The Medieval Murderers: King Arthur's Bones

There was another sound behind the door, and this time Gwenllian heard it too. She started to move towards it, but Meurig grabbed her hand and held it tightly. There was simply no time.

‘Listen to me, carefully, Gwenllian. The future of Wales depends on it.’

He described the bones from the abbey, the hank of hair discovered with them, and listed the men he had chosen to act as Guardians. She nodded her approval at his choices, although he could tell from her expression that she thought they should have been closer to hand.

‘I buried Arthur under Merlin’s oak,’ he concluded, lying back exhausted. ‘On the far side of the tree. But it has been damaged, and he is no longer safe. So you must retrieve him and put him somewhere secure. You are a Guardian now.’

‘And take him where?’ Gwenllian was appalled by the responsibility being imposed on her.

But Meurig did not reply. Her voice seemed a long way away, and when his head lolled to one side he was unable to stop it. With his vision fading, the last thing he saw was a pair of feet – someone was hiding behind the door by which he was lying, and that person had heard every word he had said. He tried to speak again, but his strength was spent. He closed his eyes and died without another word.

Gwenllian was numb with grief. Although Meurig was many years her senior, she loved him more than her other siblings, and their relationship had grown deeper still when he had made his home in Carmarthen. What would she do without him? Who would talk to her about the old Welsh ways, and teach her little-known snippets of her nation’s history? And what was she going to do about the bones he had entrusted to her care? The other Guardians were miles away – and messages to summon them were unlikely to get past Lord Rhys’s sentries anyway.

Hywel arrived with Daniel, the Norman monk from the nearby Augustine priory who served as castle chaplain, but she barely heard his muttered prayers. Daniel did not stay long – there were many others who needed his services. Hywel, pale with shock, carried Meurig inside his house, then went in search of a coffin.

‘A coffin?’ asked Gwenllian dully. ‘Why?’

‘They will be in high demand today,’ Hywel explained in a choked, broken voice. ‘And I am not letting my father go to the grave without one – he was the son of a prince, and I am going to ensure that he is buried as such. Stay with him until I return.’

‘Please do not be long,’ begged Gwenllian, too distressed to argue. She did not tell him why she could not linger long with her brother’s body. Hywel was family, but she had never really liked him, and felt Meurig had been right to entrust her, not his son, with his secret.

But it was fully dark by the time Hywel returned, two men at his heels toting the most handsome casket money could buy. By then, Gwenllian had been kneeling by Meurig for so long that she could barely move, and Hywel was obliged to help her stand.

Yet her mind had cleared, and she knew what she had to do: go to Merlin’s oak and inspect the damage. Then she would send for her husband, and they would excavate Arthur that very night – Symon would be full of self-recrimination for losing the castle, and digging up bones would take his mind off the debacle for a while. There was a risk of being seen, of course, but the tree cast its own shadows, and its far side was not overlooked by houses – unlike the near one, which she could see from Meurig’s window.

She left the house and started to walk along Priory Street towards it; even from a distance, she could see that the tree had indeed lost a branch.

She turned when she heard her name being called. Three men were hurrying towards her. One was John, her husband’s mousy little clerk, and the others were Meurig’s neighbours – Spilmon and Kyng. She liked Spilmon, but Cole had fined Kyng for selling underweight cheeses, and the man had been unpleasantly hostile to them both ever since.

‘There you are,’ Kyng said irritably. ‘We have been looking everywhere for you.’

‘Why?’ she asked. The other two men were refusing to meet her eyes, which was making her uneasy. ‘What is the matter?’

Kyng’s expression was vengeful. ‘Your husband would insist on fighting on when it should have been obvious that all was lost. He has been wounded, and Daniel says he is going to die.’

Gwenllian regarded the cheese-maker in mute horror, and Spilmon shot him an uncomfortable glance. ‘That was roughly done, friend. Could you not have found a gentler way to-’

‘It is not true!’ cried Gwenllian, cutting across him. ‘Symon surrendered hours ago, and I went with him to discuss terms with my father. He is rounding up his troops to prevent more violence, not to continue it. And he gave Lord Rhys his word that there would be no more skirmishing anyway.’

‘Well, he must have broken it, then,’ said Kyng spitefully.

‘Who can blame him?’ asked Spilmon, gesturing at the chaos around them. ‘It is dreadful, being forced to stand by and watch these louts rampage through our town, stealing and burning.’

‘Go to him, My Lady. Now,’ urged John. He was trembling violently, still terrified even though the fighting was over. ‘Or he will slip away before you can say your farewells.’

Gwenllian gazed at them. Surely they were mistaken? Symon would never break an oath solemnly sworn. ‘Where is he?’ she demanded.

‘St Peter’s Church – not far,’ replied John. His finger shook when he pointed towards it. ‘He was asking for his friend Boleton too, and it is bad luck to neglect a dying man’s last request, so I had better do as I am bidden.’

He scuttled away, aiming for Merlin’s oak and the priory beyond, where many Carmarthen folk – civilians and soldiers – had taken refuge. Gwenllian began to run in the opposite direction, stomach churning. She was vaguely aware of Spilmon escorting her. Kyng was not – he had waddled off towards his own home, confident that his iron-studded door and well-made window-shutters would protect him from harm, and eager to hide himself behind them. The moment she reached the church, Spilmon muttered an apology and was gone too. Gwenllian pushed open the door with unsteady hands and entered the darkness within.

Cole was in the Lady Chapel, guarded by a grizzled sergeant named Iefan and several soldiers. Daniel was there too. The monk shot to his feet when Gwenllian hurried towards them. A distant part of her mind noted that his habit was now torn and bloody, leading her to wonder whether he had ignored his order’s injunction against violence and had exacted his own vengeance for the havoc that had been wreaked on his town.

‘I am sorry,’ he said in a choked voice. His face was white, and she knew his distress was genuine – he and Cole were friends. ‘I have done all I can.’

Gwenllian dropped to her knees next to her husband. ‘What happened?’ she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. Symon was barely breathing, and the light from Daniel’s candle illuminated an unnatural pallor.

It was Iefan who answered. ‘He and I were rounding up the men, ordering them into the forest lest they felt like fighting again, but we became separated. Then I heard Daniel yelling for help.’

‘I had found Symon lying on the ground,’ explained Daniel in a whisper. ‘I think I saw someone running away, but I cannot be sure.’

‘Kyng accused us of picking off Lord Rhys’s best archers under cover of darkness. But we were not – it never occurred to us.’ Iefan reflected for a moment. ‘It might have occurred to Boleton though – he was livid when we surrendered, because he thought we could still win.’

‘Then he was wrong,’ said Daniel harshly. ‘Symon did his best, but we never had a chance. Lord Rhys’s men were simply too strong and too well organized.’