The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

They gave their sincere thanks to the sexton, who Owain suspected would have joined them on their trip to Gywnedd, given the chance. ‘If anything goes wrong, you can always bring it back here,’ said Meredydd as they prepared to leave. ‘I can still pass on the sacred trust to my sons.’ He stood gazing after them as they trundled away, his Welsh fervour reawakened after all these years.

‘A good man. A pity we don’t have twenty thousand more like him,’ growled Dewi, as Abbey Dore slowly faded from view behind them.

They reached Garway without incident, the guards at Ewyas Harold taking no more notice of them than they had on the outward journey. Owain decided that he could not leave for Gwynedd for several days yet, as there were arrangements to be made with his sister and nephews. He needed to make sure they would not suffer for being linked with a felonious rebel and intended to slip quietly away with the three others. With luck, no one at Grosmont or Kentchurch would notice their absence for some time.

Madoc, who was the reeve at the farm run by the Templars at Garway Preceptory, lived in a cottage just outside the tiny cluster of houses that formed the village. The land sloped down from there towards the Monnow, the preceptory being between the village and the church. The home of the three Templars was a collection of stone buildings, with quarters for the knights, a sergeant and several lay brothers, including a few clerks, as the preceptory acted as the administrative headquarters for all the Templar properties and farms in South and West Wales.

Owain’s ox-cart creaked its way to the farm, which was separated from the preceptory by a few acres of pasture, where Madoc anxiously awaited them. They unloaded their straw into a barn, which already held a large amount, and unobtrusively slid the precious box beneath the large mound.

‘It’ll be safe enough there for a few days,’ said Madoc. ‘No one will need any of that straw. We have a different store for the horses’ bedding.’

They went over to Madoc’s dwelling where his handsome wife Olwen warmed them before the fire and fed them cawl and fresh bread.

‘Have you looked inside the box?’ asked Madoc, who was fascinated by the thought that he had actually carried the remains of the greatest figure in the ancient history of the Britons.

Owain shook his head. ‘I have kept it out of sight ever since we collected it,’ he answered. ‘But I’m not sure I want to look. These are powerful relics!’

‘Best make sure, Owain,’ said Olwen ‘You don’t want to struggle all the way to Dolwyddelan and then find you’ve given the prince a load of stones or beef bones.’

They talked it over for a while and eventually, with Dewi’s added persuasion, Owain saw the sense of Olwen’s caution and agreed to open the box briefly before taking it away.

With the evening approaching, they took their leave and the cart rumbled away, leaving the great king to slumber under a pile of straw in a Templars’ barn, perhaps an appropriate place for such a devout warrior.

When they reached Hoadalbert, Dewi left to walk the couple of miles to Pandy. After settling his oxen, Owain threw a few logs on to the smouldering ashes in his fire-pit to warm the room for the night, then he wrapped himself in a couple of blankets and, after offering up a prayer for his father’s soul, settled down on the hay-stuffed mattress in the corner.

It would be the last time he ever slept in his house.

Next day Owain was back at Madoc’s cottage and went with him down to the barton, the home farm of the Templars, to check on the bones. Owain’s presence there would cause no comment from the few lay brothers and outside labourers, as being a carter he often came to the farm. In fact the preceptory was one of his main customers, as he brought in much of their supplies and carried a lot of their produce to market in Abergavenny, Monmouth and Hereford.

They went into the barn and pulled out the large box, handling it with some reverence. Though almost a century old, the hard oak looked in good condition despite being buried for so long.

‘Just a quick look, to make sure there really are bones in there,’ said Owain, rather hesitantly.

‘It’s not locked – just a tight-fitting lid,’ observed his nephew, tentatively poking at the top edge. It took more than that to open it, as the wood had swollen and distorted over the years, and Owain had to use the edge of a large, rusty hay-knife to prise it apart. Eventually the lid creaked open on its corroded brass hinges, revealing a layer of mould-stained linen covering the contents. Gingerly pulling that aside, they gazed down on a jumbled heap of mottled brown bones, some of which even their inexpert eyes recognised as human, especially as they glimpsed the rounded calvarium of a skull. They stared for a moment in awe, then spontaneously crossed themselves and mumbled a prayer in Welsh.

‘That’s enough!’ said Owain abruptly and pulled the linen back across the remains. ‘Let greater men than us do what they must with them.’

As he was about to lower the lid, Madoc pointed to something lying between the cloth coverlet and the side of box.

‘There’s a pouch there. It might be important.’

Owain lifted it out, a damp leather bag with a drawstring, patches of green mould growing thickly on its surface. Loosening the string, he looked inside, but there was nothing there but a small quantity of yellowish slime at the bottom. With a shrug, he put the pouch back again and closed the lid, pounding the warped wood until it sat firmly in place.

They pushed the heavy box back under the straw and returned to Madoc’s house, but just as they reached the door they heard the sound of hooves coming at a canter, and a brown gelding dashed into the yard, bearing Arwyn on its back. He almost fell off in his haste and rushed across to them.

‘Owain, you must hide. They are searching for you!’ he gasped, grabbing at his uncle’s sleeve. ‘A man I often employ to help me with the thatching is working at Grosmont, and he came just now to tell me that Crouchback’s sergeant-at-arms has gone out of the castle with a couple of men to arrest you!’

Owain stared at him in surprise. ‘What the hell for?’

‘It seems someone has denounced you as a traitor, intending to join the rebels fighting the king!’ gabbled Arwyn. ‘You must flee at once – hide yourself, for when they know you are not at home in Hoadalbert, my house and this place will be their next targets!’

‘Bloody Ralph Merrick, that’s who it will be!’ snarled Madoc. ‘He’d sell his own brother to curry favour with those bastards at Grosmont.’

The two nephews hustled Owain away, urging him to vanish into the countryside for the time being and hide somewhere until he could slip away to North Wales.

‘We’ll meet you after dark at the dead elm on the banks of the Monnow,’ promised Arwyn. ‘I’ll bring some food and a blanket for you. Now go, for God’s sake. We’ll put them off with some tale about you having already gone away!’

Dazed, but responding to their genuine fears, Owain trotted out of the barton and then downhill past the church, keeping going until he reached the thickly wooded strip of land that ran along the river. He vanished into the trees and loped for a mile deeper into the woods until he found a badger sett and sank into it gratefully, pulling his cloak around him as tightly as he could. Thankfully, the really icy weather had moderated and the wind was coming from the west, which meant rain by tomorrow. He sat there pondering who might have given him away, to send him scurrying into the forest like a hunted animal. Though Madoc had immediately put the blame on Ralph, Owain could hardly believe that his own brother would denounce him to the English.