared a second night, and a third, until he appointed Frossard and me to do as she commanded.’

‘I see,’ said Kediour, still full of suspicion. ‘And why you, pray?’

‘Because we are the youngest, strongest and best able to travel,’ replied Reinfrid, so glibly that Gwenllian suspected the question had been put before. ‘We care nothing for
the rigours of the road.’ He indicated his tatty habit. ‘As you can see.’

‘Who is this Beornwyn?’ asked Cole. ‘I have never heard of her.’

‘A virgin princess murdered by sea-pirates,’ supplied Frossard. ‘She was a good lady, and she has left a trail of miracles in her wake as we have journeyed west.’

‘Sea-pirates?’ asked Cole, startled. ‘But Ramsey is nowhere near the coast.’

‘She was not murdered in Ramsey,’ said Reinfrid, exasperated. ‘It happened in Lythe, a small village near Whitby. Have you heard of Whitby?’

‘I have heard of its Benedictine abbey,’ said Cole warily.

‘A fine place, so we are told,’ said Frossard blandly. ‘Are you interested in petitioning Beornwyn for a miracle? Perhaps she led us here so she can help you. She has never
failed us yet when we have petitioned her for mercy, and this town is clearly in need of good fortune.’

‘May I see it first?’ asked Cole. ‘I am familiar with holy relics, having inspected many in the Holy Land – and touched them, too.’

‘You
handled
sacred objects?’ asked Kediour, shocked. Fitzmartin stifled a laugh at the prior’s horror, although Avenel’s face was stern and unsmiling.

‘Do you anticipate being able to sense the sanctity of this hand, then?’ asked Rupe. The question was innocent, but Gwenllian knew it was intended to cause trouble for Cole.

‘No one will touch her,’ said Reinfrid firmly. ‘She is not for mauling by seculars. In fact, we never open her box. It would be impious to expose her to gawpers.’

‘Very wise,’ said Fitzmartin drolly. ‘We would not want Cole struck down for irreverent behaviour, would we? It might make a mess in this beautifully clean hall.’

Rupe sniggered, then tossed a coin on the table. ‘Here is a penny, and I will give you eleven more if Beornwyn brings us rain. A shilling is what you asked, is it not?’

Reinfrid grabbed it quickly. ‘It is not for us, you understand. It is for Beornwyn – to continue her good works, and allow others to benefit from her munificence.’

He scowled when Fitzmartin roared with mocking laughter, then he and Frossard kneeled with as much dignity as they could muster to begin their prayers. Kediour stood abruptly.

‘No,’ he said coldly. ‘This is sacrilege. You are imposters, and your saint is not one recognised by the Church.’

Reinfrid regarded him balefully. ‘Yes, she is. She—’

‘Take your so-called reliquary and leave,’ ordered Kediour angrily. ‘No one will pay homage to your purported saint, and we certainly do not want “miracles” that we
are obliged to pay for. Real saints give them freely. There will be no more touting for business in Carmarthen. Do I make myself clear?’

His voice was so loud and authoritative that the two monks scrambled quickly to their feet, and even Fitzmartin’s derisive guffaws died away. After a brief and rather tense silence, Cole
announced that it was time for everyone to retire.

‘Go to the kitchen,’ he said kindly to the monks, seeing them look hungrily at the remains of the feast. ‘The cook will feed you. You may sleep there, too, if you
wish.’

‘It is more than they deserve,’ grumbled Kediour, watching the two lads hurry away. ‘They are scoundrels, aiming to take advantage of the gullible, and their relic is a
fake.’

The guests dispersed, stretching and yawning, all complaining about the sultry heat of the night. Cole escorted Kediour to his priory – he always did after dark, despite Kediour’s
assurance that an ex-Hospitaller was perfectly capable of looking after himself. It was some time before he returned to the castle.

‘The weather must be preventing people from sleeping,’ he reported, sitting wearily on the bed. ‘I must have met half of Carmarthen when I was out.’

‘Who?’ Most of Gwenllian’s attention was on little Meurig, who was shifting uncomfortably in his sleep, face flushed from the warmth of the room.

Cole listed a number of friends and acquaintances he had seen on his way to the priory, which lay on the northern outskirts of the town; he and Kediour had been obliged to stop and exchange
pleasantries with them all. Then he came to those he had encountered on his way home, when he had been alone.

‘Odo and Hilde were near the priory gate as I came out. They claimed they were going to walk to Merlin’s Hill, to watch the stars from the top of it.’

‘Then they were,’ said Gwenllian sharply, not liking the scepticism in his voice. ‘Odo is interested in astronomy, and he sleeps badly because of his sore back. They often rise
in the night to study the heavens together.’

‘Then I met Avenel and Fitzmartin, who said they were going to the Eagle tavern – the one out past the priory. Your cousin Philip was not far behind, and he told me he was following
them to ensure they caused no mischief. I did not believe him.’

Nor did Gwenllian, and she wondered whether the chaplain had been going to tell the sheriff more gossip about Cole, his castle and his family. If so, the town’s most remote alehouse was a
good place to do it.

Cole continued, ‘But the oddest thing was Rupe, with his henchmen and those two monks. They were in his wood. I saw a lamp there, you see, and went to investigate. All five were praying to
Beornwyn. I suppose I should have stopped them, after what Kediour said, but I do not see what harm it can do. I left them to it.’

‘Good,’ said Gwenllian, not liking to imagine Rupe’s reaction to being told where he could pray. His righteous indignation would have known no bounds.

‘And finally there was Deputy Miles,’ said Cole, disapproval thick in his voice. ‘He hid behind a tree when he saw me coming, so I rousted him out like a rat.’

‘You did not fight him, did you?’ asked Gwenllian in alarm.

‘I merely asked why he was not out on patrol, guarding our cattle as I had ordered. He said he was going to survey the coppice for that underground stream.’

‘At night?’ queried Gwenllian.

‘I asked the same thing: he said he prefers to work without an audience. I told him to forget wild theories and concentrate on the thieves, but I doubt he will oblige. He wants to impress
you with an endless supply of water. The wretched man is head over heels in love with my wife, and I was the last one to know it.’