Simon Beaufort - A Dead Man's secret

Kermerdyn, Summer 1096

William fitz Baldwin was pleased with the little castle he had built. It guarded a ford in the River Tywi, and he felt it was as secure a fortress as any he had seen. It comprised a sturdy motte topped by a wooden tower, and there was a palisade of sharpened stakes that protected a sizeable bailey. He intended to begin work on a proper bailey later in the year, reinforcing the fence with earthen ditches and a moat. And perhaps, in time, he would add a stone curtain wall. That should please the King, who, some three years earlier, had ordered him to establish a military base in this restless part of his domain.

He climbed to the top of the tower and stood on the battlements, resting his elbows on the rough wood and inhaling deeply of the fresh, salt-tinged air. Behind him were the densely forested hills of the Tywi Valley, and in front were the marshes, a lonely, peaceful swath of mud and grass, dappled with sheep. He had called his castle Rhydygors, after the Welsh words for ‘marsh’ and ‘ford’. To his right, just visible on a slight promontory, was the little town of Kermerdyn.

William liked Kermerdyn. Less than a mile distant, it was a prosperous place with several busy wharves. The River Tywi was navigable to the sea, and, as Kermerdyn served a vast hinterland, the town contained wealthy merchants and traders – Welsh, Saxon and Norman. And they were not the only reason the area was rich: its fields had been silted by meandering rivers and were fertile and easy to till. The air was full of the scent of ripening crops, and the bleat of sheep and the contented lowing of cattle could be heard from all directions.

Of course, the region had its problems. The Welsh were no keener on the Normans than the Saxons had been, and resistance to William the Conqueror’s invasion had been fierce. King William Rufus had continued the advance, but although the Normans had managed to secure a strip along the southern coast that extended as far as Pembroc, there were huge tracts to the north that were still held by Welsh princes. Many made life difficult for the Normans.

One of the most powerful was Hywel ap Gronw, an astute politician as well as a mighty warrior. He had reached an agreement with the Normans that worked to the benefit of both sides. It brought a degree of stability to Kermerdyn, and William was happy to work with a man whose word he trusted. He had entertained Hywel just the previous evening, in fact, a pleasant, amiable occasion full of music, stories and good wine. William was less fond of Hywel’s chief counsellor, Gwgan, who was sardonic and clever, and never revealed what he was really thinking.

In his defence, Gwgan had made an excellent marriage to Isabella, a daughter of Lord Baderon of Monmouth – Baderon fervently believed that the best way to ensure a lasting peace was by marrying his Norman daughters to powerful Welshmen, and it was a policy that seemed to work. Moreover, Isabella was a fine woman, and Gwgan seemed a gentler man in her presence.

William knew he should marry, too. He desperately needed an heir. Not only had he amassed a decent fortune, but there was his secret to consider, as well. It would be a pity for that to be lost, just for the want of children in whom he could confide. He supposed he could tell his brother Richard, but Richard was ruthless, hot-headed and volatile, and William was not sure how safe the secret would be in his hands.

So what manner of wife should he take? Not someone like Pulchria, the local butter-maker’s wife – that was for certain! Pulchria was beautiful, it was true, but she was wanton. He had accepted her favours with alacrity when he had first arrived in Kermerdyn, but such behaviour had seemed inappropriate after he had discovered his secret. He winced when he recalled her fury at being rejected.

Then what about someone like Leah, who was married to Richard? She hailed from good Norman stock – kin to the Earl of Shrewsbury, no less – and was a wife worthy of any man. She was kind-hearted, dignified and soft-spoken, and, despite her apparent meekness, the one person in the world who could calm her husband’s violent tendencies.

William sighed. Even with the perfect wife, it would be many years before any children were old enough to trust with his secret. Should he tell a friend instead? He had plenty – Sir Alberic and Sir Sear were his two favourite knights, and Abbot Mabon and Edward, Constable of nearby Kadweli Castle, were certainly men on whom he could rely. Then there was Cornald the butterer – Pulchria’s husband – a man William had liked from the moment they had met.

William sighed again. He could not have explained why, but he was loath to divulge his secret to anyone who was not kin. It was so precious and delicate, and he had to be sure it was passed to the right person – his immortal soul might be imperilled if not. No, he decided, it could only be shared with a son – a boy he could mould for his own purposes.

He stared into the bailey, where his men were practising swordplay with some of Hywel’s troops. The competition was good-natured, although there was an edge that was never present when the Normans trained alone. It was not a bad thing, he thought; he did not want his soldiers growing complacent just because the region was peaceful at the moment.

His musings came to an abrupt end when he felt an uncomfortable gnawing ache in his innards. He stood up straight, trying to stretch out the pain, but it grew worse. Clutching his middle, he sat down and gestured to one of the guards to fetch him some wine. Concerned, the captain of the watch – Sear that day – knelt next to him.

‘Take deep breaths,’ he suggested. ‘You must have eaten something that disagreed with you last night. That butter probably. You have consumed rather a lot of it over the last few days, and it was rancid.’

‘It was not!’ snapped William. Sear disapproved of his friendship with Cornald and was always making disparaging remarks about his wares.

‘It was,’ countered Sear. ‘And you were the only one who ate it. The rest of us declined, and the remainder was dumped in the midden immediately after dinner.’

‘Pulchria sent it to me,’ gasped William, face contorted with pain. ‘And Richard brought it to Rhydygors, because he happened to be passing Cornald’s shop when she was wrapping it.’

The ache was growing steadily worse. He was finding it difficult to breathe and began to fear that there might be something seriously wrong with him. Could it have been the butter? Surely, bad butter would just send a man racing to the latrines, not double him up in agony?

Alarmed, Sear yelled to one of the guards to fetch a surgeon. William was growing weaker, and there was darkness at the edges of his vision. He was vaguely aware of Sear’s strong arms carrying him down the stairs to the chamber that served as bedroom, hall and office. He felt a little better when he was lying down and supposed he must have drowsed, because when he opened his eyes, it was to find the room full of people.

Sear and Alberic were on one side; Abbot Mabon was praying on the other, the monk Delwyn peering hawk-like over his shoulder. Cornald and Constable Edward were at the end of the bed, standing next to Richard and Leah. In the shadows, he thought he could see Hywel and Gwgan, and Isabella too, muttering to Bishop Wilfred. In fact, virtually everyone he knew seemed to be there!

But Edward was away on business, while poor Leah was ill and confined to her bed. New faces swam into focus, and William knew he was hallucinating. He tried to grab Sear’s sleeve, but the knight had dissolved into Cornald. Then William saw his own fingers. They were black and swollen, like those he had seen on corpses kept too long from their grave.