The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

‘Tell Rhiannon to come to Grosmont when I am arraigned,’ pleaded Owain. ‘I must see her one last time before I join my father.’

But once again fate took a hand.

Next morning Madoc and Arwyn mournfully intended to follow their captive uncle down to Grosmont Castle to meet his accusers. A couple of hours after dawn, they went to the church expecting to see Owain being taken out of his cell by his gaolers, but apart from a different soldier stamping his cold feet outside there was no sign of activity. Ignoring the guard’s eavesdropping, Madoc called through the tiny opening in the wall. ‘Owain, has anything happened yet?’

His uncle’s face appeared dimly at the other end, slightly more visible now in the eastern morning light. His voice was almost eager, different from the resigned apathy of the previous day. ‘That Father Samson from Llanfihangel Crucorney came here at first light, God bless him!’

‘What did he want? To shrive you before you hang?’ said Arwyn bitterly.

‘Not at all! He was trying to save my life.’

Owain explained that the Welsh priest had exhorted him to claim sanctuary, as he was in a church! At first he had not taken him seriously, but Father Samson was emphatic in claiming that being on consecrated ground made it legal for him to be a sanctuary-seeker and to demand his forty days’ grace, free from arrest.

Madoc gave a great shout, which startled the guard, but they ignored him. ‘I recall one of the old men in the village telling of such a case here years ago,’ he said excitedly. ‘He’d stolen a sheep from up on Garway common, but he ran to the church here and sat in the chancel, holding on to the altar for weeks. I can’t recall what happened to him.’

‘The priest says they have to call the county coroner, then after performing the right rituals, the accused can be sent out of the country,’ called Owain through his diminutive window. ‘He’s gone over to see the preceptor about it now.’

Arwyn was doubtful about this ray of hope. ‘I can’t see those swine in Grosmont accepting this! They’ll just drag him out of there – after all, it is a prison.’

‘Well, let’s go into the church, brother, and pray that it does come about,’ suggested Madoc.

Half an hour later a heated argument was going on in the preceptory yard, across the lane from the church. Sergeant Shattock had arrived on horseback with two men-at-arms and a spare horse to carry the prisoner back to Grosmont, about three miles away. Father Samson, in a rather threadbare cloak over his cassock, stood in the gateway where he had patiently awaited the expected escort and then informed them that they could not take Owain ap Hywel, as he had claimed sanctuary.

‘Don’t be damned silly, begging your pardon, Father,’ growled Shattock. ‘The fellow’s in gaol and we mean to take him out.’

‘He’s also in a church and, having declared himself a sanctuary-seeker, you can’t have him!’ said the priest stubbornly. ‘There are severe penalties laid down for violating that sacred right.’

‘He’s in bloody gaol!’ yelled the sergeant furiously. ‘Now get out of my way!’

He pushed the slightly built cleric aside and waved to his men to follow him to the church, but a stern voice rang out behind him.

‘Stop, fellow! Come back here.’

Shattock was not accustomed to being spoken to in this fashion, even by the steward or Edmund Crouchback. He swung around, ready to shower blasphemies on the speaker, but they died in his throat when he saw who was addressing him. A tall Templar Knight, flanked by two of his fellows, stood in their forbidding black winter cloaks with the red crosses. They formed an impressive sight as they regarded him impassively.

He walked back towards them, his eyes on the preceptor, Ivo de Etton, whom he knew by sight and reputation.

‘Sir, I am but carrying out my duty. I have been commanded by the prince’s steward to bring this man to the castle for trial.’

‘Well, you can’t!’ the preceptor responded flatly. ‘He is in a church and has claimed sanctuary.’

‘But he’s in the tower, sir – not even joined to the church!’

One of the other knights shook his head at the sergeant. ‘That’s of no consequence,’ said Robert de Longton. ‘Anywhere within the consecrated ground is sufficient. If he only crawled through the churchyard gate, he would still be entitled to sanctuary.’

Shattock was not going to give up easily. ‘But he’s a murderer, not just some serf who’s illegally trapped a rabbit!’

‘That’s also immaterial,’ snapped the third Templar, John de Coningham. ‘Unless it involves sacrilege, the nature of the crime does not matter.’

‘I have to take him back to Grosmont!’ yelled the stubborn sergeant. ‘They are waiting to hang him. I’ll be in big trouble if I go back without him.’

‘That’s your problem, soldier,’ snapped de Coningham. ‘And it says little for natural justice that you intend executing this man even before he goes to trial.’

Red in the face with anger, Shattock looked around and stared at the church down the lane. He was contemplating dragging Owain out of the tower and be damned to these monks, even though their reputation for battle was legendary.

The preceptor seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t even dare think about violating our church, sergeant!’ he barked. ‘You will answer to our Grand Master himself if you do. You could suffer greatly – fines, imprisonment, even excommunication!’

In spite of his military calling, Shattock was in awe of the Church and knew that for the moment he was beaten. He was unsure if these Templars carried their swords under their cloaks, but in any event his ingrained discipline ensured that there was no way in which he was going to challenge three knights. Let the bloody steward or the Crouchback sort it out, he decided.

‘So what happens next, sirs?’ he muttered.

‘We will send to Hereford for the coroner,’ replied Ivo. ‘He has to take a confession from the prisoner and then arrange for him to abjure the realm.’

Shattock’s face reddened again in outrage. ‘You mean the sod will get away with it?’ he roared.

‘As he’s not been tried yet, we don’t know that there’s anything for him to get away with,’ said the preceptor calmly. ‘You should go back to the castle and report what has happened, and we will get the coroner here as soon as possible. I’ll send a man to Hereford straight away.’

The sergeant stomped towards the gate. ‘Prince Edmund is due shortly. He will have something to say about this!’ he warned.

‘He can say what he likes,’ responded Ivo placidly. ‘The refuge of sanctuary is older than Christianity itself, and no king or prince has any power over it. You can petition the Holy Father in Rome if you like – you might get an answer within six months!’

‘But your man will be gone long before forty days have passed,’ added Brother Robert maliciously. He had taken a marked dislike to the soldier’s arrogance.

Shattock bristled. ‘I’m not taking my guard from the door,’ he snarled as he walked into the lane. ‘If I do, that Welshman will be off quicker than a scalded cat!’

When he had gone, still fuming with injured pride, the preceptor sent John de Coningham over to the church tower to explain to Owain what was going to happen. John knew the carter well enough after Owain’s years of service to the farm and was solicitous about his well-being, checking that his nephews had brought him sufficient food and drink for the day.

‘Do I have to stay in this damned cell, sir?’ asked the captive. ‘There’s not even a bucket in here for me to use.’

The Templar considered this for a moment. ‘I see no reason why you should not move into the church. I have read in our records that there have been several sanctuary-seekers here over the years, and they have all sojourned there.’