The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

He thought about his two surviving sons. Young Meurig was away in Gwynedd, learning to be a warrior. And Hywel? Where was he? Meurig had not seen him since the fighting had started, and hoped he had not been harmed. Had he taken part in the battle? Meurig was sure he had. Hywel was cold and brutal, and would have relished the opportunity to wage war against Normans. Or rather, against Cole. For reasons Meurig had never fully understood, Hywel hated Gwenllian’s constable husband with a cold and deadly passion.

As he lay in his doorway, Meurig wished Dewi had not died and Young Meurig was to hand. Could Hywel be trusted with the secret, even if he did come home? Meurig had to pass it to someone, so word could be sent to the Guardians. But what if Hywel did not come? Who else was there? There were people around – the street, just beyond his veil of ivy, was full of them, racing this way and that, howling at the top of their voices, some in triumph and some in fear.

Now most of the skirmishing was over, the prince’s men had turned to looting. Priory Street, where Meurig lived, was home to several wealthy men, and the invaders were beginning to congregate there, like flies around meat. He could see his neighbours, Spilmon the grocer and Kyng the cheese-maker, barricading their homes. Kyng’s was like a small fortress already, with a great, thick door and sturdy window-shutters, but Spilmon was offering increasingly wild sums of money to any local man willing to help him repel thieves. Could they be trusted with the secret? Gwilym Kyng was Welsh, so he should welcome the chance to serve his country. Regrettably, though, Meurig knew Kyng would be more interested in defending his own possessions than in rescuing ancient relics.

Next he saw the constable’s clerk, a timid, diffident Englishman named John. But John was far too feeble to be of use – he was trembling so violently he could barely walk, and Daniel, the castle chaplain, was almost carrying him towards the sanctuary of the priory. What about Daniel, then? He was said to be a decent man. But he would not do either – his first loyalty would be to the Church, and Meurig was afraid he would hand the bones to his Norman prior, in a monkish act of obedience.

Behind them was another Carmarthen resident, generally known as Gilbert the Thief. Obviously he was not a suitable candidate, but what about the fellow with him, Sir Renald de Boleton? The Norman knight was acid-tongued and lazy, but he was a competent warrior and unquestionably intelligent. Would he accede to a dying man’s last wish and carry a message to the Guardians? Meurig supposed he would and opened his mouth to call out. But suddenly someone was pushing his way through the ivy. It was Hywel.

‘Father!’ Hywel gasped, dropping to his knees and seizing Meurig’s hand. ‘I have been looking for you all day – I did not see you among these leaves when I was here earlier. I thought…’

‘Not dead yet,’ Meurig said with a wan smile, indicating his wound. ‘But it will not be long now. No! Do not carry me inside – it will only hasten my end, and there are matters to discuss.’

Hywel glanced around quickly, to ensure that no one else was close enough to hear. ‘You refer to Arthur’s bones? You appointed me a Guardian, but never told me where they are hidden. You had better tell me now, because they may not be safe here much longer. They must be moved.’

‘But moved where?’ Meurig’s voice was full of anguish. ‘Wales is full of tiny kingdoms, all unstable and constantly at war. How can we know which ones will prevail?’

‘Then give them to Lord Rhys.’ It was not the first time Hywel had suggested this solution, and hearing it again made Meurig uneasy. ‘My grandfather is a good man and a great leader.’

‘He is old and has too many enemies – putting Arthur’s bones in his care runs the risk of them falling into the wrong hands. And that must never happen.’

Hywel was about to argue, but there was a movement behind him. ‘Your sister is here,’ he said with a resentful scowl – he had always been jealous of his father’s affection for Gwenllian. ‘We joined forces when we realized you were missing and have been searching together.’

Meurig felt a great surge of relief. His shrewd, beautiful kinswoman would know what to do, and there was no one in the world he trusted more. He smiled when she knelt next to him. There were cinders in her black hair, and her face was smudged with soot, but she was still the loveliest woman in Carmarthen. She turned to Hywel.

‘Fetch Brother Daniel from the priory,’ she said urgently. ‘Hurry!’

‘Fetch him yourself,’ retorted Hywel indignantly. ‘I am not leaving. I need to hear-’

‘This is no time to be thinking of yourself,’ she interrupted sharply. She fixed him with an imperious glare, looking every inch a princess of Wales. ‘Go!’

Lesser men than Hywel had been cowed by that expression, and he began to back away. Gwenllian watched him go, then turned her attention to Meurig, smoothing the flint-sharp widow’s peak from his forehead with gentle hands.

‘There is something I must tell you,’ he whispered. ‘It is a terrible secret, and I am sorry to burden you with it, but there is no one else.’

Gwenllian tried to stop him from talking, to save his breath for his confessor, but he would not be silenced.

‘You remember the stories of Arthur?’ he asked, his words coming in an urgent rush. ‘How he will lead our people out of oppression and into an age of peace and prosperity? How he represents all our future hopes? For the proud nation we shall be when we are free?’

Gwenllian thought he was rambling. ‘Of course,’ she said soothingly. ‘You told me these tales when I was a child on your knee, and I will never forget them. But rest now, because-’

‘It means Arthur did not die,’ Meurig pressed on, eyes boring into hers, trying to make her understand. ‘If he had, he could not be sleeping in a cave, ready to wake and lead us to victory.’

‘No,’ agreed Gwenllian, bemused. She wondered if he was delirious, and tried to quieten him a second time.

‘But what if his bones were found?’ whispered Meurig, riding across her concerns. There was nothing he would have liked more than to close his eyes, content in the knowledge that she was with him, but it was a luxury he could not afford. ‘What would that mean for Wales?’

Gwenllian shrugged, the puzzled expression on her face telling him she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I do not know – that we have no hope, I suppose.’

‘Quite. So they-’ Meurig faltered when there was a faint sound behind his front door. Was someone there, listening? But there was no time to ask Gwenllian to investigate. He pressed on. ‘So they must never be discovered. Or, if they are, then they must be delivered into the hands of people who will know what to do with them – for the good of Wales.’

‘Then if ever I hear of them excavated, I shall-’ Gwenllian began reassuringly.

‘But they have been excavated,’ Meurig whispered. ‘Arthur’s body was exhumed at the abbey in Glastonbury five years ago.’

Gwenllian gaped at him. ‘How do you know? And how can you be sure it is Arthur’s-’

‘One of the monks is Welsh,’ interrupted Meurig, speaking even more urgently, because he could feel the darkness of death approaching. ‘He told me what had happened, and together we managed to spirit the bones away. I brought them here, to Carmarthen. Because of Merlin.’

‘Arthur’s protector,’ said Gwenllian, understanding immediately. Meurig gave a brief smile – she always was quick-witted. Then her face clouded. ‘Is that when poor Dewi…’

Meurig winced, then nodded. ‘Yes, Dewi was killed bringing him here.’