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blessing.’
    Reinfrid was thoughtful. Saints were always appearing to people in visions, asking to be toted from one place to another, so it was not beyond the realms of possibility that Beornwyn might
prefer an abbey to the paltry little fishing village four miles up the coast. Frossard grinned when his friend made no further objection.
    ‘It is a good plan, Reinfrid. What can go wrong?’
    At midnight, Reinfrid slipped out of the dorter and ran to the postern gate, where Frossard was waiting. They set off together, descending the hill to the little village
clustered below, where the familiar smell of fish and seaweed assailed their nostrils, along with the sweeter scent of ale from a tavern that kept notoriously late hours. Bawdy songs and womanly
squeals gusted from within. The pair borrowed a boat to cross the river, then climbed past more cottages until they reached the cliff path that ran north.
    It was a clear night, and bitingly cold, so they walked briskly. Both knew the shrine well. It was a pretty place near St Oswald’s church, which had been built shortly after the
saint’s martyrdom and not changed since. It comprised a stone chapel with an altar, on which stood a plain wooden box that contained the relics. The villagers had decorated the chapel with
pictures of butterflies, and candles always burned within. Relics were vulnerable to unscrupulous thieves so the shrine was never left unattended.
    Frossard grinned triumphantly when they reached the building and saw the two guards slumped on the floor. The empty wine flask lay between them. Reinfrid was uneasy, though, and crept towards
them to make sure they were really asleep. He touched one cautiously, then jerked his hand back in alarm at the cold skin.
    ‘Christ in Heaven! They are dead!’
    ‘No!’ Frossard grabbed a candle to look for himself, but it took only a glance to see that Reinfrid was right. He backed away in horror. ‘Mother Hackness said her powder was
safe!’
    ‘How much did she tell you to use?’
    Frossard looked stricken. ‘Three pinches, but I needed to be sure it would work, so I added the lot. But I did not know it would . . .’ He trailed off, appalled by the turn of
events.
    Reinfrid forced down his panic, and began to make plans to extricate them from the mess. ‘You must burn the shrine with their bodies in it. Then everyone will assume they fell asleep, and
failed to wake when a candle fell and set the place alight.’
    ‘And you?’ asked Frossard nervously. ‘What will you do?’
    ‘We cannot incinerate a valuable relic, so I will carry Beornwyn to the abbey and be as surprised as anyone when she is discovered on the high altar tomorrow. It will be declared a miracle
– she did not want to burn, so she took herself to Whitby. Obviously, we cannot take the credit now; we must distance ourselves from the whole affair.’
    ‘Yes!’ breathed Frossard, relieved. ‘The guards’ families know I sent wine, but they will not want it said that their menfolk were drunk while they were minding Beornwyn,
so they will keep the matter quiet. Your plan will work.’
    Reinfrid shoved the casket in a sack and tossed it over his shoulder, leaving Frossard to deal with the fire. Frossard’s hands shook as he set his kindling, and it was some time before he
had a satisfactory blaze. He waited until the flames shot high into the night sky before turning to follow his friend. Then it occurred to him that Mother Hackness might guess the truth, so he went
to her shack in the woods, shaking her awake roughly to inform her that her powder had killed two men.
    ‘You are a witch,’ he hissed, ‘and the abbot will hang you. The best thing you can do is leave Whitby and never return.’
    The following morning saw grief and dismay in Lythe, which had lost not only its saint, but two popular villagers.
    To Reinfrid’s surprise, his brethren greeted Beornwyn’s arrival not with delight, but with consternation: it was not her