The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

With a sigh he carried on to collect the pig in the cart and take it down to Rhiannon, who would be devastated to hear this new turn in their lives.

Owain never had any realistic hope of eluding capture, especially as he was not even aware that he was being hunted for murder rather than for being an alleged renegade.

Late that afternoon he was woken from a sleepy reverie in his badger hole by the distant sound of baying hounds. At first he thought that it was probably a hunt for deer or foxes out of Kentchurch and decided to lie low and let them pass him by.

But soon it became apparent that they were closing in, and he began to hear men shouting and the crack of snapped branches.

Owain got up and listened more intently, then decided to make for the river, to wade across and lose any scent of him that the hounds may have picked up.

He was too late. Before he had got fifty paces, a dozen hounds broke cover, including several lymers and running-dogs, which hunted by scent rather than sight. Though they did not attack him, they surrounded him and began barking and howling, so that soldiers soon crashed through the undergrowth and seized him roughly, throwing him to the ground. As he managed to look up as they lashed his wrists behind his back, he saw his nephew John Merrick calling his hounds back, managing to avoid looking at his captive uncle.

‘John, for Christ’s sake!’ he called in a strangled voice, for a burly soldier had his boot planted on his back. ‘What’s this all about? Was it you who denounced me?’

The fair-haired man dropped his gaze to Owain, with a look of hate on his face. ‘Denounce you? You mean accuse you! You killed my father, you cowardly swine!’

As he was pulled to his feet by a couple of men-at-arms, Owain stared at John in bewilderment. ‘Killed Ralph? He is dead?’

‘Don’t play the innocent! You struck him a cowardly blow from behind! Could you not fight him like a man, face to face?’

Before he could respond, Owain was dragged roughly by the rope around his wrists towards the nearest path, where Sergeant Shattock appeared, out of breath.

‘Good work, lads. You’ve got the bastard!’ He accompanied his words with a vicious punch to Owain’s face, before turning and leading them away from the river, up towards the church and the village.

‘What are we going to do with him?’ asked one of the soldiers, a rough-looking man with a face like a pig.

‘Until he’s hanged, lock him up,’ snapped the sergeant.

‘The castle’s no good, then,’ grumbled the ugly man. ‘The tower that had the lock-up has been pulled down and half the outer wall of the bailey is missing.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that!’ rasped Shattock, who until that moment had not given it a thought. He rubbed his bristly chin as he strode forward, then made up his mind. ‘We’ll use the church tower for now, until the steward decides what to do with him. That’s used as a lock-up for drunks and poachers.’

It was true that a room at the base of the massive, squat tower of Garway was sometimes used for securing petty offenders and was known by the villagers as ‘the prison’. The tower had been erected some years earlier by the Templars when they rebuilt the ancient church and added their circular nave. It was a few yards distant from the church itself and intended more as a defence against marauding Welsh than for any religious function.

Owain was dragged out of the woods and across the now-bare strip fields towards Garway. The sergeant marched ahead, then dismissed most of his men, telling them to return to Grosmont, leaving himself and three soldiers to handle Owain. After a few pointless struggles against his captors, he gave up and stumbled along behind them, staggering now and then as they gave a malicious tug to the rope that bound him.

Below the tiny hamlet, they struck up the hillside, past the grey buildings of the preceptory, to reach the church. The familiar surroundings crowded into Owain’s consciousness: the farm, which he visited so often with his cart, and the church itself where he had taken the sacrament only a few days ago.

The sergeant and his men hustled him into the churchyard and across to the tower, which stood alone like a massive stone thumb, with its four-sided conical roof and a pair of arrow-slits high up on each side.

‘Hold him there, while I get that door open,’ snapped Shattock and left them pressing their captive against the cold stone alongside a heavy door. He marched into the church through the south door and returned with a large key, almost as long as his forearm. An elderly man followed him out, with grey hair and full beard, wearing the brown habit of a Templar lay brother. Recognizing Owain, he demanded to know what trouble he was in.

‘He’s a rebel and a murderer!’ snapped the sergeant. ‘We must keep him confined until he’s hanged.’

‘Are you sure you have consent for this?’ called the sexton, as the sergeant thrust the key into a hole in the tower door.

‘It’s at the command of the steward of Grosmont – and will be confirmed by Prince Edmund when he arrives,’ lied Shattock brusquely. ‘We have no means of keeping a prisoner at the castle while the building work is going on.’

The sexton was not impressed by this, as the Templars acknowledged no one except the Holy Father in Rome as their ruler and were unlikely to take orders from a castle steward. He went muttering under his breath towards the preceptory, to see what the knights thought of the situation.

Inside the tower, which was even chillier than outside, Owain’s wrists were freed, then he was thrust into a small side-room. Its door was slammed shut and a bar dropped into stout brackets. It was entirely empty, with some mouldy straw on the floor and a low window-opening the size of Owain’s face running through the massive wall like a tunnel. He heard the big key being rattled in the outer lock and Shattock’s harsh voice telling a guard to stand outside until he was relieved.

Then there was silence.

As dusk fell, Madoc and Arwyn came into the churchyard and bribed the freezing soldier on guard with two pence to let them talk to the prisoner. Though he had the key, the man would not let them into the tower and they had to hold a conversation through the hole in the wall. They also used it to pass in the food and drink that they were going to take to him in the woods.

‘Has anyone been to see you?’ whispered Arwyn to the shadowy figure at the other end of the tunnel.

‘Brother Robert came and brought me some milk and bread a few hours ago. He asked if I wanted to confess, and I told him I had done nothing wrong, apart from wanting to fight for my country.’

Arwyn sighed. ‘For the blessed Mary’s sake, Uncle, he’s from Normandy! He’s on the side of the bloody king. You shouldn’t admit anything to him.’

‘I swore on the Cross that I had not harmed my brother, and I think he believed me.’

‘Do you know what is going to happen tomorrow?’ asked Arwyn tremulously, for he already knew the answer.

‘They’ll take me down to Grosmont, no doubt. The steward will hold a mock trial in the name of Prince Edmund, then they’ll hang me.’

His voice sounded dull and resigned, as if he’d already given up any hope. His nephews could think of nothing to say that would deny his morbid anticipation, so they turned to Arthur’s relics instead, telling him of their intention to get them back to Abbey Dore when the present emergency was over – presumably when Owain was dead and buried.

He agreed, but impressed on them the need to pass on the secret of the chest’s whereabouts to their family when the time came. Arwyn had a baby daughter, though Madoc so far had no children, but they both swore that the family obligation would be honoured.