The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

But Iefan was still thinking about Boleton. ‘Maybe he was picking off the enemy, and the prince’s men mistook the two of them in the dark – both are knights, of roughly the same size. Or maybe Boleton convinced Sir Symon to join him, although if he did they were not doing it for long – Sir Symon was gone from me for only a few moments.’

A decade of marriage to a soldier told Gwenllian that a dagger was responsible for her husband’s injury, but she was shocked to note its position: he had been stabbed in the back. What had he been doing to sustain such a wound? Had he and Boleton been waging a small war of their own? It did not seem likely, given Symon’s low opinion of truce-breakers. But Boleton had a sly tongue, and it would not be the first time he had used mangled logic to bring his slower-witted friend around to his way of thinking.

But it was no time to ponder. The cut was deep and had bled profusely, but it was also clean, and she thought she could repair the damage – with care and warmth, Symon might yet survive. She stood, feeling the horror and helplessness recede as grim resolve took over. She had lost a brother that day, but she was damned if she was going to lose a husband too.

‘We are taking him to Kyng’s house,’ she announced. ‘It is the nearest safe place.’

‘It is safe here,’ objected Daniel. ‘No one will attack a house of God.’

Gwenllian was not so sure about that, especially once the invaders got at Carmarthen’s copious supplies of ale and wine. And the church was a large building – too large for Iefan and his men to defend effectively. But no good would come of alarming them with grim predictions. ‘It is too cold,’ she said instead. ‘And Symon needs a fire. Lift him gently, and follow me.’

Kyng’s door was barricaded when they arrived, but she hammered and yelled until the cheese-maker had no choice but to answer – the rumpus was attracting attention. He was furious.

‘You cannot bring him in here!’ he hissed. ‘He broke the prince’s ceasefire, and that is why he was stabbed. I do not want my property incinerated as punishment for sheltering the enemy.’

‘I do not care what you want,’ snapped Gwenllian. ‘Stand aside.’

Kyng opened his mouth to argue, but there was something in her regal glare that warned him against it. Muttering venomously, he did as he was told. Iefan and his men carried Cole inside, and Gwenllian followed, heartened to note that there was a good fire burning in the hearth.

‘It is not as if Kyng has a family to consider – he is unmarried,’ muttered Iefan resentfully. Then he glanced around uneasily. ‘Where has he gone? It had better not be to bleat to the enemy that the constable lies here – the constable who was injured after the fighting was supposed to have stopped. Perhaps we had better move-’

‘We are not going anywhere,’ said Gwenllian firmly, acutely aware that Symon would not survive any more jostling. ‘We shall set a guard on the door – you can take it in turns.’

‘ I cannot,’ said Daniel apologetically. ‘Others are dying too, and they also need my prayers. But you have Iefan, and Boleton will be about somewhere. When I see him, I shall send him to you – he will help.’

‘Assuming he is not fighting,’ muttered Iefan under his breath.

For everyone’s sake, including Boleton’s own, Gwenllian sincerely hoped he was not.

The night was one of the longest Gwenllian could remember. There was an orange glow in the sky where the castle still burned, and the street outside was full of noise – the raiders were drunk and growing increasingly wild. Skirmishes broke out as they squabbled over spoils, and the sound of clashing arms and screams made her want to put her hands over her ears. But no one attacked Kyng’s home. Iefan thought the thick door and shuttered windows were responsible, but Gwenllian knew the truth – that Lord Rhys had somehow learned his daughter was within and had ordered the place to be left alone.

Cole failed to improve as the hours dragged by, and she began to think Daniel might be right – he was going to die, and her determination to save him was not enough.

‘He keeps asking for Boleton,’ she whispered to Iefan, distressed by the patient’s agitated entreaties. ‘He would rest easier if Boleton were here, so where is he? Why does he not come?’

‘He must be with the men in the forest,’ replied Iefan. ‘He cannot know what has happened, or wild horses would not stop him from being here. He and Sir Symon are closer than brothers.’

During a quiet spell, Gwenllian went to the door for some fresh air. The priory had been set alight, illuminating Merlin’s oak in a stark silhouette. It was oddly lopsided, and she recalled Meurig’s fear that it was no longer capable of protecting the bones.

It occurred to her that she should send some of Cole’s men to guard them – it was not a good idea to leave them unattended when the town was full of men who were of a mind to steal. Obviously she could not tell them what they were minding, but she was perfectly capable of fabricating a tale they would believe. Unfortunately she knew they would refuse to leave their master. And she could not go herself – not only would she not abandon Symon either, but she could hardly excavate a heavy chest and spirit it away by herself.

Then her eye lit on a familiar, lanky figure. Gilbert the Thief was not the first man she would have turned to for help, but she was hardly overwhelmed with choices.

‘Gilbert,’ she called softly. ‘Come over here.’

The thief looked around uneasily, as if he imagined there might be another Gilbert in the area. By rights, he should have been hanged years before, but Cole disliked executions and preferred to incarcerate him in the castle prison instead. And Gilbert was not very good at his trade anyway – what he stole was invariably recovered – and people tended to regard him more as a lovable rogue than a criminal.

‘Will you do something for me?’ she asked when he was close enough to hear. ‘Will you stand by Merlin’s oak until I send someone to relieve you? I will pay you for your trouble.’

Gilbert’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Why?’

‘Because of the legend,’ she lied. ‘The one that says Carmarthen will cease to exist if the tree should fall. I thought you might like the honour of making sure that does not happen.’

Pride filled Gilbert’s face but then faded away. ‘I am sorry, lady, but I cannot. I have things to do, and it is more than my life is worth to ignore them.’

‘What things?’ she demanded indignantly. ‘What is more important than saving your town?’

Gilbert became flustered. ‘Just things, lady. It is best you do not ask – what you do not know cannot harm you. Just go back inside and pretend you never saw me.’

He left abruptly when shouts indicated the revellers were coming back. Gwenllian put her face in her hands and wished the night was over.

It was almost a week before Lord Rhys adjudged his warriors to be sufficiently sober to march to the next Norman castle he wanted destroyed. During that time the townsfolk – Norman, English and Welsh alike – were ordered to remain either in their homes or the priory. Cole hovered at the brink of death for four days, but then his fever broke and he slipped into a more natural sleep. When he woke, he asked for Boleton again.

‘He is in the forest, keeping our men in order until the prince leaves,’ replied Iefan with more confidence than Gwenllian felt was warranted.

Cole accepted the explanation though, and it was one time when she was grateful for his ingenuous habit of believing everything he was told. Then, before she could stop him – it was hardly a suitable subject for a sickroom – Iefan began to recite the names of everyone who had died in the raid, and she felt tears scald her eyes when Meurig’s was among them.