The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

Owain and his sister crouched for a while on the floor alongside their father’s bed, soothing him and talking quietly about old times. None of them made any attempt to avoid the fact that the old man had not long to live, for death in those rural communities was commonplace and accepted. Hywel had already lived much longer than most men, though it was hard that he must go now, knowing that his revered prince had been killed – and along with him the last hope of maintaining Welsh independence.

Rhiannon fed him some warm bread in milk, and their father seemed to gain a little strength, struggling to sit up further on his deathbed. ‘Go to bed now, good girl,’ he commanded. ‘I will talk to Owain for a while.’

Reluctantly, but accustomed to doing what she was told, the middle-aged woman left them, putting a few more oak logs on the fire as she went. As soon as the heavy leather flap that served as a door to the bedroom fell back into place, Hywel seized his son’s hand in a surprisingly strong grasp.

‘I cannot die before telling you something, Owain bach ,’ he wheezed. ‘Our family carries a secret which must be passed on from generation to generation.’

His son frowned, wondering if the old man’s mind was failing along with his body, but he felt he must humour him. ‘Why me, Tâd , for Ralph is the older one?’

Hywel scowled and gripped his son’s hand even harder. ‘I cannot trust him with this; he panders too much to our enemies.’ He paused to cough, white spittle appearing at the corners of his mouth, then continued, though it was an effort to do so.

‘Listen, you know the legend that in times of great crisis Arthur of Caerleon, ancient king of the Britons and Hammer of the Saxons, will come again to save the country in its hour of need?’

Bemused, Owain nodded in the firelight, wondering what this had to do with some family secret. ‘The bards say he never died,’ he conceded, recalling the fairy tales his mother had told him as a child. ‘He is supposed to be sleeping in a cavern with his men, awaiting the call to arms.’

His father slowly shook his head. ‘Wishful thinking, my son. Our bards liked to make a romance out of everything,’ he murmured cynically. ‘Arthur died on the Isle of Avalon and was buried there, long ago in Glastonbury. But the damned English monks dug him up almost a century ago, to prove that the champion of the Britons was really dead and gone, so could no longer be looked to as a future saviour.’

‘Why are you telling me this now, Tâd ?’ muttered Owain, becoming a little impatient when there were far more immediate troubles to be considered.

‘Because the bones of Arthur are no longer in Glastonbury, to be mocked by those who want him proven dead. They were stolen by us and are hidden very near here.’

Owain’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean, stolen by us ? Who are “us”?’

Hywel struggled to sit up even straighter, the effort causing him to gasp for breath. When he had recovered, he explained. ‘A band of brave men took them from Glastonbury – a band led by Meurig ap Rhys, your great-grandfather. He swore that the secret of their hiding place must be handed down through each succeeding generation, and so it came to me from my father, Gruffydd ap Meurig.’

‘And you are loath to pass this on to Ralph?’ asked Owain.

‘He is not to be trusted with such a secret,’ wheezed Hywel contemptuously. ‘Being a creature of the Scudamores and even known to Edmund Crouchback of Grosmont, he might tell them in order to curry more favour. No, it is you, Owain, a true patriot and a fighter who must carry this trust onwards.’

‘But I have no sons. You well know that my wife died barren years ago.’

‘Then pass it to Idwal’s sons! That would be fitting, as he was my eldest boy.’

Owain was dubious. He felt that this must be some romantic fantasy, perhaps with a basis of truth, but exaggerated by the dying mind of his father. Yet the old man was speaking clearly and rationally, with no sign of mental confusion. ‘But what use is this knowledge to us – or anyone else?’ he asked.

Hywel’s dark eyes flashed briefly in the light from the flickering logs and briefly he became almost animated. ‘This may be the time, Owain!’ he hissed. ‘God knows that if ever there was a moment when Wales was in mortal danger, this must be it! With Llewelyn slain, we need Arthur’s return as the only hope of salvation.’

‘But you said that he was dead – he must be, if you have his bones! This old story about him sleeping in a cave is just a fairy tale!’

The old man became agitated, grasping at the blankets with an emaciated hand. ‘Of course it is, boy! But think what a rallying point it would be for Prince Dafydd’s army up north, if it were known that the relics of King Arthur were carried before their host when they marched to battle! Even these Norman-English bastards are fascinated by Arthur, which is why they revered the remains in Glastonbury. It was even old King Henry, curse his black soul, who told the abbot where they were to be found.’

The effort of this long speech exhausted him, and he slumped back against the pillow behind his head.

Suddenly Owain could see what his father was driving at, and a wave of love and admiration swept over him at the clear-sightedness and cunning of the dying old warrior. ‘You think I should take them up north, then, Tâd ?’ he asked, anxious to get a firm direction from the head of the family.

‘I know you meet the local patriots in the Skirrid and other places,’ gasped Hywel. ‘Discuss it with them, but hurry! Every day makes Dafydd more hard pressed in Gwynedd. Take the great king’s remains to him at his castle of Dolwyddelan and trumpet their magic to every minor lord, archer and foot soldier in the country, for them to rally to the aid of our dear land!’

His desperate enthusiasm was infective, and Owain bent closer to the frail figure on the pallet.

‘So where are the bones hidden, Tâd ?’ he whispered.

In the flickering light of the fire-pit, father and son bent their heads together as the secret was passed on.

‘They’ll have you dangling from that, if this becomes known!’ warned Dewi. He pointed at the wooden staircase that wound its way to the upper floor of the tavern, where a rope with a noose on the end hung ominously in the stairwell from a beam above. The large upper chamber was used for the monthly court of the nearby Hundred of Ewyas Harold. Summary justice was carried out on the premises for a whole variety of offences, including hanging for the theft of anything worth more than twelve pence.

‘Supporting Prince Dafydd is now treason, from what we hear,’ confirmed Eifion, the inn-keeper. ‘That sod King Edward has decreed that any Welshman found in arms will be hanged.’

It was now the eve of Christ’s Mass, and a few of those who had assembled two nights earlier were back to meet Owain. Dewi from the Pandy mill was there, with his twenty-year-old son, Caradoc, who was trying to court Owain’s niece, Rosamund Merrick, against the violent objections of her father Ralph.

The dejected patriots huddled together in a corner this time, as there were some other villagers from Llanfihangel crouched around the hearth, also rather despondently celebrating the birth of the Saviour with a few jars of ale.

Owain had patiently explained to his fellow conspirators the substance of his father’s disclosure, eventually overcoming their incredulity. In a low voice he finally asked their opinion on what should be done. ‘I already had half a mind to go up to Gwynedd to join Dafydd’s forces. Now this seems a formidable gift to take him, if it puts more mettle into his men,’ he argued.