The Medieval Murderers: King Arthur's Bones

Carmarthen, February 1196

Meurig was dying. The battle to repel the invaders was lost, and the castle was ablaze. The town rang with victory cries from Lord Rhys’s men, screams of terror from hapless civilians, and the roar of flames. The billowing smoke was making it difficult for Meurig to breathe, but an arrow had lodged in his spine and his legs no longer worked – he could not move to a more comfortable place to die. In an agony of despair, he wondered what would become of King Arthur’s remains now.

He had thought the bones he had spirited away from Glastonbury would be safe in Carmarthen. The pretty little town in southern Wales was under Norman control, it was true, but this paled into insignificance when its history was taken into account. It was said – and Meurig believed the tale with every fibre of his being – that Merlin the magician had been born there. And Merlin had always been Arthur’s protector.

He thought back to the perilous journey from Glastonbury, some five years before. It had taken weeks to trek through the wet countryside, always travelling at night so as not to be seen. All three of his sons had been with him – Hywel the eldest, jealous and brooding; jovial Young Meurig in the middle; and shy Dewi, his favourite. The box he had fashioned for the precious cargo was not very large – as long as a man’s arm, two-thirds as wide, and high enough to accommodate Arthur’s impressive skull. The wood was hard and black, and Meurig had coated it with a damp-repelling resin.

Once the bones were safely in Wales, he had dismissed the other men he had appointed to be Arthur’s Guardians – too large a party would have attracted attention – and continued the journey with only his sons for company. Naturally, the others had objected. Arthur was so important to Wales that they were appalled at the notion of leaving him, but Meurig had insisted. And they, dutiful souls, had deferred to his wishes and had returned to their homes, to carry on with their lives until they were summoned again. As the son of a Welsh prince, Meurig had always been a leader, and the Guardians – trusted friends, close kin and long-time allies in battle – were all men who acknowledged him as such.

Of course, he had paid a terrible price for his decision. A robbers’ ambush near Dinefwr had almost seen the bones lost, and afterwards… Meurig bit back a sob. When the raid was over, and the villains had been successfully repelled, his beloved Dewi lay dead. He was not sure he would ever forgive himself for that.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, pushing the painful memories from his mind as he focused his thoughts on his current predicament. What was he going to do about Arthur? How was he to protect the bones if he could not even climb to his feet? And why had Merlin failed to watch over his erstwhile protégé? Meurig closed his eyes in despair. Carmarthen had been a good choice. The ancient king should have been safe there.

But Meurig had reckoned without the Lord Rhys, who had always resented the fact that Normans occupied the strip of land south of his stronghold – and who had finally elected to do something about it. It was ironic, Meurig thought bitterly, that the hope of Wales should be put at risk, albeit unwittingly, by one of Wales’s greatest heroes. It was even more ironic that the feisty old warrior-prince was Meurig’s own father. Bitterly, Meurig ap Rhys reflected on the events that had seen him racing to defend the treasure he had hidden – and that had resulted in him being mistaken for a Norman and shot by Welsh bowmen.

Lord Rhys had attacked Carmarthen in the darkest part of the night, when most of the garrison was asleep and the sentries were handicapped by a bank of clouds that blotted out the moonlight. His small but efficient force had swept into the town before the Normans realized what was happening. By the time the alarm was raised, Rhys’s men had gained control of the castle bailey. The ensuing fighting was ferocious and had lasted all morning. Meurig had not joined in – his sole objective was to protect the ancient oak under which he had buried Arthur.

Hours had passed, and he began to hope that the worst was over. But then the invaders had swarmed into his part of the town, and they had seen not a Welshman standing sentinel by a tree, but a stranger with a sword. Before he could open his mouth to say he was a son of Lord Rhys, he had been cut down by archers.

Afraid they might return to see what he had thought worth protecting, he had dragged himself the short distance to his house, where he had hidden among the ivy that grew around his door. He wished he could go inside, because night was approaching and it was bitterly cold. But his strength was spent: he would now die where he lay.

He closed his eyes and wished with all his heart that his father had chosen another Norman-held settlement to harry. After hiding the bones in Carmarthen, Meurig had settled there, and he was fond of its winding streets, busy riverside dock, stalwart castle and handsome buildings. His pretty little cottage had a Welsh cheese-maker on one side and an English grocer on the other. He liked them both, and hoped they would survive the raid.

Of course, there was another reason why Carmarthen was attractive to him: his favourite sister, Gwenllian, lived there. Ten years before, Lord Rhys had forced her to marry the town’s constable – Sir Symon Cole was one of King Henry II’s favourite soldiers, and it had suited Rhys to forge an alliance with his Norman neighbours at the time.

Unfortunately the alliance had died along with old King Henry, and Rhys had either forgotten or did not care that the castle he was now attacking was held by his son-in-law. Meurig could hear Cole in the distance, yelling to his scattered troops. Was he preparing a counter-offensive? Meurig hoped not. The battle was lost, and futile heroics were likely to get him killed – and then Gwenllian would be inconsolable, because although she had objected to the match at first, she had grown to love her brave, if not overly intelligent, spouse.

Meurig opened his eyes and looked towards the end of the street, where the old oak stood. Legend said the tree had been planted by Merlin himself, and although most people dismissed it as a fairy tale, Meurig felt it was true. Whenever he touched its ancient bark, he could almost feel the magic coursing through it.

So, shortly after he had arrived in Carmarthen, he had taken Arthur’s chest and gone out alone one night, to dig between the tree’s gnarled roots. It had been an evening when the town’s richest merchant had invited everyone to celebrate a daughter’s marriage, so Meurig knew he would be safe from prying eyes. The box had fitted into the hole as snugly as a babe in a cradle, and putting it there had felt so innately right that Meurig had the peculiar sense that the tree had been waiting for it. Even the memory was enough to make him smile, in pain though he was.

But he did not smile for long. Through the swirling smoke, he could see that the tree had been damaged – a branch had fallen. He experienced a great lurching fear in the pit of his stomach. Was this the beginning of its end? Was it no longer able to provide a haven for his secret? Gradually it dawned on him that the bones would have to be moved – taken somewhere they would be safe.

But how? He did not have the strength to stand, let alone excavate a chest. He felt sick with self-recrimination. He had told no one where he had hidden Arthur, not even his sons, because it had seemed an unfair burden to foist on young men – and the prospect of his own premature death had never occurred to him. He had not even sent word to the Guardians, although he had always intended to; somehow, he had never managed to get around to it. He berated himself as he lay there. How could he have been so negligent?