The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

‘I come with a message from Bailiff Merrick, sir,’ he announced, using the English language. ‘He says that he wishes you to come to a family meeting at his house at noon and bring your sister with you.’

‘Is that all he said?’ Owain was surprised, as his elder brother rarely communicated with him and never invited him to his home, which was in the grounds of the large fortified manor house where the Scudamore family lived.

Taking pity on the lad’s frozen appearance, Owain ladled some cawl from an iron pot at the side of the fire and handed him a wooden bowl of the leek and mutton stew. Gratified, the groom fished a spoon fashioned from a cow’s horn from his pouch and, between appreciative slurps, confirmed that Ralph Merrick had said nothing else at all but had appeared to be in a bad temper – though this seemed to be his usual state of mind.

The boy knew nothing else and after warming himself at the fire for a few moments, he rode off towards Grosmont, this being the caput of the barony, held by Prince Edmund Crouchback, brother of the hated King Edward.

Owain pondered for a while, wondering what crisis could have caused his brother to deign to summon him. Possibly their father’s imminent demise had prompted Ralph to talk about the division of Hywel’s property, though there was precious little of that, as he had not been able to work on his smallholding in Hoadalbert for years, due to his chest troubles. He had given it to Owain for his home and had moved in with Rhiannon.

Owain shrugged and thought he would let events take their course. He decided not to use the cart to take his sister to Kentchurch, but instead saddled up his old mare. Rhiannon could sit behind him on the blanket that underlaid the simple saddle. When he reached Pandy, she was as surprised as he was to learn of their brother’s invitation – or rather command – but she refused to leave her father, who was getting weaker and was now only half-conscious. Her husband was working in the mill, and she would not leave her two children alone with a dying man.

Owain knew better than to try to persuade her, for she was a strong-willed woman – and indeed, by the looks of his father, he was not likely to last the day.

‘I’ll come back as soon as I can, cariad ,’ he promised, ‘to tell you what our dear brother wanted and to sit with Tâd for the rest of the day – and night, if needs be.’

As it was approaching mid-morning, he rode back along the track, taking care to avoid the worst patches of ice so that his mare would not lose her footing. The wind had dropped and it was a clear, still day, with patches of pale blue sky appearing between the clouds. As he passed through the village of Grosmont, he saw that work had already restarted on the castle after the holy day break. Prince Edmund was strengthening the fortifications of the compact but menacing fortress and increasing the living accommodation. Edmund Crouchback, so called from the Cross he had emblazoned on his shoulders at the Crusades, was Earl of Lancaster and Leicester and, though he had numerous possessions elsewhere, he seemed intent on making this remote corner of the Welsh Marches his principal home.

Cursing Edmund, Edward and all the damned Plantagenet brood as he rode past, Owain crossed the little bridge over the Monnow and turned down the long track that led through the wide Scudamore lands to Kentchurch Court. However, he did not need to ride that far, as his brother’s house was near the barton, the demesne farm that served the domestic needs of the Scudamores. As bailiff, the controller of all outside work at the manor and overseer of all the bound and free workers, he had a substantial dwelling. It was a stone building with three rooms and a stable at one end. A chimney protruded from the other end, as there was a hearth instead of the cruder fire-pit, and it was in this room that Ralph Merrick had assembled his family for the meeting.

His wife, Alice, a thin woman with a sharp face and a tongue to match, sat on a settle near the fire, with her pretty daughter, Rosamund, seated alongside her, looking pale and nervous.

The two sons sat on a bench opposite, looking ill at ease in their father’s presence. The elder was John, at twenty-five a huntsman for the Scudamores, in charge of the hounds. He was a stocky fellow, with fair hair inherited from his Saxon mother, and a narrow rim of beard running around his jaw. He wore a dark green tunic over breeches and riding boots, with a hunting horn hanging from a thick leather belt.

His brother, William, two years younger, was heavily built like his father. He had a mop of dark brown hair, shaved up to a line above his ears in the old Norman style. A jerkin and serge breeches were usually covered by a thick leather apron, but he had left this in the stable, as his job as the estate butcher and slaughterman had fouled it with bloodstains. His otherwise comely features were marred by a bad turn in his left eye, which failed to follow the movements of the other.

The focal point of this family gathering was Ralph Merrick, a tall, erect man with a permanently truculent expression. He was forty-five, born seven years before Owain. Heavy features and a ruddy complexion made him unlike his brother, apart from the deep-set eyes that were a family trait.

‘I told you to bring our sister,’ he snapped as a greeting. ‘Where is she?’ He spoke in English, though he also had a fair grasp of Norman-French, the language of his masters.

‘She cannot leave our dying father, and her husband has to be in the mill all day,’ replied Owain, deliberately speaking in Welsh.

‘For God’s sake, speak in English,’ snapped his brother irritably. ‘You know Alice can’t understand the peasants’ talk.’

‘It was good enough for you when you were young!’ retorted Owain. ‘You never heard a word of English until you were ten years old.’

He suspected that Alice understood far more than she admitted, but this pretence was all part of their craven attachment to the Marcher lords and their tenants, who were ruthlessly annexing what for untold centuries had been Welsh lands.

‘Why have you asked me here today?’ he demanded, never one to be overawed by his domineering brother. ‘Our father cannot live much longer, so I trust you are going to come to visit him while he still breathes?’

‘I was there last week,’ growled Ralph. ‘And if my duties here permit, I will ride over in the morning.’

‘You may well be too late,’ retorted Owain. ‘Since Idwal died, you are the eldest son and must lead the family.’

Ralph dismissed this with a wave of his hand. ‘I summoned you here because I have heard very disturbing news about your activities,’ he began ominously. ‘It has come to my ears that you are encouraging men to go with you to join the rebel Dafydd. Are you mad, brother!’ His voice had risen to a shout.

Owain was shocked, for this meant that someone had betrayed him. ‘Who has told you this? I am a Welshman, as you are, and I am free to fight this oppression against my homeland!’

‘The king has declared all such rebels as traitors and the penalty is death,’ thundered Ralph. ‘You say I will soon be the head of this family, so I intend to prevent it from falling into disrepute by having a traitor as a brother!’

Owain, now in a rage himself, pointed a quivering finger at Ralph. ‘You’ll not tell me what I can or can’t do, Rhodri ap Hywel!’ he shouted, deliberately using his brother’s real name. ‘If you were not so besotted with crawling around the English who have settled on our land, you would join me on this journey to Gwynedd!’

Alice squealed her protests at the quarrel that had flared up, and the two sons had risen to their feet, looking aggressively at their uncle. Ralph, bright red in the face, advanced on Owain, shaking a fist at him.