The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

Abbey Dore was a large and very rich abbey at the bottom of the Golden Valley, which ran down the eastern edge of the Black Mountains.

Owain was on the point of letting Father Samson into the secret, but after having castigated Caradoc for the same indiscretion he decided to keep quiet.

The diggers adjourned to the Skirrid for well-earned refreshment, during which Owain was beset with people offering their sympathy for the loss of his father. Eventually he was able to retire to a corner of the taproom with Dewi, his son and two others, Alun and Cynan, who had offered to go with him to Gwynedd.

‘We have to see my father safely into the ground tomorrow,’ he began soberly. ‘Then we need to carry out his last wishes, by recovering these relics and taking them to our prince up north.’

Dewi nodded in agreement. ‘The will of a dying man, especially one with the courage of Hywel ap Gruffydd, must be respected. So what are we going to do?’

‘It’s time to tell you where the bones of Arthur rest,’ said Owain. ‘And this time, no one – and I mean no one,’ he added, glaring at the abashed Caradoc. ‘No one breathes a single word until our task is accomplished… is that understood?’

There were nods and grunts from the four heads that were inclined close to his. Then he stood up and swallowed the rest of his ale. ‘Come outside. I’ll not reveal the hiding place in an alehouse, as I said before.’

They trooped out into the cold afternoon, but there was no wind and even a weak winter sun made it just bearable to sit on the tailboard of his heavy two-wheeled cart while he related the story he had heard from his father.

‘Hywel told me what he had learned from his father years ago,’ he began. ‘After the relics were retrieved from Glastonbury by a group of patriots, they were taken to Carmarthen, where they were hidden for a few years. The leader of the group was Meurig, one of the sons of the Lord Rhys, but ironically, when Rhys attacked the Normans in that town, they were in such danger that they were moved on to a safer place.’

‘What happened to this Meurig?’ asked Alun.

‘He died of wounds in the fighting at Carmarthen but managed to pass the secret to his sister, who called the remaining Guardians – I don’t know how. His half-brother, also called Meurig, led these men, and he was my great-grandfather!’

Dewi nodded wisely; for a miller he was well versed in Welsh history. ‘It was common for brothers to have the same name, as so many died in infancy. That same Lord Rhys, who is your ancestor, had no fewer than three sons called Meredydd.’

‘But where did they take these relics?’ demanded Caradoc impatiently.

Owain looked around cautiously at the empty countryside. ‘Abbey Dore!’ he murmured.

‘The abbey! What the hell did they take them there for?’ exclaimed Cynan, sounding indignant. ‘Those Cistercians were all Frenchmen then! They would have no truck with anything to do with Arthur, unless perhaps they were from Brittany.’

Dewi shook his head. ‘They came from Burgundy, that lot.’

‘And they must have known that the real bones were still in Glastonbury,’ objected Cynan. ‘The abbot there made great play with the news of their discovery, so that he could attract even more pilgrims and their pennies.’

Owain held up his hand to placate them. ‘Don’t fret over that! This ancestor of mine, this Meurig, was a drover and he knew many people between Carmarthen and Hereford. One was a Welshman, who became sexton at Abbey Dore.’

‘What good was that?’ muttered Alun.

‘It seems that this man was sympathetic to all things Welsh. Meurig took the box of bones on a packhorse when he was driving the next herd of cattle to Hereford and prevailed on this sexton to hide them at Abbey Dore.’

‘But why there, of all places?’ persisted Cynan.

‘Meurig felt that it was right for a Christian king to be buried in consecrated ground, as he was in Glastonbury,’ said Owain. ‘It would not have been seemly for him to be stuffed into some unhallowed field or bog.’

Dewi nodded sagely. ‘Arthur was certainly a devout man – he bore the image of the Virgin on his shield at the battle of Mount Badon, where he defeated the Saxons.’ Caradog became impatient with his father’s tale-telling. ‘So how are we going to get him back?’ he demanded.

Owain shook his head at the impetuousness of youth. ‘Straight after the funeral tomorrow, I’ll go over to the abbey and see how the land lies.’

With that, the others had to be content.

The whole village turned out to the funeral and, as legally he was the chief mourner, Hywel’s eldest son Ralph grudgingly attended, with John and William but not his wife or daughter.

The priest droned the Mass in poor Latin and then unusually gave a more sincere eulogy in Welsh at the graveside, to Ralph’s annoyance. There were no formalities after the coffin had been lowered into the frosty ground, but all the villagers filed past Ralph and Owain at the church door, briefly offering their sympathy and respect. With hardly a word to his brother, Ralph left as soon as propriety allowed, leaving the small group of conspirators to fill in the grave with the lumpy, frozen earth.

Owain stood for while with his two nephews, sadly contemplating the tumbled soil in the bare patch among the winter-shrivelled grass of the churchyard. Then he pulled himself upright and sent Arwyn and Madoc back to their homes and wives in Garway. When they had gone, he went over to the yard behind the Skirrid tavern, where his fellow conspirators were waiting.

‘Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you?’ asked Dewi anxiously.

Owain shook his head. ‘This is only a scouting visit, to make contact with the sexton,’ he said. ‘I can do it quicker on my old nag than with the cart – though we may have to take that to fetch the box.’

They watched him ride off, trotting up the Hereford track in the clear cold of the December day.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about all this,’ muttered Dewi. ‘God grant that my resolve holds, to leave home and hearth to risk my life for a desperate cause up in Gwynedd.’

It took Owain the better part of two hours to cover the eight miles to Abbey Dore. A mile or so short of the monastery, he passed the small castle of Ewyas Harold, sitting on its mound. He half-expected some challenge to be called out by the sentinel on the gate, but the man thankfully ignored him.

‘The bastard probably thinks the Welsh are finished for good now that Llewelyn’s dead,’ he muttered, but it gave him pause to think about returning with the casket of bones. There was no way he could get past here with the cart, as its creaking wheels could be heard a quarter of a mile away in the stillness of the night, when there was supposed to be a curfew. Either they would have to come back in the day, with a load of legitimate goods in the cart, or else carry the box across country, though he had no idea of its weight or size.

Soon the huge abbey came in sight, nestling in the lush Golden Valley, with the slopes of the Black Mountains on one side and the fertile land stretching away into England on the other. The great church, with its square tower and huge nave was surrounded by numerous stone buildings that housed the chapter house, dormitories, refectories, guest rooms, hospital and all the other accoutrements of a prosperous monastery. The surrounding land was dotted with sheep and held strip fields which, in season, would be filled with corn, barley, oats and vegetables.

Owain was cautious in his approach, not wanting to attract too much attention to himself, but played the part of a traveller seeking rest and refreshment. He walked his horse into the guest-house yard and offered two pennies to a lay brother who was the ostler in the stables. For this subscription to the abbey treasury, the man readily agreed to water and feed the mare, telling Owain to go into the hall kept for travellers to get some potage and ale. When he came out, he asked the ostler if Meredydd was still the sexton.