The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

‘Meurig?’ echoed Cole, shocked. He groped for her hand. ‘Oh, Gwen! I am so sorry.’

She took a deep breath to compose herself. Symon hated to see her cry, and she did not want him upset. ‘Never mind that – we should talk about you. Do you recall what happened?’

‘Kyng said you were picking off the enemy’s best archers,’ promted Iefan. ‘Were you?’

‘No!’ exclaimed Cole, appalled. ‘I had surrendered, and the prince had accepted my pledge of good behaviour. Of course I was not fighting!’

‘Then tell us who attacked you,’ urged Iefan grimly. ‘I will see he answers for his crime.’

‘It was dark – I could not see.’ But Cole was a poor liar, especially to anyone who knew him.

‘Who was it?’ demanded Gwenllian, thinking she would strangle the culprit with her bare hands; the murderous attack had come far too close to succeeding.

‘All men look alike in winter cloaks,’ Cole murmured, closing his eyes so he would not have to meet hers. ‘It might have been anyone.’

His face was ashen, so she did not press him. He fell into a doze and was still asleep when the prince rode away the next day, taking with him a hefty chunk of Carmarthen’s portable wealth.

The moment the dust settled, the townsfolk began to emerge from their hiding places. Gwilym Kyng was among the first to arrive, anxious to see whether his house was still standing, although he refused to acknowledge that it was Gwenllian’s presence that had saved it from the torch. Spilmon and his insipid wife, whose name Gwenllian could never remember, had accompanied him.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded Iefan coolly. ‘You slipped away like a snake in a-’

‘Of course I fled!’ snapped Kyng. ‘What did you expect? For me to die with you, when Lord Rhys set fire to the place where his enemy lay? But Rhys has gone thank God, and now I want you gone too. Your clerk has arranged you accommodation near the castle, so please leave.’

‘We cannot move Symon yet,’ said Gwenllian, aghast. ‘He is too weak.’

‘I do not care. It is his fault the town lies in ruins – he should have protected us.’

‘Easy, friend,’ whispered Spilmon, embarrassed. ‘He did his best – and almost died for it.’

‘Well, his best was not good enough,’ said Kyng angrily. ‘It will take years for the town to recover from this disaster – if ever. Moreover, the raiders have not only stolen all my cheeses, but they burned my dairy into the bargain. I am ruined! And I want him out of my home. Now!’

‘We are not moving him until he is strong enough,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘So I suggest you lodge elsewhere, if you find his presence so objectionable.’

‘You can stay with me, Gwilym,’ offered Spilmon generously. ‘I am missing a roof, but my downstairs rooms are relatively unscathed.’

‘We cannot accept guests,’ whispered Spilmon’s wife. ‘We have only one bed left.’ Spilmon shot her a pained smile. ‘Then you can lodge with your sister while Gwilym and I stay here in Priory Street. These are trying times, and we must all make sacrifices.’

Mistress Spilmon grimaced, as if she thought her sacrifice was rather greater than her husband’s, but she bowed her head and accepted his decision. Gwenllian raised her eyebrows, thinking she would have strong words to say to Symon if he ever treated her with such rank disregard. She watched the two merchants march away arm in arm, while Mistress Spilmon trailed along behind them.

Daniel was the next to seek them out. He looked exhausted and said he had spent much of the week either burying the dead or absolving the dying. Atrocities had been committed by both sides, and he estimated that more had died during the pillaging than in the initial attack.

‘But at least Symon is not among them,’ he said with a tired smile. ‘I thought he was lost when I saw his wound, but God saw fit to spare him.’

Eventually Boleton arrived, breathless and dishevelled, claiming he had spent the entire time of the occupation rallying Carmarthen’s garrison in the woods, ready to drive the invaders out.

‘I was about to spring into action when I saw them riding away,’ he declared. ‘So I decided to let them go. Why risk the lives of our men when the enemy was leaving anyway?’

‘I am glad you stayed your hand,’ said Cole. The relentless stream of visitors was taking its toll, and his voice was weak. ‘We had surrendered – promised we would not fight again.’

Boleton waved a dismissive hand. ‘That was before Lord Rhys started looting. It would have been he who broke the terms of the truce, not us, and I am sorry I did not get the chance to tackle him.’

‘Boleton’s tale is true,’ said Iefan in a low voice to Gwenllian, seeing the doubt in her face. ‘He did move troops about in the forest – the men told me.’

‘I am sure he did. But moving and intending to attack are two different things.’

She studied Boleton carefully. He was a handsome man in his thirties, who might have done well for himself had he not been so unashamedly lazy. Cole liked having his friend to hand and had created a post for him at the castle, thoughtfully ensuring it was one that did not entail too much work – Boleton’s duties revolved around investigating crime, but as Carmarthen was relatively law-abiding, the effort required to fulfil them was negligible.

Was Boleton telling the truth about what he had been doing for the past week? He did not look as if he had been sleeping rough, and Gwenllian was sceptical of his next tale too – that he had fought off a large band of vicious forest-dwelling robbers single-handed.

John the clerk arrived halfway through it, bursting with administrative matters that required urgent attention. Unfortunately for him, Gwenllian decided Symon had had enough at that point, and ushered everyone out.

‘I cannot leave until I know what to do about the supplies that were stolen,’ objected John in dismay. ‘And there is a missive from the Sheriff of Hereford that requires an immediate answer.’

‘It will have to wait,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘My husband needs to rest now.’

‘It is not him I want – it is you. You make all the important decisions anyway.’ John raised his hands defensively when she started to object. ‘I mean no disrespect, My Lady. It is an arrangement that works very well – your brains and his authority.’

Gwenllian knew it was true, but it sounded disloyal coming from John. Knowing nothing would be gained by sending the man away with a flea in his ear, she dealt with his questions, then walked to Merlin’s oak, grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs at last.

Like the town, the tree bore the ravages of battle. There was a gash of pale wood where a branch had been hacked off, and some of its leaves had been singed. But even so, it stood tall and strong. She ran gentle fingers over the crusty bark and thought her brother had been right to entrust his secret to its care. It exuded an air of comforting permanence, and she had the strange sense that Merlin’s power still coursed through it. She started to walk in a slow circle around its trunk, then stopped in horror when she reached the other side.

There was a gaping pit in the ground. The roots had grown to form a protective cocoon around whatever had been placed there, and someone had used an axe to hack through them.

She stared into the empty hole as she thought about Meurig’s last words. She had tried to stop him from speaking, partly because she had not wanted him to die before Daniel could absolve him, but also because she was sure someone else had been listening – someone who had slipped into Meurig’s house and lurked behind his door. But who?