The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

And people mourned Daniel as a good man. Gwenllian had completed what John had started, and had been appalled by the extent of Daniel’s dishonesty. But Cole, ever loyal, even to friends who did not deserve it, had persuaded her that nothing could be gained by exposing the monk’s penchant for the castle’s money. So Daniel’s reputation as a fine, generous, upright man remained unsullied.

‘We searched for one villain in all this, but it transpired there were many,’ she said ruefully. ‘Daniel stole from us and his priory, Hywel was a blackmailer, Kyng and Spilmon plotted murder, John and Gilbert joined forces with criminals, and Boleton-’

‘Boleton was the worst of them all,’ finished Cole flatly. ‘You were right about him all along. I should have listened to you more.’

‘If you had listened to me less, he might not have turned against you – it was the fact that I help you with your work that annoyed him.’

‘But then my men would have mutinied instead,’ he said with a rueful grin. ‘They know who organizes their regular pay, decent meals and clean bedding. No, Gwen. Listening to you is a very good idea.’

When they arrived at Merlin’s oak, Cole unbuckled his sword and dagger, placing them on a wide, shelf-like branch to keep them out of the way. Then he touched the spade to the soil and began to dig. The soil yielded easily, as if the tree knew it was time to give up its treasure.

‘We never did learn who killed Daniel,’ said Gwenllian, settling down to watch him. The leaves whispered in the breeze, creating dappled patterns of sun and shade on the grass below. Then there was a rather harder gust, and Cole gave a yelp. The branch had swayed, causing the dagger to drop and strike his shoulder.

‘It was a good thing it was not the sword that fell,’ he grumbled, rubbing it. ‘Or you might be finishing this on your own.’

‘Daniel!’ exclaimed Gwenllian, as all became clear. ‘He stole the priory’s cross and Hywel found it next to his corpse. I understand now! No one killed him – it was an accident!’

She hurried to the other side of the tree and saw a similar shelf-like branch over Hywel’s decoy pit, although it was much higher. Cole climbed up to see scuffs on the bark, where something had rested.

‘He must have set his stolen property here,’ he said, ‘while he dug for the bones-’

‘Lest someone walked by and caught him with it…’

‘But it fell on him as he was patting the last of the turf back into place. It was a heavy thing, and you told me it caught a vulnerable point on his skull.’ Cole shivered suddenly and lowered his voice. ‘But it was not an accident, Gwen – the tree killed him.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Gwenllian, walking around the mighty trunk to their own hole. She could already see the top of the plain, dark-wooded chest that contained the bones, and it would not be long before they had it out. ‘But I do not think it means us harm – it is willing to let Arthur go this time.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Cole, glancing uneasily at the branches above. ‘The sooner he is in Herefordshire, the better. I hope he will be safe there.’

‘He will be,’ said Gwenllian softly, thinking of the sexton in Abbey Dore and of the group of silent, sober men who were even now waiting in the forest – the Guardians were ready to do their duty. One was Meurig’s middle son, Young Meurig, who had always been her favourite nephew. From now on, Arthur’s bones would be watched over by them and by their descendants.

She rested her hand on her belly, smiling as she felt the kick of life within. And by her own sons, of course. After ten years she had all but given up hope of a child, but suddenly she was pregnant. She could not help but wonder whether she owed the miracle to Arthur, or perhaps Merlin, who wanted her heirs to guard Wales’s most precious treasure. She knew it was a son that grew inside her, and she also knew what he was going to be named – Meurig, after the brave, noble man who had set Arthur’s bones on the road to their rightful destiny.

Historical note

Norman-held Carmarthen was attacked by Rhys, Prince of Deheubarth, in 1196, when he sacked the town and burned the castle. The constable at the time was Symon Cole. Lord Rhys died the following year, and his sons turned on each other, giving the Sheriff of Hereford (William de Briouze) ample time to rebuild the fortress in stone. Rhys is thought to have sired at least eighteen children, although tracing them is difficult due to his penchant for giving them the same names (he had at least three Maredudds and two Gwenllians). As was the custom of the day, his daughters were married off to politically important allies.

An entry in the Cartulary of St John, Carmarthen, dated between 1194 and 1198, refers to a deed in which de Briouze donated the church of Ebernant to Carmarthen’s priory. Ebernant had belonged to Lord Rhys, and the gift was to compensate the priory for his attack. The writ’s witnesses include Renald de Boleton, knight, John the clerk, Gilbert, Robert Spilmon, William Kyng and Daniel Adam the chaplain. King Street and Spilman Street are still extant in the town.

There was a famous tree in Carmarthen called Merlin’s oak, but it was probably planted in the seventeenth century, perhaps to mark the Restoration. But local legend maintains it was put there by Merlin, who is said to have been born in the town. The last remnants of the oak were removed from the end of Priory Street in 1978.

The Welsh Marches, December 1282

The tavern-keeper filled a pottery mug with a pint of ale and reached up to place it almost fearfully on the centre of the blackened tree trunk that arched across the simnai fawr , the great fireplace that was built into the thickness of the wall.

‘On a night like this, the devil needs his brew!’ he muttered, crossing himself as paradoxically he pandered to an ancient superstition meant to placate Satan in such foul weather as this.

‘No need, Eifion!’ growled one of the dozen men hunched around the fire on benches. ‘The devil is safe up in Anglesey tonight – the bastard who calls himself King of England!’

The snarl of agreement from the throats of the company was tinged with despair, as it competed with the howl of an icy wind that rattled the shutters and flickered the flames of the few candles and rushlights.

‘Almost two hundred bloody years we’ve fought those swine – and now it’s all over,’ groaned one old fellow, his voice ending in a sob.

A much younger man, in his late thirties, with black hair and deep-set dark eyes, slammed his ale-jar down on a rough table.

‘No, it doesn’t have to be over, damn you! Prince Dafydd is still fighting on up in the north. It’s up to folk like us to give him all the help we can.’

Another man, with a face scarred by old cow-pox, shook his head. This was Dewi, who worked in a fulling mill just up the road. ‘You mean he’s cut off in the north, Owain! And most of our army was massacred at Builth, after Llewelyn was ambushed. What’s the point of carrying on?’

There was a rumble of dissent from some, but others sided with the speaker.

‘What can we few do down here in Erging?’ said one. ‘It’s a hundred miles or more to where Dafydd’s forces lie in the mountains – and Edward’s armies have them squeezed in tighter than an abbot’s arse!’

The drinkers subsided into a doleful silence, hunched around the great hearth like a group of mourners around a coffin – which in reality was fairly near the truth. The main difference was that they had no corpse to mourn, as no one knew for sure where Llewelyn’s body lay, though his severed head was already stuck on a spike at the Tower of London.