The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

Eventually, it was over, and the Hempsted men were preparing to leave when there was a yell from the church, and Oswin hurtled out, gibbering about desecration. Everyone hurried inside to see that someone had scratched a message on Martin’s casket: ‘Sloth is the deadliest of sins.’

‘It certainly was for him,’ muttered Cadifor. ‘It saw him murdered.’

Winter 1208, Carmarthen

The weather was glorious – cold, crisp and clear. A pale sun shone in a cloudless sky, and the winter-bare trees were coated in rime. The carpet of dead leaves on the forest floor crunched underfoot, and the air smelled clean and fresh.

‘It will snow soon,’ said Sir Philipp Stacpol, whose crusader’s surcoat was spotlessly clean and whose armour gleamed, even after two nights of sleeping under the stars.

Sir Symon Cole, constable of Carmarthen Castle, cared nothing for such gloomy predictions. A guilelessly optimistic man, he lived for the present, and could not recall a time when he had been happier. His wife and children were a constant source of delight, there was peace in the region he governed, and he was riding his favourite horse. His naturally ebullient spirit soared, and he began to sing.

‘You tempt fate with your unseemly cheeriness,’ warned Stacpol waspishly. ‘It is never wise to be too joyful. Bad luck will certainly follow.’

Cole laughed. ‘It already has, Stacpol. Your horse is lame, and our hunt has ended early.’

‘I meant real bad luck,’ said Stacpol darkly. ‘Like a visit from the King or a rebellion. Or worse yet, an intricate political problem.’

Cole winced. He had scant talent for diplomacy, but fortunately he had married Gwenllian, who was the cleverest person he knew, and she excelled at dealing with such matters. He smiled fondly when he thought of her. It had been an arranged marriage that neither had wanted, but they had grown to love each other, and now he felt blessed to have such an intelligent, insightful wife. He had been Carmarthen’s constable for two decades, and knew he would not have kept the post for so long without her.

When they reached the top of the hill, he dismounted to gaze at his town, which stood a mile or so distant. Over the years, he had replaced the castle’s wooden palisade with stone curtain walls, and would raise a new gatehouse in the spring. He had already built handsome living quarters for his household, and clean, airy barracks for his men. It was a fortress to be proud of, and he was glad that old King Henry had made him constable – and glad that Henry’s successors, Richard and John, had renewed his appointment.

Of course, he had had his differences with John, whom he considered weak, treacherous and fickle, but that had been years ago, and their quarrels had long been forgotten – by Cole, at least. And John? As far as Cole could see, His Majesty had his hands too full with rebellious barons to worry about a distant Welsh outpost. As long as Carmarthen’s taxes were paid on time, the region was left to its own devices.

He tore his eyes away from the castle to look at the rest of the town. It was a sizeable settlement, with a busy market, a good bridge across the River Tywi, and a thriving quayside that could accommodate sea-going vessels.

A short distance north-east was the Austin priory. Recently, the canons had rebuilt their perimeter walls and purchased a new set of gates. Cole kept good order in the area, and his marriage to a native princess meant relations were better between the Norman invaders and the resident Welsh than in many places, but trouble was not unknown, even so. The priory, with its pretty chapel and handsome cluster of buildings, would be an obvious target for marauders, and Cole thought the Austins wise to strengthen their defences.

His companions came to stand next to him: Stacpol, breathing hard because he had been obliged to lead his lame horse while the others had ridden; Sergeant Iefan, who had fought at Cole’s side for so many years that he was more friend than subordinate; and Elidor and Asser, solid, reliable men from Normandy. Cole was about to mount up again when he saw a dark smudge above the priory. He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun.

‘Is that smoke?’

‘The monks must be burning rubbish,’ said Stacpol.

‘That is too big a fire for rubbish.’ Cole reached for his reins and vaulted into the saddle. ‘The priory is under attack!’

He jabbed his spurs into the horse’s flanks and was away, ignoring the others’ yells for him to wait. He dismounted when he neared the monastery, and crept forward on foot, too experienced a warrior to rush headlong into a situation without first taking stock. He reached a good vantage point, and began to assess what was happening.

The priory gates had been set alight, which accounted for the smoke. Then the remnants had been kicked aside and invaders had surged in. So much for the new defences! Peering through the gap, Cole saw a tall but stooped Austin barking orders, while Carmarthen’s prior, shorter by a head and not nearly as imposing, harangued him furiously. The rest of Carmarthen’s monks – fifteen of them, with roughly the same number of lay brethren – had been ordered to stand outside the chapter house, where they were being guarded by soldiers.

Cole turned at a sound behind him. It was his knights and Iefan. All four were tightening the buckles on their armour and checking that their swords were loose in their scabbards, ready for battle. He briefed them quickly.

‘There are about twenty soldiers – mercenaries, by the look of them – and a dozen Austin canons. I have never seen any of the monks before, but that thin, lanky fellow is obviously in charge. And for some reason, Londres, our bailiff, is with them.’

‘Londres!’ spat Iefan. ‘Trust him to be involved where trouble strikes.’

Londres had arrived in Carmarthen five years before, officially appointed by the King to collect fees and fines. It had been obvious from the start that his real remit had been to spy on Cole and itemise any failings, but Gwenllian was efficient, and Londres had found nothing untoward to report. He had grown increasingly frustrated as time passed, desperate to find something, anything, which could be used as an excuse to return to Westminster.

Unfortunately, the King had long since forgotten about the bailiff and his mission, and Londres had been left to fester. He was deeply unpopular in the town, because he was dishonest, selfish and sly. The inexorable passing of time had made him more bitter and angry than ever, and recent weeks had seen him brazenly demanding unlawful levies, and flouting the constable’s authority at every turn.

‘I recognise the tall monk – he is Prior Walter from Hempsted,’ said Asser. He turned to Stacpol and Elidor. ‘Do you remember him from our journey here three years ago? We had stopped to rest at Llanthony, and he arrived to declare Hempsted’s independence.’

Elidor nodded. ‘The Llanthony canons told me later that he had purchased the necessary documents from the Pope – Hempsted’s freedom was won by deceit, not merit. Since then, he has been expanding his empire, riding all over the country to inform churches, villages and manors that they are now under his control.’

‘For the tithes,’ explained Asser, seeing Cole frown in puzzlement. ‘His monastery is twice as rich as it was when he took over, thanks to his diligence.’

‘And it seems that Carmarthen Priory has just become his latest conquest,’ finished Elidor.

‘On what grounds?’ demanded Cole, full of indignation.

Elidor shrugged. ‘He will have a document to prove his case. He always does.’

Cole’s first instinct was to storm the place and oust the invaders. Four knights and Iefan would be more than a match for mere foot soldiers. But the mention of documents stayed his hand. Clearly, this was a matter that required diplomacy, not brute force. He turned to Iefan.