The False Virgin by The Medieval Murderers Page A

angrily to Miles, and Gwenllian was relieved when he was prevented from rebuking him by the arrival of Philip de Barri, the castle chaplain.
    Philip was Gwenllian’s cousin, although she could not bring herself to like him. He was an unprepossessing soul, with a wealth of irritating habits. She had not wanted him as chaplain, but
there had been a vacancy when he had arrived begging for employment, and it would have been churlish to refuse. She tried not to let her antipathy show as he approached, bringing the two visiting
monks with him.
    She regarded them with interest. They were both young, and had clearly not enjoyed an easy journey – their habits were threadbare and dirty, and their sandals badly in need of repair. If
they were charlatans, she thought, then they were not very good at plying their trade, or they would have been better attired. The larger of the pair, who introduced himself as Frossard, had a
black eye.
    ‘A misunderstanding with a smith in Llandeilo,’ he explained, raising a tentative hand to touch it. ‘He thought I was going to steal a dagger.’
    ‘Why would you want a dagger?’ asked Cole, puzzled. ‘You are a monk.’
    ‘I did not
want
it,’ objected Frossard stiffly. ‘I was just looking. But since you ask, your domain is dangerous. Only yesterday we were obliged to watch a very
desperate band of villains making off with sheep.’
    ‘Were you close enough to see their faces?’ asked Cole eagerly. The raiders tended to keep out of sight, and very few had witnessed them in action.
    ‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Frossard. ‘They had hidden them with scarves.’
    ‘There was one thing, though,’ said Reinfrid quickly, seeing Cole’s disappointment and hastening to curry favour. ‘The fellow in charge was shrieking his orders in an
oddly high-pitched voice. It made us laugh.’
    ‘There is nothing amusing about cattle theft,’ said Miles sternly.
    ‘We would like to hear about your relic, brothers,’ said Gwenllian, seeing Frossard gird himself up to argue. ‘But not now – it is too hot. Come to the castle this
evening.’
    Gwenllian had invited a number of people to dine with her that night – Avenel and Fitzmartin, Mayor Rupe, Philip the chaplain and Deputy Miles. Then it had occurred to
her that they would quarrel, so she had added Prior Kediour, Odo and Hilde, to help her keep the peace. Now Symon was home, she wished she could cancel the whole thing and spend the evening with
him, but that would have been ungracious. The meal would go ahead, and she and Cole would preside together.
    She had been to some trouble: the food was plentiful, the wine good, the hall had been swept and dusted, and Cole’s smelly hunting dogs banished to the bailey. Musicians had been hired to
entertain, and summer flowers had been set in bowls in the windows.
    Cole had the pallor of exhaustion about him, so she placed Sheriff Avenel next to her, lest tiredness led to incautious remarks. Symon was not good at dissembling when he was rested, and there
was no knowing what might slip out when he was tired. Miles, clad in a fine yellow tunic, had contrived to sit on Cole’s left, so as to be close to Gwenllian as possible, and the feast had
not been going long before she detected signs of trouble.
    ‘. . . uncivil manner,’ Cole was snapping, unusually curt. ‘Do it again and I will—’
    ‘Symon!’ she hissed in alarm. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
    ‘Miles made a comment about your kirtle,’ explained Cole shortly.
    She smiled down at the dress in question, one that had been cut to show off her slender waist and lithe figure. ‘Yes. It is a new one.’
    Cole shot it a disinterested glance. ‘Is it?’
    ‘Odo and Hilde complimented it, too,’ she went on. ‘And even Kediour said the colour becomes me. In fact, you are alone in remaining mute on the subject. Doubtless you would
pay it more attention if it was the colour of your favourite horse.’
    ‘Yes, I would. He is