The False Virgin

Act Five

Blidworth, Nottinghamshire, December 1541

‘I call it theft!’ Richard Whitney’s heavy jowls quivered in outrage.

The butcher reminded Father James of an indignant cockerel and the sight would have struck the priest as comical had he not been so insulted by Richard’s accusation.

‘You should not have left the candle here in the first place,’ Father James retorted. ‘You know full well that Thomas Cromwell has forbidden the lighting of candles to any saints, and especially the placing of them before their relics. I know some of the old and ignorant in the parish have trouble understanding why they can no longer bring offerings to the saints as they have done all their lives, but as Master of the Butchers’ Guild you should set an example for them.’

Richard Whitney took a step closer, thrusting his florid face close to the priest’s. ‘Do I look like a man who’d waste his hard-earned money on church candles? It was my frog-witted apprentice who left it here. That boy’s so pious he’d make St Peter look like a non-believer. The lad’s a fool, and I gave him a good thrashing when I heard what he’d done. But the point is, he spent good money for that candle and it wasn’t his to spend. Alan bought that great candle with the purse his father gave him to pay his apprentice fees to me. Now it’s been stolen.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting I took it,’ Father James said, with as much dignity as he could muster.

But the priest was a head shorter than his parishioner, and though not easily intimidated he found himself distinctly uncomfortable at the man’s close proximity. Besides, Master Richard consumed far too much of his own meat and his breath always stank. Father James took a few paces up the steps of the chantry chapel so that he had the advantage of height, but that only seemed to antagonise the butcher.

‘Don’t you dare walk away from me, Vicar! I haven’t finished with you. Alan says there was more than two pounds of wax in that candle, not to mention the worth of making it. That candlemaker makes an even fatter profit from the gullible than the Church does. So if that candle’s going to be lighting anyone’s table this winter, it’ll be mine.’

Father James’s chin jerked up. ‘The candle belongs to this church. It’s been offered to God in faith. Even if we should find it, you certainly can’t use it to entertain your friends.’

Richard snorted. ‘According to Cromwell, God doesn’t want it, and it’s my money that was squandered on buying it, so I’ll be getting the worth of it, not you or your churchwarden. Mark my words, he’s the thieving bastard who’s taken it. So you can tell Yarrow I want it back by nightfall, or I’ll be round his house to fetch it myself, and you can be sure I’ll make him regret putting me to that trouble.’

Master Whitney turned on his heel and marched from the church, slamming the heavy door behind him with such force it set the wooden cradle in the corner of the church rocking. The cradle was only used at Candlemas, when a baby boy, born closest to Christmas Day, would be rocked in it in honour of the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin. It was an honour the families often came to blows over, for it was said to bestow great good fortune on the child, but Father James found himself wondering if this too would soon be forbidden by one of Thomas Cromwell’s numerous injunctions.

The priest had been trying to hold himself so tall, it was only now that he realised his back was aching from the effort. He shuffled a few paces to the carved stone rail that separated the faithful from the chantry altar and leaned heavily upon it, sighing.

If it was the churchwarden who’d removed the candle, it certainly hadn’t been placed with the ones in the chest destined for the main altar, as it should have been. And this wasn’t the first time offerings to St Beornwyn had gone missing over the past months. Many candles and tawdries laid at her feet had vanished without trace, even a costly ring given by a woman grateful for the life of her sick child.

Thankfully, the villagers of Blidworth had asked no questions. Assuming that their forbidden offerings had been hidden safely away in the church chest, they had not dreamed of asking for their return. But a man like Richard was never going to accept such a loss quietly. Not that the butcher could report the theft, for if he did so it would come to light that young Alan had left the illicit offering in the church, and a master could be held responsible for the actions of his apprentice. But that made it more likely Richard would mete out his own brand of rough justice. For by now whoever had stolen it would have surely sold it or melted it down to make a dozen household candles. Father James fleetingly wondered if it hadn’t been taken by the candlemaker himself, who could then resell it to some other fool. He, above all in the village, would know the worth of it.

The priest glanced over at the source of all the trouble, the gilded reliquary in the form of the statue of the saint, which stood on the altar of the chantry chapel. St Beornwyn had been carved holding out her left hand on which rested a sumptuously jewelled and enamelled butterfly, the size of a raven in proportion to the height of the woman. Her painted robe was torn away on the top half of her body to reveal naked breasts, only partly covered by her right hand. Embedded in the back of this hand was a polished fragment of rock crystal beneath which lay a strip of the saint’s own skin, flayed from her body when she was martyred. Two more pieces of crystal set into her bare feet encased two more fragments of skin. Not for the first time, Father James found himself entertaining the less than spiritual thought that if the saint had been half as voluptuous in life as her carving, then it was a miracle she had remained a virgin at all.

But why had that wretched boy taken it into his head to spend his apprentice fees on a candle? Was he praying St Beornwyn would rescue him from his apprenticeship? Father James could hardly blame Alan if he had. Richard had a notoriously short temper and the whole village knew he bullied his lads. It was even rumoured that a few years back, one of his apprentices was so miserable he had gone into Sherwood Forest and hanged himself, though the Butchers’ Guild blamed it on lovesickness for a girl who spurned him.

But the priest was certain that Alan would never commit such a sin, however badly Richard used him. In fact, the boy almost seemed to revel in his ill-treatment as if it was a test of his faith and devotion to St Beornwyn. On numerous occasions both Father James and the churchwarden had each been forced to drag the boy away from the chantry, reminding him sternly that praying before relics was now forbidden.

The boy made no secret of the fact that he had wanted to become a monk, but with the monasteries being closed and the monks forced out into the world, there was no chance of that. Even entering the priesthood was no longer a safe choice. Little wonder then that Alan’s parents had decided that in this fast-changing world only one thing was certain – people would always need butchers.

Father James glanced over his shoulder to ensure he was alone, then, crossing himself, he kneeled and muttered a hasty prayer that the blessed St Beornwyn would keep Richard’s hand from the churchwarden’s throat and Cromwell’s enforcers far away from Blidworth.

Master Richard Whitney’s temper had not improved one jot since he stormed from the church and was, if anything, made worse when he flung open the door of his house and heard his wife’s laughter ringing from the small chamber beyond the oak-panelled hall. He didn’t usually return home in the afternoon, so could not reasonably expect his wife, Mary, to be waiting for him with the table laid ready with his supper. But Richard had never been an entirely reasonable man and was becoming less so with every passing year, especially since he had become Guild Master, an honour that was usually granted to the butchers who lived in the large towns, such as Nottingham.

He strode through the hall and flung open the door at the far end, which led to the small winter parlour where he and his wife ate when they were not entertaining guests. Mary was often to be found in there occupied with her sewing. He didn’t know what he imagined might be the cause of Mary’s laughter – some morsel of market-street gossip brought back by her maid, Jennet, or the lapdog rolling over to have its belly scratched. Who knew? It seemed to him that any ridiculous and trivial thing was enough to entertain the simple mind of a woman. But whatever he thought was amusing his wife, it was certainly not what he found.

Edward Thornton, one of his fellow guild brothers, and furthermore the one who had fought against Richard for the honour of becoming Guild Master, was sitting – or rather insolently lounging – in one of Richard’s fine carved wooden chairs. His fingers were cupped around one of Richard’s pewter goblets, half-filled with Richard’s best wine. The floor around Edward’s boots was strewn with honeyed spiced almonds, and as Richard flung the door wide, he saw that Edward’s mouth was open and Mary was just about to toss another almond into it.

Mary’s laughter froze the instant she caught sight of her husband standing in the doorway. Her plump cheeks flushed crimson as she sprang to her feet. But Master Edward did nothing except close his mouth, and continue, quite unabashed, to sprawl in the chair as if he was by his own fireside.

Edward Thornton was only a few years younger than Richard, but his curly chestnut hair and beard still showed not a smattering of grey, and he had a ready smile, which women apparently found quite charming, although Richard had long held that any man who smiled so easily was never to be trusted in matters of business or anything else.

‘Richard…’ Mary’s breathing was rapid, like a trapped animal. ‘I didn’t except you back so soon.’

‘Evidently,’ Richard replied coldly. ‘Do you often entertain my fellow guild members when I am about my business?’

‘No, Richard, no, of course, not… Master Edward came with a message. He’s ridden hard from Nottingham. I thought it only courtesy to offer him some refreshment. I thought you would wish it.’

‘Is it customary to offer guests refreshment by throwing nuts at them? You’re not a child and he’s not a pet bird. The hall is the place to receive guests of Master Edward’s rank.’

Although both men knew that the hall was reserved for men of high social status, somehow Richard managed to make it sound like an insult.

His wife looked close to tears. ‘But Master Edward is… is an old friend. You often entertain him in here, Richard.’

‘When there are confidential matters to be discussed,’ Richard said. ‘But I trust there is nothing of a confidential nature you have cause to discuss with my wife, Edward.’

Richard lowered himself heavily into the chair his wife had vacated. She stood, hovering uncertainly by his side, until Edward gallantly rose and offered her his seat.

Richard’s jaw clenched. ‘My wife does not require a chair. She’s just leaving to see to her duties.’

Mary flushed and lowered her head to hide the tears glittering in her eyes. She hurried from the chamber. Richard heard her feet running across the tiled hall.

‘Come now, don’t blame poor Mary,’ Edward said lightly. ‘It was my suggestion we came in here. I was frozen to the marrow after the ride and this room is much warmer than that great draughty hall of yours. I reckon we’ll have snow before Christmas. What do you say? Still, good for business, what? Men always eat more meat in cold weather.’

Richard ignored Edward’s attempt to divert him. He stared down at the dish of spiced almonds on the table. ‘I will deal with my wife, Master Edward, any way I please, and I will decide where the blame lies and what is to be done about it.’

It was the second time today that a man had tried to take what belonged to Richard. His hands were itching to seize Edward by the throat and hurl him into the nearest stinking ditch, but that would spread gossip round the guild quicker than lice round a swarm of beggars, and Richard had no intention of letting it be known that he was being made a fool of by Edward or Mary.

‘My wife said you’d brought a message. It must be important to have brought you all this way and in business hours too.’

Edward leaned forward, his expression suddenly grave. ‘One of Cromwell’s enforcers has arrived in Nottingham, a man by the name of Roger Grey. He’s here to search for relics and take them back to Cromwell to be tested to see if they are genuine or not. But we all know they’re never returned to their owners. If the Virgin herself were to appear to Cromwell and hand him Christ’s own foreskin and swear on the Holy Gospel she’d seen it cut from her son, Cromwell would still claim it was a fake and burn it. Unless, of course, it was encased in gold and jewels, in which case he’d throw away the relic and keep the valuables for himself.’

Richard felt a spasm of alarm. ‘You think this man Grey will come here.’

‘I don’t think – I know he will,’ Edward said. ‘I heard Grey preach while I was in Nottingham. He told people to search their homes, byres and workshops and bring any charms, amulets or relics they could find to him. He made a big bonfire in the square, urging people to cast their relics into the flames. Course, the bits of relics people have at home are not housed in costly reliquaries, mostly just saints’ teeth to hang in their byres or hair wrapped in a bit of cloth and tucked into the babies’ cradles.’

‘But did the people surrender them to Grey?’ Richard asked, all thoughts of his wife forgotten in this far more important concern.

Edward chuckled. ‘They surrendered something, certainly, anything to show their loyalty. But I reckon they were mostly just rags or bits of old bones they’d fished out of their midden heaps that morning. They’ll have squirrelled the real ones safely away.’

‘But Grey believed they were giving up their relics?’

Edward chuckled again. ‘I doubt it. I reckon it was just a spectacle to get the people worked up and encourage them to inform on others. But we all know it’s the church relics that Cromwell and his minions are really after. And he mentioned St Beornwyn by name in his sermon. He said praying before relics like hers was the worst kind of idolatry. Claimed she’d never been made a saint at all. So I know Blidworth’ll be one of the first places he’ll start with. He’ll be determined to take her.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Richard was pacing impatiently up and down the hall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both men laughed and Alan flinched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘The boy doesn’t need his head filling with thoughts of women of any kind, saints or tavern girls,’ Richard said sharply. ‘He doesn’t even have room enough in his head to remember what he’s been taught. Now, finish up here and don’t be late opening the shop.’

Without even waiting for an acknowledgement of his orders, Richard strode out of the yard and made his way towards his house. Most tradesmen lived in the upper storeys above their shop, but Richard was wealthy enough to afford a separate house, well away from the stench of the slaughter yard, which had made the money to buy that house, at least what money he’d earned himself. Much of his wealth had come from his marriage to Mary, but Richard had long forgotten that inconvenient fact, as most men in his position did.

Ever since he found Edward sitting alone with his wife, Richard had taken to arriving home at unexpected times to see if Edward was paying any more visits. But each time he’d returned he’d found her alone or out walking or shopping with her maid. And on this occasion the house was once again deserted, with not even William, his manservant, answering his calls. This was not, he supposed, unexpected. The manservant had told him he was taking the wagon to fetch wood. With the nights as cold as they were, the stack of fuel for the fire had shrunk alarmingly these past few days.

But Richard was both annoyed and alarmed. He realised he should have left instruction that his wife and Jennet were to remain in the house whenever William was absent, and William should guard the house when they went shopping. Suppose someone broke in? It would be terrible to be robbed at any time, but with the reliquary in the house… Not that his wife or the servants knew he had the reliquary. Nevertheless, he must impress upon them that the house was never to be left unattended. He would invent some story about a gang of robbers being reported as heading to these parts. That would frighten them into staying close to the house.

After calling out once more to ensure the house was indeed empty, Richard hastened to the solar and checked the lock still remained in place on the stout iron-banded chest. It was rather too obvious a hiding place, but it was the first place he’d found, when he returned that night from the church, where he could place the reliquary unobserved by anyone in the house. But a locked chest was the first place any thief or prying cleric would examine.

Richard had been pondering the matter ever since and finally resolved that if he could remove some of the oak panelling, he might be able to create a niche behind it where the statue could be hidden. The question was, who could he trust to carry out the work without talking? He would have to employ a craftsman, for though Richard could slice a pig into neat parcels in less time than it took a goodwife to pluck a chicken, he had no skills with wood, and any false panelling must appear indistinguishable from the solid walls when it was finished, else the hiding place would be discovered at once.

He was pacing the rooms, tapping on walls and trying to find exactly the best place for such a concealed compartment, when he heard someone else tapping on the door that led into the passage from the courtyard at the back of the house. Assuming it must be one of the servants, somewhat irritably he went to unfasten it.

But it was not one of the servants who stood there. Instead he was confronted by two men, both dressed in patched and ill-assorted clothes, their heads and half their faces muffled against the cold. Richard’s first instinct was to slam the door, but one had already wedged his stave inside, preventing that.

Richard tried to muster as much authority as he could. ‘What… what do you want? If you want alms, go to the dole window in the church. I tolerate no beggars here.’

‘We are not seeking alms, Master Richard. We have a matter of the utmost importance we would like to discuss with you.’

Richard was taken aback by the gentle, cultured tones of the man, in contrast to his appearance, but that only made him more wary. An educated man had no business to go around dressed as a beggar. He was obviously a knave or a thief.

‘Come and see me at my place of business. I don’t barter for beasts in my own home.’

‘We are not here to sell you a cow, Master Richard. It concerns something altogether more valuable and it is we who wish to purchase it from you.’

Richard hesitated. He had no intention of admitting these men into the house. Two of them together could easily overpower him and he had no way of knowing if they were concealing any weapons beyond the staves in their hands. But the man seemed to understand Richard’s wariness, for beyond holding the door open he made no move to force his way in.

The stranger glanced behind him. The courtyard was deserted save for Richard’s own horse in the stable, but even so, he lowered his voice, still keeping the cloth across his mouth and nose so that Richard had to lean towards him to make out the words.

‘We seek the reliquary of St Beornwyn.’

Richard drew in his breath as if the man had just slapped him.

‘Why… why come to me?’ he blustered. ‘I know nothing about it. I’ve no idea where it is. It’s probably been destroyed.’

‘It is to prevent the destruction we are here. If you were to stumble across its whereabouts – by accident, of course – we would be pleased to take it to a place of safety, where no enforcer would ever find it. We’d keep it safe until this troubled time has passed. I assure you we would treat it with all reverence.’

Richard almost laughed. ‘Smash it up to get to the gold and jewels, more like. Do you take me for a fool?’

The second man moved closer and Richard hastily took a step back, thinking he was about to push his way through the door, but he carefully laid his stave against the wall and held up both hands to show he was unarmed.

‘We would never destroy a holy relic,’ he said. His startlingly blue eyes darted nervously from side to side, as if he too feared to be overheard. ‘We are Austin canons. The priory of St Mary at Newstead was our home until it was seized and we were evicted, ordered to leave the religious life God had called us to. We were thrown out like beggars with nothing, and our lands sold to Sir John Byron, who is even now tearing the priory apart so that he may live in it. He’s even pulling our church down stone by stone to build his stables and pigsties. May God curse John Byron and all his descendants. But…’ He hesitated, glancing at his companion, evidently seeking permission to say more.

The other man gave the briefest of nods.

‘Some of us continue to maintain the order in secret, hidden from the eyes of Henry and that Devil’s spawn Cromwell. We need no gold or silver. Ours was never a wealthy order. And any stone can be fashioned into a table, but it does not become a consecrated altar until a holy relic is placed on it, and without a consecrated altar we cannot say Mass and transform the bread and wine into the body and blood of our Lord. We need the reliquary of St Beornwyn. She’s our only hope. Without that reliquary our order will die as Cromwell intends that it should, and we will not permit his evil to triumph. I assure you the reliquary will find no safer hiding place than with us. And we will pray to her for the health and protection of the man who entrusts her to us, and after his death we would offer Masses daily for his soul.’

To ensure that Masses were said to shorten the soul’s suffering in purgatory was a costly affair, and most men would have agreed to such a bargain at once. But money for such Masses was usually left in a will, and to Richard’s mind there was all the difference in the world between giving away his valuables when he was dead and no longer had any use for them and parting with them now while he was still alive.

‘I can’t help you,’ he said firmly. ‘And I cannot imagine why you should have come to me at all. The reliquary is the Church’s affair.’

The man with the bright blue eyes reached inside his ill-fitting jerkin; again Richard jumped back fearing he might be reaching for a knife, but he withdrew nothing more threatening than a worn leather pouch. The man loosened the drawstrings of the pouch and tipped the contents into his grubby hand – a few gold coins, a garnet ring and other scraps of precious metal and semi-precious stones that had evidently been levered from some box or chalice. He thrust his palm up towards Richard’s face.

‘We’ve gathered together what valuables we could find to offer for the reliquary.’

Richard plucked at one of the broken fragments. ‘And I don’t doubt this is all that would remain of the reliquary of St Beornwyn if you laid hands on it.’

He let the scrap of silver fall back into the man’s hand. ‘As I told you, I know nothing of the reliquary. Now take this rubbish and buy yourselves another relic for your altar. There are bound to be dozens that have dropped off the back of the enforcers’ wagons. And don’t come knocking on my door again.’

He kicked the man’s stave away from the lintel and slammed the door shut, bolting it as swiftly as his trembling fingers would allow. He leaned against the door, breathing hard. It was no coincidence the men had come to the door. They knew St Beornwyn was here or at the very least they must suspect that, as Guild Master, he knew where the statue was.

Only the priest knew he’d brought it to the house. Father James had opposed it being taken from the church. Was he behind this, trying to trick him into returning it? Did he really think Richard could be persuaded to part with the guild’s most treasured possession for the offer of a few prayers or a bag of scrap that wasn’t even worth the value of the gold in the saint’s crown? Those men probably weren’t monks at all, just rogues Father James had hired to intimidate him. But one thing was now clear to Richard: he’d have to find a much more secure hiding place, and swiftly too.

There were few men more fitted to the names that birth had seen fit to bestow upon them than Roger Grey. He was a short, spare man whose hair and eyes were the hue of gathering rain clouds, and his dark, sober clothes only served to accentuate the lack of any colour in the cleric, as if he was a rag that had been washed rather too often. But his appearance belied a nature that was as hard as steel. And though his fond parents had simply thought Roger a pleasing forename for their infant, it was as if from birth their son had determined to become that very spear from which his Christian name derived, pressing the sharpened point of his zeal into the tender side of every priest and abbot in the land.

As Grey walked into the church of St Mary of the Purification in Blidworth in the company of Father James, his skin prickled in the presence of unseen idolatry, just as a hunter senses when a dangerous boar lies hidden in a thicket.

Grey cleared his throat with a dry cough. ‘Since the observance of Candlemas is doubtless more important to this parish than to many others, as this church is dedicated to that feast, I trust, Father James, that you remind your parishioners that the candles are to be lit on that feast day only in memory of Christ himself, and not for his mother, nor are the candles to be used in divination to tell men’s fortunes for the coming year.’

Grey addressed the empty air, before suddenly turning his gaze upon Father James at the end of his speech. It was a trick he found usually caught men unawares, leading them to betray their guilt in their glances. And Father James did indeed betray himself. His gaze had darted at once to the Candlemas cradle. But Grey was not concerned with such petty customs, not on this occasion at least, and he made no comment, preferring to leave Father James to sweat a little.

Grey left the priest’s side and prowled about the church. His practised eye could always spot where candles had recently been lit before the statues of saints, or fragments of leaves showed where images had been decorated with garlands or offerings had been left. But he was not on the hunt for such things now. His objective in this careful search had only one purpose and that was to make the priest nervous. They both knew why Grey was here, but the longer he delayed coming to the point the more likely it was that Father James would give himself away. Grey’s father had been a tanner, and he’d learned as a boy that the longer a hide is left to soak, the easier it is to scrape clean.

Finally, when he judged Father James had sweated enough, he turned without warning to confront him.

‘And where is the reliquary of the false saint?’

Father James moistened his lips. ‘Many believe St Beornwyn to be a true saint. She’s performed many miracles and her story is well attested. There is a book which details-’

‘The story of Judas is well attested. That does not make him a saint. As to her miracles, it is God who grants miracles, not saints, and it is to him your parishioners should be lighting their candles and offering their prayers. But that aside, I am here to take the reliquary away to be examined. If my superiors find the relic inside to be genuine and the saint to be worthy of presenting an example of a holy life to sinners, then rest assured the reliquary will be returned to you.’

‘Have many been returned?’ Father James asked.

Grey allowed himself a faint smile. ‘You would be shocked, Father, to discover just how many of these relics have proved false. Bull’s blood purporting to be our Lord’s, chicken bones to be the finger of a saint, filthy scraps of cloth from martyrs, which were doubtless cut from some old beggar’s clothes, and skin of holy men that is nothing more than pig hide… Your reliquary is supposed to contain fragments of Beornwyn’s skin, is it not?’

‘But the saint was flayed,’ Father James protested. ‘Her skin would have been reverently preserved.’

‘As no doubt is her reliquary, but I do not see it. I understood it was kept on the altar in the chantry chapel. It was the property of the Butchers’ Guild, was it not?’

‘It was removed,’ the priest said carefully. ‘Cromwell said the people shouldn’t place offerings before relics or light candles to the saints.’

For such a cold day, Grey noticed Father James was beginning to look rather warm.

‘Removed to where exactly?’

Father James spread his hands. ‘I honestly don’t know. It has most likely been destroyed, broken up. As you say, it belonged to the Butchers’ Guild.’

‘And do you honestly believe they would destroy their own property?’ Grey asked. ‘Smash a relic that you have just told me everyone revered? No, Father, I can’t believe it has been destroyed, though it has been concealed. Perhaps I should bring in men to search the church and help you find it. My men are known for their enthusiasm and thoroughness, though I regret they are inclined to be clumsy.’

He saw to his satisfaction a spasm pass across the priest’s face and beads of sweat break out on his brow. Grey, however, was convinced the reliquary was no longer in the church. He could usually tell, catching the nervous glance towards the hiding place to check that nothing had been disturbed, the clumsy attempts to lead him away from the spot.

He had fought these kinds of priests all his life. Men granted an easy living as a vicar by reason of their privileged birth. Men who had little faith and less learning, who were more interested in hunting than in their devotions and yet were only too willing to fleece gullible parishioners, like his own parents, of what little they possessed. Grey, from his humble origins, had had to fight his way into the Church with all the zeal and persistence of the crusader storming the gates of Jerusalem, and he was not going to yield the battlefield to such a man now.

And indeed he did not, though Father James didn’t confess easily. But fear of having his own church demolished about his ears and, as Grey hinted, losing his living entirely if he was seen to be obstructing Cromwell’s injunctions was eventually enough to loosen his tongue. Grey left the church quite satisfied with the information he had received.

It was to Grey’s lasting regret that he did not make his way straight to the house of the Master of the Butchers’ Guild on leaving the church. But on learning from Father James that Richard’s wife and servants were unlikely to be aware that the reliquary was even in the house, never mind where it was hidden, he decided to save himself a wasted journey by calling upon Richard Whitney when the butcher returned home after his shop was closed. According to Father James, Richard had little respect for the authority of the Church and was likely to resist if ordered to surrender his treasure, so Grey resolved to collect the two sergeants-at-arms who were currently warming themselves at the inn and take them with him when he went to search the butcher’s house.

Father James had been sternly warned not to try to get word to Richard, and having put the fear of Cromwell, if not of God, into the priest, Grey permitted himself the luxury of lingering over the first good meal he had enjoyed in many days. To his surprise, the inn’s meat pie was every bit as succulent as the serving maid had promised, as was the pork seethed in a honey and onion sauce, so it was a contented man who chivvied his reluctant sergeants-at-arms away from their ale and out into the cold night.

The moon and stars glittered like shards of ice in the black sky, and the men shuffled impatiently as Grey tugged the bell rope outside the door of the Master of the Guild of Butchers. They were ushered into a great hall by an anxious-looking girl and, before the servant had time even to summon her master or mistress, a woman came hurrying down the stairs, stopping in evident surprise when she saw the three men in the hall, for it was clear she was expecting someone else.

Alarm flashed in the woman’s eyes when Grey introduced himself. She made a hasty curtsy.

‘My… husband is not here.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I was out most of the afternoon, paying a call on a friend. She’s not long been brought to bed with child and I went to take gifts. Jennet, my maid, accompanied me. We stayed until it was near dusk. I hadn’t intended to stay so long, but another friend came and we were all talking, and the baby was-’

‘And your husband?’ Grey interrupted, trying to get her back to the point.

‘It was as we were returning home, that’s when we saw him. We’d just rounded the bend in the path when we saw Richard galloping away from the house at such a furious pace I was afraid he’d fall from the horse and break his neck.’

‘And you’ve no idea why he left in such a hurry? Did a message come for him?’

Mary shook her head. ‘Maybe it was guild business. He didn’t often tell…’ She suddenly pressed her hand to her mouth, as if she was trying to stop herself crying, reaching for the back of a chair for support.

Grey eyed her suspiciously. A wife would hardly be so distressed if she thought her husband had simply gone out on business. There was something more to this, which she was not telling him. Did she perhaps think her husband was visiting another woman?

‘In the absence of Master Richard, I must trouble you with the matter that brings us here. Your husband brought the reliquary of Beornwyn into this house. I am here on Cromwell’s orders to take it to be inspected and authenticated.’

The colour drained from Mary’s face and she took a pace forward, sinking into the chair.

‘I don’t… know anything about a reliquary,’ she muttered, without looking at him.

Grey paced slowly, very slowly, towards her. Not until he was standing over her with his knees almost touching hers did he speak again. He kept his voice low and even.

‘Mistress Mary, understand I have the power to arrest anyone, man or woman, who tries to conceal a relic. I will take them for questioning and those who are suspected of deliberately defying Cromwell’s orders or thwarting the purposes of the King’s enforcers will be punished, that I can assure you.’

Mary gave a wrenching sob, shrinking back in her chair. ‘I don’t-’

But Grey cut her off, pressing his fingers to her mouth. He could feel her trembling beneath his hand, her breath coming in short, hot snorts.

‘Think, Mary, think very carefully before you lie to me. I know the reliquary is in this house, just as I know that the hiding of it here was none of your doing. A wife cannot gainsay her husband. It’s her duty to obey him. No one will consider you other than a virtuous woman for your loyalty to him, but now is the time to help him.’

Grey took a pace back from Mary and raised his voice so that the maidservant and any others who might be listening should hear him.

‘Just tell me where the reliquary is, or where you suspect it to be, and I shall take no further action against either you or your husband. You’ll be saving him by surrendering it to me. But if you don’t tell me the truth, then both you and he and all your servants will be arrested, for you will all be deemed as guilty as Master Richard.’

He was gratified to hear a terrified squawk from the maid, behind him in the hall. It was exactly the reaction Grey had hoped for.

Jennet rushed to her mistress’s side. ‘Tell him, Mistress. Please tell him! You heard what he said, they’re going to arrest us all. You have to tell him.’

Mary shook her head, struggling in vain to control her sobs.

Jennet stared at her, then turned to Grey. ‘It was in the chest in the solar. Leastways, I think it was…’

Grey nodded. ‘You’re a sensible girl to tell me the truth. Your master and mistress will have much cause to be grateful to you.’ He motioned to the sergeants-at-arms. ‘Bring the reliquary here. The maid will show you where it is.’

But the girl shook her head, twisting the cloth of her apron in her hands. ‘I can’t… that’s what I was telling you. It was there, but it’s not now, sir. You go and look. You can see the lock’s been forced; wrenched off, it has. I found it so when we returned. St Beornwyn’s gone!’

Grey spent a restless night in the inn, lying awake in a guttering candlelight, for ever since he was a boy he’d never been able to bring himself to extinguish the light and fall asleep in the dark. The feather pallet on the narrow bed was hard and thin from being compressed by countless sweating bodies. The straw mattress beneath had evidently not been replaced for years, judging by the stink of it. But Grey had slept on much worse and it was not entirely the fault of the bed that he tossed and turned now. It was the missing reliquary that kept him from sleep.

William, the manservant, had been questioned thoroughly and finally admitted that contrary to his master’s instructions he had left the house unattended to take meat to his mother and bedridden father, as he did most days. But, he was swift to add, only what meat the master allowed him as part of his wages. William hadn’t troubled to wait for the mistress to return. He’d never done so in the past, and couldn’t see any need to do so now. Though his master had told him about the gang of robbers, no houses had been broken into in Blidworth, and nor were they likely to be, for what cause would any robbers have to come to a little village when there were much better pickings in Nottingham or Mansfield?

William had had no reason to go upstairs to the solar on his return, so had seen nothing amiss. He’d occupied himself with chopping wood for the fire and drawing the water that the women would need for cooking on their return. He was adamant that while he knew the reliquary had vanished from the church, as indeed did the whole village, he did not know it was in the house.

Of course, William would have had every opportunity to steal the reliquary himself or to carry it off on his master’s instructions to hide it elsewhere. But Grey suspected Richard would never have entrusted such a task to a servant, and as for William having stolen it, even broken up, the gold and jewels would be impossible for a servant to sell locally without arousing instant suspicion.

But if William was telling the truth, then either the reliquary had been stolen that afternoon and Richard, discovering the theft, had charged out in pursuit of the culprit, or more likely, Richard had removed it himself, breaking the lock on the chest to make it appear stolen, and had carried it off to a safer hiding place. It would explain why Master Richard had unexpectedly returned home in the afternoon without apparent cause.

Grey had waited in the butcher’s hall until well past ten of the clock, but Richard had not returned to the house, and, utterly weary, Grey had finally made his way back to the inn, leaving the sergeants-in-arms in Richard’s house, ready to seize him the moment he returned.

The following morning, Grey was half-way through his breakfast of mutton chops and ale, when one of the sergeants-in-arms appeared in the doorway of the inn. He scanned the dark little ale room rapidly and when he spotted Grey he came hurrying over.

Grey wiped his greasy mouth on a napkin. ‘Did he return? Have you taken him?’

The man gazed longingly at the remains of the juicy chops and flagon of ale, almost drooling like a hound. ‘Master Richard’s been seized all right, but it wasn’t at his house. It was at the Royal Hutt in the forest.’

Grey flapped the napkin at him. ‘I don’t care where he was captured, so long as he is safely held. But what of the reliquary, was that found with him?’

The sergeant shook his head. ‘No sign of it whole or in pieces. But that’s not the worst of it. There’s been murder done.’

Grey leaped to his feet, almost overturning the table. ‘Richard Whitney’s been murdered!’

‘Not him, sir. Master Richard’s not the victim, he’s the murderer.’

It was nearly noon before Grey and his two sergeants-at-arms arrived at the Royal Hutt in Sherwood Forest. It had taken some time to find a man who was prepared to guide them there. Most villagers denied even knowing of its existence, though Grey suspected that they knew very well where it was, but were not going to help an enforcer whom they all knew had come to take their saint from them.

Eventually, but only after he’d been offered a good purse, a wagoner who lived in another village offered to show them the track that wound through the trees. Grey and his men travelled behind the wagon on horseback at the wagon’s infuriatingly slow pace until it eventually ground to a halt, and the wagoner pointed down a narrow path that led to a small stone lodge among the trees. It had, so he told Grey, been built to shelter the Royal Wardens of Sherwood Forest as they made their rounds searching for poachers and for any man cutting wood without leave or illegally carrying a bow in the forest. For centuries it had been a welcome refuge for the King’s men, especially in the bitter winters.

Grey dismounted and tethered his horse close to the track. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘We may have need of your wagon to move the body. Where is the nearest village?’ He gestured ahead down the track. ‘Is it that way?’

The wagoner shook his head. ‘That way leads to Newstead Priory. Leastways, it was the priory till the bastards thieved it from the Black Canons and gave it to one of the King’s fat lapdogs.’

Both of Grey’s men took a menacing step towards the wagoner, their hands reaching for the hilts of their swords, but Grey motioned them back. Much as he was in favour of cleansing England of the foul corruption of the monasteries, he did not like the way in which such lands were falling into the hands of the wealthy supporters of the King, men no less corrupt than the abbots and priors they were displacing. He could understand only too well the wagoner’s bitterness. Besides, it would not do to annoy the only man who had shown any inclination to assist him, even though Grey knew he would have helped the Devil himself if he were paid enough.

Leaving the wagoner, Grey and his men followed the path round until they came to the Hutt. Two men in forest wardens’ livery were sitting on a bench warming their hands over a small fire burning in a shallow pit. A third man was sitting on the ground, his back to a tree to which he was tightly lashed. He was a stout man, and a wealthy one too, judging by his fine clothes, but his face was drawn and pale, the flesh sagging as if he’d scarcely slept at all, although a night spent out in the cold had evidently not been sufficient to cool his temper.

‘I demand you release me at once,’ he barked the instant he caught sight of the three men.

‘Master Richard Whitney?’ Grey stared down at him.

‘If you know I’m Richard Whitney you must also know I’m Master of the Butchers’ Guild, and I am not accustomed to being trussed up like one of my own pigs and left to freeze to death in a forest. It’s a miracle I’m still alive after the way I’ve been treated.’

The forest wardens exchanged weary glances as if they’d been forced to listen to his protestations all night.

‘Coroner’s already inside if it’s him you’re looking for. It’s Sir Layton,’ one said, jerking his head towards the Hutt.

Grey nodded and pushed open the stout wooden door and peered into the gloomy interior. The Hutt was large enough to provide rough shelter for half a dozen men. Pallets and blankets were heaped in one corner, while in the opposite corner were several boxes and barrels of pickled pork and flour. A bundle of dried salt fish swung from a low beam. Deer antlers and goat horns were stacked up in a heap near the door. The thick stone walls were hung with spades, bows, bundles of arrows, coils of rope and mantraps, together with grappling hooks and long brooms for beating out fire. Between them, hanging in what little space was left, were the bleached skulls of foxes and wild boar.

Two men were bending over what looked at first sight like a heap of cloth, but as they straightened up Grey could clearly see it was a man who lay crumpled up on the stone floor in a puddle of his own dark congealed blood. His head was twisted to one side, revealing a gaping wound in his throat, wide enough for a man to put all the fingers of one hand through.

Growing up in a tanner’s yard strengthens a man’s stomach, and Grey didn’t flinch or avert his eyes, but found himself, as always, wondering what must go through a man’s mind as he takes the life of another.

He stepped forward and briefly introduced himself, and the coroner frowned.

‘Cromwell’s enforcer? What business brings you out here then?’

‘I believe Master Richard Whitney – the man you have tied up outside – to be in possession of a reliquary that he was trying to conceal. It’s that reliquary I’ve come for. I’ve no wish to interfere in your investigation into this death.’

‘Reliquary?’ Sir Layton shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask the wardens about that. It was they who caught Whitney, red-handed too, in every sense. Gave a good account of what happened. Observant men, the wardens. Makes a change from most of the witnesses I have to question. Most of the halfwits wouldn’t notice if their own backsides were on fire.’

‘The wardens saw the murder then?’ Grey said.

‘As good as,’ the coroner replied. ‘They were heading to the Hutt through the trees last night when they saw a rider come galloping up the other way. He sprang off his horse and ran inside. Naturally, they ran towards the Hutt too, thinking it might be a poacher. Burst in to find Whitney kneeling over the body, his hands covered in blood. Soon as he saw he’d been discovered, he barged the wardens aside and ran out, but one gave chase and threatened to put an arrow between his shoulder blades if he didn’t stop. He had the sense to give himself up.’

‘So he’s admitted killing this man?’

Sir Layton gave Grey the kind of withering look schoolmasters reserve for particularly stupid pupils. ‘Have you ever known a man confess to murder except to a priest, and then only when he’s standing on the gallows? Naturally Whitney said what they all say when they’re caught with a corpse: that he stumbled over the body in the dark and was just feeling to see if the man was actually dead. But the forest wardens have slaughtered enough beasts to be able to tell how long a man’s been dead. They’re certain this man had only just been killed when they burst in.

‘According to them it was a clear night. Said they could see the walls of the Hutt glistening in the moonlight as they were coming through the trees. They’re certain no one went in, save for Whitney, and there’s only one door in or out.’ Sir Layton jerked his chin towards the small opening on the back wall of the Hutt, which served as a window. ‘A scrawny child might crawl through that, but not a grown man.’

The man who stood beside Sir Layton was evidently his clerk. He grinned broadly, showing a mouth full of blackened teeth. ‘Master Whitney doesn’t have to admit to murder. He’s been shouting his mouth off ever since we arrived about how he’s Master of the Butchers’ Guild. And you’ve only got to look at this poor sod’s throat to see it’s been slit the same way as a butcher would cut the throat of one of his beasts. Be second nature to a man like him to whip out a knife and draw it across a neck quicker than you can say “I fancy a nice piece of mutton”.’

Grey crouched down and peered at the gaping wound in the man’s throat. The jagged and torn edges of the flesh were beginning to peel back as the cut skin dried. There was no arguing that this man’s throat had been slashed. He straightened up.

‘Have you got the knife he used?’

Sir Layton shrugged. ‘Found one knife on Whitney, but that was clean. But a butcher would carry more than one – a knife for the table and another for slaughter at least. He doubtless hurled it into the undergrowth as he ran from the cottage.’ He nudged the body with the toe of his shoe. ‘But if you know the murderer, Master Grey, do you recognise his victim?’

Grey shook his head. ‘I hadn’t even met Master Richard until just now, though I knew he’d taken the reliquary, and I’ve not seen this man before.’

Sir Layton grimaced. ‘Pity. We need to identify the corpse and Whitney keeps saying he doesn’t know him, though I don’t believe him.’ He sighed. ‘But since we don’t know where the victim comes from, the only thing we can do is take the body back to the village where his murderer lives and see if anyone there can put a name to him. If the two men did know each other, it’s likely others will also recognise him.’

The body, wrapped in a blanket borrowed from the Hutt, was carried out to the wagon and the reluctant wagoner was persuaded, with the inducement of an even larger sum and promise of a bed in the inn, to drive the corpse back to Blidworth. Two horses had been found, one belonging to Richard, the other was assumed to belong to the victim. Both were tethered behind the wagon. Richard was hauled to his feet and had to be dragged to the wagon, for his legs were so numb from cold he could barely stand. He was forced to sit in the bottom of the wagon along with the corpse and the two forest wardens, despite demanding to be allowed to ride home on his own horse and insisting he would not be carried into the village like a common felon. But he was told firmly by one of the wardens that if he didn’t hold his tongue, there’d be a second corpse in the wagon before the journey’s end.

After Sir Layton and his clerk had departed, following the wagon, Grey and his men searched for the reliquary. They painstakingly took apart the stack of pallets and blankets, rooted through the boxes and poked sticks down to the bottom of the flour barrels, a common hiding place for valuables in many households, but there was no sign of it. Grey even sent the men to search through the dry brown undergrowth around the Hutt in case Richard had hidden it there, but they found neither reliquary nor knife.

Grey gazed into the mass of trees and heathland that lay all about him. Suppose Richard had hidden the reliquary somewhere in Sherwood Forest before he ever reached the Hutt? They could search for a year and not find it. But why would Richard have cause to murder a man if he had already safely hidden the reliquary? Unless, of course, the man had seen where he’d hidden it and Richard needed to ensure he couldn’t talk.

Grey caught his men glancing anxiously up at the sky. The pale winter sun was already tangled in the tops of the bare branches of the oak tree. They were right to be concerned; if they didn’t set out for the village now they might still be on the forest track when darkness fell and no one but a knave or a fool wanted to be on such a road then, for even strangers knew it was a notorious hunting ground for robbers and kidnappers.

Grey and his men reached the inn without mishap, and when he entered the ale room in search of supper, he found the coroner already seated at one of the tables, devouring a large wedge of rabbit pie. Sir Layton, wiping the pastry crumbs from his lips with a stained napkin, beckoned Grey to join him and, when the serving maid appeared, ordered brawn and sharp sauce for Grey and some of the roast tongue, which Sir Layton had evidently consumed as the first course. Grey, who didn’t care much for either dish, found his objections swept aside.

‘You’ll be glad to know we’ve identified the victim,’ Layton said breezily. ‘Man by the name of Edward Thornton, fellow guild member of Whitney’s, by all accounts. It seems the two men fought a hard contest to become Master.’ He beamed contentedly. ‘It would seem the two men were rivals. Quarrelled, no doubt, and Whitney killed him. From these past few hours I’ve spent in Whitney’s company it’s plain to me the man’s of a choleric disposition, loses his temper at the slightest thing, I’d say. That’s why Whitney refused to identify Thornton, do you see? Knew as soon as we learned who his victim was, it would put a rope round his neck without question.’

Grey frowned. ‘I’d have thought Edward Thornton had more cause to kill Richard Whitney, not the other way round. After all, it was Richard who won the title of Master of the Guild. Edward would surely have the greater cause for jealousy and may even have thought that, with Richard dead, he’d become the next Master. I’ve known monks commit murder over who will become cellarer, so I supposed we can expect no better from laity.’

Sir Layton chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of rabbit meat, before swallowing it. ‘Perhaps Thornton attacked Whitney first out of jealousy, as you say, but Whitney got the better of him. He’s much the weightier man. Could easily have knocked him to the ground and then in temper killed him, though if he’s going to claim it was self-defence, he’ll be hard put to prove it. We found no weapon on the corpse except for his knife, and that was still in its sheath.’

Grey poked listlessly at the unappetising slab of tongue. ‘But that’s the other thing. How did the two men come to be miles out in the forest? If they’d quarrelled in the village, I could understand it, but what business would butchers have in such a remote spot?’

‘If, as you claim, Thornton was jealous, he could have lured Whitney out there to kill him. Ambushed him as he came through the door.’

‘On what pretext, though?’ Grey asked.

Sir Layton was beginning to look impatient. ‘Buying deer or boar for his butcher’s shop. I imagine the forest wardens often do a little poaching of their own, but they’d have to sell their kills quietly, well away from the towns. Half the butchers’ shops in these forest villages are probably trading in poached venison. With the Christmas feasts almost upon us, both butchers might have been after the same carcass and quarrelled as to who should have it.’

He pushed his trencher aside irritably. ‘Besides, it doesn’t matter to me why they went out there. My job is simply to determine how the man died, see the body is identified and make sure Richard Whitney is arraigned at the next assizes. Who attacked who first is up to the judge and jury to decide.’ He glanced sharply at Grey. ‘And I’d have thought quarrels among butchers were of no concern of Cromwell’s enforcers either.’

Layton was right, Grey thought, neither quarrels nor murders among butchers were any of his concern, except that one of those butchers had been trying to conceal a reliquary and now it was missing. Whatever Richard had been doing out at the Royal Hutt, Grey was convinced he hadn’t been in pursuit of poached venison, and he wasn’t about to let Richard take the knowledge of the hiding place of that reliquary to the gallows.

‘Stinks a mite in there, Master Grey,’ the constable said cheerfully. ‘Bailiff sometimes uses it to hold stray beasts. There’s certain men in these parts would think nothing of hauling their animals over the pinfold wall to get out of paying the fine for letting them wander.’

They were standing in front of the village lockup, a small round building shaped like a dovecote, built to hold felons until the sheriff’s men could collect them, or to sober up drunks who had got into a brawl. It was still too early in the morning for many to be abroad, but the few who were stared at them with undisguised curiosity. The constable was taking an age unlocking the stout door. Although there were only three keys on the iron ring, the choice seemed to baffle him. Finally, the door creaked open and the constable stood aside.

‘I’ll have to lock you in with him, Master Grey, in case anyone tries to rush the door and help him escape, though I doubt even his own wife would do that. Terrible thing to do to a man, and one of his own guild brothers. I thought they were meant to look out for each other. Master Richard near enough cut his head off, he did. You should have seen the mess.’

‘I did,’ Grey said shortly, and marched in.

In the few moments it took for the constable to slam the door shut behind him, he saw Richard blinking up at him. He was looking even worse today than he had been after his night in the forest. His hair was matted with straw and his face was filthy, with dark rings under his eyes. There seemed to be a purple bruise on his cheek too, under the grime.

Once the door was closed, it took a few minutes for Grey’s eyes to adjust to the twilight. The only openings in the walls were two slit windows, and the pale winter sun barely penetrated the chamber. The chamber felt so cold and damp that even though Grey was clad in a heavy winter cloak, his chest began to ache from sucking in the icy air. He shivered, wondering what it must be like to be alone here at night. The thought of being locked up alone in the dark had terrified him since he was a boy.

‘Are you one of the sheriff’s men? Have you come for me?’ Richard sounded much more subdued than he had done yesterday.

Clearly the humiliation of being taken as a prisoner into his own village and then spending the night in this stinking filth had finally brought home to him just how much trouble he was in. Grey was pleased by the change in his tone. It would make it easier to get him to talk.

‘I wasn’t sent by the sheriff.’

Richard drew back against the wall, his body rigid, staring up at Grey as if trying to recall why he seemed familiar. Clearly the shock of the arrest had fuddled his wits.

In such a small space it was awkward trying to talk when Grey was towering over the prisoner. He realised that even in his present mood, making Richard feel as if he was being intimidated would only make him more stubborn. Grey crouched down in the straw so that he was level with him. The stench of dung and stale animal piss did not repel him as it would his fellow clerics. He’d grown up with it.

‘Master Richard, I called at your house on the night of the murder. I came looking for the reliquary. I’ve orders to take it to be examined to see if it is genuine.’

Grey phrased his next words carefully. He didn’t want to make Richard think his wife or servants had betrayed him – not unless it became necessary.

‘I discovered the reliquary had been moved from the chest where you had placed it for safekeeping. Did you-’

‘He stole it!’ Richard said vehemently. ‘I came home in the afternoon and recognised that little weasel’s horse tethered a short distance from the house. I hurried in, expecting to find him in the winter parlour, but it was empty. I went upstairs to the solar and I saw the chest had been broken into. I heard a door bang, looked out of the window and saw him running away across the courtyard.’

‘You recognised the thief?’

‘Of course I did, I’m not a fool. It was Edward Thornton. But I didn’t kill him, though I would have had every reason. I gave chase simply to recover the reliquary. Once we reached the forest I was gaining on him, even though he’d had a good start on me; my horse is the younger and stronger, and his beast was beginning to tire. It was dark by that time and he rounded the bend of the track ahead of me. But when I came round the curve there was no sight of him on the road. I realised he must have turned from the track to try to shake me off. It was only when I came back down the track that I saw the path leading off through the trees and that’s when I noticed the Hutt beyond. The moon was glinting off the stones.’

‘You saw him go in and followed him,’ Grey said.

Richard rubbed his neck, trying to ease his stiff shoulders. ‘I glimpsed Edward by the door, but before I’d even dismounted he’d slipped inside. I knew how the little rat’s mind was working. He imagined I’d carry on down the track for miles, leaving him free to ride back to Blidworth, brazen as a cock on a dung heap. Then he could return at his leisure to retrieve what he had stolen from me. But I’m not a fool. I hid my horse well away from the Hutt and I crept up to the door, planning to catch him hiding the reliquary. It was pitch-dark in the Hutt, and I’d taken only a pace or two inside when I tripped over something lying on the floor…’ He paused, rubbing his eyes as if trying to wipe the memory from his mind.

‘What happened then?’ Grey prompted softly.

‘I… I was shaken up by the fall. Must have lain there a minute or two trying to get my breath. I clambered up and I started groping round to find out what I’d fallen over. I thought it was a dead animal. I’d only just discovered it was a man when those fools of wardens came bursting in and accused me of murder!’

‘And it would be perfectly understandable if you had murdered Edward,’ Grey said soothingly. ‘After all, a brother guild member breaks in and steals a valuable object, and when you demand its return, he threatens you, attacks you, and in the heat of the moment… I’m sure a jury would be sympathetic.’

Grey thought it politic not to remind Richard that he was as much a thief as Edward.

Richard slammed his fist against his leg. ‘Are you deaf? I told you he was already dead when I found him. If I’d got my hands on the louse I would have cleaved him in two and hung him up like the pig he is. But I didn’t get a chance. Someone else got there first.’

Grey tried to maintain an understanding tone. ‘You say you saw Edward enter the Hutt. Did you see anyone leave?’

‘Yes, yes, I did!’ Richard pounced on the idea, a little too eagerly. ‘That’s exactly what I saw, someone running from the Hutt after Edward went in. Whoever it was took off along the path in the opposite direction to me.’

Grey knew he was lying. The wardens had been walking towards the Hutt. Anyone running away would have charged straight past them and they were adamant they’d only seen Richard enter, no one leaving. They’d no reason to speak anything but the truth.

‘It was dark,’ Grey reminded him. ‘Didn’t you think it was Edward you were seeing leaving the Hutt and chase after him?’

Richard hesitated. ‘It didn’t look like Edward… the man was… was taller, broader. Besides, I was only interested in recovering the reliquary. So I saw no point in charging after him and I went straight into the Hutt to search for it.’

Grey heard the bluster in his voice and was convinced Richard had only just thought of this.

‘And did you find it?’

‘Haven’t you even got the wits you were born with?’ Richard snapped. ‘I didn’t get a chance to search the Hutt. I told you, I fell over Edward’s body in the dark and then those numbskulls lumbered in, dragged me out and tied me to a tree. They refused to let me go back inside.’ He leaned forward, staring into Grey’s face. ‘Have you found it? Was it in there?’

‘We searched thoroughly, Master Richard. The reliquary isn’t there. Wherever Master Edward hid it, it was not in the Hutt.’ A thought struck Grey and he plucked at his lip. ‘How would Edward have known you had the reliquary in the house? Did you tell him?’

‘Him! I’d have told Cromwell himself before telling Edward. I didn’t even tell my wife. It could only have been Father James who betrayed me. He didn’t want the reliquary removed from the church. He probably put Edward up to this. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were in on this together. That priest’s already tried once to trick me into giving it to him, so when that didn’t work, he arranged to have it stolen. It’s Father James behind all of this. He probably killed Edward himself, once he’d brought him the reliquary. You know, the more I think of it, the more certain I am it was that priest I saw running away from the Hutt. I’d swear to it.’

Grey didn’t believe for one moment that Richard had seen anyone running from the Hutt, much less Father James, but he was convinced that Richard had pursued Edward because he genuinely believed he had stolen the reliquary, and had killed him. Certainly the theft would have given a man like Richard reason enough, and that made a great deal more sense than Sir Layton’s belief that Edward had lured Richard to the Hutt with the intention of murdering him.

But if Richard had followed Edward in close pursuit, how had the man managed to stop off along the route and hide Beornwyn’s statue? If he had it with him, he’d surely try to hide it in the Hutt. But he hadn’t had much time to conceal it there, so why hadn’t they found it?

Grey left the lockup and made his way slowly towards the church. He had no idea if Father James would be inside, but was pleased to find the door of the church standing open. But when he stepped inside it was not the priest he saw.

A spindly young lad was standing up near the altar. He seemed to be handing something to a man standing in the shadow of one of the pillars. The boy spun round as he heard the sound of footsteps on the flagstones. As he turned, a meaty hand shot out from behind the pillar and cuffed the boy’s head.

‘I’ve told you before, brat. You can’t leave offerings before the statue of the Virgin Mary. ’Gainst the law, it is. Don’t let me catch you again.’

The lad turned and ran back down the church. Grey tried to block his way, but the boy was too nimble. He evaded his grasp and was out of the door before Grey could stop him.

The man, whom Grey took to be the churchwarden, emerged from behind the pillar and ambled down the church, shaking his head.

‘Can’t get the new laws into their heads, some of them. Old women, it is mostly, won’t give up the old ways, but you get a few of the young ones at it, too. That lad’s one of the worst, devoted to the Church he is. Should have been a priest or a monk, by rights, not a butcher’s boy. I do my best to keep ’em out, but I’ve my own business to attend to. Can’t be here every minute to watch ’em and they sneak in behind my back.’

From the stench of wet fish that clung to his skin and clothes, Grey could make a good guess as to what the man’s business might be. He glanced at the warden’s hands, scarred with a hundred old nicks and scratches, but they were empty. Whatever he taken from the lad had disappeared quicker than a starving dog gobbles a scrap.

‘What did the boy give you?’

The man gave a puzzled smile. ‘Me? Nowt. He was trying to leave some tawdry at the feet of the Virgin Mary, but, as you saw, I sent him packing.’

Grey was certain he had seen the boy hand something over. But he didn’t press the matter. Better the warden confiscate the offering than leave it with the lad to try again.

‘What’s the boy’s name?’

‘Alan. Master Richard’s apprentice.’ Yarrow shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Bad business, bad business. But can’t say I’m surprised. Only a matter of time, if you ask me. Master Richard always did have a violent temper. I reckon young Alan there would testify to that. Lashed out at the lad regularly, he did, and at his wife, too, so the market crones say. Not that you can set much store by women’s gossip.’

That was motive enough for any hot-headed apprentice to commit murder, Grey thought, especially if he attacked the wrong man in the dark.

‘Did you happen to see Alan the night Edward was murdered?’

Yarrow gave a wry smile. ‘ ’Course I saw him. Had to drive him out of here, so I could lock up at dusk.’

If the boy had borrowed a horse and ridden to the Hutt, he would have had time to get there before Richard, and he was certainly slim enough to squeeze out through that window at the back, or even to have hidden inside until the wardens were occupied chasing Richard and then slipped out of the door. But even so, it didn’t seem likely that he could have killed Edward. The lad was so skinny, he’d have had trouble overpowering a cat, never mind a grown man with the brawn and muscles of a butcher. All the same, Grey resolved to speak to Alan as soon as he could. In his experience, inquisitive boys often noticed more than adults realised, especially the quiet ones.

‘Where is Beornwyn’s reliquary now?’ Grey asked suddenly, hoping the abrupt change of subject might catch the man off guard.

But Yarrow was not thrown. ‘Father James took it. You’ll have to ask him what he did with it. For all I know he’s chopped it into firewood. Up at this church at least twice a day, I am. It’s as well I never took a wife, for she’d still be a virgin waiting on me to come home. The church would fall down round the vicar’s ears if it wasn’t for me tending to it night and day. But for all that, I’m the last person he’d consult about such things as reliquaries. I’m only the churchwarden, after all!’

There was a bitter note in his voice. Clearly there was no love wasted between the churchwarden and his parish priest.

‘Richard Whitney tells me it was he, not Father James, who removed the reliquary from the church,’ Grey said. ‘He hid it in his house and Richard believes Edward Thornton stole the statue from him, which is why Richard pursued him to the Hutt. But if he did, the reliquary was not found with his body. Have you any idea where Edward might have hidden it?’

The churchwarden laughed. ‘There’s a bloody great forest out there, or hadn’t you noticed? If Edward hid it, I reckon that’s where you want to be looking, but even if you had every soldier in King Henry’s army hunting for it, they could search till their beards turn white and they’d still not discover every hollow tree or thicket or yard of leaf mould where a man might bury such a thing. Can’t see why you’re even bothering to question folk. If St Beornwyn’s vanished, then you’ve got what you wanted, for no man will be able to worship her relics now.’

‘I’ve known other reliquaries vanish until the enforcers have left a parish, then miraculously they reappear,’ Grey said.

Yarrow shook his head. ‘That might be true for other parishes, but unless dead men can talk, there’s no likelihood of St Beornwyn appearing in this church again. Edward’s taken that secret to his grave.’

He moved past Grey and stood at the door of the church, pointedly holding it open and swinging the ring of iron keys around the great knuckle of his finger. Grey took the hint.

The small row of shops in the village was bustling, for it was Christmas Eve and every woman in the village wanted to prepare a fine feast. Neighbours would be calling on each other daily, for it was said to bring good luck for the following year to eat a minced pie on each of the twelve days of Christmas in a different house and no goodwife wanted to be shamed by others whispering that her pies were not as good as the next woman’s.

Such superstition annoyed Grey, although it was as much because he remembered the shame of his own childhood as for any religious objection. Unlike the other boys, his mother never cooked such delicacies, for who would brave the stink of the tanner’s yard to eat with them?

He threaded his way through the women struggling with baskets and bundles. They jostled around the wares laid out on the open benches in front of the little houses. The exotic smell of aniseed, mace, nutmeg and cloves from the grocer’s stall mingled with stench of eels, herring and dried cod from the fishmonger, while the fragrant steam of newly baked bread and spiced meat pies made the stomach grumble to be fed.

The crowd seemed thickest round the butcher’s stall. Hunks of bloody meat and offal were ranged along a stone bench. A harassed-looking woman was slicing a fat purple cow’s tongue, while a strapping young man was tying a rope around the back legs of a skinned goat and heaving it onto one of the vicious-looking iron hooks that stuck out from under the overhanging upper storey of the building behind. The carcass of the goat swayed gently as spots of blood splashed onto the cobbles below.

Grey pushed his way to the front of the gaggle of women. They protested indignantly until they saw who he was, then they stepped aside, hauling their children behind their skirts as if he were a leper. But they didn’t move far, their chatter ceasing instantly as they craned their necks to listen.

‘Is this Richard Whitney’s stall?’ Grey asked.

‘Do you want to buy anything or not?’ The woman continued to cut thick even slices from the cow’s tongue, without looking up.

‘I’m Roger Grey and I want to know if this is Richard’s stall.’

Her head shot up and she pointed the sharp blade straight at Grey’s chest; the furious expression on her face told him that if he annoyed her any further she might well use the knife on him instead of the tongue.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I don’t know nothing about any murder, so it’s no use your asking.’ She gestured behind her with the point of the knife. ‘Thomas here’s the journeyman, so I reckon he’s the man in charge now. You go ask him. I shouldn’t even be working here today. Wouldn’t be if that brat of an apprentice of his hadn’t gone missing, yet again.’

‘Now don’t you go spreading rumours that Alan’s gone missing. Folk’ll reckon he’s been murdered ’n’ all,’ Thomas said.

He stared at Grey over his shoulder, while running his blade down the spine of the kid, peeling the flesh back to the bone. Grey winced for him, sure he would cut his own hand off, but it seemed the journeyman was so skilled at his craft, he could slice a carcass open with his eyes closed, or even, Grey suddenly realised, in the dark.

‘Alan’s run off again, but I know where he is all right,’ the journeyman added. ‘He’ll be hanging around the church again. Haven’t had a decent day’s work out of the little runt since the statue of St Beornwyn went missing, not that we ever did before. I reckon he was in love with that statue; spent all his time gazing at her breasts, he did. Can’t get a real lass to look at him, so he has to drool over a wooden one.’

‘The boy was devoted to the statue then?’ Grey was more willing to put the lad’s interest down to religious fervour rather than lust, but both states could produce a blind and unreasoning passion in the young. He might not have been strong enough to murder a man, but he could certainly have stolen the reliquary from Richard’s house before Edward got there, in which case, it might never have been taken to the Hutt at all.

‘Can you remember where Alan was on the afternoon Edward was murdered?’

The journeyman took off his filthy cap, and ran his fingers through hair already matted with grease, dung and blood. ‘Here, I should think, but I couldn’t rightly say. I was away m’self buying a couple of pigs.’

The woman snorted. ‘He wasn’t here, not one of you buggers was. Left me on my own again, same as always.’

‘You get paid, don’t you, you old besom?’ Thomas said.

‘The runny-nosed squabs who pick up dog shit for the tanner get paid more than me.’

‘So why don’t you…’

Grey left them bickering, gesturing recklessly with their knives to the amusement of the customers, who were evidently well used to this. He picked his way up the street towards the church, his thoughts whirling as he walked.

So, the journeyman had also been absent. Either he or Alan could have stolen the statue from the house or from Edward. The journeyman certainly had the butchering skills to kill Edward, just as easily as Richard. But Grey still couldn’t see how he had got out of the Hutt without being seen by either Richard or the forest wardens, and Richard would surely have recognised Thomas if he’d seen him running away. There was something else nagging at the back of Grey’s mind. Something that didn’t fit, but he couldn’t seem to grasp hold of it.

But neither Alan nor Thomas knew the statue was in Richard’s house. According to Richard, only one man did and that was Father James. Was Richard right to suspect him after all? The priest also knew Grey was going to Richard’s house to seize it later that day. Could he have got there first? But no, Richard said he arrived home in the afternoon to find the lock of the chest broken. His wife and maid saw him riding off shortly afterwards. The reliquary must already have been missing when Grey was talking to the priest in the church.

Richard had said his wife hadn’t known the reliquary was in the house. Yet she and her maid had both told Grey it had been in the chest. And for a woman who claimed her husband had gone off on business she had seemed unusually distressed by his absence that night. Grey turned and hurried back up the road towards Richard’s house.

When he arrived, he found a group of women standing across the street, talking earnestly, repeatedly glancing up at the casements as if they expected to see blood running from them or the Devil to come flying out of the chimney.

After Grey had tolled the bell several times, the maid, Jennet, finally opened the door a crack. She shook her head when Grey asked to speak to her mistress.

‘She doesn’t want to see anyone. She’s in a terrible state. Been sobbing all night, she has, and she’s not eaten a bite.’

Grey tried to sound sympathetic but firm. ‘Her husband has been accused of murder. It’s only to be expected she is distressed; nevertheless, whether she wants to see me or not, I must speak with her. This is the King’s business.’

Reluctantly, Jennet opened the door just wide enough for Grey to squeeze through before slamming it shut again, as if she feared the entire village might force their way in behind him.

‘She’s in the winter parlour, sir,’ Jennet said, leading the way to a door at the back of the hall.

Grey nodded. ‘I may wish to speak with you and William later. Do not leave the house.’

Jennet gave him a frightened look before ushering him in with the briefest of announcements. Mary was sitting by the fire staring into the flames, twisting a kerchief in her lap. She did not look round as Grey crossed the room.

‘I told Jennet I can’t see anyone,’ she said. ‘Please have the goodness to leave me alone.’ Her voice was hoarse, as if her throat was dry and sore.

‘I understand your distress, Mistress Mary,’ Grey said, taking the seat opposite her without waiting for it to be offered. ‘You’re naturally worried about your husband.’

‘Husband?’ Mary lifted her head.

Her eyes were swollen from crying, but they were dry now as if she was drained of tears. She gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Your husband being accused of murder,’ Grey reminded her, wondering if shock and exhaustion had dulled her wits.

She made a little gesture with her hand, which was almost one of dismissal. ‘I cannot think about that now.’

He could understand that. She was probably more worried for her own future. If Richard was hanged she could well see herself evicted from the house and Grey had no idea if Mary had relatives who would take her in or who would even be prepared to acknowledge her after this disgrace. The guild, which was supposed to provide for the widows and orphans of its members, would hardly be prepared to provide for a murderer’s wife, especially when the victim was one of their own. Nevertheless, Grey could not afford to be too understanding. The longer that reliquary remained missing, the greater the chances of someone else finding it and spiriting it away.

‘Mistress Mary, I spoke this morning with your husband. He tells me that he returned to the house earlier than usual and found the chest broken into and saw Edward Thornton hurrying away. He gave chase, assuming that Edward had taken the reliquary. But he says he did not tell Edward the reliquary was in the house. Did you tell him?’

She hastily turned her face back towards the fire, but not before Grey had glimpsed the expression of alarm that flashed across it.

‘I knew nothing of the reliquary.’

‘But you and Jennet both knew that the chest had been broken into and the reliquary was missing, so you must have known it was there. Think, mistress, it’s important, could you have let slip anything by accident, perhaps to a friend or neighbour?’

She shook her head vehemently, but still did not look at him. Grey gazed about the small chamber, thinking back over the exact words Richard had used. He suddenly leaned forward.

‘Your husband says when he returned to the house, he saw Edward’s horse tethered a little way from here and he rushed to this room expecting to find him here. Why this room in particular? Surely it is more usual for servants to leave guests waiting in the hall for their master’s return.’

A slight flush crept over Mary’s pale cheeks. ‘My husband often entertained fellow guild brothers in here. It was more private if they had guild matters to discuss.’

‘But Master Edward knew that your husband would be about his business at that time in the afternoon. Why would Edward call on him here at a time when he knew Richard would not be at home?’

‘One of the men must have told Edward he’d returned here.’

‘And why did he return here?’ Grey persisted.

‘I don’t know! All I know is my husband is arrested and Edward is… dead.’ Mary sprang from her seat and paced over to the window, staring out at the bleak sky through the tiny diamonds of glass. Grey could see her shoulders shaking as she fought to stifle her sobs.

He felt a twinge of guilt. He disliked harrying women, but she was lying to him. He knew that.

‘Edward came here to see you, didn’t he?’ he said sharply. ‘Was that why your husband returned unexpectedly, because he had his suspicions that you and Edward were playing him for a cuckold?’

Mary’s legs buckled and she sank down onto her knees. For a moment, Grey thought she had fainted, but she remained kneeling at the casement, sobbing uncontrollably into her kerchief.

He hurried over and lifted her up, settling her into the window seat.

He waited, until she quietened a little.

‘Mistress Mary, you have my word I will not utter a word to any about your dalliance. That’s no concern of mine. But if your husband’s lawyer learns of it he might raise the matter at your husband’s trial. Juries tend to be sympathetic to husbands who’ve been wronged. They are, after all, husbands themselves. Although from what little I know of Richard, the fact that he didn’t mention it to me probably means he would sooner be hanged than have the world know he’d been cuckolded. But there is one thing that is my concern. Did Edward take that reliquary?’

He saw the muscle in the side of Mary’s face twitch as she clenched her jaw.

‘Edward is dead, Mary. It cannot harm him now if you tell me the truth. And that reliquary has already brought enough misery to this household. Don’t force me to add more by having my men tear this place apart looking for it.’

She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath. ‘I’m not as stupid as my husband thinks. I heard him lumbering up the stairs that night long after the servants were abed and I heard the chest in the solar being opened. It’s right next door to the bedchamber. Next morning, the rumour was all round the village that St Beornwyn had vanished from the church in the night. I know how much my husband likes to show off the reliquary for its gold and jewels. He wasn’t interested in her holy relics, just the statue that housed them. I guessed at once he had taken it and where he’d put it.’

‘And you told Edward.’

Her head jerked up. ‘We were not lovers,’ she said fiercely, ‘at least not in the way you mean. Edward was kind and intelligent. He should have been Guild Master, not Richard, but half the men were afraid of Richard and dared not vote against him. I enjoyed talking to Edward. He didn’t treat me as if I was one of his apprentices. He took to calling on me and we enjoyed spending time in each other’s company. Richard came home unexpectedly one day and found us in here laughing together. He was convinced I was betraying him, but I wasn’t… not then. After that Richard began coming home at odd hours, trying to catch us, and his moods got worse. Edward could see how miserable I was, how Richard treated me, and asked me to run away with him.

‘But taking St Beornwyn was my idea. Edward would be giving up everything for me and we needed money to begin a new life far from here. Besides, Richard had taken all the money and property I brought with me as a bride, so why should he have the statue as well? He deserved to lose it!’ she added vehemently.

Clearly, Grey thought, Mary cared as little for the relics as her husband. Her only thought was to use the reliquary to finance her new life with her lover, and to spite Richard too, of course.

‘William always slips out to his mother’s in the afternoon, so I arranged that Jennet and I should sit with a friend, so that if Richard checked, we could prove we were not in the house when it was robbed. My husband had warned us there was a gang of robbers come to this village, so I knew if the house were left empty Richard would be bound to think it was them. Edward was to take the reliquary and hide it. In a few days, after the fuss of the reliquary had died down, I would join Edward and we’d disappear. But Richard returned early in the hope of finding us together. He must have seen Edward and followed him, and then… then he killed him. He… he cut his throat as if Edward were nothing more than a pig in his slaughter yard!’ She broke down into sobs again.

Grey thought that it was as well for Richard that a wife could not be called as a witness against her husband, for she’d surely put a rope around his neck herself, and probably offer to kick the ladder away, too.

‘You said that Edward intended to hide the reliquary. Where?’

Mary scrubbed at her tear-stained face. ‘He didn’t tell me in case I was questioned. He thought it would be easier to deny everything if I didn’t know.’

Grey could understand that, and he was inclined to believe her, but once again he felt a growing frustration.

‘Then where were you to meet?’

‘The village of Linby; it lies beyond Newstead Priory. Edward has a distant cousin who owned a watermill there, but it’s not been running these past few years, since one of the landowners diverted the stream and put him out of work.’

So, in all likelihood, Edward was planning to hide the reliquary in the disused mill – a good hiding place – but plainly he never got that far. Realising that Richard was about to overtake him, he turned aside to the Hutt. But where was Beornwyn’s statue now?

As Grey walked back down the street towards the inn, the last of the goodwives were clustered around the stalls, bargaining for bread, fish and meat, and anything else they thought the shopkeepers might be persuaded to sell cheaply on the grounds that it would not keep over Christmas Day. Apart from at the baker’s they were having a hard time convincing the shopkeepers to bargain, for in this cold weather even meat and fish would stay fresh for several days.

Dusk was settling down over the village and icy mist, heavy with wood smoke, curled itself around the houses. Grey was anxious to get back to the inn’s fireside. He was so hunched up against the cold that he found himself walking past the butcher’s yard without even realising it, and would have carried on but for the bellow of anger that caught his attention. He paused and glanced through the open gateway.

The journeyman was nowhere to be seen, but the slovenly woman he’d spoken to earlier had trapped someone in the corner and was giving him a good drubbing with her tongue, punctuated by several smart raps to the head. Grey couldn’t see much of the figure cowering under her blows, but he guessed it was probably the errant apprentice. He strode in and pulling the woman away from Alan, seized the lad firmly by his jerkin and marched him out of the yard.

Momentarily stunned by having her victim snatched from her, the woman recovered herself and ran after them down the road.

‘Here, where do you think you’re taking him? The little bugger’s been gone half the day. I need him here to clear the meat and fetch water from the well to sluice down the slabs.’

Grey ignored her and hurried the boy on.

They heard her voice rising to a shriek behind them. ‘Bring him back here! You’re not leaving me to do it all myself again!’

As soon as they had turned the corner safely out of sight, the boy tried to wriggle free, but Grey pushed him up against the wall of a cottage.

‘Alan, isn’t it? You’re not in trouble. I just want to talk to you.’

The boy looked plainly terrified.

Grey tried again, softening his voice. ‘I don’t think you want to face that woman tonight, do you? Why don’t you come along with me and I’ll buy you a good hot supper? We can sit by the fire and I’ll ask you a few questions. That’s all, just a few questions, then you can leave or stay as you please.’

He saw the look of temptation on the boy’s face and guessed it had been some while since he’d eaten and probably only scraps when he had.

‘What if I don’t know the answers to your questions?’ Alan said warily.

‘As long as you speak the truth I’ll be content with that, and you’ll still have your supper… I believe there is meat pie tonight and green codling pudding. I saw a man delivering woodcock too.’

The boy hesitated, but Grey could see from the excitement in his eyes that he needed no more persuasion.

As soon as he ushered the boy into the inn, Grey asked for food to be sent up to the small chamber where he slept. There was a good fire burning in the hearth in there and he thought Alan might be more inclined to talk if they were well away from the curious eyes of the villagers who’d come to sup their ale. He saw the innkeeper and serving maid exchange knowing glances, and guessed he was not the first guest to take a village lad up to his bedchamber, but he was too weary to bother explaining. Besides, he’d learned long ago that men and women always preferred their own imaginings over the truth.

He let the boy eat his fill in silence, though that took quite some time. The boy was still stuffing himself long after Grey was replete, having devoured a woodcock basking in a rich wine sauce, a wedge of meat pie and several slices of cold pork and bread. Alan was eating at such an alarming speed he was certain to give himself a belly ache, but Grey had known hunger himself at that age and knew that no word of caution would stop the boy taking another slice. When have warnings of future pain ever prevented the young from succumbing to temptation?

When Alan finally pushed his wooden platter from him and refilled his beaker from the jug of cider, Grey finally permitted himself to speak. He didn’t look at the boy, but leaned forward, spreading his hands over the blaze in the hearth as if addressing himself to the flames.

‘The churchwarden tells me that you often visited the statue of Beornwyn. You must have been upset when it was removed.’ He heard only a noncommittal grunt. ‘Do you know who took it from the church?’

Silence.

‘It was your master and your priest who removed it. Did you know that, Alan?’ He risked a sideways glance at the boy and caught a brief nod.

‘Did you know Master Richard had the statue of Beornwyn in his house?’

‘He shouldn’t have taken her,’ the boy said savagely. ‘She didn’t belong to him.’

‘No, he shouldn’t,’ Grey agreed, ‘but later someone else stole the statue from Master Richard’s house.’

‘I didn’t do it! I swear it.’ The boy was half-way out of his seat.

‘I know you didn’t,’ Grey said soothingly. ‘Master Richard believes it was another butcher who took the statue, Master Edward Thornton, and that night he was murdered at the Royal Hutt in the forest. You’ve probably heard people say it was Master Richard who killed him, but that is not yet proved. Someone else might well have slain Master Edward.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ Alan said sullenly. ‘I was in the church all night.’

‘All night? Are you sure?’

The lad grunted. ‘Thomas said he’d tell the master I’d refused to cut a sheep’s throat and I’d run off again. He said the master’d kill me this time for sure. I was too afeared to go back to the master’s house, so I ran to the church and hid behind the altar. Yarrow never checks there. I knew old Yarrow’d come and lock the door soon as it were growing dark. Then even if Master came to the church looking for me, he’d not be able to get in.’

Grey frowned, puzzled. ‘Are you sure it was the night Master Edward died? You’re not confusing it with the evening before? Because on the night Master Edward was murdered, Master Yarrow said he drove you out before he locked up.’

The boy took a swig of cider and burped loudly, rubbing his belly. ‘Nah, he didn’t lock up at all. I lay awake half the night, ready to creep out in the dark if the master came looking for me, but he didn’t come neither. Church was still open next morning when I left, and that afternoon Master Richard was brought into the village in the wagon. I saw them pushing him into the gaol.’ He bit his lip. ‘St Beornwyn prayed for those who slew her, I suppose I should pray for him.’ He didn’t sound as if he was eager to do it, whatever the example the saint had set.

To console himself the lad reached for the remains of the leg of pork, but realising that not even he could manage any more meat, he sliced off the sweet honey crackling, which was evidently his favourite part, and chewed happily on the crispy wedge.

Grey idly watched the blade of Alan’s knife as he sliced off yet another piece of golden-red crackling. Then as if the wisp of mist at the back of his head had frozen into a solid and tangible form, he suddenly realised what had been troubling him all this time. The meat that lay on the platter was sliced with a straight, smooth edge.

He pictured in his head the woman slicing through the lump of tongue and Thomas running his great blade down the spine of the young goat. They were all clean straight cuts. Butchers’ knives, or the kind of knife any man would carry in his belt to cut his food or defend himself, all had smooth blades. That’s what you needed to slice flesh and meat swiftly. But the wound on Edward’s neck was not a clean cut. The edges of the flesh were jagged and torn as if his throat had been slashed with a serrated blade, and there was only one profession he could think of where serrated knives were used.

Grey pushed back the chair and rose swiftly. ‘I have to go out. It may be very late before I return.’

He saw a look of alarm flash across the boy’s face. ‘You’re welcome to stay here, lad, if you wish. No one will bother you.’

He crossed to his bed and kneeling, pulled out a low, narrow truckle bed from beneath his own and dragged it to the far corner. The truckle bed was intended for servants travelling with their masters, but he guessed it might be warmer and more comfortable than any sleeping place Richard had assigned the boy.

‘You can sleep on this.’

He’d no wish to find the lad curled up in his own bed when he returned and he knew the boy would be tempted.

Grey did not trouble to rouse his two sergeants-at-arms from their warm seats in the ale room. He was not intending to make an arrest – not yet, anyway. Once the murderer was under lock and key there would be little hope of getting him to divulge the whereabouts of the missing reliquary. He would know that even surrendering such a valuable object would not save him from the gallows.

Grey had the stable boy saddle his horse. The lad was sulky at being dragged out into the cold from his supper, for he plainly hoped all of the guests would be settling down for the night in the inn and would not be venturing out again until morning.

The streets were quiet. The horse’s iron shoes rang on the stones. A couple of men lumbered wearily past, returning from their workshops, their breath hanging about them like a cloud of white smoke in the cold night air. They scarcely bothered to lift their heads to stare at the rider.

Grey slowed his horse to an amble along the street, which just a couple of hours ago had been bustling with housewives and shopkeepers. Now the stone benches in front of the houses were empty of goods, and candles flickered through the holes in the shutters of upper storeys, where the shopkeepers and their families were eating their suppers. Grey looked up at the crudely painted signs above the shops, which indicated what each traded in. A pig’s head for the butcher, thread and scissors for the cloth merchant, and a camel that looked more like a cow with a hump for the spice-seller. He found the sign he sought, and counted the houses down to the end of the row, then he turned his horse, and made for the street behind. He counted the houses back along the row.

Dismounting, he tethered the horse a little further down the road in the shelter of the trees and crept back again, until he had the courtyard at the back of the house within his sights. He could hear a horse stirring in the ramshackle stable in the yard, though it was too dark to make out much beyond dark smudges which might have been a cart and stacks of kegs.

Slivers of flickering yellow light crept out around the edges of the shutters on the upper storey, but they were too feeble even to reach the ground, never mind illuminate the spot where Grey stood. At least, Grey thought, it proved the man he sought must be at home. No one would go out and leave candles burning. The question was – would he leave? If the murderer realised the reliquary was still being sought, he might be panicked into moving it. In the meantime, there was nothing Grey could do but wait, watch and hope.

But by the time the lights were finally extinguished in the upper storey, Grey was so numb with cold and fatigue that he didn’t even notice. In fact, it wasn’t until he saw the light of the lantern coming across the yard and heard the whinnying of the horse in the stable that he realised the man was on the move. Grey’s legs were so cold that it took quite a time for him to move himself and it took several attempts before he could heave his stiff body onto his own mount. He had only just settled himself in the saddle when he saw the horse and its rider trot out of the yard.

He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, urging her to follow, while trying to keep as much distance as he could between himself and the rider ahead without losing sight of him. He quickly realised they were leaving the village and heading straight down the road that led to the Hutt. Grey felt his stomach tighten in excitement. The thief was doing exactly what Grey had hoped he would do: leading him to the reliquary.

On such a still night, the hoofbeats of the horse he was following rang out as clear as a church bell and as the iron struck the stones on the track it sent up a shower of blue sparks in the darkness. It occurred to Grey that if he could so clearly hear the other horse, its rider would also hear him following. He turned off the path and forced his beast to walk on the grass, but Grey was anxious to keep as close behind as he dared. If the murderer had hidden the reliquary in the forest then he could turn off the track without warning and Grey might lose him, just as Richard had done.

Low wisps of white mist wrapped themselves around the roots of the trees, snaking over the track. Grey prayed it would not rise any higher. As the road wound deeper into the forest, the bushes crept closer to the track and the grass verge disappeared, so that several times Grey was forced to leave the line of the road and weave his way through the trees. But that was no bad thing, he told himself. If the rider ahead did happen to glance round, the forest would hide him.

Then, as Grey emerged from the trees, he saw to his consternation the track ahead was empty. Only a swirl of mist hung between the trees, glowing like a spectre under the starlight. Grey reined in his horse and listened. Then he heard the sound of breaking twigs away to his right and a little ahead. He coaxed the horse forward and suddenly saw that they had reached the narrow path that wound away to the Hutt. Even as he stared along it he glimpsed a figure on foot moving towards the door and, moments later, slip inside.

Grey quickly dismounted and, tethering his horse in the cover of some trees close to the track, he edged along the path, keeping his eyes fixed on the door, ready to dart into the undergrowth should the man re-emerge. Several times, he heard the sharp retort of a twig snapping beneath his feet and cursed himself for his own clumsiness. But the door didn’t open and he guessed that the Hutt’s stone walls were thick enough to prevent such sounds being heard inside.

Briefly, the yellow glow from a lantern shone beneath the door, vanishing almost at once. Grey crept up to the door and put his ear cautiously to the wood. Inside he heard a scraping, as if something were being dragged across the stone floor. Someone was searching for the reliquary. It must have been in there all along, but so cunningly concealed that neither he nor his men had found it.

He waited until there were no more sounds of movement within, then, assuming that the thief must by now have it in his hand, Grey drew his sword with his right hand, while slowly and noiselessly lifting the latch with his left.

He edged into the room, every nerve and muscle taut, his sword arm braced for immediate action. But the man he expected to confront was not there. The room was empty. A lantern stood on the floor. The flames guttered, sending shadows stalking round the walls. But the only other thing moving in the Hutt was Grey himself.

His heart thumping, he cautiously began a systematic search, edging round the walls and using his sword blade to probe between barrels, stabbing it into piles of blankets and straw pallets. The man had to be in here somewhere. He couldn’t just vanish. Grey hadn’t taken his eyes from the door, and the walls were solid stone. There was no other way out. Unless… A sudden thought struck him and he stared up into the beams above. The candle flame in the lantern on the floor illuminated the boxes and piles of bedding on the floor, but by contrast the rafters above were in deep darkness. Anyone might have climbed up there and be looking down on him, ready to drop as soon as he stepped beneath.

Keeping the blade of his sword pointing upwards, Grey backed across the floor, feeling for the lantern behind him with his heels. He banged into it and heard it rolling across the floor, though mercifully the candle did not topple out of the socket. He crouched, grabbing the handle with his free hand, then raised both lantern and sword as high as he could, searching through the shadows between the dusty, cobwebbed beams.

So intent was he on searching the rafters that even when he felt a sudden draught on his legs, it did not at first register on his brain as significant. And when he sensed the movement behind him it was already too late, far too late. Even as he tried to turn, a sack was dragged down over his head and shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. He heard the clang as the lantern and sword fell from his hands. His wrists were grabbed and bound tightly behind him. He struggled to breathe through the coarse cloth.

‘You can shout if you want to, but you’d be wasting your breath. No one’ll hear you. I’m going to take the sack off now. We don’t want you breaking your neck on the steps, not just yet anyway.’

As the sack was pulled free, Grey, gasping for air, smelled at once the odour he had recognised in the church – the pungent stench of fish. He knew without even having to turn his head that the man standing behind him was Yarrow, the churchwarden.

‘Down there!’ Yarrow gave him a shove towards a dark hole, which had suddenly appeared in the corner of the floor. The slab of stone that had covered it stood tipped up against the wall directly behind it.

‘I warn you,’ Grey said, ‘I’m not alone. My men are keeping watch.’

Yarrow laughed. ‘I dare say they are keeping watch – over a flagon of mulled ale back in Blidworth. Do you imagine I didn’t see you following me long before we even left the village? I know you rode here alone. Now walk.’

Grey felt the prick of the knife in his back. He shivered, thinking of Edward’s torn and gashed throat, and he felt sick with fear, expecting any moment to feel the blade ripping at his own throat, but the point did not move from his back.

As he shuffled the three steps to the hole, he thought that he was about to be pushed down a deep pit or well. But when Yarrow retrieved the lantern and held it up over his head, Grey could see a set of stone steps leading downwards from the trapdoor in the floor.

He descended awkwardly, trying to step sideways, so that he could brace his shoulder against the rough stone wall. With his hands bound he was terrified he was going to slip and by the time he reached the bottom his legs were trembling.

At last he found himself standing in a long low tunnel carved out of the rock. It smelled damp and musty at first, but as Yarrow prodded him along it he began to catch the scent of beeswax and something stronger, which he could have sworn was incense.

He rounded a bend in the tunnel and blinked furiously as his eyes were blinded by a sudden burst of light. They had emerged into a cave that glittered like a crown of jewels. Slender candles blazed all around them from rocky crevices and outcrops, while two fat church candles burned on a broad rocky ledge that had been hewn out at the back of the cave, their light sparkling and glinting from a great silver crucifix, and from the golden crown and jewelled butterfly of the reliquary of St Beornwyn.

Grey was so dazzled by the scene that it took a moment or two for him to realise that they were not alone. Several figures, dressed in the dark robes of the Black Canons, were seated motionless, like a flock of monstrous black birds, on ledges around the edges of the cave, the deep hoods of their black cloaks pulled down low, concealing their faces.

Grey tried to moisten his dry lips. ‘What… what is this place?’

One of the canons rose and slowly glided towards Grey, his hands folded beneath his cloak, his eyes and nose concealed beneath the shadow of his hood. Only his full lips were visible.

‘This… this is now the church of the priory of St Mary. Since we were driven from our home in Newstead, which our order has occupied for nearly four centuries… since we were forced to watch our holy church demolished to build byres and pigsties… we have had to find another place to worship. God will not permit that heretic King Henry and his satanic servants to destroy us or our faith.’

Grey gaped at him. ‘You’ve been hiding down here all these months? But how have you managed to conceal yourselves and survive?’

‘There are many caves beneath Sherwood Forest and many tunnels connecting them. That one leads straight into the crypt in Newstead Priory.’ The canon pointed to a dark hole on the opposite side of the cave from where they had emerged. ‘At night, after John Byron’s builders have left for the day, we’ve been able to return to our home and remove what is ours. It isn’t much. Most of the valuables were stripped out before we could rescue them, and the workmen rarely leave food behind, but such tools and trappings that are small enough to carry through the tunnels we bring away when we can. As long as we take only odd things here and there, the builders think they have simply forgotten where they left them or grumble that one of their fellows has stolen them.’

‘What they can’t use themselves, I sell for them,’ Yarrow said.

Grey jumped at the sound of the voice behind him. In the shock of discovering the cave, he’d forgotten the churchwarden was there, until he remembered the knife still pointed at his back.

‘Master Yarrow has always been a faithful friend to the Austin Canons,’ the hooded man said quietly. ‘And the villagers have helped us too. They bring candles and offerings to St Beornwyn and the Virgin Mary, which by order of Cromwell’s own decree, Yarrow, as churchwarden, is obliged to remove and so they find their way to us, where they are used for the glory of the saints and in the service of the true Church, as the villagers intended.’

Grey remembered seeing Alan hand something to Yarrow. Had the boy too been in on the secret of where the offerings were really going?

‘Father James – does he know about this?’

‘Him!’ Yarrow said contemptuously. ‘He doesn’t know half of what goes on in the village.’

‘He would have betrayed us had he known,’ the prior added. ‘The regular priests have always been jealous of the Austin Canons. We minister far more faithfully to their parishioners than ever they do, sitting through the night with the dying, absolving them of sins their own priests don’t even recognize, for they’re too busy committing their own.’

Grey, his wrists still bound, gestured with his chin up at the altar. ‘And did you absolve Yarrow of the sin of stealing that reliquary for you?’

‘I didn’t steal it!’ Yarrow said indignantly. ‘I’m no thief.’

‘But you are a murderer,’ Grey said coldly. ‘Edward was slain with the kind of serrated knife that fishmongers use to scrape scales off fish and to gut them, not with a straight butcher’s blade. In fact, I suspect he was murdered with the very knife you are pointing at me right now.’

Before Yarrow could admit or deny it, the prior spoke again. ‘When someone is forced to kill in order to defend the servants of God and the True Faith, it is neither a sin nor is it murder. A soldier who kills the enemy in battle is guilty of nothing save bravery and courage. And make no mistake, this is war between the servants of light and Cromwell’s forces of darkness.’

He gestured back to the reliquary. ‘We needed a relic to consecrate the altar. We asked Master Richard to sell the reliquary of St Beornwyn to us, but he refused. So we prayed and God answered our prayers. Edward stole the reliquary from Richard, though it had no more meaning for him than it did for Richard. Both were only interested in the value of the gold and jewels, not in the precious relics of the virgin saint. We didn’t know Edward intended to take it or why he brought it here. But finding himself pursued, he must have tried to hide in the Hutt, hoping Richard would ride on by.’

‘I didn’t know it was Edward in the Hutt,’ Yarrow broke in. ‘I was half-way out of the trapdoor, and the first thing I knew was when someone burst in through the door. Whoever it was gave a yelp and I knew the man’d seen me for there was a candle burning on the stairs below me. But I couldn’t see the man’s face. It could have been anyone – one of the forest wardens, even you.’

Yarrow fingered the wicked-looking knife as if regretting it hadn’t been Grey. ‘Had to stop whoever it was yelling out or running off. If the passage were discovered they’d have found the canons. So I silenced him. Only thing I could do. I heard the thud of something hitting the ground, just before the man crumpled up. Muffled it was, something heavy wrapped in cloth. I was going to drag the body down into the passageway, but I heard someone else outside the door. So I just grabbed what the man’d dropped, thinking it might be food, and slid back into the hole. I pulled the trapdoor shut, just as the door opened.’

The prior took up the story again. ‘It was only when we examined the contents of the sack that Yarrow brought us, that we saw that God had answered our prayers with a miracle and delivered St Beornwyn into our safekeeping.’

All the canons crossed themselves as one, bowing their heads reverentially.

‘But now that you have found us,’ the prior continued, ‘we must move St Beornwyn to a place of greater safety. We’ve been fortunate so far and no one has noticed us coming and going through the Hutt, but now that there has been a killing here and the reliquary is missing, there will undoubtedly be others, like you, who will be keeping a closer eye on the place in the future. Sooner or later one of us will be seen as we go to minister in secret to those who need us and we cannot risk that. We had already been preparing to leave even before you stumbled upon us, Master Grey, but your presence is a sign that we must depart at once. Although I regret that you, Master Grey, will not be leaving, at least not unless your sergeants are disposed to search far more diligently for you than they did for the reliquary, and with tomorrow being Christmas Day, I doubt they will trouble to make a start soon.’

Grey sensed a movement behind him, and threw himself to the ground, as Yarrow lunged at him with the knife. The churchwarden missed, but recovered himself, grabbing a handful of Grey’s hair and dragging his head backwards to expose his throat. Grey, with his hands bound, was helpless to defend himself. He screamed as the murderous blade flashed in the candlelight, but before it could bite into his flesh, the canon caught the churchwarden’s wrist, dragging the knife upwards.

‘No! I will not permit this sacred chapel to be desecrated by bloodshed. Besides, there is no need.’

Yarrow backed away, his head bowed. The canon crouched down and pulled Grey into a sitting position, though he did not help him to rise.

‘I neglected to mention, Master Grey, that before we consecrated this place, it once had another use when Newstead Priory flourished. It was used as a carcer, a place of correction for those among us who broke the rule.’

He gestured towards the cave wall nearest the tunnel to the Hutt, from which dangled a set of heavy iron chains.

Then he beckoned to two of the other canons. Before Grey could grasp what they intended, the men rose, lifted Grey on to his feet and dragged him over the rough floor to the chains.

Grey twisted and fought with every ounce of strength he had, but it was useless. They threw him once more to the ground and hauled him into a sitting position against the sharp jagged wall of the cave. The two men pinned him there while a third forced his neck into an iron collar and manacled his hands above his head to the chains on either side.

The prior stared down at him. ‘Do you wish to make your confession? If you do so in all humility I will absolve you.’

Grey stared up into the face, seeing only the lips move. The eyes were still masked deep in shadow.

‘You… you can’t mean to leave me here like this. It could take days for my men to find me.’

‘If they ever find you,’ the prior corrected.

Grey was still pleading desperately to be released as the canons busied themselves packing the crucifix, chalice and other items of value into their packs, which they distributed among themselves before each one kneeled and kissed the reliquary of St Beornwyn. Finally they wrapped her in woollen cloth and stowed her away in a plain wooden box. The canons quickly changed into clothes of beggars, merchants and pedlars, hiding their own robes in their packs. Each kneeled for a blessing before their prior, who dispatched them two at a time along the tunnel towards the Hutt, carefully leaving a few minutes’ gap between each departing pair.

The prior was the very last to leave. Even then, even as the Black Canon stood over him, Grey was sure he did not mean to leave him there. Now that the other canons were all safely dispersed, the prior would surely release him from the chains.

The prior bowed his head gravely. ‘I shall leave the candles burning. They will be a comfort to you until they go out.’

Grey tried in vain to wrest his arms from the chains. ‘No, no, please, I beg you. You can’t leave me here. This cave is so far beneath the ground, no one will hear me shouting for help… You can take my horse. By the time I manage to walk back to the village you’ll be long gone. Please… I give you my word, as God is my witness, I will not hunt for Beornwyn’s relic. I’ll report that it has been destroyed. I’ll be no more threat to you. I swear it on my mother’s grave!’

‘You and all of Cromwell’s men are a threat to every true servant of God. If you cannot destroy St Beornwyn, then you will hunt down other relics, destroying the holy things that God has sanctified and through which he works his miracles in this dark world.’

Grey could not believe the man could sound so calm, yet was preparing to leave him helpless, trapped in the cave.

‘But you said you did not want this consecrated chapel desecrated by death and I will die if I am not found!’

‘Desecrated by bloodshed,’ the prior corrected. ‘And there will be no bloodshed. If God chooses to save you then you will live. If he decrees you will be punished by death then you will die and your spirit will guard this holy place until another comes to take your place. That will be your atonement. Your fate lies in God’s hands now, not mine. I suggest that if you hope for a miracle, you should pray to St Beornwyn to save you.’

The prior bowed his head, and to his horror, Grey heard him softly chanting ‘miserere nobis’ – ‘Have mercy on us’ – and realised he was reciting the prayer for the dying. Then the Black Canon turned and walked away down the tunnel, still singing softly, until it seemed as if the rocks themselves were whispering the prayer as they closed around the chained man.

Grey’s screams and pleas echoed through the cave, but the prior did not return. In the distance, he heard the hollow grating of a stone being pushed back into place. And knew he was utterly alone.

The candles flickered in the draught that rushed down the tunnel as the stone fell into place. Then they steadied themselves, burning steadily again. The soft yellow light filled the great empty cave. But even as the full horror of what the next few hours and days would bring filled Grey’s terrified mind, the first of the candles guttered and died, leaving only a wisp of black smoke that rose momentarily into the shadows above and dissolved. Darkness snuggled a little closer to poor Roger Grey.

Outside, though Grey couldn’t hear them, the midnight bells in the distant churches rang in the Christmas morn. And as Edward had predicted, the first flakes of snow began to fall, covering tree and stone, footprints and tracks. It would be a white Christmas.

Historical Note

Newstead Abbey was built between 1164 and 1174 by King Henry II to atone for the murder of Thomas Becket. It became a priory of Austin Canons, known as the Black Canons from their robes, who were not monks, but ordained priests living under monastic rule. King Henry VIII drove the canons from the abbey and on 28 May 1540 sold the lands to one of his loyal supporters Sir John Byron who promptly converted the abbey into his family home, demolishing most of the priory church to reuse the stone for farm buildings.

The romantic poet Lord George Gordon Byron inherited the title and estates in 1798. The house was in such a ruinous state, thanks to his great-uncle stripping it of its valuables, that the poet could only afford to refurnish a few of the rooms, where he lived amid the ruins. He excavated the North Cloister in the hope of finding the fabled treasure of the Black Canons to restore the house, but found only skeletons.

The Royal Hutt was built around 1400 just outside the present entrance to Newstead Abbey as a shelter for the Forest Wardens who patrolled Sherwood Forest. Legend has it that there is a tunnel stretching for about a mile from the Hutt to Newstead Abbey, which was still in use up until the seventeenth century. This is quite plausible as the whole area is riddled with underground caves. The tunnel from the Hutt is said to be haunted by the ghost of a man who died of starvation, having been chained up in it. The tunnel has since been blocked off and ‘The Hutt’ is now a popular pub and restaurant of that name, where you can still see some of the ancient features of the buildings.

The Church of St Mary of the Purification in Blidworth is one of the few remaining churches in the country to hold the ancient rocking ceremony at Candlemas, in which a baby boy of the parish born closest to Christmas Day is rocked in an ancient cradle during the service. This is thought to bring great blessings to the child and family. The churchyard is the legendary burial place of Will Scarlet, one of Robin Hood’s men, and Maid Marian is said to have lived for a time in the village. Only the west tower of the original medieval church survives; the rest was later rebuilt.