The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

She racked her brains, trying to think who might have spotted her kneeling next to her brother and come to see whether he was confiding details of hidden money. Everyone with sense had buried what they could when the attack had started, so it was not inconceivable that someone had surmised that he was telling her the whereabouts of hastily concealed wealth.

She closed her eyes, recalling the people she had seen – Kyng and Spilmon; John the clerk; Boleton, before he had escaped to the forest; Gilbert the Thief. Meanwhile, Hywel had gone to fetch Daniel but had taken longer than he should have done – perhaps he had returned to listen to what his father had to say. Or was the villain one of Lord Rhys’s men, and the precious relics were even now being toted east?

But would anyone have the audacity to lay thieving hands on King Arthur’s bones? Of course they would, she thought grimly, because such items were worth a king’s ransom – no religious foundation would pass up the opportunity to buy such a prize. And there was Glastonbury to consider – its abbot would no doubt be delighted to receive back what had been taken from him.

Trying to track them down after so many days would be impossible, and she dropped to her knees and wept when she saw she had let Meurig down – she had lost what he had given his life to protect.

Summer 1198

It was more than two years since Lord Rhys had attacked Carmarthen. Buoyed up by the ease of his victory, he had gone on to sack Colwyn and Radnor, and the Normans had been hard-pressed to contain the grizzled old warrior. Then he had died suddenly, and his heirs were more interested in sparring with each other than harrying Marcher lords. Peace reigned, albeit an uneasy one, giving Carmarthen a chance to recover.

The first task was to repair the castle. The Marcher lords had learned their lesson with fortresses made of wood, so Carmarthen was rebuilt in stone. It was not long before the keep had been given a sturdy curtain wall studded with towers. The bailey was extended too, and deeper ditches dug for defence. Meanwhile, the townsfolk plundered the surrounding forest for wood and pilfered nails from the castle-builders, so houses and shops were soon restored as well. Apart from a grassy knoll in St Peter’s churchyard, where those killed in the raid had been buried, there was little to remind the inhabitants of the horrors of Lord Rhys’s visit.

It was a busy time for Gwenllian. As constable, it was Cole’s responsibility to oversee the building work, and once he had recovered he flung himself into the physical side of the operation with great enthusiasm, leaving his wife to manage what he considered the mundane tasks – organizing labour rotas, commissioning supplies and hiring suitable craftsmen. With his brute strength and her talent for administration, the work proceeded apace, and she had scant opportunity to dwell on Meurig’s death or the loss of Arthur’s bones.

One day, when the project was nearing completion, they stood together on the new battlements, enjoying the warmth of a summer evening as the sun set in a blaze of red-gold over the Tywi Valley. By standing on tiptoe, Gwenllian could see the topmost branches of Merlin’s oak, just visible between St Peter’s Church and the towers of the priory beyond. Some judicial pruning had corrected its lopsided appearance, and the great gash in its bark had healed.

Although she rarely thought of the chest Meurig had buried, she did consider it then, wondering again who had stolen it. She had expected to hear of the relics being offered for sale – Lord Rhys had sired a number of children, legitimate and otherwise, which meant Gwenllian had a large complement of half-brothers and sisters to supply her with news and gossip, and little happened that was not reported to her. But there had not been so much as a whisper about the bones. It both puzzled and irritated her – she did not like mysteries.

She had been pondering the matter for some time before it occurred to her that Cole was unusually quiet. He was normally full of chatter at the end of the day, eager to tell her whom he had met and what he had done, and it was rare for him to be silent. She regarded him in concern.

‘What is wrong, Symon?’

He pulled himself from his reverie and shot her an unconvincing smile. ‘Nothing.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Do not lie – we both know you are hopeless at it. So tell me what is the matter. I am sure we will be able to find a solution – we usually do.’

‘ You usually do,’ he corrected glumly. ‘Very well, then. Daniel was murdered last night.’

‘Our chaplain?’ she cried in horror. ‘Why would anyone kill him? Who have you arrested?’

Cole grimaced. ‘No one – I do not know who was responsible.’

‘Then what are you doing to find the culprit? I cannot imagine Daniel had enemies – he had his faults, of course, but he was a tolerant, patient confessor and that alone made him popular.’

‘What faults?’ asked Cole, a little sharply. Daniel was his friend – two Normans a long way from home, who shared a fondness for horses and fine wine.

Gwenllian touched his arm sympathetically, seeing it was not a good time to remind him that the monk had been rather worldly for a man sworn to poverty – he preferred the rich foods available at the castle to the simple fare of his priory, and never declined gifts from his flock. But his gentle compassion in the confessional meant people tended to view his weaknesses with indulgent affection. She doubted anyone would have killed him over them.

‘He was wealthy for a monk,’ she mused, trying to think of another motive. ‘Perhaps he was the victim of a robbery.’

‘No, because he still had his purse – it was the first thing I checked. It contained six pennies and a little phial of something I assumed to be holy water.’

‘Tell me what you know of his death,’ she ordered, not bothering to point out that felons tended to run away if they were disturbed, so the presence of the purse proved nothing one way or the other.

‘He celebrated a special Mass for the castle carpenters last night. Afterwards he and I shared a jug of wine in the hall, and it was dark by the time he left. He was killed on his way home.’

‘How did he die?’

‘He was hit over the head with something heavy.’

‘Where did it happen?’

‘By Merlin’s oak, which is within spitting distance of his priory.’ Cole’s voice broke as he added: ‘He was almost home.’

‘When was he found?’ asked Gwenllian, touching his arm a second time.

‘This morning. His brethren did not worry when he failed to return last night, because his duties as castle chaplain often keep him out late. His body was discovered at dawn, by my clerk.’

‘What was John doing there at such an hour?’ Gwenllian was immediately suspicious. ‘He lives here in the castle and has no reason to be on the other side of town at dawn.’

‘I did not ask. I suppose I shall have to interview him again.’ Cole did not sound enthusiastic.

‘Are there any witnesses to this horrible crime?’

‘If there were, they would have told me the name of the culprit, and he would be in my prison,’ replied Cole, uncharacteristically curt. ‘So, no, Gwen. No one saw what happened.’

But she knew what was really troubling him. ‘You offered to escort him home after the wine was finished. I heard you. But he refused. Do not even think of blaming yourself.’

He stared morosely into the bailey below. ‘I should have insisted. The people of Carmarthen have a poor bargain in me – I fail to protect them from raiders, and I fail to protect their monks.’

‘They could do a lot worse,’ she said briskly before he could grow too dejected. ‘And we shall avenge Daniel’s death by bringing his killer to justice.’