The False Virgin by The Medieval Murderers Page B

asleep when his attacker had
come. The bedclothes were rumpled where he had kicked with his feet, and his nails were broken, but there was nothing in the way of clues. Gwenllian’s eyes were drawn to the conical hat Rupe
had always worn, and she could not prevent a superstitious shudder when she saw a dead butterfly adhering to it.
    ‘Who found him?’ Cole asked.
    ‘Me.’ Ernebald’s voice was hoarse with shock. ‘When I brought him his morning ale.’
    ‘When did you last see him alive?’
    ‘Midnight. We were making plans for the chapel. His wife is away, so he slept alone.’
    ‘She had gone to stay with her sister, because she dislikes pilgrims tramping through her vegetables,’ explained Avenel. His face was impossible to read in the dim light, and his
voice was flat. ‘Or so Fitzmartin and I were told in the Eagle last night.’
    ‘If he and Fitzmartin were in the Eagle, they would have had to pass this house to return to their beds in the castle,’ Gwenllian whispered to Cole. ‘It would have been simple
to climb through an open window and dispatch him.’
    ‘How do you know a window was open?’ Cole whispered back.
    ‘Because the hinges on the bedroom shutter are broken, and it has been tied back to stop it from rattling. I saw it from the road and so, doubtless, did the killer.’
    ‘Rupe had lost favour since you have been away, Sir Symon,’ said Philip, stepping forward to speak. ‘He raised the price of his holy water, and imposed a fee for visiting the
shrine. People have stopped coming, and you will find many who wished him ill. This will not be an easy crime to solve. Perhaps you should not waste your time trying.’
    Gwenllian was surprised to see her cousin there. She had sent him to give last rites to someone in Abergwili, and she had imagined he would stay the night. Why was he back so soon? And why was
he suggesting that they not bother to investigate a murder?
    ‘Mayor Rupe was a businessman,’ growled Ernebald, glaring at the chaplain. ‘Of course he turned this opportunity to his advantage. However, it cannot be coincidence that the
poor man is slaughtered the moment
he
returns.’ He jabbed his finger at Cole.
    ‘Of course it is coincidence,’ said Odo impatiently, while Hilde nodded her agreement. Gwenllian was startled that they should be among the spectators: they were not usually
ghoulish. ‘And he is not the only one who came back yesterday, anyway.’
    He did not look at Avenel and Fitzmartin, but the accusation hung heavy in the air.
    ‘We heard the commotion when we were praying in the shrine,’ said Hilde, apparently reading Gwenllian’s mind and feeling the need to explain their presence. ‘We had been
asking for another miracle. Philip was with us.’
    The chaplain gave a nervous smile. ‘There is no fee at night, when Rupe and Ernebald are asleep. It was a good time for a poor chaplain to come here.’
    ‘Never mind this,’ snapped Fitzmartin. ‘The question we should be considering is who killed Rupe. Personally, I agree with Ernebald: Cole is the obvious suspect. Even I, a
stranger to Carmarthen, could see that he and the mayor hated each other.’
    Avenel said nothing, and Gwenllian thought again of Hilde’s contention that he was plotting something. Her blood ran cold. Had
he
killed Rupe, to blame Cole and give the King an
excuse to be rid of him? She was devising a way to find out when a soldier arrived to report that the cattle thieves had been spotted near the bridge. Gwenllian did not know whether to be relieved
or suspicious when the sheriff and his crony asked if they might be excused joining the expedition to hunt them this time.
    When Cole had gone, Gwenllian made a determined effort to identify Rupe’s killer by asking questions. She dismissed Ernebald as a suspect because the mayor’s death
had deprived him of a home, an employer and a livelihood. No other local would hire such a vicious lout, and he was now faced with a choice