The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

Gwenllian’s curiosity intensified, and she determined that Asser would be proven right: she would have the tale from him or Stacpol.

‘Londres knew this was going to happen,’ Cole was saying bitterly. ‘I can tell by the way that he and Prior Walter huddle together that they have had dealings before. They are in league, and it was doubtless he who suggested that they stage their assault today.’

Stacpol frowned. ‘Why today?’

‘Because we would have been away hunting if your horse had not gone lame and brought us home early. Perhaps you were right to warn me about bad luck. I should not have started singing.’

Cole insisted on riding into the priory on his best warhorse, determined to make Walter see that he was dealing with professional warriors, not country bumpkins who rarely saw military action. He, his knights and Iefan were an impressive sight in their armour and crusaders’ surcoats, and Prior Walter’s soldiers blanched – he had been right to predict that they would pose no problem in the event of a skirmish. Gwenllian followed them inside on foot.

There were six men among the invaders who looked important. Gwenllian instinctively distrusted Belat and Henry, thinking they were exactly the type of men the King would hire – sly and deceitful. Bailiff Londres was cast in the same mould.

Walter was lean and cadaverous, with the look of death about him. She wondered if he would live long enough to enjoy the empire he had built, although his burning eyes suggested he would not let ill health interfere with his plans. His sacrist, Gilbert, hovered at his shoulder, reminding her of a monkey with his heavy eyebrows, beadlike eyes and dark complexion.

And finally, there was Roger, appointed prior of Llanthony after Martin’s death, although Gwenllian was not sure why he was present. He was a plump, flabby man with soft white hands. There was something disagreeably lethargic about him, and he regarded Cole and his companions with disinterested eyes, as if he could not be bothered to ask who they were.

Cadifor broke away from his captors and stumbled towards Cole in relief, while his canons cheered, clearly believing all would be well now that the constable was there. Gwenllian was sorry they were going to be disappointed.

‘They have no right!’ Cadifor was tearful with anger, and as he was usually calm and measured, it was unsettling to see him so distraught. Since taking up his appointment in Carmarthen, he had worked hard to enhance the priory’s reputation for scholarship and generosity, and he was greatly admired in the town. ‘Walter will not wrest a second foundation from under my nose. Order him gone, Sir Symon. With your sword, if necessary.’

‘The only people who can resolve this dispute are the King and your Prior General,’ said Gwenllian quickly, lest Symon should think to oblige. ‘All we can do is prepare a document outlining each side’s case, to help them make their decision. I recommend a formal hearing in the chapel, with Bishop Geoffrey presiding.’

‘It is none of Bishop Geoffrey’s business,’ declared Londres arrogantly. ‘Let him stay in the castle, away from matters that do not concern him.’

‘You think the fate of a priory in his See does not concern him?’ asked Gwenllian icily. ‘Especially one belonging to his own Order?’

‘Bailiff Londres is right, madam,’ said Walter curtly. ‘This is a matter for the very highest authorities. Mere prelates and constables will meddle at their peril.’

‘I am sure you would like us to leave,’ said Gwenllian, beginning to understand why Symon had wanted to settle the matter by force. ‘But we have a responsibility to assess the situation, so we can provide His Majesty with an accurate report.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Belat haughtily. ‘My colleague, Henry, will document any proceedings, and his is the account that the King will trust.’

Gwenllian smiled sweetly at him. ‘Perhaps so, sir. However, we are nothing if not thorough here at Carmarthen. We shall make our own record, and the bishop will be a witness.’

‘I want him here,’ added Cadifor. ‘He used to be Prior of Llanthony, while Carmarthen is in his See. Thus, he has associations with both foundations, and will be impartial.’

‘Unlike those two royal clerks,’ murmured Stacpol to Gwenllian. ‘You should not trust them as far as you can spit.’

Iefan went to fetch Geoffrey, but Gwenllian knew it would be some time before the elderly churchman arrived – the bishop would want to don suitable vestments for the occasion, and there would be horses to saddle and secretaries to brief. But that was no bad thing, as it would allow time for tempers to cool. All she had to do in the interim was keep the two factions apart.

She said as much to Cole, who immediately ordered Carmarthen’s canons to the kitchen to prepare food, while the Hempsted monks were ‘invited’ to wait in the guesthouse. She expected them to argue, but no one did. The soldiers took the opportunity to slink to the stables, patently relieved not to be doing battle with Norman knights.

‘You cannot order Henry and me around,’ declared Belat, declining to move. ‘We do what we like, because we have the authority of the King.’

‘So do I,’ stated Londres. He edged behind the two clerks when Cole glared at him, daring the constable to push past them to grab him. Cole might have obliged had Gwenllian not laid a cautionary hand on his arm – Londres was not worth the trouble that would follow. Prior Cadifor also lingered, reluctant to go anywhere while his monastery was under threat.

‘I cannot imagine why Walter wants this place,’ said Belat, looking around in disdain. ‘It is mean and shabby compared to Hempsted.’

‘We earn a respectable income from the sale of our wool,’ snapped Cadifor, nettled, but his face fell when Belat’s expression turned triumphant: the clerk had tricked him into revealing something that he should have kept quiet.

‘The King will be delighted to hear it,’ said Henry smoothly, ‘and will raise your taxes accordingly. Or rather, raise Walter’s taxes, as it is now his responsibility to pay them.’

‘I will not yield my priory’s independence without a fight,’ snapped Cadifor, ‘no matter what fictitious document you produce.’

‘It is not fictitious,’ averred Belat. ‘As you will discover if you challenge it. Of course, there may be a way round the problem, although such solutions are very expensive…’

Cadifor blanched. The kind of ‘solution’ sold by corrupt clerks tended to impoverish their recipients for years. Gwenllian regarded the pair in distaste. She had met their type before – ruthless, grasping individuals who used the authority vested in them to line their own pockets. She glanced at Londres, not surprised that the dishonest bailiff had elected to play a role in the unfolding drama.

‘Of course, it will have to be settled before Bishop Geoffrey arrives and starts to poke his nose into our affairs,’ said Henry. ‘So make up your mind now. Do you want us to persuade His Majesty to revoke the deed?’

Cadifor stood straight and there was a defiant jut to his chin. ‘There will be no need for underhand practices, thank you. We are in the right, and Bishop Geoffrey will not support the King in a matter that is blatantly illegal.’

‘He will not,’ agreed Gwenllian. Having met the unpleasant Walter, she was now firmly on Cadifor’s side. ‘And his opinion will be recorded in the transcripts of today’s proceedings, which may help to convince His Majesty of the unfairness of the situation.’

Belat and Henry exchanged angry glances, and she saw they had not reckoned on having the views of a powerful churchman included in the account that would be presented at Court. Good, she thought. Perhaps justice would prevail after all.