The False Virgin by The Medieval Murderers Read Free Book Online Page B

them to serve Him.’
    Kediour gaped his disbelief, but was spared the need to reply by the appearance of Cole’s family – Gwenllian, raven-haired and lovely; his little son, Meurig; and the gurgling bundle
that was baby Alys. Even Kediour’s stern visage relaxed into a smile as he watched the unbridled joy of their reunion.
    Gwenllian was relieved to have her husband home. Despite the recent appointment of a deputy, everyone knew it was really she who was in charge when Cole was away, and she had
found the responsibility burdensome. Not only was it difficult to keep Sheriff Avenel and his unsavoury companion, Fitzmartin, entertained, but the unrelenting heat was driving even the mildest of
men to ill-tempered spats. Moreover, there was a decision about the new tower that only Cole could make, and people were beginning to fear that drought and the cattle thieves would see them all
starve that winter.
    As soon as she could, she sent the children home with their nurse, and pulled Cole into the shop owned by Odo and his wife, Hilde, knowing the couple would leave them to talk undisturbed. Odo
and Hilde sold cloth, and had been Gwenllian’s friends for years, although Cole was lukewarm about Odo’s gentle manners and unmanly fondness for the arts.
    ‘There is trouble,’ she began. ‘Avenel and Fitzmartin arrived shortly after you left, and have been prying into every aspect of our lives ever since. They have a letter from
the King, giving them leave to do whatever they like here.’
    Cole sighed wearily. ‘Perhaps I should resign and retire to my estates in Normandy. John will win in the end and I am tired of trying to outwit him.’
    ‘No,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘I will not allow him to oust us from our home. You have been constable here for years, and—’
    ‘Quite. Perhaps it is time for a change. It was never intended to be a permanent post – not by King Henry, who put me here, or by King Richard, who confirmed the
appointment.’
    ‘If we go,’ said Gwenllian, drawing herself up to her full height with all the dignity of a princess of Wales, ‘it will be because
we
decide to leave. It will not be
on the whim of a spiteful monarch who does not know how to rule what he has inherited.’
    Cole did not have the energy to argue. Instead, he suggested they go to the castle and inspect progress on the new tower. As they aimed for the door, Hilde and Odo approached.
    ‘What shall we do about these monks and their saint, Cole?’ asked Odo. He had one hand to his back as usual; a lifetime of lifting heavy bales had taken its toll. ‘Shall we pay
them to pray for a miracle? Bad luck has dogged us all summer, so we could certainly do with one.’
    ‘He will decide tomorrow,’ said Gwenllian, to spare Symon the need to make a decision there and then. She smiled at her friends. ‘The monks told me that they plan to stay for a
few days, so there is no immediate hurry.’
    She led Cole back into the blasting heat of the Market Square, where the Benedictines had finished their performance and were packing the reliquary away. Two men watched: Sheriff Avenel was a
tall, bald man with the haughty bearing of the professional warrior; Fitzmartin was younger and smaller, but cast in the same mould.
    ‘Constable Cole?’ asked Avenel, coming to intercept them. ‘You have been gone a long time. Can a few miserable thieves really take so long to track down?’
    ‘He has not tracked them down,’ said Fitzmartin slyly. ‘They remain at large – I heard his sergeant make the announcement just now. Perhaps he would like us to help. I am
sure the King will not mind us abandoning our more important duties to oblige.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Cole amiably. He was not very good at recognising sarcasm and often wrong-footed people by taking acerbic comments at face value. ‘Shall we try
tomorrow?’
    ‘No,’ said Avenel, once he realised that Cole was not being impertinent. ‘We have more pressing matters to