The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

‘What of it?’

‘So you sought to divert us from the man who was guilty.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘Who, though?’ Baldwin continued. ‘I can only assume that the man was the one with whom you were talking when we spoke to you. You sought to move our attention from him and on to yourself. And we were speaking with you and Ulric, weren’t we?’

‘He has nothing to do with this. He was an-’

‘What? An innocent? Even though he murdered a man? You have a curious attitude to one who would kill an innocent for no reason.’

‘He had reasons,’ the priest said with chilling certainty.

‘And they were good enough to justify letting him go free while we arrested and possibly executed another innocent man?’

‘Oh, what do you know of such matters? You have no idea what Ulric went through when he was in Wales. You know he lost his only son there? You prate on about innocence – what about his own boy?’

‘What of his boy? The man he killed isn’t Welsh. This was no revenge attack on a man who represented the fighters who killed his son. This was a mere pardoner minding his own business, man,’ the coroner rasped. He stepped forward, and Baldwin thought for a moment he was about to punch the priest.

‘Of course he wasn’t – but he had the bones, you fool!’

‘What do you mean?’ Baldwin asked, restraining the coroner with a hand.

‘The bones of King Arthur! The Welsh king who would rise and conquer England!’

They retired to a bench outside the tavern, and Hob brought jugs of cider to refresh them all as the priest reluctantly told them the full story.

‘He was in the tavern bragging about the blasted things. A handful of bones, he said, but worth a king’s realm, if they were to get into the wrong hands. Apparently he was there at Abbey Dore, when a piece of the abbey floor was taken up. There were many there, because the abbey had been given something to install there, and they wanted to give it a suitable location. No one thought much of it, so John said. But then the workmen brought up this box, apparently. Inside were bones, and it was nothing to him. He thought that they were just a set of human remains, nothing more.’

‘What did he do?’ Baldwin asked, although he knew the answer.

‘When it was dark, he went inside and stole a handful of them. It’s what pardoners do, as you know well enough. If there’s something they can get for nothing, they’ll take it. And so he did. And it caused his death.’

Father William shifted uncomfortably. ‘He told us all about the bones that night in the tavern. He hadn’t known anything about them, just grabbed what he could and made off, back this way. Somehow he heard that he should beat a retreat, because these bones are those of Arthur, and there were many in Wales who would seek to recover them and kill whoever might have desecrated them.’

‘And Ulric did their bidding for them?’ Baldwin said.

‘Sweet Jesu! Are you so stupid, man?’ William spat. ‘I am sorry, Sir Knight,’ he added quickly, seeing Baldwin’s expression change. ‘Forgive my words. But no, Ulric killed the man to rescue us from the bones! The pardoner was anxious about them, and even suggested that he should take them back to the grave.’

‘Where they would pose an everlasting threat?’

‘Exactly. If the bones are kept separate, how could this Welsh Arthur return to life and rescue Wales from the English, rightful king? No, the only sensible route was to rescue the bones.’

‘Ulric went in there, took the bones, and all to protect the country?’ the coroner rumbled doubtfully.

‘He sought to prevent the risk of another war,’ Father William said. ‘He has lost his own son. He didn’t want to see another family lose theirs.’

‘That is fine – but why cut off the man’s hand?’ Simon demanded.

‘Ulric is religious. How else would you treat the hand of a thief who had polluted the burial place of an important man?’

‘So he cut it off to burn it?’ Baldwin said. ‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know. He has fled the vill. You won’t find him.’

‘You underestimate the authority of a Keeper of the King’s Peace,’ Baldwin said. ‘What of Henry? We have heard that he was in the vill that night too. Hob thought he saw him.’

‘He was a sad man. He feared that his wife was a harlot. Perhaps he was here to see if Hob was entertaining her? I don’t know.’

Saturday before the Feast of St John the Baptist, [7] Sandford

It was only the middle of the following day when the murderer of Henry was brought back. His arm was broken, his face bloodied, but he confessed to his crimes before Baldwin and Sir Richard.

‘The church can afford to lose a little grain, some barley and wine. I wasn’t taking it on my own. Why shouldn’t I do it? I saw how to take it, and was bold enough to try.’

Baldwin said: ‘Your accomplice was a canon.’

‘Aye, the milksop brat Arthur. Pathetic churl, he is. Scared of his own shadow much of the time. But he was happy to take the money. He brought sacks of grain, barrels of wine and other goods straight to me, and I sold them on our account through my master’s business. We took the money in our purses.’

‘And you forced your mistress to help you?’ Sir Richard said.

‘Aye. And did she tell you why? It was because-’

Sir Richard stepped forward quickly, and his gloved fist swept backhanded across the man’s face. ‘I won’t have you insulting the poor widow only a day after you killed her man! Be silent, dog!’

As the semi-conscious man was dragged away, Sir Richard averted his gaze from Simon and Baldwin. ‘Can’t have the poor woman’s name dragged through the mud.’

‘Indeed not!’ Baldwin said, adding: ‘And what use would it serve to have Henry shown to be a cuckold now he is dead?’

Morrow of the Feast of St John the Baptist, [8] Sandford

It was three more days before the men returned with the body.

‘We didn’t want to have to kill him, Sir Baldwin, but he wouldn’t surrender. I had three men against him, but he wouldn’t submit, no matter how much we demanded that he yield.’

The constable was a short, rather slender youth with the black hair and eyes of a Celt, but now he stood with a broad-brimmed hat twisting in his fingers as he told his tale. ‘I didn’t want this,’ he finished miserably.

‘He fought?’

‘On foot with only a knife. All of us had staves. We had to do something, so I gave the order, and while two penned him in I thrust at him with mine.’

Baldwin nodded as he stood beside the coroner staring down at the dead reeve. It was astonishing how much damage an oaken staff could do to a man’s face. The staff had been thrust hard, and the weight of the oak had driven into Ulric’s face at the side, but had slipped into his temple. It had crushed the thin bones. All the side of his head to a point over his ear was bloodied, the skull fractured. ‘He would have felt little, friend,’ he said.

‘But why didn’t he just come back with us? Or seek sanctuary in a church? There was no need for him to die.’

‘He sought to protect us all,’ Baldwin said and sighed. He weighed the little purse in his hand. The contents rattled almost comfortingly, like ivory. ‘With your leave, coroner?’ he asked.

‘Nothing to do with me. I’m only the coroner.’ Sir Richard smiled.

‘Then, Huw, here !’ Baldwin said, and threw them at their guardian. ‘And may you find your journey homewards is easier than the one here. Godspeed.’

Thursday after the Feast of St John the Baptist, [9] The Church of the Holy Cross