The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

The Scudamore family still lives in Kentchurch Court, after almost a thousand years’ residence.

Thursday before the Feast of St Martin in Winter, Fifteenth Year of the Reign of King Edward II, [2] Abbey Dore, Herefordshire

Iestyn had learned his job well. No brother knew the tasks so well as he. He had made certain of it.

He still felt that slight crawling of the flesh on his head as he passed by the little mounds in the lay brothers’ cemetery. Now, in the middle watches of the night, the ancient superstitions were hard to discard. When a man had grown here in the wild country, he may understand that the wisps of paleness were the normal mists, he may even know that the screeching from the tree at the farm over the wall was an owl, but that seemed to have little effect here, in the lee of the wall of the graveyard. Here all he could think of were the stories of ghouls and ghosts.

Soon he was at the projection in the wall. Here his grandfather had set the stone, carefully tamping it into place, so that the precious box could be found. Back then he had thought his only task would be to pass on the location to someone else. Now Iestyn realized that it could not remain. It must be saved.

It was the rocks that made movement essential.

The abbey had taken delivery of a pile of rocks to build a suitable altar for the pilgrims who were certain to arrive to view the piece of the Holy Cross which had been given to the abbey by Sir William de Grandisson. The masons were swarming all over this area by day, and one had already found the little hole in the ground. A pile of rubble lay all over here, from the present reworkings, and one large rock had fallen on top of the relics in their box – Iestyn only prayed that the bones themselves weren’t damaged.

He must shift some of the smaller rocks that still lay about before he could get to it. An inquisitive man might see the box otherwise – masons weren’t above digging where an interesting hole materialized, and most knew that old bones could easily be taken and sold. There were strange fools who would always want to buy such things. Necromancers, alchemists and even simple pardoners were keen to get their hands on bones.

Scraping the soil away, he soon found the corner of the box, and he knelt, staring at it for a long moment before clearing the rest of the dirt about it and bringing it up into the dim light. He could feel a tingle running through his hands, up his wrists, along his arms, down his back, as he clasped it to his chest.

Huw ap Madoc stood waiting in the shadow of the gateway.

‘Here, take it, friend, and protect it and the contents with your life,’ a voice hissed, and Huw found himself holding the final remains of the king.

‘I will protect you,’ he said, and felt a mixture of foolishness and pride. Foolishness for talking to a box of bones, pride for knowing that he held here in his arms the future hopes of his nation.

When he was younger, he had sneered at the thought of the Guardians. The idea that he should be the last in the line of men who sought to protect the bones was laughable. Long dead now, his father: a good man, if somewhat fixated on the relics. He could still remember the way in which his father had drummed into him the story of their ancestors, the vital role they must play in the defence of their homeland. Old Madoc had been consumed by the thought of Arthur returning to their land, bringing fire and sword to evict the invaders. It was a delicious idea to Madoc. At the time it had seemed daft to Huw.

Not now. Now that the land of his fathers had been so devastated by the English, it was much more attractive.

‘I won’t let you be harmed,’ he said.

And for three years and one half, he was right.

Wednesday before the Feast of St John the Baptist, [3] Crediton, Devon

On the day that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill first met the pair of them, he had already been involved in one altercation, and the sight of the pardoner and his friend was enough to make him want to turn about and hurry in the opposite direction.

Earlier it had been a simple dispute about money due. The Church of the Holy Cross and the Mother of Him Who Died Thereon was a vital part of the town of Crediton, and the twelve canons were known to all the townspeople. But every so often there were little flares of resentment. Such as today.

Such a small matter, but one that could have so easily come to blows. A canon riding along the street with his little cavalcade of servants managed to splash the green skirts and red cloak of a townswoman with muddy water. Yes, it was a small matter, and she would have been happy enough, probably, with a simple apology from any other man: any woman would have been. Except she was Agatha, the wife of Henry of Copplestone, and he already had a claim in the court against the dean of the church for damages. A small flock of the dean’s sheep had been left to roam by a lazy church shepherd, and they had consumed the better part of Henry’s pea crop. Which was why she shrieked at the canon like one demented.

It was also why Canon Arthur wouldn’t apologize, and when Agatha’s servant began to berate the man, his ecclesiastical servants came to hold him back and ended up knocking him to the ground. Which was why some townspeople, who naturally supported their neighbour against Church arrogance, surged forward to protect him.

When Baldwin arrived, the shouting had already become incoherent. As always, each resorted to his own tongue, and now Canon Arthur was sneering in Latin, while Agatha and her friends replied in more earthy Saxon. The guards with Baldwin were demanding silence in Norman French, while the servant and his friends were cursing and swearing in fluent Celtic that reminded Baldwin of the Welsh foot soldiers he had met on his travels. It took all his powers of diplomacy to calm the affair, to force the canon to apologize gruffly, against the promise that Baldwin would tell the canon’s dean if he did not submit, and then threatened the gathering with a day in the stocks if they didn’t disperse and leave the clerical group to continue on their way.

Eventually common sense had prevailed. The cold, aloof canon had doffed his hat to Baldwin, while the wife of Henry of Copplestone had sniffily turned her back on the crowds about. Not without attracting some admiring glances, though, because she was a lovely woman. High cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes, full lips, all added to an allure that was uncommon in Crediton generally.

Yes, he had had enough of soothing troublesome citizens, and the sight of two men, who were to his mind little better than felons, was enough to make him want to fly up the road to the stable where his horse waited, leap on it and ride home at speed. But he was Keeper of the King’s Peace, and his sense of duty wouldn’t allow him – even though, as he strode forward, he was sure that he saw others bolting at the sight of the two walking towards him. One couple looked shifty and guilty, he thought, as though they themselves were running from the law, they fled off so swiftly, bolting up an alleyway. But no, he recognized the glimpse of a green skirt and a long scarlet cloak and took a quick breath of relief – it was Agatha again, he realized, and then he realized that the man with her was a churchman – he had the robes of a canon – but with that thought his own options for flight were gone. The two were upon him.

‘Godspeed,’ he said, baring his teeth in almost a smile.

‘Good Sir Knight.’ The first man hailed him with a bow and made a swift movement of his hand, roughly sketching a cross over his breast, although to Baldwin in his present sour mood it appeared to outline the Arabic numeral that denoted eight, a series of swoops that ended at his right shoulder. ‘I hope I see you well?’