The False Virgin by The Medieval Murderers

themselves new sandals with the money intended for Beornwyn,’ remarked Gwenllian. ‘And they reek of ale.’
    Kediour was obviously distressed. ‘Desperate people are easily led, and there is something of the Devil in this cult of theirs. I fear for people’s souls.’
    ‘I fear for their purses,’ said Cole. ‘If the monks do not empty them, Rupe will. I thought exposing his corruption would make him mend his ways, but he is just as greedy and
unscrupulous as ever.’
    Gwenllian watched the mayor, who was proclaiming that last night’s deluge was just the beginning of the favour Beornwyn would show him. While Kediour strode forward to inform the crowd
that the Church did not recognise this particular saint, Cole drew the mayor aside. Rupe’s henchmen followed, and Gwenllian did not like the way that Gunbald pulled a dagger from his belt and
looked as though he would very much like to use it. She beckoned to the two monks over, too, hoping the presence of monastic habits would forestall any violence.
    ‘Did you see Miles here last night, Rupe?’ Cole was asking.
    ‘No,’ replied Rupe shortly, while the henchmen and the monks indicated with shaken heads that they had not either. ‘We were too intent on our prayers.’
    ‘He believed he had discovered an underground stream beneath this wood,’ pressed Cole. ‘Which means your spring is not sacred, but was here all the time.’
    ‘He was a fool with his hazel twigs and silly theories,’ spat Rupe. ‘And I would have told him so had I caught him poking around on my land. However, we did not see
him.’
    ‘Perhaps Beornwyn struck him down,’ suggested Frossard. ‘She disliked what he was doing, so she took a killer to him. There was a butterfly on him, after all.’
    ‘Is she a spiteful kind of saint then?’ asked Cole.
    ‘No,’ said Reinfrid, shooting his companion a cautionary glance. ‘Yet it is strange that he should die next to her spring – the very thing he might have denied was
miraculous.’
    Gwenllian questioned all five closely for some time, but was unable to catch any of them in an inconsistency, and while she did not believe that this was indicative of innocence, it did mean
that she was wasting her time. When she and Cole took their leave, Rupe was smug, the monks relieved, and the henchmen disappointed, as if they had hoped the encounter would end in the opportunity
to stab someone.
    As there were so many familiar faces in the crowd, it was a good opportunity to ask whether anyone else had seen Miles the previous night. One or two folk had spotted him near
the castle, but no one admitted to seeing him near the wood. Cole, it seemed, was the last man to see him alive. Other than the killer. After a while, Rupe made an announcement.
    ‘We should show Beornwyn our appreciation for her miraculous gift. I have bought nails for the chapel that will cover her spring, but who will provide timber for the walls and tiles for
roof ? Who will build an altar, and purchase candles, crosses and flowers?’
    ‘Whoever does will be blessed,’ added Ernebald, and Gwenllian could tell he had been told what to say by his master. ‘Gunbald and I will give a door – you can see it over
there.’
    ‘The moment we decided to make the donation, there was a miracle,’ added Gunbald, all pious gratitude. ‘Our cow, which has been dry all summer, gave us milk today.’
    People hastened to pledge materials and labour, and it was with astonishment that Gwenllian saw a building begin to fly up in front of her eyes. Cole muttered something about the cow benefiting
from drinking her fill of rainwater, but no one listened. Avenel and Fitzmartin watched it all, their expressions disdainful.
    ‘We should speak to them,’ whispered Gwenllian to Cole. ‘It will distract them from our people’s foolish gullibility, if nothing else.’
    She began by asking whether Cousin Philip’s scribing skills had been satisfactory in the Eagle the previous night,