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  The First Murder

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © The Medieval Murderers, 2013

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of The Medieval Murderers to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN: 978-1-47111-432-8

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-47111-433-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-47111-435-9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  The Medieval Murderers

  A small group of historical mystery writers, all members of the Crime Writers’ Association, who promote their work by giving informal talks and discussions at libraries, bookshops and literary festivals.

  Bernard Knight is a former Home Office pathologist and professor of forensic medicine who has been publishing novels, non-fiction, radio and television drama and documentaries for more than forty years. He currently writes the highly regarded Crowner John series of historical mysteries, based on the first coroner for Devon in the twelfth century; the fourteenth of which, A Plague of Heretics, has recently been published by Simon & Schuster.

  Ian Morson is the author of an acclaimed series of historical mysteries featuring the thirteenth-century Oxford-based detective, William Falconer, a series featuring medieval Venetian crime solver, Nick Zuliani, and many short stories set in various historical periods.

  Philip Gooden is the author of the Nick Revill series, a sequence of historical mysteries set in Elizabethan and Jacobean London, during the time of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. The latest titles are Sleep of Death and Death of Kings. He also writes 19th century mysteries, most recently The Durham Disappearance, as well as non-fiction books on language. Philip was chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association in 2007–8.

  Susanna Gregory is the author of the Matthew Bartholomew series of mystery novels, set in fourteenth century Cambridge, the most recent of which are Murder by the Book and The Lost Abbot. In addition, she writes a series set in Restoration London, featuring Thomas Chaloner; the most recent book is Murder in St James’s Park. She also writes historical mysteries with her husband under the name of Simon Beaufort.

  Karen Maitland writes stand-alone, dark medieval thrillers. She is the author of Company of Liars and The Owl Killers. Her most recent medieval thrillers are The Gallows Curse, a tale of treachery and sin under the brutal reign of English King John, and Falcons of Fire and Ice set in Portugal and Iceland amid the twin terrors of the Inquisition and Reformation.

  The Programme

  Prologue; In which Karen Maitland tells how a grisly discovery in St Oswald’s Church in Lythe, near Whitby, turns a Saxon princess into a venerated saint.

  Act One; In which Susanna Gregory and Simon Beaufort tell how Beornwyn’s hand is stolen from Lythe by two unscrupulous thieves in the year 1200, and taken to drought-stricken Carmarthen. A violent thunderstorm follows . . . and so does murder.

  Act Two; In which Nick Zuliani and his grand-daughter Katie travel to a Greek island on a mission for the Doge of Venice, and encounter murder and the cult of virgin saint Beornwyn.

  Act Three; In which Philip Gooden describes how John of Gaunt’s Thames-side place is shaken by a murder linked to a poem about Saint Beornwyn, composed by Geoffrey Chaucer, Gaunt’s protégé.

  Act Four; In which Bernard Knight tells how Saint Beornwyn led to a murder enquiry in 1405 in an obscure priory near the Malverns, which was resolved by Owain Glyndwr.

  Act Five; In which Karen Maitland relates how a Master of the Butcher’s Guild is determined to conceal the guild’s valuable reliquary of Saint Beornwyn, to prevent Thomas Cromwell’s most feared enforcer from destroying it. But when Cromwell’s enforcer arrives in Sherwood Forest, murder follows in his shadow and threatens to destroy more than the precious relic.

  Epilogue; In which Philip Gooden tells of an encounter between a dealer in saints’ relics and a Russian oligarch.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Act One

  Act Two

  Act Three

  Act Four

  Act Five

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Lythe, near Streanæshalch (Whitby), AD 848

  On the dais at the far end of the mead hall, Badanoth, the grey-bearded ealdorman, slammed his huge fist down on the table, causing the horn beakers on it to tremble as violently as the men around him.

  ‘Oswy is a coward and a traitor, with the heart of a bleating sheep. He will never again be received in this hall. I will not share my cup with any man who crawls on his belly to hide from the enemy. I swear on the skulls of my fathers, if Oswy or his sons set so much as a toe on my lands, I shall impale them on stakes and set them up on the beach for my men to use as targets for archery practice. That at least would put some metal into those wretches.’

  One of the bondmaids, Mildryth, glanced over at Badanoth’s daughter, who was staring miserably down at her clenched fists. Beornwyn’s father had never been the most mild-tempered of men – not that any leader could afford to be gentle and forbearing if he had any hope of maintaining a strong rule – but since the death of his wife, Badanoth had grown increasingly irascible and violent. It was as if her passing had made him realise he was growing old and, like an ageing hound, he had to growl and snap ever more savagely to keep the young dogs from turning on him.

  And turn on him they might very well do, for Badanoth was the King’s thane, sworn to uphold the law in these parts, but a king’s thane is only as strong and secure as his king, and with the death of King Aethelred of Northumbria, the would-be successors were squabbling over the throne like gulls over a dead fish, with even blood brothers feuding on different sides.

  The heavens, too, seemed to have joined in the argument, and the skies had sullenly refused to yield any rain for weeks, leaving the streams dry, crops withering and the livestock needing to be watered by hand from the deep wells. Mildryth sighed. More bad news at this time was the last thing Badanoth needed, but it had arrived, none the less, whether it was welcome or not.

  The messenger had come not an hour since with news of another Viking raid on the east coast of the kingdom, the third since the full moon. This last attack had been against the lands of their neighbour, Oswy, a lesser thane, who’d been granted the land that lay along the coast to the north of Lythe, which he was sworn to defend. But, according to the messenger, Oswy had made no attempt to fight to defend the abbey and village where the sea-wolves had landed. His men had simply shepherded the villagers and monks to safety inland, leaving the Vikings to take whatever spoils they pleased, then torch the village and abbey before they sailed away. The flickering orange glow of th
e flames had been seen for miles in the darkness, making women clutch their children to them and moan.

  ‘My own countrymen have grown soft,’ Badanoth bellowed, ‘too content to warm their backsides by their fires, telling stories of past glories, instead of practising for war. Ploughing fields and milking cows are all our young men are fit for now.’

  He seized the arm of one of the young lads who had the misfortune to be standing close behind him. He pulled back the boy’s sleeve and savagely pounded the hilt of his dagger into the muscle of his forearm.

  ‘You think this scrawny arm could wield a sword from dawn to dusk in battle? This squab couldn’t even overpower his own grandmother, much less a berserker. At his age I could fire off a dozen arrows in the time it took for the enemy to raise his bow.’

  Mildryth saw the lad gritting his teeth, trying not to flinch and desperately attempting to look as if he were ready to fight the entire crew of a Viking warship single-handed. To his credit, when Badanoth finally released his arm, the boy manfully resisted the temptation to massage the bruises, though his jaw was clenched hard. But there was no mockery on any of the faces in the hall. Recounting tales of ancient wars was one thing, but Badanoth was right: it had been several generations since any in those parts had been forced to don a helmet and fight in bloody battle.

  They were farmers and fishermen now. They might draw knives or even swords over slights to their honour, but who among them would have the stomach to face the fiercest of all the Viking warriors, the berserkers, men who hurtled into battle clad only in bearskins or wolfskins, who ran howling like wild beasts to hack their victims into pieces? Their onslaughts were so violent that not even hardened warriors could stand against them. Men said that the berserkers became so crazed with bloodlust that when they had slaughtered every man, woman and child in a village they would even turn upon their own comrades, disembowelling one another in their frenzied madness, and all in the name of their murderous god Odin.

  Of course, Mildryth knew that all men exaggerate the strength of the enemy, especially when they’ve been defeated, but she had spoken to enough travellers who had seen the horribly mutilated bodies and smoking ruins of abbeys and villages to shudder whenever she heard the name.

  She glanced up again at the long table where Badanoth was growling orders for the daily training of all the men, more watches to be posted along the coast, additional traps to be dug and new weapons forged. The thanes and freeborn ceorls around him looked sulky and resentful, as well they might. Trying to wrest a living from the land and sea was hard enough without squandering precious daylight hours on this.

  The women shook their heads at the folly of all men. Mildryth knew many privately thought that thane Oswy had chosen the wiser path. Bury the valuables and take the families to safety. Wattle and daub houses could quickly be rebuilt, even a church could be replaced, not so people. Though Christ promised the resurrection of the dead, there were few who were so eager to reach Heaven they wanted to be sent there in pieces, hacked down by a Viking axe.

  Beornwyn, with a glance over at her father, who was deep in discussion with the men around him, rose gracefully and weaved her way through the women towards the door at the far end of the hall. Mildryth followed her. She was grateful for this growing rift between Beornwyn and her father. It meant that the girl was more determined than ever to enter the religious life as Mildryth had long prayed that she would.

  Outside, the evening air felt chill in contrast to the hot smoky fug of the hall. The roasting pit in the clearing in front of the cluster of long houses glowed a deep garnet red. Two sweating men, stripped to the waist, were turning a spitted sheep over the fire, while a third basted it with a long iron ladle. They barely glanced up as Mildryth hurried by.

  Ahead of her, she saw Beornwyn entering the small house that her father had reluctantly granted her after the death of her mother. The bondmaid followed swiftly, closing the door behind her. Her young mistress was already kneeling before the wooden cross set upon one of the stout chests that lined the single room. Beornwyn’s dwelling was plain and simple compared to the great mead hall. There was no gold leaf on the wooden carvings round the door. There were no tapestries hanging from the walls, no hunting trophies or weapons arranged above the simple bed, just plain white lime-washed walls and a fire pit in the centre of the floor. In fact, it was no grander than any of the humble ceorls’ houses round about, save for the fact that, unlike their crowded homes, only she and her bondmaid occupied this one.

  Mildryth sank quietly to her knees, praying, as she imagined Beornwyn was doing, for Christ and His saints to turn back the longships or hide Lythe in such a thick sea fret that the Vikings would never see the little church of St Oswald’s perched high on the cliffs, and sail on by. She felt a little guilty at this last petition, as if she were sending the sea-wolves to murder others instead, but Christ would surely spare their village, if for no other reason than Beornwyn.

  Mildryth opened her eyes and gazed in undisguised adoration at the beautiful face tilted up in rapture at the cross. Her mistress’s long elegant hands were lifted to heaven. Her green tunic and girdle were draped in graceful folds, accentuating the rounded breasts and narrow waist. Her flaxen hair was covered by a white veil, held in place by a circlet of bronze engraved with scenes from the life of St Oswald.

  If Mildryth was being completely honest, Beornwyn’s hair was more a mousy brown than flaxen, but her mistress was so seldom seen without her veil, even in private, that her bondmaid always imagined her hair to be fairer than it was. Besides, no matter what the colour, each day her mistress grew more like the Blessed Virgin Mary herself. And that holiness infused every feature with a heavenly radiance for those who had the eyes of faith to see it, which Mildryth did.

  Beornwyn, with a final gracious bow of her head, finished her prayers and Mildryth scrambled to her feet to help her rise. Beornwyn had evidently been so absorbed in her devotions she had not heard Mildryth enter, for she looked surprised to find her bondmaid close to her. She smiled her thanks and sank down on the bed.

  ‘You look troubled, my lady.’ Mildryth kneeled to remove her shoes, but her mistress gently pushed her hand away.

  ‘No, fetch me your mantle. I shall need it again tonight.’

  Mildryth’s brow furrowed in concern. ‘Please, my lady, don’t go again tonight. You must rest. You’ve had no sleep these past three nights. You’ll fall sick.’

  Her mistress gave a fragile smile and patted the young girl on her cheek. ‘Our Blessed Lord will sustain me. I must go to the church to spend the night in vigil. After the news the messenger brought today, it’s more important than ever that I offer my prayers.’

  Mildryth gnawed her lip. ‘They say many churches and abbeys have been attacked and the monks and nuns slaughtered. I know that the villagers are sinful, but priests . . . nuns . . . they pray all the time. Why doesn’t Christ protect them?’

  ‘They don’t pray for protection. They pray that they might be taken to be with Christ and He grants them their desire because of their faith.’ Beornwyn cupped the kneeling maid’s chin, raising her face so their eyes met. ‘Have courage. Why should we fear death, knowing that it is but a gateway to the eternal bliss of Heaven?’

  Mildryth tried hard to match her steady gaze, but even the prospect of Heaven did not take away the fear of the agony she might have to endure first. She’d heard that it took some people hours or even days to die of the terrible wounds the Vikings inflicted, and suppose she was taken as their slave – what might she have to endure then? An icy sweat crawled down her skin. ‘Is that what you pray for, my lady – death?’

  Beornwyn rose and crossed to the fire pit, spreading her hands over the glowing embers.

  ‘I pray that my father will allow me to remain a virgin, dedicated to Christ.’

  Her bondmaid stared aghast at her. ‘But Badanoth has already agreed to that. It is settled! You are to be abbess when the old abbey is rebuilt. They’ve started dig
ging out the foundations of the old ruins. You could be installed as early as next year, at least in name.’

  Beornwyn grunted. ‘I went to the ruins this morning. The work had already stopped, even before the messenger arrived. My father says all the wood and stone will be needed for defences and he cannot spare a single man or boy to build abbeys when we could be attacked at any time.’

  ‘But the longboats don’t come in winter. When the days grow shorter, he’ll surely start to build again,’ the bondmaid said anxiously.

  Beornwyn shook her head. ‘When the storms are too rough for the sea-wolves to come, then it’s too wet and windy for any men to dig foundations or erect buildings.

  Both warriors and abbesses need fine weather.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Besides, it may be too late by then. If my father fears thanes such as Oswy are failing him, he’ll seek to make alliances with other nobles to defend the coast. That will make him more determined than ever to use me as a peace-weaver, to marry me off to that vicious snake Aethelbald.’

  She turned. The expression in her eyes was one of fear, like a deer surrounded by baying hounds. ‘Pray for me, Mildryth. Pray that they will not marry me to that loathsome man.’

  Mildryth understood her fear only too well, for her own fate, if Beornwyn married, would be far worse than her mistress’s. A bondmaid would never be used as a peace-weaver, but Mildryth had been sold into bondage as soon as she was old enough to pick up kindling sticks, and knew she could be sold again or bestowed as a gift, like any cow or goat, to work or to be mated with any drooling old lecher, as her new master pleased.

  ‘Your father would never force you into marriage. He knows you’ve given yourself as a bride to Christ. He wouldn’t dare take you from God and give you into the bed of another.’ Mildryth wanted desperately to reassure her mistress and, not least, to convince herself. ‘I’m always telling those close to him of all the virtuous deeds you perform for the Church. They all know you for a saint. They’d speak out against it.’