The False Virgin

I

Whitby Abbey, Winter 1199

It was a pity that Reinfrid and Frossard were friends. Reinfrid was clever, and might have risen high within the Benedictine Order if Frossard had not been there to lead him astray with mischief; and Frossard might have accepted his lot as a lay brother if Reinfrid had not been constantly telling him that a son of Lord Frossard, albeit an illegitimate one, deserved better than life as a labourer.

One bleak evening, when a bitter wind turned all to ice, the two young men chanced to meet in the monastery grounds. It was Reinfrid’s turn to prepare the church for compline, while Frossard had been charged to clean the stables.

‘The abbot has been vexed with us ever since we let that pig into the scriptorium,’ said Frossard, chuckling at the memory of scribes scurrying around in dismay while the greedy animal feasted on finest vellum. ‘So I have a plan that will take his mind off it.’

Reinfrid brightened. Life had been dull since their last escapade, and his quick mind chafed at the strictures of a cloistered existence. He had never wanted to be a monk, but as the youngest child of an impoverished knight, he had been given no choice. His unhappy situation was what drew him to Frossard – the solidarity of two youngsters whose lives were blighted by circumstances of birth.

‘It concerns Beornwyn,’ Frossard went on, ‘the virgin killed by sea-pirates up in Lythe three and a half centuries ago. She was chopped into pieces, and her flayed corpse was found covered in butterflies the following day.’

‘She is not a saint,’ said Reinfrid, haughty in his superior knowledge. ‘The Church does not recognise her, and Abbot Peter deplores the fact that pilgrims visit her shrine.’

‘Yes, and do you know why? Because it means they do not spend their money here. He would be the first to acknowledge Beornwyn if her bones were in his abbey.’

Reinfrid laughed. ‘So what do you suggest? That we steal them for him?’

‘Yes.’

The blunt reply made Reinfrid’s jaw drop. ‘But that would be impossible! They are watched day and night. We would never get near them.’

Frossard smirked. ‘Oh, yes, we will. I met two of the guards yesterday, and we got talking. They are on duty tonight. They mentioned a liking for wine, so I sent them a flask – and in it is some powder from old Mother Hackness, which will make them sleep like babies. All we have to do is walk to Lythe, collect the relics and bring them back here.’

Reinfrid raised his eyebrows archly. ‘And present the abbot with stolen property? I doubt that will go down very well!’

‘We shall say that Beornwyn appeared to us in a dream and told us to fetch her. The fact that the guards slept through her removal will be proof that we acted with her blessing.’

Reinfrid was thoughtful. Saints were always appearing to people in visions, asking to be toted from one place to another, so it was not beyond the realms of possibility that Beornwyn might prefer an abbey to the paltry little fishing village four miles up the coast. Frossard grinned when his friend made no further objection.

‘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.

‘This cannot continue,’ he said testily. ‘We lost another cow last night, and we shall have no herd left if you do not stop these villains.’

‘They are well organised,’ said Cole, a little defensively. ‘One group distracts us while the others strike. Yet if I divide my men, we are stretched too thin.’

‘Then you will have to catch them by cunning. Ask your wife for ideas.’

Cole smiled. Gwenllian was by far the cleverest person he knew, and while other men might have bristled at the implication that their spouses were more intelligent than they, Cole was inordinately proud of his, and was always pleased when her skills were acknowledged.

‘Much has happened since you left,’ Kediour went on. ‘You have visitors.’

‘From the King?’ asked Cole uneasily.

John had been crowned the previous year, following the death of Richard the Lionheart. He was a weak, vacillating, deceitful man, and Cole, plain-speaking and honest, had been unable to shower him with the flowery compliments John felt he deserved. The silence had been noted, and Cole had acquired an implacable enemy. Cole’s marriage meant he had a lot of in-laws who would fight if he was dismissed without good cause, so John was busy looking for one, and a veritable flood of emissaries came to assess his accounts, watch the way he built his castle, and monitor his rule. Gwenllian was determined they should not succeed, and had managed to send each one away empty-handed. So far.

‘Nicholas Avenel,’ replied Kediour. ‘The new Sheriff of Pembroke. He has an evil reputation, and is accused of despoiling churches and kidnapping wealthy burgesses for ransom. His henchman William Fitzmartin comes with him.’

‘I do not know either.’

‘John’s creatures,’ said Kediour disapprovingly. ‘Here to find fault. They have not managed yet, but there are those in the town who aim to help them.’

‘Adam de Rupe,’ sighed Cole, knowing who he meant. ‘The mayor.’

Kediour nodded. ‘You exposed him as corrupt, which means he will not be re-elected next month. And his servants Gunbald and Ernebald hate you for gaoling them last year.’

‘But they stole from the church,’ protested Cole. ‘They were caught red-handed.’

‘Yes, but all three think they were misused regardless. And then there are Miles de Cogan and Philip de Barri. I do not trust either, despite your kindness towards them.’

‘Miles is my deputy. He is not an enemy!’

‘He is jealous of what you have – namely Gwenllian. He is in love with her.’

Cole gaped at him. ‘He is not!’

‘He is, and everyone knows it. However, Philip worries me more.’

Cole made an impatient sound. ‘He is Gwen’s cousin – family. Besides, if I am ousted from Carmarthen, he will lose his post as chaplain.’

‘Just be careful,’ warned Kediour. ‘However, they and the raiders are not the only problem you need to solve. Come to the Market Square, and I shall show you another.’

Cole would rather have gone straight to Gwenllian and the children, but he dutifully followed the prior into the town centre. A crowd had gathered, and there was an atmosphere of excited anticipation, all centred on two young men in Benedictine habits.

‘They claim they are taking a holy relic to Whitland Abbey,’ explained Kediour with obvious disapproval. ‘The hand of a saint named Beornwyn, no less. But they are Benedictines and Whitland is Cistercian. Why would one Order bestow such a favour on another?’

‘I suppose it is odd,’ said Cole. ‘But hardly my business.’

‘Oh, yes, it is,’ said Kediour firmly. ‘They announced earlier that Beornwyn grants most prayers if her palm is crossed with silver, and several people plan to invest in a boon. However, I have never heard of this saint, and I suspect they are charlatans.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Cole. He hated problems where religion was involved.

‘I shall look her up in my library this evening. However, even if she does transpire to be genuine, I do not see why scruffy lads like these should have been entrusted with her.’

‘I will speak to them tomorrow and suggest they leave.’ Cole glanced towards the castle and wished he was in it. Not only was he acutely uncomfortable standing in the sun in full armour, but he objected to being kept from his family.

‘They have offered to end the drought for a shilling,’ said Kediour, scowling at both the monks and the crowd they had attracted. ‘Mayor Rupe thinks we should pay.’

‘Perhaps we should,’ said Cole, squinting up at the cloudless sky. ‘We are desperate for rain, and I am sure no Benedictine would cheat us.’

Kediour regarded him askance. The constable had a reckless habit of taking people at their word, a facet of his character that often stunned the prior. ‘Do you really believe that everyone who wears a habit is a good man?’

Cole considered the question carefully, although it had been rhetorical. ‘Yes, generally. I may not like them, but God does or He would not have called them to serve Him.’

Kediour gaped his disbelief, but was spared the need to reply by the appearance of Cole’s family – Gwenllian, raven-haired and lovely; his little son, Meurig; and the gurgling bundle that was baby Alys. Even Kediour’s stern visage relaxed into a smile as he watched the unbridled joy of their reunion.

Gwenllian was relieved to have her husband home. Despite the recent appointment of a deputy, everyone knew it was really she who was in charge when Cole was away, and she had found the responsibility burdensome. Not only was it difficult to keep Sheriff Avenel and his unsavoury companion, Fitzmartin, entertained, but the unrelenting heat was driving even the mildest of men to ill-tempered spats. Moreover, there was a decision about the new tower that only Cole could make, and people were beginning to fear that drought and the cattle thieves would see them all starve that winter.

As soon as she could, she sent the children home with their nurse, and pulled Cole into the shop owned by Odo and his wife, Hilde, knowing the couple would leave them to talk undisturbed. Odo and Hilde sold cloth, and had been Gwenllian’s friends for years, although Cole was lukewarm about Odo’s gentle manners and unmanly fondness for the arts.

‘There is trouble,’ she began. ‘Avenel and Fitzmartin arrived shortly after you left, and have been prying into every aspect of our lives ever since. They have a letter from the King, giving them leave to do whatever they like here.’

Cole sighed wearily. ‘Perhaps I should resign and retire to my estates in Normandy. John will win in the end and I am tired of trying to outwit him.’

‘No,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘I will not allow him to oust us from our home. You have been constable here for years, and-’

‘Quite. Perhaps it is time for a change. It was never intended to be a permanent post – not by King Henry, who put me here, or by King Richard, who confirmed the appointment.’

‘If we go,’ said Gwenllian, drawing herself up to her full height with all the dignity of a princess of Wales, ‘it will be because we decide to leave. It will not be on the whim of a spiteful monarch who does not know how to rule what he has inherited.’

Cole did not have the energy to argue. Instead, he suggested they go to the castle and inspect progress on the new tower. As they aimed for the door, Hilde and Odo approached.

‘What shall we do about these monks and their saint, Cole?’ asked Odo. He had one hand to his back as usual; a lifetime of lifting heavy bales had taken its toll. ‘Shall we pay them to pray for a miracle? Bad luck has dogged us all summer, so we could certainly do with one.’

‘He will decide tomorrow,’ said Gwenllian, to spare Symon the need to make a decision there and then. She smiled at her friends. ‘The monks told me that they plan to stay for a few days, so there is no immediate hurry.’

She led Cole back into the blasting heat of the Market Square, where the Benedictines had finished their performance and were packing the reliquary away. Two men watched: Sheriff Avenel was a tall, bald man with the haughty bearing of the professional warrior; Fitzmartin was younger and smaller, but cast in the same mould.

‘Constable Cole?’ asked Avenel, coming to intercept them. ‘You have been gone a long time. Can a few miserable thieves really take so long to track down?’

‘He has not tracked them down,’ said Fitzmartin slyly. ‘They remain at large – I heard his sergeant make the announcement just now. Perhaps he would like us to help. I am sure the King will not mind us abandoning our more important duties to oblige.’

‘Thank you,’ said Cole amiably. He was not very good at recognising sarcasm and often wrong-footed people by taking acerbic comments at face value. ‘Shall we try tomorrow?’

‘No,’ said Avenel, once he realised that Cole was not being impertinent. ‘We have more pressing matters to concern us. And now you are home, I want to discuss them with you. Not with your wife.’

Cole bridled at his tone, and Gwenllian rested a calming hand on his arm. She had not endured the sheriff and his creature for three trying weeks just to have Cole destroy the fragile bridges she had built with an imprudent remark.

‘You must excuse us, Sheriff,’ she said politely. ‘We have castle business to attend.’

Avenel bowed in a manner that was more insult than compliment, and stepped away, although neither he nor Fitzmartin went far.

Cole leaned down to whisper in Gwenllian’s ear, ‘Kediour tells me they are accused of despoiling churches. Is it true?’

‘They are John’s men, so it is possible.’ Her attention was caught by the monks. ‘Odo had a good question: what will you do about them? We do need a miracle, but I am not sure they are the ones to bring it about. Oh, no! Here comes Mayor Rupe!’

Rupe was an overweight, slovenly man who hailed from nearby Dinefwr, a fact of which he was so proud that he always wore the curious conical hat for which its residents were famous. He had been greasily obsequious before Cole had caught him misusing public monies, but was now a bitter and intractable opponent. He had insisted on holding meetings to discuss how best to catch the thieves, which he had used as opportunities to make Cole look inept and foolish in front of the town’s other worthies. He was flanked by his two henchmen, an unsavoury father and son named Ernebald and Gunbald.

‘It is your fault we are short of water, Cole,’ he snarled without preamble. ‘You should have built cisterns, not squandered our taxes on beautifying your castle. And you accuse me of dealing corruptly!’

‘The King told him to do it,’ came a voice from behind. It was Deputy Miles, a gloriously handsome man with golden hair. ‘Would you have him flout a royal order?’

‘The town should come first,’ said Rupe stubbornly. ‘And if Cole does not think so, he should resign and let a better man take the post. Such as you, perhaps, Miles.’

The deputy bowed. ‘You are kind, but I should need a Lady Gwenllian at my side, and there is only one of her. Thus the post of Constable of Carmarthen is not for me. But do not despair for water, Rupe. I have a plan – if the fair lady will permit me to explain.’

Cole was not a perceptive man, but even he could not fail to notice the look of passionate longing that Miles directed at Gwenllian. He scowled, an expression that did not suit his naturally amiable face.

‘What plan?’ he demanded, before she could answer for herself. Avenel and Fitzmartin, aware that a possible altercation was in the offing, eased forward to listen.

‘I believe I have located a hidden stream,’ replied Miles, his eyes still fixed on Gwenllian. ‘I did it by holding hazel twigs in a certain way and-’

‘Witchery?’ interrupted Avenel in rank disdain, not caring that he was interrupting a discussion in which he had not been invited to take part.

Miles continued to address Gwenllian, much to her increasing mortification. ‘No, of course not. It is a skill my mother taught me. She saved our village from drought many times. I have been surveying Carmarthen, and there is an underground stream between the town and the priory – it lies beneath the woods on Mayor Rupe’s land.’

‘An underground stream?’ scoffed Avenel. ‘What nonsense is this?’

‘Not nonsense, Sheriff,’ said Miles earnestly. ‘It is there, I assure you.’

‘You are mad,’ sneered Fitzmartin. ‘There is no such thing as an underground stream.’

‘Bring your report to Symon tomorrow,’ said Gwenllian briskly to Miles, ending the conversation before there was trouble. ‘He will discuss it with you then.’

Miles was visibly crestfallen, and she was aware of Avenel and Fitzmartin chortling as they and the mayor walked away together, amused by the deputy’s unseemly infatuation. Cole turned angrily to Miles, and Gwenllian was relieved when he was prevented from rebuking him by the arrival of Philip de Barri, the castle chaplain.

Philip was Gwenllian’s cousin, although she could not bring herself to like him. He was an unprepossessing soul, with a wealth of irritating habits. She had not wanted him as chaplain, but there had been a vacancy when he had arrived begging for employment, and it would have been churlish to refuse. She tried not to let her antipathy show as he approached, bringing the two visiting monks with him.

She regarded them with interest. They were both young, and had clearly not enjoyed an easy journey – their habits were threadbare and dirty, and their sandals badly in need of repair. If they were charlatans, she thought, then they were not very good at plying their trade, or they would have been better attired. The larger of the pair, who introduced himself as Frossard, had a black eye.

‘A misunderstanding with a smith in Llandeilo,’ he explained, raising a tentative hand to touch it. ‘He thought I was going to steal a dagger.’

‘Why would you want a dagger?’ asked Cole, puzzled. ‘You are a monk.’

‘I did not want it,’ objected Frossard stiffly. ‘I was just looking. But since you ask, your domain is dangerous. Only yesterday we were obliged to watch a very desperate band of villains making off with sheep.’

‘Were you close enough to see their faces?’ asked Cole eagerly. The raiders tended to keep out of sight, and very few had witnessed them in action.

‘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.’

Later that night there was a colossal clap of thunder, so loud that Cole was not the only one who thought the castle was under attack from war machines. He and Gwenllian stood at the window, watching lightning illuminate the entire countryside in almost continuous flashes.

‘Is this Beornwyn’s doing?’ asked Cole in an awed voice, as the first drops of rain began to fall. ‘Rupe paid for a miracle, and here it is?’

‘Of course not,’ said Gwenllian, although she was less sure than she sounded. ‘It is just a coincidence.’

Then all conversation was impossible as the heavens opened, and the rain pounded down with such force that she feared the roof might cave in. The deluge stopped as quickly as it had started, and all that could be heard was water splattering from overtaxed gutters.

When it was light, she and Cole walked into the bailey which was heavily waterlogged. She smiled her relief at this sign of plenty, but he was anxious as he squinted up at the sky.

‘I thought you would be pleased,’ said Gwenllian. ‘What is wrong?’

‘The storm has not broken the weather. It will be just as hot today as it was yesterday, and that violent rain will have flattened any corn that has survived the drought. Moreover, I suspect that most of the water has run off without soaking into the soil. If this was a miracle, then it was not a very useful one.’

‘Here is Kediour,’ said Gwenllian, spotting the tall prior picking his way across the morass. ‘I imagine he will have something to say on the subject of miracles.’

‘I spent most of last night in my library,’ Kediour reported without preamble, ‘and I found mention of Beornwyn eventually. I was right: she is not recognised by the Church, although her cult thrives in and around Whitby. However, there is no suggestion that her hand was ever in Ramsey – or Romsey, for that matter. Those young men are lying.’

‘I saw them and Rupe praying to her last night, in his wood,’ said Cole. ‘Do you think she made it rain?’

Kediour regarded him in dismay. ‘You witnessed an act of desecration and did nothing to stop it?’

‘They were praying,’ said Cole uncomfortably. ‘It is not for me to interrupt people’s private devotions.’

‘This from a man who has set eyes on the Holy Land?’ Kediour was shocked. ‘How could you ignore such an outrage? And so close to my priory, too! I must see about having the spot cleansed. You had better come with me, and point out exactly where this vile deed took place.’

‘Hardly a vile deed,’ mumbled Cole, disconcerted by the prior’s hot words.

Kediour fixed him with a baleful eye. ‘You should keep your role in this shameful affair quiet, because that rain did far more harm than good – homes flooded, crops flattened, cattle drowned. We do not want you blamed for the disaster. Can you imagine what Rupe and Avenel would say about it? They would use it to destroy you.’

‘But it was Rupe who prayed for-’ began Cole.

‘He will deny it,’ interrupted Kediour tartly. ‘Like the liar he is.’

Cole nodded acquiescence, knowing he was right.

Gwenllian went with them as they walked to the coppice, noting a number of broken roof tiles, several people sweeping water from inside their homes and a tree fallen across the road. The sun was already hot, and the few remaining puddles were evaporating fast.

‘That is odd,’ said Cole, stopping to inspect a rivulet of water. ‘This part of the road never usually floods.’

‘It has been flowing since the storm,’ explained Mayor Rupe, making them jump by speaking close behind them. ‘It is running into my garden, so I hope it dries up soon. My vegetables are currently standing in a bog.’

‘Perhaps you will show me the place where you and those two young vagabonds prayed last night,’ said Kediour coolly. ‘No, do not ask how I know. Suffice to say that I disapprove.’

Rupe began to argue, but a cold stare from the indignant prior made his words falter. Muttering resentfully under his breath, he led the way into the wood, where there was a small clearing not far from the road, reached by a narrow path. He stopped in astonishment,

‘We prayed there,’ he gulped, pointing with a shaking finger. ‘And look! A spring now gushes from that very place. Beornwyn has granted us a miracle!’

‘It is excess water from the storm,’ said Kediour. ‘There is no evidence to-’

‘What is that?’ asked Cole suddenly, pointing to a flash of yellow behind a tree. Gwenllian recognised the smart new tunic immediately, and ran forward with a cry.

It was Miles, sightless eyes gazing up at the sky above, and a vicious red line around his neck to show where he had been garrotted. A butterfly had settled on the wound.

Cole and Gwenllian tried to explore the wood for clues, but Rupe’s horrified wails had attracted a crowd. Kediour did his best to keep them back, but not even his commanding figure could control them for long, and they were soon trampling everywhere, exclaiming in excited voices about the miracle of the storm – the damage it had caused conveniently forgotten – and the spring that had appeared like manna from Heaven.

‘There is another butterfly, settling on the wound of this murdered man,’ cried Rupe. ‘It is Beornwyn’s spirit, weeping for the wrong that has been done next to her sacred waters.’

‘Actually, it is attracted by the moisture,’ explained Cole. ‘They-’

‘There is nothing more to be seen here,’ interrupted Gwenllian quickly, aware of the revolted glances that were being exchanged that the constable should own such grisly knowledge. ‘Now please go home, all of you.’

‘No, stay,’ countered Rupe. ‘And feast your eyes on this holy spring – a gift from the saint herself. She truly has bestowed her favour on us – on me! I prayed to her, and she has sited her stream on my land, at the exact spot where I kneeled to petition her.’

‘Actually, you were a little farther to the left,’ said Cole.

Rupe’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know? Or were you here, too, spying on us?’

‘Of course not,’ said Gwenllian hastily, not wanting Rupe to know that Symon had been alone in the woods where his deputy had been murdered. ‘He was too tired after his three-week patrol for ferreting about in dark coppices.’

‘So you say,’ sneered Rupe. ‘But he would have had to come past here to reach the castle after seeing Kediour home, and Miles is dead. And we all know that Miles lusted after you.’

‘Symon knows he need not fear losing my affections to Miles or any other man,’ said Gwenllian firmly. She was aware of Avenel and Fitzmartin on the fringes of the crowd, listening intently and doubtless eager to report Rupe’s accusations to the King.

‘A wife can provide no alibi,’ declared Rupe scornfully. ‘You would lie to save Cole, if for no other reason than that the next constable is likely to have a wife already.’

‘Enough,’ snapped Kediour, while Gwenllian gripped Cole’s arm hard to prevent him from reacting to the insult. ‘It is unseemly to quarrel over a corpse. Philip? Fetch a bier and arrange for the deputy to be carried to the castle chapel.’

‘Your priory is closer,’ said Cole.

Kediour’s voice became gentle. ‘Yes, but that is not where he belongs. And it is Philip’s prerogative to stand vigil over a castle official until he is buried.’

The little chaplain looked disappointed to be dispatched on an errand when there was so much to see, and Gwenllian noted that he did not go without exchanging a quick glance with Avenel. She was thoughtful, remembering the people Cole had met on his way home the previous night: Philip, Avenel and Fitzmartin were among them. Had one of them strangled Miles? Or were the culprits Rupe and the two monks? Cole had seen Odo and Hilde, too, of course, but they were her friends and she could not believe they would throttle anyone.

‘Why did you choose to pray in a wood, Rupe?’ asked Cole, while they waited for Philip to return. ‘Why not in the church?’

‘I thought that if we were asking for rain, then we should do it outside,’ explained the mayor. ‘And my grove is a pleasant place to be of an evening.’

‘It is not pleasant now,’ remarked Kediour. ‘It is a morass. My canons will fetch some stones, and we shall block the spring before it damages the road – or drowns your vegetables.’

‘I do not mind, not now I know it is sacred water,’ said Rupe. His eyes gleamed. ‘I shall gather it in flasks and sell it to pilgrims.’

‘It is not sacred,’ said Kediour impatiently. ‘Water often oozes from odd places after a violent storm, especially after weeks of drought. It will run dry in a day or two.’

‘It will not,’ stated Rupe loftily. ‘I paid Beornwyn for a miracle and she gave me one. This wood belongs to me, and I shall build a chapel here to protect her spring, and to accommodate the pilgrims who will come. No one will block it with rocks.’

There was a determined jut to his chin, and next to him, his henchmen Gunbald and Ernebald gripped cudgels, obviously eager to use them on anyone inclined to argue. Cole’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword and he drew breath to speak, but Gwenllian stopped him.

‘Let them be,’ she whispered. ‘As Kediour says, the spring will soon run dry. It is not worth a quarrel.’

‘No,’ cried Kediour, overhearing. ‘I will not permit it. Not so close to my priory. It would be blasphemous!’

‘It is the will of God,’ said Rupe gloatingly. ‘You cannot stop it and neither can Cole. The land is mine, and so is the spring. If you interfere, I shall complain to the King.’

‘And the King will support you,’ said Sheriff Avenel. ‘He will say that a man has a right to use his own woods as he pleases. Especially when a percentage of the takings are sent to the royal coffers as an expression of fealty.’

Rupe scowled, but nodded reluctant agreement. Kediour also knew when he was beaten, although his face was black with anger as he stalked away.

‘Well, I am pleased there will be a shrine,’ said Odo, while Hilde nodded at his side. ‘If any town deserves a miracle, it is Carmarthen. I am delighted with Beornwyn’s favour.’

‘The King’s coffers will be, too,’ smirked Fitzmartin.

‘We need to catch Miles’s killer quickly,’ said Gwenllian to Cole, as they walked after the bier a little later. ‘Too many people know you disliked his unseemly ogling, and Rupe will relish the opportunity to hurt you with malicious lies. We must find the real culprit.’

‘Miles did annoy me last night,’ admitted Cole. ‘However, he was garrotted, and I am not a man to sneak up behind rivals and strangle them.’

‘That will not stop Rupe and his henchmen from saying so, and Avenel and Fitzmartin will delight in carrying such a tale to the King. So might Cousin Philip, who is remarkably treacherous for a kinsman. You saw all six and those two monks on that road last night – one might be the villain, and may accuse you to draw attention away from himself.’

‘So how do we catch him?’ asked Cole, touchingly confident that she would know.

‘You examined Miles’s body.’ As a warrior, used to violent death, he was well qualified for such a task. ‘Were you able to deduce anything from it?’

‘Only that he was choked with something hard – not rope, which would have left fibres. And he was cold, so I imagine he died last night rather than this morning. However, it is impossible to be certain of such things. In the Holy Land, there was once a corpse-’

‘What about the place where Miles died?’ interrupted Gwenllian. Few of Symon’s tales from the Crusade made for pleasant listening. ‘Or was it too thoroughly trampled?’

‘We would not have found footprints anyway – the ground is too hard.’

Gwenllian nodded. ‘So all we have is what you saw last night: Miles walking alone to the coppice to look for water, ignoring your order to hunt for cattle thieves. And six suspects out here with an opportunity to kill him. Eight, if we include those two monks.’

‘I saw Odo and Hilde, too,’ Cole reminded her.

‘Odo and Hilde are not killers.’

Cole sighed. ‘Well, the culprit is obvious to me. Rupe did not want Miles telling everyone that the water was under his wood all along – and thus not holy – so he murdered him.’

‘It is certainly a possibility,’ agreed Gwenllian. ‘Although it would mean that he did it after the storm, and only pretended to be surprised by the discovery of the spring today.’

‘I would not put it past him,’ said Cole. ‘Do not forget his corrupt activities as mayor. He is more skilled at lies and deception than anyone I have ever known.’

They delivered Miles to the chapel, where Cole ordered Philip to keep vigil until the deputy was buried the following morning. The little chaplain was not amused.

‘But so much is happening! The discovery of a sacred spring, talk of a holy storm. I will miss it all if I am stuck in here with a corpse. And I wanted to talk to the sheriff about…’

‘About what?’ asked Gwenllian coolly, as he trailed off guiltily.

‘About Sir Symon’s hunt for the cattle thieves,’ said Philip with a sickly and unconvincing smile. ‘How hard he has tried to lay hold of them with patrols and traps.’

‘Right,’ said Gwenllian flatly. ‘You can do it tomorrow, when I am there to hear you. Until then, you can say Masses for poor Miles.’

‘Poor Miles indeed,’ muttered Philip. ‘He did not deserve such a terrible death.’

‘No one ever does,’ said Cole grimly. ‘But since we are discussing him, tell me where you went last night.’

‘I was here,’ said the chaplain. ‘Praying for rain.’

Cole regarded him askance. ‘Was it your twin I saw trailing after Avenel then?’

Philip looked away. ‘Oh, yes. I forgot. The sheriff wanted me to write him a letter, so I went to the Eagle to oblige. It was afterwards that I prayed for rain.’

‘What manner of letter?’ asked Gwenllian, not bothering to point out that it was an odd time for clerkly activities. Most people preferred to do it in daylight, when they could see.

Philip became haughty. ‘A confidential letter to the King. More than that I cannot say.’

Gwenllian nodded calmly, but she was alarmed. What had the spiteful chaplain and the sheriff written together at such a peculiar hour?

‘Did you see Miles?’ asked Cole.

‘No, and I assumed he was out patrolling for cattle rustlers, as you had ordered. I was as surprised as anyone to hear he was discovered in the wood.’

Leaving Philip to his vigil, Gwenllian suggested that she and Cole revisit the scene of the murder to resume their hunt for clues. They walked through the town slowly, enervated by the heat, and arrived at the wood to find the little clearing thronged with people. Avenel and Fitzmartin were standing to one side, watching, while Rupe and his henchmen had filled a barrel with water from the spring, and were selling it in bowls. The two Benedictines were giving an impromptu sermon, and Gwenllian was dismayed to see Odo and Hilde among the eager listeners. Kediour was there, too, tight-lipped with disapproval.

‘It is just as I feared,’ he said, coming to speak to her and Cole. ‘The rain did more harm than good, yet those monks – if they are monks – bask in their role as saviours.’

‘They certainly wasted no time in buying themselves new sandals with the money intended for Beornwyn,’ remarked Gwenllian. ‘And they reek of ale.’

Kediour was obviously distressed. ‘Desperate people are easily led, and there is something of the Devil in this cult of theirs. I fear for people’s souls.’

‘I fear for their purses,’ said Cole. ‘If the monks do not empty them, Rupe will. I thought exposing his corruption would make him mend his ways, but he is just as greedy and unscrupulous as ever.’

Gwenllian watched the mayor, who was proclaiming that last night’s deluge was just the beginning of the favour Beornwyn would show him. While Kediour strode forward to inform the crowd that the Church did not recognise this particular saint, Cole drew the mayor aside. Rupe’s henchmen followed, and Gwenllian did not like the way that Gunbald pulled a dagger from his belt and looked as though he would very much like to use it. She beckoned to the two monks over, too, hoping the presence of monastic habits would forestall any violence.

‘Did you see Miles here last night, Rupe?’ Cole was asking.

‘No,’ replied Rupe shortly, while the henchmen and the monks indicated with shaken heads that they had not either. ‘We were too intent on our prayers.’

‘He believed he had discovered an underground stream beneath this wood,’ pressed Cole. ‘Which means your spring is not sacred, but was here all the time.’

‘He was a fool with his hazel twigs and silly theories,’ spat Rupe. ‘And I would have told him so had I caught him poking around on my land. However, we did not see him.’

‘Perhaps Beornwyn struck him down,’ suggested Frossard. ‘She disliked what he was doing, so she took a killer to him. There was a butterfly on him, after all.’

‘Is she a spiteful kind of saint then?’ asked Cole.

‘No,’ said Reinfrid, shooting his companion a cautionary glance. ‘Yet it is strange that he should die next to her spring – the very thing he might have denied was miraculous.’

Gwenllian questioned all five closely for some time, but was unable to catch any of them in an inconsistency, and while she did not believe that this was indicative of innocence, it did mean that she was wasting her time. When she and Cole took their leave, Rupe was smug, the monks relieved, and the henchmen disappointed, as if they had hoped the encounter would end in the opportunity to stab someone.

As there were so many familiar faces in the crowd, it was a good opportunity to ask whether anyone else had seen Miles the previous night. One or two folk had spotted him near the castle, but no one admitted to seeing him near the wood. Cole, it seemed, was the last man to see him alive. Other than the killer. After a while, Rupe made an announcement.

‘We should show Beornwyn our appreciation for her miraculous gift. I have bought nails for the chapel that will cover her spring, but who will provide timber for the walls and tiles for roof? Who will build an altar, and purchase candles, crosses and flowers?’

‘Whoever does will be blessed,’ added Ernebald, and Gwenllian could tell he had been told what to say by his master. ‘Gunbald and I will give a door – you can see it over there.’

‘The moment we decided to make the donation, there was a miracle,’ added Gunbald, all pious gratitude. ‘Our cow, which has been dry all summer, gave us milk today.’

People hastened to pledge materials and labour, and it was with astonishment that Gwenllian saw a building begin to fly up in front of her eyes. Cole muttered something about the cow benefiting from drinking her fill of rainwater, but no one listened. Avenel and Fitzmartin watched it all, their expressions disdainful.

‘We should speak to them,’ whispered Gwenllian to Cole. ‘It will distract them from our people’s foolish gullibility, if nothing else.’

She began by asking whether Cousin Philip’s scribing skills had been satisfactory in the Eagle the previous night, maliciously adding that his writing was notoriously poor. Avenel exchanged a bemused glance with Fitzmartin.

‘We never asked Philip to write anything,’ said Fitzmartin. ‘Why would we? I can write myself – an unusual skill for a knight, I admit, but one that is useful even so.’

‘Did he meet you in the Eagle?’ pressed Gwenllian.

‘Yes.’ Avenel shrugged. ‘He has taken to following us around. It is a nuisance, but he wants what is best for Carmarthen. Indeed, he is rather fanatical about his hopes for the place.’

Gwenllian declined to ask what he meant, reluctant to acknowledge that she did not know her cousin as well as she had thought. ‘Did you see or hear anything that might allow us to catch the killer?’

‘No,’ replied Avenel. ‘We did not stay out long, and were back in the castle hours before the storm struck. You may confirm this with your guards. They saw us.’

They walked away, leaving Gwenllian thinking they might well have dispatched the deputy on their way home. They certainly could not prove otherwise. She glanced up as Odo approached, Hilde at his side.

‘I heard what the sheriff told you, and it is the truth,’ Odo said. ‘We were studying the stars last night, and we saw him and his friend. They did not stay long in the Eagle, perhaps because the heat had spoiled the ale.’

‘Then did you spot anything that might help us find Miles’s killer?’ asked Gwenllian.

Odo shook his head apologetically. ‘My attention was on the heavens, I am afraid. I saw the storm come in, though, like a herd of horses. It was a magnificent sight, and we are indeed blessed by Beornwyn. I spent the rest of the night praying to her.’

‘We both did,’ asserted Hilde. ‘We feel privileged to have witnessed her celestial power, and to prove our devotion to her, we shall pay for the altar in her new chapel.’

She smiled dreamily, then hurried to rejoin the builders. Odo was not long in following. Gwenllian watched, aware that there was more hammering and sawing around the shrine than there was at the new tower in the castle.

‘I know they are your friends, but I think it is odd that they spend hours staring at the sky,’ said Cole, also observing them thoughtfully.

‘They are good people,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘They would never commit murder. They are too devout, and would fear for their immortal souls.’

‘Not if they believe they were carrying out Beornwyn’s wishes,’ persisted Cole, then turned away to watch Rupe and his henchmen sanding the door. Gwenllian’s inclination was to ignore the remark, but then it occurred to her that Odo and Hilde did seem particularly taken by the saint and her so-called miracle, and they had been out all night with no alibi but each other. Then she shook herself. How could she question such dear friends?

Hot and dispirited, Gwenllian stepped into the shade of the trees to think. Her attention was immediately taken by Kediour, who had approached the two monks and was addressing them in a ringing voice.

‘Show us this hand you claim to have. You declined to do it last night, but now we have been “blessed” by this miracle, we must have earned the right to see the thing.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Rupe eagerly. ‘And then we shall dip it in the spring to make doubly sure of its holiness.’

He dropped to his knees and put his hands together in an attitude of prayerful expectation. The folk labouring on the shrine did likewise, and silence descended on the clearing, broken only by a faint breeze rustling through the trees. Reinfrid gave a strained smile as he picked up the little reliquary and handed it to Kediour.

‘We are not worthy to attempt such a thing, so perhaps you will oblige, Father.’

He stepped away, head bowed, leaving Kediour grimacing his annoyance. The prior tried to open the box, but something was wrong with the lock. After several moments of futile fiddling, he thrust it at Cole.

‘It is broken,’ Cole said, peering carefully at it. ‘Someone has tried to force it.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Frossard. ‘Perhaps poor Beornwyn just wants to be left in peace.’

All eyes were on Cole as he took a dagger to the lock. It clicked open after a moment, and the lid sprang up.

‘There is nothing here except a piece of folded material,’ he said, upending the box and shaking it with more vigour than was appropriate for a reliquary, even an empty one.

‘There! What did I tell you?’ said Kediour in satisfaction. ‘There is no hand, and this pair are frauds.’

‘No!’ Horrified, Frossard snatched the box to look for himself. ‘The hand is stolen! What shall we tell Whitby?’

‘Surely you mean Whitland?’ said Kediour, watching him closely. ‘That is where you claimed you were heading yesterday.’

‘He said Whitland,’ said Reinfrid. ‘You misheard. But how could this have happened? Beornwyn granted Carmarthen a miracle and look at how she is repaid – her relic stolen and a murder at her spring! What kind of town is this?’

‘When did you last see the hand?’ asked Cole, speaking quietly to calm him.

‘Last night,’ replied Frossard. ‘We came out here to pray with Mayor Rupe, and then we returned to the castle to sleep. It must have been stolen from us there, probably by the same person who killed the deputy.’

Cole regarded him icily. ‘There are no thieves in my house. Are you sure you went there? And before you answer, be aware that my soldiers keep a record of who comes and goes after dark. Any tale you tell will be checked.’

‘Well, perhaps we did pass the night in a tavern instead,’ admitted Frossard reluctantly. ‘And the relic was with us…’

Kediour’s patience was at an end. ‘How many more lies must we hear from this pair? They have no relic, and there is nothing to prove they ever did. It is obvious what happened: Miles guessed they were imposters and threatened to expose them. So they killed him.’

‘No!’ cried Reinfrid, appalled. ‘We are monks, men of God.’

Kediour promptly embarked on a detailed interrogation about Ramsey Abbey, and it quickly became apparent that neither had ever been there.

‘They are liars,’ stated Kediour, as the pair stuttered into silence. ‘They claim the saint’s hand is stolen from them, but look at their reliquary – it is silver. Do they really expect us to believe that a thief took a cluster of old bones but left such a precious chest?’

‘But it is what happened,’ objected Rienfrid. ‘It-’

‘Arrest them both, Cole,’ ordered Avenel. ‘The prior is right: they murdered Miles when he threatened to expose their dishonesty. I shall enjoy seeing them hang.’

The townsfolk were shocked and silent as soldiers marched the two tricksters away, both howling their innocence.

Rupe quickly recovered his wits. He had not survived so long in the turbulent world of politics without learning the skill of turning a disaster to his advantage.

‘Beornwyn was petitioned and she sent us rain,’ he declared. ‘It does not matter that the monks are charlatans. The fact is that she graced us with a spring, and will be pleased by the shrine we are building. If we continue, she may send another storm.’

‘That is true,’ nodded Odo. ‘The stars are favourable to such a scheme at the moment. I read them myself last night. We should persist with our chapel, and pray at Beornwyn’s spring – the real sign that she is among us.’

Kediour tried to reason with them, but Rupe’s voice was louder, and people were more inclined to listen to promises of miracles than denunciations, so he soon gave up. The people went back to their building, led by Mayor Rupe singing a psalm.

‘I do not know how to convince them,’ said the prior in despair. ‘The spring does not come from Heaven – I feel it in my very bones – and it grieves me to see people led spiritually astray. I am glad Rupe will not be mayor for much longer.’

‘People have short memories,’ said Cole soberly. ‘They will forget the money that disappeared under his stewardship, and the dishonest arrangements he made. They will see him as the man with land blessed by a saint, which may be enough to see him re-elected.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Kediour, appalled. ‘Yet perhaps we misjudge him. He did buy nails for the shrine. Maybe his devotion is genuine, no matter how misguided.’

‘It is the prospect of money that turns Rupe devout,’ said Cole to Gwenllian, when the prior had gone. ‘But we had better speak to Frossard and Reinfrid again. They are liars, certainly, but I do not see them as killers.’

Neither did Gwenllian, and the conviction was strengthened further still when she saw them huddled in a cell, pale and frightened. She felt sorry for them, and wondered what circumstances had led them to such a pass.

‘You are in serious trouble,’ said Cole gravely. ‘Sheriff Avenel wants you hanged, and I am tempted to oblige him. Or will you earn a reprieve by telling the truth? You say you are monks, so I would be within my rights to send you to the bishop instead.’

The pair seized the offer eagerly, and it was not long before the whole miserable story emerged: the prank that had ended in disaster, their banishment, and the confession that Reinfrid had stolen one of Beornwyn’s hands and a box in which to keep it.

‘I thought it would be easy,’ he finished miserably. ‘That people would pay us to pray, and we would live well. But Beornwyn is not very good at granting requests, and last night’s rain was the only miracle she has ever performed for us. We shall starve this winter.’

‘We could not believe our luck when Mayor Rupe gave us a penny,’ added Frossard. ‘After we had eaten, we hurried to his wood and prayed as hard as we could.’

‘And then?’ asked Cole.

‘We went to the Coracle tavern, and spent the coin on ale and new sandals,’ said Frossard sheepishly. ‘Whoever stole the relic must have waited until we were drunk…’

‘If you had it at the castle last night, why did you refuse to show it to us?’ asked Gwenllian, not sure what to believe.

‘Because it is holy,’ said Frossard earnestly. ‘You may not think much of us, but we do treat it with respect. We have never displayed it for all to gawp at. And it is fragile, anyway. Too much pawing makes bits flake off.’

‘And we can prove it was stolen after you saw us in the castle, sir,’ said Reinfrid. ‘You inspected the box very closely – you would have noticed if the lock had been broken.’

‘I would,’ said Cole to Gwenllian. ‘There was nothing wrong with it then.’

‘But we did not kill the deputy,’ added Frossard tearfully. ‘I saw him in the woods just after we left Rupe. He was watching us, and I had the sense that he was waiting for us to go so he could work unimpeded. Then you came along, sir, and I watched the pair of you argue.’

‘You did?’ asked Gwenllian uneasily. ‘You did not mention this in the clearing.’

Frossard shrugged. ‘Because your husband cannot be the killer, lady. We followed him back to town after the quarrel, and he was in our sight the whole time. Besides, he was kind to us – he offered us food, even after what that nasty prior said about us and Beornwyn.’

‘Did Rupe and his henchmen see Miles too?’ asked Gwenllian.

‘It depends on how observant they are,’ replied Frossard. ‘He was well hidden, and Reinfrid did not spot him – just me.’

‘Did you see anyone else in the vicinity?’ asked Cole.

Reinfrid nodded earnestly in his attempt to be helpful. ‘The same people as you, sir: Rupe and his two men, the sheriff and his friend; your chaplain; and the fat merchant with his wife.’

‘Odo and Hilde,’ said Gwenllian coolly. ‘So who do you think killed Miles?’

Frossard and Reinfrid exchanged a glance. ‘The mayor is the obvious candidate,’ replied Reinfrid. ‘Neither he nor his henchmen are very nice. However, any of the others might have done it, although I imagine the chaplain is too puny for strangling.’

There was no more to be learned, so Gwenllian and Cole took their leave.

‘They are telling the truth,’ she said, once they were in the cleaner air of the bailey. ‘They did not kill Miles.’

‘Do you want me to release them?’

‘No, they will only run away and ply their nasty trade on others. We shall hand them to the bishop, as you suggested, and let him decide their fate.’

She glanced up to see Sergeant Iefan hurrying towards them.

‘You had better come quickly,’ he said to Cole. ‘There is trouble brewing at the spring.’

There was trouble indeed. The crowd had grown since they had left, because Odo had fallen in the spring, and when he had been tugged upright, he claimed the pains in his back were cured. There was now a veritable army of people working on the chapel, and Rupe, Gunbald and Ernebald were selling holy water as quickly as they could put it in flasks. The heat was making people irritable, and there were scuffles and hissed arguments in the queue.

‘Lord!’ muttered Cole, as Odo and Hilde came to greet them. ‘Their shrine has two walls built already. I have never seen anything raised so fast in my life.’

‘Everyone is eager to do Beornwyn’s bidding,’ Odo explained, his plump face beatific. ‘I feel young again now she has cured me.’

‘But Prior Kediour persists in his efforts to denigrate her,’ said Hilde unhappily. ‘We have explained that what happened here is a good thing, but he will not listen. Perhaps you can talk some sense into him. But do it soon. People are beginning to resent his hostility.’

Gwenllian glanced towards the spring, where Kediour and his canons were imploring people to go home or, better yet, attend evening service in the church. But Rupe urged them to stay, and it was to the mayor that they listened. Moreover, there were resentful murmurings against the Austins for presuming to give orders, and it would not be long before it turned physical. Gunbald and Ernebald were armed with cudgels and knives, and it was clear they were ready to join in any trouble.

‘Tell Kediour to take his canons home,’ Gwenllian whispered to Cole. ‘The spring will run dry soon, and when it does, people will lose interest in Beornwyn. He will not have to endure this nonsense for long.’

Cole began to weave his way through the throng, but people were packed tightly together, and he could not help but jostle a few. Inevitably, someone took exception.

‘You shoved me!’ screeched Rupe. He turned to the crowd. ‘Did you see that? He deliberately barged into me, and almost knocked me from my feet.’

‘My apologies,’ said Cole. ‘I was only trying to reach Kediour, so I can escort him and his canons back to their priory.’

‘Then do it,’ snapped Rupe. ‘They are a nuisance here, and we do not want them.’

‘I am not going anywhere,’ declared Kediour indignantly, and Gwenllian saw with a sinking heart that he, too, was on the verge of losing his temper. ‘How can I, when I see souls in peril? They will be bound for Hell if-’

‘It is you who is bound for Hell,’ shrieked Rupe, his voice high with indignation. He stabbed his finger at Cole. ‘And you. Beornwyn will not stand by while I am battered by a lout who has falsely accused me of corruption. How can I be dishonest? If I were, Beornwyn would not have put her spring on my land.’

‘Come,’ said Cole, taking Kediour’s arm. ‘There is no reasoning here-’

‘And now he accuses me of lying,’ squealed Rupe. ‘He has already murdered Miles for ogling his wife, and now he insults me. He-’

He did not finish, because Gunbald swung his cudgel at Cole, who ducked away, but in so doing he stumbled into Ernebald. With a roar of outrage, Ernebald attacked. It was all that was needed to start a fight. Most of the canons backed away from the mêlée, but a handful of novices remained, trying to extricate their prior from the flailing fists.

With horror, Gwenllian saw Gunbald prepare to swipe at Symon again. She shouted a warning, but too many others were yelling, and Rupe’s piercing screeches were especially loud. Her voice went unheard. She saw the bludgeon begin to descend towards her husband’s head, but Avenel was there to block it, after which his sword made short work of its wielder.

Then Cole was on his feet, his strong voice breaking through those of the others. She had never heard him so angry, and the effect on the rioters was immediate. Knives were sheathed, sticks and coshes furtively concealed, and fists lowered. But Gunbald did not move.

Rupe rounded on Cole. ‘This is your fault. You should not have interfered. Gunbald is dead, and I will have vengeance.’

‘Vengeance?’ asked Kediour quietly. ‘I cannot see your saint approving of that.’

‘Of course she will,’ snarled Rupe. ‘She was murdered by villains herself, and will not sit idly while good men are slaughtered by those who are supposed to protect us. She will rise up to exact payment for what has happened. You wait and see!’

Cole’s face was dark with fury and, unwilling to risk annoying a man who could put them in prison, the hotheads who had joined the brawl prudently melted away. Soon all that remained were the more sober folk, who wanted only to work quietly on the shrine. Kediour ordered his novices home in a voice that was uncharacteristically subdued, while Rupe kneeled next to Gunbald and wailed his grief. Gwenllian was sure it was insincere, that he was taking the opportunity to gain public sympathy in the hope that his past misdeeds would be forgotten, and he would be elected for another term as mayor.

‘I am sorry,’ said Kediour to Cole, stricken. ‘I was following my conscience. I would never have pressed my point if I thought it would end in a death.’

‘Go home, and keep your brethren inside,’ ordered Cole shortly. ‘Folk have taken this saint to their hearts, so please do not disparage her again.’

‘But it is a heathen business,’ objected Kediour, ashen-faced. ‘I cannot keep silent, especially when this place is so close to my priory.’

‘You must. Or Gunbald will not be the only casualty.’

Kediour shot an anguished glance at the unfinished shrine, which was already bright with votive candles. Then he gave a brief nod of acquiescence and walked after his brethren, his shoulders slumped in defeat. When Ernebald started to follow with a murderous gleam in his eye, Cole indicated that Iefan was to intercept him before more blood was spilled.

‘Well?’ asked Avenel, sheathing his sword. His expression was superior. ‘Will you not thank me for saving your life?’

Cole grasped his hand, catching him off guard with his open sincerity. ‘I will, and gladly. My wife is not ready to be a widow just yet.’

Gwenllian agreed, and was about to say so when her attention was caught by the fact that Philip had abandoned his duties at the chapel, and was whispering to Odo and Hilde. The chaplain flushed red when she approached.

‘I will return to my vigil now,’ he stammered, chagrined at being caught disobeying orders. ‘I only left for a moment, but then the trouble started…’

Gwenllian pulled him to one side so they could talk without being overheard. ‘Avenel claims you wrote no letter for him last night. Why did you lie?’

Philip’s expression was furtive. ‘I did not lie – not exactly. He did ask me to scribe for him, but Fitzmartin offered to do it instead. As I was there, I thought I may as well enjoy an ale before returning home. It was too hot to sleep anyway.’

‘Did you see Miles?’

The chaplain shook his head. ‘I would have told you earlier if I had.’

He hurried away before she could ask him anything else, leaving her staring after him thoughtfully.

‘He is a fine young man,’ said Odo, coming to stand next to her and smiling fondly. ‘Cole is fortunate to have him as a chaplain.’

‘Yes,’ said Gwenllian noncommittally.

Later that evening, as the sun began to dip and the shadows lengthen, Iefan arrived at the castle to say that the cattle rustlers had been spotted a mile south. Cole prepared to ride out at once, and Gwenllian was alarmed when Avenel and Fitzmartin offered to go with him.

‘Symon, no! They are suspects for garrotting Miles, and may dispatch you once they have you away from witnesses.’

Cole waved her concerns away. ‘I want them to come, to see for themselves how difficult it is to trap these thieves. Besides, it is a good opportunity to question them about Miles. Who knows? Perhaps they will confess to his murder as we sit around a campfire.’

Gwenllian gulped her horror, before he grinned to show he was jesting. It was not funny, and she was angry with him for making light of such matters. Others also thought he was reckless to include the sheriff and his henchman in the party.

‘Please,’ said Odo quietly, while Hilde nodded at his side. ‘I know Avenel saved your life today, but it was an instinctive reaction, and I am sure he is cursing himself now. He has changed since you came home. While you were away, he was loud and brash; now he is quiet, watchful and brooding.’

‘As if he is planning something,’ elaborated Hilde. ‘And Fitzmartin is a beast. He punched his squire this morning for no reason. Odo and I are sure something evil is afoot.’

‘I agree,’ said Kediour uneasily. ‘Do not forget what they are accused of – desecrating churches and holding parishioners to ransom. These are not gentle crimes.’

But Cole remained resolute, and Gwenllian could do nothing but watch as he rode away, Avenel and Fitzmartin far too close behind him for her liking. Cousin Philip stood next to her, and she happened to glance at him as he was exchanging a meaningful nod with someone. When she saw it was Odo she was bemused, but then news came that there was bloody flux in the nearby village of Abergwili, and her attention was taken in sending aid.

For the next three days, she had little time for worrying, as she struggled to run the castle, quell trouble at the shrine and be a mother to her children. Whenever she could, she continued her enquiries into Miles’s murder, but despite questioning as many people as would talk to her, she came no closer to learning the identity of the killer. Rupe persisted in his claim that Cole was responsible, although few believed him, most preferring to blame the two ‘monks’.

Stunned by the violence that his well-intentioned entreaties had caused, Kediour kept to his priory. Gwenllian visited him on the evening of the fourth day after the trouble, to beg more medicine for Abergwili. While she was in the priory, he voiced his continuing fear that Carmarthen was being led down a spiritually dangerous path.

‘Rupe has turned Beornwyn into a very profitable business,’ he said unhappily. ‘He has sold countless flasks of “holy” water, and now he claims she appears to him regularly in dreams, along with “poor murdered” Gunbald.’

‘I know,’ said Gwenllian. ‘But he is too greedy, and people resent the money he is making from them. Most have abandoned him already, and he has only a few devoted followers left. The cult will soon fizzle out completely.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Kediour worriedly. ‘I hate to see people misled where matters of faith are concerned. It pains me to hear him slandering Symon, too.’

It pained Gwenllian as well, but there was nothing she could do about it, especially while Cole was away. She longed for him to return, and hoped he would not be gone three weeks, like the last time. To take her mind off her worries, she reviewed what she had learned about Miles’s murder.

The deputy had gone to Rupe’s wood to investigate the underground stream he believed he had discovered, hoping the late hour would see the place deserted. Cole thought Miles had been dead for several hours before he was found, which meant he had been killed not long after the two of them had argued. Frossard had witnessed their quarrel, and she supposed she should be grateful that Rupe and his henchmen had not.

From ten possible culprits when she had started her enquiries, she now had six. She had never seriously considered Odo and Hilde; they were friends, and she could not believe they would garrotte anyone. Reinfrid and Frossard could also be eliminated, because they had been close on Symon’s heels as he had returned to the castle, close enough that they had seen him stop to speak to the other suspects. That left Avenel, Fitzmartin, Philip, Rupe and his two henchmen, one of whom was now dead.

Her favoured suspect was Rupe, who wanted everyone to believe that Beornwyn had blessed him with a spring, and who would certainly not want Miles to claim that water had been there all along. Moreover, Rupe’s alibi had been provided by his henchmen, a brutal pair who would certainly kill on his orders – and who would lie for him, too.

Avenel and Fitzmartin had no reliable alibi either. They had left the Eagle to walk back to the castle, but no one had accompanied them, and there was nothing to say they had not killed Miles en route. They were, as Kediour had reminded her, alleged to have committed other nasty crimes, so why not murder? And they certainly had a motive: the King would be delighted to hear that there was trouble in Carmarthen. Hilde and Odo were wary of them, too, and believed they were plotting something untoward.

And finally, Philip had also been near the scene of the murder with no good explanation, and he had been caught out in lies. He might be her kinsman, but she neither liked nor trusted him, and she was uncomfortable with the secret glances he kept exchanging with Avenel – and with Odo, for that matter.

She was torn from her ponderings by a rattle of hoofs in the bailey. She ran to the window, and sighed her relief when she saw Cole. Avenel and Fitzmartin were there too, and she could tell by the general air of dejection that the cattle rustlers had not been caught.

That evening, after Cole had washed away the filth of travel and had drunk more watered ale than Gwenllian had thought was possible without exploding, she told him all that she had learned during his absence. He listened without interruption.

‘I think we can cross Avenel off your list,’ he said when she had finished. ‘He saved my life. Gunbald would certainly have killed me if he had not acted.’

‘Odo says it was base instinct that drove him,’ argued Gwenllian. ‘I imagine he is dearly hoping that no one tells the King what he did. And do not say he went with you to catch the thieves out of goodness – he went to witness your failure for himself.’

Cole did not agree, and they debated the matter until they fell asleep, both worn out by the stresses and strains of the last four days. At dawn, the door opened and Iefan crept in.

‘You can cross Rupe off your list of suspects, Gwen,’ said Cole, after hearing his sergeant’s whispered report. ‘He is dead – garrotted, like Miles.’

Word of the murder had spread through the town long before the castle was informed, and Rupe’s house was ringed by spectators when Gwenllian and Cole arrived. The more important ones were inside, where they stood in the bedchamber, staring at the body. The only sound was Kediour’s voice as he murmured prayers for the dead man’s soul. Gwenllian looked around the room in distaste: it was mean and poor, suggesting that Rupe was a miser, hoarding his money and refusing to pay for clean bedclothes and decent furniture.

When Kediour had finished his petitions, Cole stepped forward to examine the body. There was not much to see: the mayor wore a thin nightshift, and had probably been asleep when his attacker had come. The bedclothes were rumpled where he had kicked with his feet, and his nails were broken, but there was nothing in the way of clues. Gwenllian’s eyes were drawn to the conical hat Rupe had always worn, and she could not prevent a superstitious shudder when she saw a dead butterfly adhering to it.

‘Who found him?’ Cole asked.

‘Me.’ Ernebald’s voice was hoarse with shock. ‘When I brought him his morning ale.’

‘When did you last see him alive?’

‘Midnight. We were making plans for the chapel. His wife is away, so he slept alone.’

‘She had gone to stay with her sister, because she dislikes pilgrims tramping through her vegetables,’ explained Avenel. His face was impossible to read in the dim light, and his voice was flat. ‘Or so Fitzmartin and I were told in the Eagle last night.’

‘If he and Fitzmartin were in the Eagle, they would have had to pass this house to return to their beds in the castle,’ Gwenllian whispered to Cole. ‘It would have been simple to climb through an open window and dispatch him.’

‘How do you know a window was open?’ Cole whispered back.

‘Because the hinges on the bedroom shutter are broken, and it has been tied back to stop it from rattling. I saw it from the road and so, doubtless, did the killer.’

‘Rupe had lost favour since you have been away, Sir Symon,’ said Philip, stepping forward to speak. ‘He raised the price of his holy water, and imposed a fee for visiting the shrine. People have stopped coming, and you will find many who wished him ill. This will not be an easy crime to solve. Perhaps you should not waste your time trying.’

Gwenllian was surprised to see her cousin there. She had sent him to give last rites to someone in Abergwili, and she had imagined he would stay the night. Why was he back so soon? And why was he suggesting that they not bother to investigate a murder?

‘Mayor Rupe was a businessman,’ growled Ernebald, glaring at the chaplain. ‘Of course he turned this opportunity to his advantage. However, it cannot be coincidence that the poor man is slaughtered the moment he returns.’ He jabbed his finger at Cole.

‘Of course it is coincidence,’ said Odo impatiently, while Hilde nodded her agreement. Gwenllian was startled that they should be among the spectators: they were not usually ghoulish. ‘And he is not the only one who came back yesterday, anyway.’

He did not look at Avenel and Fitzmartin, but the accusation hung heavy in the air.

‘We heard the commotion when we were praying in the shrine,’ said Hilde, apparently reading Gwenllian’s mind and feeling the need to explain their presence. ‘We had been asking for another miracle. Philip was with us.’

The chaplain gave a nervous smile. ‘There is no fee at night, when Rupe and Ernebald are asleep. It was a good time for a poor chaplain to come here.’

‘Never mind this,’ snapped Fitzmartin. ‘The question we should be considering is who killed Rupe. Personally, I agree with Ernebald: Cole is the obvious suspect. Even I, a stranger to Carmarthen, could see that he and the mayor hated each other.’

Avenel said nothing, and Gwenllian thought again of Hilde’s contention that he was plotting something. Her blood ran cold. Had he killed Rupe, to blame Cole and give the King an excuse to be rid of him? She was devising a way to find out when a soldier arrived to report that the cattle thieves had been spotted near the bridge. Gwenllian did not know whether to be relieved or suspicious when the sheriff and his crony asked if they might be excused joining the expedition to hunt them this time.

When Cole had gone, Gwenllian made a determined effort to identify Rupe’s killer by asking questions. She dismissed Ernebald as a suspect because the mayor’s death had deprived him of a home, an employer and a livelihood. No other local would hire such a vicious lout, and he was now faced with a choice of leaving Carmarthen to find a new master, or a life of miserable poverty.

Assuming there was only one garrotter at large, and that a townsman had not killed Rupe for charging exorbitant prices at the shrine, she was left with three suspects from her original List: Avenel, Fitzmartin and Philip. Despite Cole’s suspicions, she refused to include Odo and Hilde. She started her enquiries with the sheriff and his friend, but they were uncooperative, and professed not to recall when they had arrived at the Eagle or how long they had stayed.

‘Our movements are none of your concern,’ snapped Fitzmartin. He reeked of ale and his eyes were red-rimmed. Had he tried to wash the memory of murder from his mind with drink? ‘And do not think that telling lies about us will help you. The King will take no notice.’

It was a peculiar remark, and Gwenllian had no idea what it meant, but before she could ask, Avenel had grabbed his companion’s arm and pulled him away, muttering something about going to see what was happening at the shrine. Gwenllian could see what was happening from the window: two or three pilgrims were inside the chapel, but that was all. Building work had slowed since Rupe had started to charge for the honour of praying there, and although it had four walls, there was no roof. She wondered whether it would ever be finished now the mayor was dead.

‘You were right,’ said Kediour, following the direction of her gaze. ‘The spring is half the size it was, and the town’s ardour for Beornwyn is fading fast. However, a dogged minority remains, and they are fervent in their love for this so-called saint. Odo and Hilde are among them, and I fear for their souls.’

Gwenllian could see both kneeling at a makeshift altar. Then Philip approached and whispered something to them. They held a brief conversation, but all three had gone by the time she had left Rupe’s house and reached the chapel.

Determined to have answers, she visited the Eagle. The landlord was reluctant to discuss his customers at first, and it took an age to persuade him, so she was tired and irritable by the time she had cajoled him into confirming that the sheriff and his friend had indeed visited the previous evening. However, Avenel had pleaded exhaustion and had left around midnight; Fitzmartin had stayed, eventually falling asleep on the table.

‘His snores kept me awake all night,’ the landlord grumbled. ‘I would have poked him, but he has a nasty temper so I did not dare. He slept until dawn, when word came about Rupe.’

So, thought Gwenllian, Fitzmartin was not the killer, but the landlord’s testimony put Avenel out alone at the salient time. She walked slowly back to the castle, deep in thought.

As she passed the shrine she saw Avenel slouching towards it from the direction of the town. Hilde was right, she thought, watching him covertly: the sheriff had changed from the arrogant, superior man he had been when he had first arrived. He was quieter, sombre and definitely troubled. Was it his conscience, uneasy with murdering civilians?

After a moment, Fitzmartin appeared, and stalked towards the priory gate, where Kediour was chatting to a lay-brother. The henchman snarled something in a low voice, and ended his words with a hard poke in the chest that made Kediour stagger. Gwenllian ran towards them, ready to berate Fitzmartin for laying hands on a priest. He sneered at her before going on his way.

‘He is vexed with me for asking questions about the churches he is said to have despoiled,’ explained Kediour, rubbing the spot where he had been jabbed. ‘He threatens to kill me if I persist, which hardly leads me to think him innocent.’

‘Then stop,’ said Gwenllian, alarmed. ‘Symon will lose his post for certain if you are murdered. A mayor and a deputy may be overlooked, but not an important churchman.’

Kediour smiled fondly at her. ‘Do not worry about me. I have not forgotten all the skills I learned as a Hospitaller, and besides, I suspect Fitzmartin is all wind.’

Gwenllian was not so sure. Then she frowned. ‘Is Odo rubbing his back?’

‘Unfortunately, his “cure” was only temporary. It is a pity. I would have liked to have seen something good come out of this miserable business.’

They glanced up at the sound of hoofs, and Gwenllian felt a surge of joy when she saw Cole. Behind him, his soldiers grinned as they escorted a score of bound men. The prisoners were sullenly defiant, and nearly all wore the conical hats popular in Dinefwr – the kind that Rupe had favoured.

‘There is a good reason why we caught them so quickly this time,’ said Cole as he dismounted. ‘Their leader – and fellow Dinefwr man – was not available to give them details of our patrols and plans.’

Gwenllian gaped as she struggled to understand the import of his remark. ‘What are you saying? That Rupe controlled them?’

Cole nodded. ‘I should have guessed when Reinfrid described what he had observed about the thieves – that their leader shouted orders in an unusually high voice.’

Gwenllian recalled Rupe’s falsetto screeches during the scuffle in which Gunbald had been killed. ‘A local leader would explain a great deal.’

‘Especially one who attended meetings in which our strategy for tracking the thieves was discussed. Moreover, several prisoners have already told me that the raids were all his idea.’

‘But why?’ asked Gwenllian, shocked by the betrayal. ‘He is… was our mayor.’

‘Dinefwr is also suffering under the drought, and Rupe has family there. He knew he was finished here, so he decided to avenge himself by stealing our livestock – and helping his kin at the same time. Of course, that was before the “miracle” he claimed to have funded. After it, he must have begun to hope that he might be re-elected.’

They both turned as someone approached. It was Fitzmartin, Avenel at his side.

‘We have just been informed that Rupe was behind these raids,’ the henchman growled. ‘When the King hears, he will confiscate every last penny that villain owned. He will crush his treacherous relations, too.’

‘No,’ said Cole sharply. ‘The dry summer has brought death and famine to Dinefwr, and there is nothing to be gained from persecuting them.’

‘Besides, I suspect Rupe has already given them most of what he owned,’ added Gwenllian. ‘You must have noticed the shabby furnishings in his home. And there is the fact that he was obliged to ask for donations to help him build Beornwyn’s chapel.’

‘But he publicly accused you of murdering your deputy,’ said Avenel softly to Cole. ‘Why not let his thieving kin pay the price for his flapping tongue?’

‘Because it is better for the region that we do not,’ replied Cole. ‘It would lead to all manner of feuds. Please do not mention it to the King. Simply say the culprits have been caught.’

Avenel stared at him with an expression that was impossible to fathom. It made Gwenllian acutely uneasy, but there was no time to ponder, because Iefan had arrived. The sergeant’s face was pale with shock as he blurted his news to Cole.

‘Those two monks are dead, sir,’ he gasped. ‘Strangled, like the others.’

‘Well,’ drawled Fitzmartin slyly. ‘I suppose that proves their innocence.’

It did not need a close look to see that Reinfrid and Frossard had died by the same hand as Miles and Rupe. The only difference was that Frossard had a bruise on his temple.

‘He must have been stunned by a blow to the head,’ surmised Cole, ‘allowing the killer to dispatch them one at a time. Frossard is larger, and would have put up more of a fight, so he was disabled first.’

‘When did you last see them alive?’ asked Gwenllian of the gaoler.

‘Noon,’ said the gaoler wretchedly. ‘Two hours ago.’

‘I assume you were at your post all that time,’ said Cole. ‘Who came down here?’

The gaoler was as white as snow. ‘It is so hot today, sir, so I went to the kitchen for a cool ale… But no one ever comes down here! I did not think it would matter if I left them alone for a short while.’

He stopped when he saw Cole’s disgust, and scurried away with relief when he was ordered to remove the bodies so that the cell could be used for the cattle thieves. Their arrival and the interviews that followed kept Cole busy for the rest of the day. Gwenllian spent her time with the children, but they were asleep by the time Cole had finished with his prisoners. He trudged wearily into their bedchamber just as the last of the daylight was fading.

‘If your gaoler is telling the truth about the time,’ Gwenllian began, having thought about the most recent murders all afternoon, ‘we can eliminate Odo and Hilde as suspects, not that they were ever serious contenders in my eyes. They were at the shrine when the monks were killed. I saw them there myself.’

‘Who is left then? Fitzmartin? He seemed unmoved by the news of their demise.’

‘He has an alibi for Rupe, which means he did not kill the monks either – I am sure we only have one garrotter at large. Our sole remaining suspects are Philip and Avenel. I cannot see my little cousin as a killer; he does not have the strength.’

‘It takes no great power to strangle a man from behind,’ said Cole soberly.

‘I was alluding to a different kind of strength. I do not believe he has the fortitude to dispatch four victims.’

Cole was about to argue when there was a commotion at the bottom of the stairs. Within moments Avenel burst in, an indignant Iefan at his heels. The sheriff was agitated, and made no apology for invading their privacy.

‘I cannot find Fitzmartin. He was meant to meet me in the Coracle, but he is not there.’

‘Are you his keeper then?’ asked Cole archly. ‘He cannot look after himself?’

‘Of course he can,’ snapped Avenel. ‘But he told me that he knew the killer’s identity, and would reveal it when I arrived at the tavern. I have a bad feeling that he has put himself in danger in his eagerness to make amends.’

‘Make amends?’ queried Gwenllian. ‘With whom? You?’

‘Yes. Your chaplain has uncovered evidence that proves Fitzmartin has desecrated churches and ransomed their parishioners. Needless to say I am unimpressed, and Fitzmartin has been at pains ever since to win back my approbation.’

‘It is a trap, Symon,’ whispered Gwenllian as Cole stood. ‘Do not go.’

‘I never thought you were the killer, Cole,’ said Avenel, stepping closer as he tried to hear what she was saying. ‘I would not have saved your life if I thought you were. Fitzmartin disagrees, but he is a fool – he thinks you weak for declining to expose Rupe’s perfidy, but I see wisdom in the decision. You and your lady are good rulers, and I shall say so to the King.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gwenllian coldly. ‘However, Symon is still not going with you. We shall lend you some soldiers, and they will help you search for your friend.’

Avenel smiled slyly. ‘I outrank him – he cannot refuse me. However, I would rather he came willingly. It would be so much more pleasant for us all.’

‘Then I shall come, too,’ determined Gwenllian.

‘No!’ exclaimed Cole in alarm.

‘Of course you may,’ said Avenel smoothly. He held out his hand. ‘I shall escort you myself.’

With the sense that matters were moving far too fast for her to understand, Gwenllian allowed the sheriff to lead her down the stairs and into the bailey.

The dark streets were oddly empty as they hurried through them, because people had sought cooler places to be – taverns, the church and even the parched river, where some still bathed in its fetid shallows or slumped on its banks in the vain hope of catching a breeze.

Gwenllian’s heart pounded with anxiety. She knew, with every fibre of her being, that something bad was about to happen, and wished she had had the presence of mind to grab one of Symon’s daggers before she had left.

‘Look,’ said Avenel suddenly, ducking into a doorway and indicating that Gwenllian and Cole should do the same. ‘Odo and your cousin. They have been together a lot of late, but when I ask them why, they tell me they are praying.’

‘Perhaps they are,’ said Gwenllian, trying to control the tremor in her voice.

‘Yes,’ said Avenel, with one of his unfathomable looks. ‘But it is an odd alliance, do you not agree? And where can they be going at such an hour?’

Gwenllian had no answer, but was indignant when Avenel began to follow them. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but the furious look he shot her made her close it again. Cole held her hand as they walked, and together they saw Odo and Philip stop briefly in the church, then aim for the road that led north. The moon was almost full, and was shockingly bright in the clear sky, so trailing them was ridiculously easy.

‘They must be going to the shrine,’ whispered Avenel.

But Odo and Philip continued past it and the priory, so that Gwenllian could only suppose they intended to visit Merlin’s Hill, from which Odo liked to study the stars. She wondered why Philip should have chosen to go with him: the chaplain had shown no interest in astronomy before. Avenel stooped suddenly and picked something up from the road. It was a buckle, distinctive for being elaborately engraved.

‘Fitzmartin’s,’ he said, peering at it in the moonlight. ‘From his tunic. There must have been a struggle and it fell off.’

‘Here is blood,’ said Cole, bending to inspect dark spots in the dust. He soon found more on the well-worn path that led to the shrine. ‘It is damp, so it has not been here long.’

‘The killer has abducted Fitzmartin,’ declared Avenel. ‘The fool! He should have confided his suspicions to me, and we would have tackled the villain together.’

‘I do not trust any of this,’ hissed Gwenllian, plucking at Cole’s sleeve to whisper in his ear. ‘It has a contrived feel. Avenel intends to win the King’s approval by luring you to the chapel – it will be deserted at this time of night – and killing you.’

‘Hurry,’ ordered Avenel sharply, and Cole had no choice but to obey.

Gwenllian could not move fast enough to keep up with them. She lagged behind, hampered by her skirts, and feeling sick when she saw more splashes of blood. Absently, she noticed that the stream flowing from the spring was now no more than mud; it would not be long before it dried up altogether.

The shrine looked forlorn in the dark, with no roof and no pilgrims, although there was a rosy glow inside where candles had been left burning. Then she heard a familiar voice. It was Kediour.

‘Gwenllian?’ he called. ‘It is safe now. A sharp blow to Avenel’s head has put an end to his mischief. Symon is tying him up for me.’

Gwenllian hurried forward, but stopped in alarm when she saw not Cole securing the sheriff, but both men sprawled senseless on the floor. Then the door slammed behind her, and she turned very slowly to see Kediour holding a crossbow.

‘I am sorry,’ said the prior softly. ‘I had hoped to resolve this business without further loss of life. Now I am afraid you must die, too.’

Gwenllian gaped at Kediour in disbelief. There was a knife in his belt and the crossbow was unwavering. With lurching terror, she recalled that he had been a Hospitaller, a warrior-knight who had earned his spurs in the bloody slaughter of the Crusade. Then she glanced at Cole and Avenel. The sheriff was beginning to stir, hand to his head, but Cole lay still.

‘I was obliged to stab poor Symon,’ said Kediour, in the same apologetic voice. ‘I wish it could have been avoided. I liked him, even if he did admit to manhandling sacred relics in the Holy Land. I only stunned Avenel, though, as I shall need his help to arrange the bodies.’

‘Bodies?’ whispered Gwenllian.

‘Fitzmartin,’ replied Kediour, and she saw a third man on the floor. He had been garrotted, and drips from the wound had left the trail that Cole had followed. She noticed the fine metal chain that held Kediour’s pectoral cross, and recalled what Symon had said about the murder weapon: that it was something hard, not rope that would have left tell-tale fibres. ‘He made accusations, so I had no choice. I brought him here, knowing it would be empty. You were right: people are already forgetting Beornwyn and her so-called miracle spring.’

‘Fitzmartin is the King’s man,’ said Gwenllian shakily. ‘So are Symon and Avenel. His Majesty will send emissaries to discover what has happened to them, and-’

‘His Majesty will have heard the rumours about churches despoiled and parishioners ransomed,’ said Kediour in the same soft, sad voice. ‘He will not look too carefully at the disappearance of Fitzmartin and Avenel, while you and Symon have long been thorns in his side.’

Gwenllian looked at Cole, and felt anger replace shock. ‘I suppose you think you acted righteously,’ she said contemptuously. ‘To prevent a shrine being founded for a saint not recognised by the Church.’

‘I did act righteously,’ averred Kediour. ‘God will not want a blasphemous cult on the doorstep of a holy priory, and it was my duty to crush it. I sincerely doubt those monks had Beornwyn’s real hand, given the inconsistencies in their tale, and the whole thing was based on deceit. The souls of hundreds were in peril, and I did the right thing.’

‘I see it all now,’ said Gwenllian, not concealing her distaste. ‘Indeed, I should have known you were the killer when you refused to have Miles’s body in your priory. You could not bear to let a victim into your domain.’

Kediour grimaced. ‘A foolish superstition for which I am sorry. I was doing God’s will, and I have no cause to feel guilt or remorse.’

‘You were never a suspect because Symon did not know that you had sneaked out of the priory after he had taken you home. But sneak out you did, and you saw Rupe, his men and the two lads praying to Beornwyn. You could not fight five of them, so you decided to secure Symon’s help in cleansing the spot the following day. But Miles was there, too-’

‘Performing heathen tricks with his hazel twigs,’ said Kediour in rank disapproval.

‘And you feared that if he did discover water near where Rupe and his companions prayed, it might be interpreted as the saint’s doing.’

‘Well, I was right,’ said Kediour acidly. ‘That is exactly what happened. I thought the affair would be over with Miles dead and the wood defiled by murder, but then the storm came, and what I had hoped to avoid came to pass anyway. The Devil was busy that night.’

‘He still is busy,’ said Gwenllian coldly.

‘I cannot tell you how shocked I was when I saw the spring the following day,’ Kediour went on, his eyes distant. ‘Of course, the really irritating thing was that it did not flow from the place where they prayed – as Symon noted, it was further to the left. Rupe lied.’

‘And so you killed him, too.’

Kediour regarded her bleakly. ‘He was not only deceiving people with his false miracle, he was profiting from it – taking money from the desperate and the poor. I cannot imagine a greater crime. And now it transpires that he was a cattle thief, too.’

‘Reinfrid and Frossard were next,’ said Gwenllian. ‘It was easy for you, a regular visitor to the castle, to wait for the gaoler to slink away for ale. But why bother with them?’

‘Because Cole was going to hand them to the bishop, rather than hanging them as they deserved, and they might have escaped to ply their evil trade again.’

‘It was you who stole their relic, of course,’ said Gwenllian. ‘You knew they would celebrate their good fortune in a tavern, so you waited until they were too drunk to notice and took it from Reinfrid’s pack. Then you insisted on seeing it the next day, hoping that an empty reliquary would expose them as charlatans.’

‘It should have done,’ said Kediour bitterly. ‘But Rupe salvaged the situation. He would have found some excuse for the spring drying up, too, and gullible folk would have accepted his lies. It had to be stopped, Gwenllian. You must see that.’

Gwenllian saw that Avenel had regained his senses and was listening. Then with a surge of relief she saw that Symon’s eyes were open, too. She stepped towards the spring, ostensibly to dip her hand in the mud, but really so to shield him from Kediour’s sight. She was aware of him and Avenel exchanging a silent signal. They had a plan, although she could not see how they would prevail against a skilled warrior who held a loaded crossbow.

‘Stand up, Sheriff,’ said Kediour abruptly. ‘And drag Fitzmartin and Symon to the altar. There is wood enough for a fire, I think.’

‘A fire?’ asked Gwenllian in alarm. She straightened quickly, her hand dripping with thick brown muck.

‘I shall follow the example set by those false monks, whose wickedness began this miserable affair. They started a blaze to conceal what they had done, and so shall I.’

‘Why should I?’ asked Avenel, although he scrambled upright. ‘You will kill me anyway.’

‘Because there are many ways to die,’ said Kediour softly. ‘Quickly with a crossbow bolt, or slowly in an inferno. The choice is yours.’

Avenel moved towards Fitzmartin, regarded him sadly for a moment, and then grabbed his legs. ‘None of your victims were good men,’ he said quietly. ‘Miles lusted after the constable’s wife, Rupe was a thief, Reinfrid and Frossard lived by deceit, and Fitzmartin did some terrible things. But Gwenllian is innocent. Let her go.’

‘I wish I could,’ said Kediour sadly. ‘But no one can know what I have done. They will not understand, and might turn against my priory. Now pull Symon to the altar and let us end this miserable business. I have no wish to prolong the agony.’

Avenel bent, and in one smooth move had snatched the knife Cole passed him and lobbed it at the prior. Unfortunately, his aim was poor and it passed harmlessly over Kediour’s head. The prior’s eyes blazed with fury, and the crossbow started to come up. Gwenllian knew it would not miss. More out of desperation than rational thought, she flung the grainy sludge that clung to her fingers at him.

Her aim could not have been better, and the crossbow discharged harmlessly into a wall as mud flew into Kediour’s eyes. Avenel lunged towards him, and there followed a furious tussle. Gwenllian tried to pull Symon to his feet, but he was heavy, and she could not do it. Then Avenel knocked Kediour into a row of candles, all of which went flying. They caught the tinder-dry wood of the walls, and she saw the prior was going to have his fire after all.

The flames took hold quickly, and a shower of sparks sprayed across Kediour’s habit. The wool began to smoulder, then it ignited. Kediour tried to bat out the blaze with his hands.

‘Help him,’ gasped Cole, when Avenel came to haul him to his feet. ‘Do not let him die in here.’

Avenel ignored him, but once they were outside there was no question of anyone going back. The entire chapel was ablaze, sending orange flames leaping high into the night sky.

‘You asked me to keep the truth about Rupe’s evil deeds from the King,’ said Avenel softly. ‘Well, let us do the same for this misguided prior. We shall invent a passing outlaw to take the blame for these murders, and we shall say Kediour died trying to save the chapel.’

III

The fire burned itself out quickly, and by the time the townsfolk came hurrying to see what was happening, there was nothing left but smouldering planks. Kediour’s body was retrieved and carried back to a priory that would genuinely miss him, and Avenel took the opportunity afforded by the canons’ stunned distress to reclaim Beornwyn’s hand with none of them any the wiser. He offered to return it to Whitby, and left the next morning. By the evening of the same day it had started to rain.

The land recovered quickly once the weather reverted to the cool, wet, grey days its people knew and loved. The river ran full and fat, trees and hedgerows regained their colour, farmers reported that some of the harvest might be saved, and livestock began to fatten.

‘Miles was mistaken,’ said Gwenllian one evening. Cole’s wound was taking too long to heal, and she was concerned by his continued pallor. ‘There is no underground stream in Rupe’s wood, and the water that bubbled from the ground was just a result of that unusual storm. There is a lot of water around now, yet there is no sign of it.’

‘Good,’ said Cole. ‘I am sure shrines are good things, generally speaking, but they do bring out the worst in people. In the Holy Land…’ He trailed off when she shot him a warning glance. ‘Well, suffice to say they are not always sites of peace and serenity.’

‘We were wrong about Avenel,’ said Gwenllian. ‘He had nothing to do with despoiling churches or holding people to ransom – that was all Fitzmartin.’

‘And Cousin Philip found the truth,’ added Cole. ‘Odo said we were lucky to have him as a chaplain, and he was right. I do not know why we had to send him to Brecon.’

‘He deserved a promotion after all he did,’ said Gwenllian. Then she grimaced. ‘He might have been on the right side in the end, but he is still a very slippery character, and I was glad to see him go. Much of what he discovered was with the help of Odo and Hilde, yet he never acknowledged the role they played. He kept the credit for himself.’

Cole smiled his understanding. ‘So that is what they were doing with their muttered discussions and secret glances! But why did they go to Merlin’s Hill on the night of the fire?’

‘To talk without being overheard. It was a sensible precaution. Fitzmartin had intimidated a number of people into spying for him. He would have killed them if he had found out what they had discovered and were passing to Avenel.’

‘Avenel was horrified by their revelations. He is a decent man. Incidentally, I advised him to hide his goodness when he visits the King. John does not want honourable, intelligent men in his service.’

‘No,’ agreed Gwenllian, ‘although it was unwise of you to say so. However, I trust Avenel to be diplomatic. He might even persuade the King to leave us alone.’

‘It was good of him to take Beornwyn’s hand to Whitby,’ said Cole, more gloomily than was his wont. ‘It might be some time before I would have been able to do it.’

‘It would indeed,’ she said with mock indignation. ‘You have been gone far too much of late, and I intend to keep you here with me for several months at least.’ Then she became serious. ‘Yet I am glad Beornwyn has gone. She did no good here.’

‘Perhaps she objected to her limbs being toted around the country and exploited by unscrupulous men. When I am well, I shall light a candle for her in the church. She was a real person, whether a saint or not, and does not deserve to be treated so.’

Gwenllian made no reply, and they sat in companionable silence, listening to rain patter in the bailey below and the other familiar sounds of castle life – the clatter of pans from the kitchens, the rumble of soldiers’ voices from the barracks and the contented cluck of hens scratching in the mud. Then a butterfly flitted through the window, dancing haphazardly until it landed on Cole. He let it stay, studying its pretty blue markings and the way it flexed its wings. Then it took to the air again and was gone.

‘I hope that was not the same one that danced over the wound in Miles’s neck,’ said Gwenllian in distaste. ‘Or kin to the dead one I saw on Rupe’s conical hat.’

Cole laughed, the first time he had done so since the fire. ‘I would not think so. But do you know, Gwen, I am feeling much better. Perhaps we can light Beornwyn’s candle tomorrow.’

Whitby, Winter 1200

Abbot Peter was appalled when Sheriff Avenel brought him the sorry tale of Reinfrid and Frossard. The hand’s theft had been noticed, of course, and had caused even further friction between Lythe and the abbey. Now, a year after the original affair, Peter had had more than enough of Beornwyn and everything connected to her.

‘She has been a bane to me ever since I came here,’ he said irritably to his brother, William. He rubbed his temples. His headaches had grown worse since the trouble, although the medicine William had brought would ease them. He had somehow mislaid the last box, and had had to manage twelve months without it. William had been too busy to bring a replacement batch sooner, because he had been busy founding his own priory. It was to be near their family home at Broomhill in the Malvern Hills.

‘Has she?’ asked William sympathetically.

‘She was a nuisance when she was in Lythe, because pilgrims would insist on going there instead of here,’ the abbot continued waspishly. ‘And now she is here, the villagers accuse us of theft on a weekly basis. I have a good mind to send her packing.’

‘Really?’ asked William, regarding him intently. ‘Because if you are serious, I have a new monastery that is sadly bereft of relics. Beornwyn would make a big difference to us – perhaps even the difference between survival and ignominious dissolution.’

‘I wish you could take her,’ said Peter fervently. ‘But relations with Lythe would never recover if I were to dispatch their beloved saint to a place that none of them have heard of. I fear I am stuck with the wretched woman – and will be until the end of my days.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said William, settling more comfortably in front of the fire. ‘You are right in that you cannot give her away, but what if she were stolen? Lythe cannot blame you for that – it is how they lost her themselves.’

Peter laughed without humour. ‘I think they would guess what happened if Beornwyn suddenly appeared in the priory founded by my own brother!’

‘Would they?’ asked William seriously. ‘How? Broomhill and Lythe are many miles apart, and both are remote. How would your villagers find out?’

Peter stared at him. ‘Do you think it would work?’

‘Why not? Relics are always being filched by unscrupulous thieves, and this will be just one more instance of it.’

Peter considered the matter, but then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said with real regret. ‘It would make me no better than the young men I banished.’

‘It is not the same at all,’ argued William. ‘They took her for mischief, whereas you are trying to heal a rift that is damaging both the abbey and Lythe. Your monks gloat and the villagers hate them for it – such sentiments will see them all in Hell. Removing her will eliminate a source of discord and thus save their immortal souls.’

‘Well, if you put it like that…’

‘Good,’ said William briskly. ‘However, it will have to be done properly, so there can be no question of skulduggery on your part. Leave it to me, brother.’

He was as good as his word, and the following day, the monks reported with dismay that burglars had smashed a window in the chancel and made off with a number of relics, Beornwyn’s among them. A week later, most were found abandoned in a church in Scarborough, but Beornwyn was believed to have been tossed into the sea.

When William presented the relics to Broomhill, he told the new prior that he had bought them in France. No one ever questioned him, and the shrine thrived, especially after a wealthy Venetian merchant named Marco Giuliani was cured of deafness. Giuliani promptly made the abbey a handsome donation, then offered to double it if they would sell him one of Beornwyn’s fingers. The prior demurred, but William opened the reliquary one night and saw the hand lying on top, almost as if it were begging to be removed. Thus Giuliani had his relic, and the priory received funds for a beautiful new Lady Chapel.

But Lythe’s distress tore at Peter’s heart, and nothing he did relieved the ache of guilt every time he saw a villager kneeling at the altar where Beornwyn had rested. He lay awake at night wondering how he could make reparation, and then an idea came. He would write her story. He would set his best scribes to illuminate it, and he would present the finished manuscript to Lythe as an acknowledgement of the part Beornwyn had played in all their lives.

Filled with vigour, he snatched up his pen and began at once, transferring all he knew of her to parchment, and even inventing a few details, intended to make her sound more saintly. He wrote in the vernacular, thinking the villagers would prefer it to Latin. He laboured for days, watched wryly by his good friend Prior Richard, head of the Cluniacs in Bermondsey, who happened to be visiting.

Eventually, the manuscript was finished, and Abbot Peter summoned the villagers to receive his gift. They stared at it in bemusement, before informing him that it was very pretty, but not something that was much use in a place where no one could read.

‘Never mind,’ said Richard kindly, when they had gone. ‘God will appreciate what you have done, and that is the most important thing.’

‘Will He?’ asked Peter bitterly. ‘Then why do I feel as though Heaven is frowning on me? My headaches are worse than ever and I am very tired.’

Richard regarded him in concern, then became practical. ‘Beornwyn has caused you far too much trouble, and it is time for it to stop. We shall expunge all trace of her from your abbey, and the monks will be forbidden to speak her name. We shall use her shrine for other relics, and the people of Lythe will have to go elsewhere to petition her.’

Peter nodded wearily. ‘Very well. And I shall burn the manuscript.’

‘No, I shall take it to the library in Bermondsey,’ said Richard, loath to see such a beautiful thing reduced to ashes. ‘Then she will be truly gone, and you must forget her.’

‘Yes,’ said Peter, nodding. ‘I shall. It is for the best.’

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Then he started in alarm when something spiralled past his face to land on the table in front of him. It was a dead butterfly.

Historical Note

Nicholas Avenel was Sheriff of Pembroke in 1202, and he, along with William Fitzmartin, was accused of despoiling churches belonging to Gerald de Barri, Archdeacon of Brecon (more famously known as Gerald of Wales). They were also said to have harried parishioners by kidnapping them and holding them to ransom.

Symon Cole was Constable of Carmarthen in the 1190s, and Lord Rhys of Deheubarth had several daughters named Gwenllian.

In the last quarter of the twelfth century, one Adam de Rupe left provision for masses for his soul. He had a tenant named Gunbald, son of Ernebald. Witnesses to the deed included Philip de Barri and Odo of Carrau. A similar grant was made for the soul of Miles de Coggan.

There was an Augustinian priory in Carmarthen in 1200, but the name of its then prior is unknown, although Kediour is mentioned in deeds dating to the 1180s.

Finally, the first head of the Benedictine abbey at Whitby was Reinfrid, and Frossard was lord of the manor at Lythe. The abbot in 1200 was probably Peter, and Richard was Prior of Bermondsey from 1189 until about 1201.