The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

Belat and Henry grabbed Londres’ arms and hauled him away, no doubt to remonstrate with him for not warning them that this might happen. Gwenllian stared absently towards the kitchen, wondering what more she could do to further Cadifor’s cause. Cole was standing with Elidor, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, while the other two knights had gone inside to beg for food. Suddenly, Stacpol dashed out.

‘Lady Gwenllian, come quick!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Asser has been taken ill.’

The kitchen was a massive room with two large fireplaces and lines of scrubbed tables. Pots and pans hung on the walls, and there was a pleasantly sweet smell of simmering fruit. Asser lay on the floor with his eyes closed. Gwenllian knelt next to him, but it took no more than a glance to see that he was well beyond her meagre medical skills – his face was white, his life-beat feeble, and his breathing unnaturally shallow.

‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Cole. ‘He was perfectly well a few moments ago.’

He grabbed the stricken man’s shoulder and shook it. Asser opened his eyes, but they were glazed, and Gwenllian doubted that whatever he whispered in Cole’s ear would make sense. Then he went limp. She glanced up and saw Stacpol in the doorway, his expression closed and distant.

‘It must have been an apoplexy,’ said Prior Cadifor, when Gwenllian had pronounced Asser dead and his monks had intoned the necessary prayers. ‘He was a large man who ate too much, and he was excitable. Such men are prone to these sorts of attacks.’

‘But he has never had one before,’ objected Cole.

‘Yes, he has,’ countered Stacpol. ‘About a month ago. He told me not to mention it, lest you sent him back to Normandy and recruited a fitter man to take his place.’

Cole would have done. He had licence to keep six knights, and could not afford to house one who was unable to fulfil his duties. Gwenllian glanced at Stacpol again, and was surprised by his lack of emotion – he and Asser had been friends. Was he manfully concealing his grief, or was he actually relieved? Asser had, after all, witnessed Stacpol’s previous encounter with the royal clerks and had threatened to reveal whatever had transpired.

‘How curious that he should die now,’ she said, looking hard at him. Stacpol only stared back, his expression impossible to read.

‘Not really,’ said Prior Cadifor. ‘As I said, such men are prone to this kind of ailment.’

‘Especially when they are under strain,’ agreed Stacpol, a little too quickly for Gwenllian’s liking. ‘And today has been full of vexation.’

‘Not for him,’ countered Cole. ‘It was not his horse that went lame, forcing its owner to run about in full armour. Nor was he obliged to solve this business with Walter. All he had to do was sit on his stallion and look menacing, which should not have been too difficult.’

‘I refer to the quarrel he had with the cook,’ said Stacpol. ‘That was vexing.’

All eyes turned to the monk in question, a plump, volatile man named Dafydd.

‘Of course I gave him a piece of my mind,’ Dafydd snapped, although his eyes were uneasy. ‘He ate some of the marchpanes I made for the bishop. Geoffrey loves them, and I always prepare a batch when he visits. But Asser came along and stole a handful before I could stop him. And I cannot make more, because we are out of almonds.’

‘He took only four,’ said Stacpol reproachfully. ‘I am sure they will not be missed.’

‘Yes, they will,’ argued Dafydd bitterly. ‘The bishop ate a lot when he called in to see us last night, so there were only a few left.’ He smiled fondly. ‘I like to spoil Bishop Geoffrey. He has always been good to us. He will prove a friend over these current troubles, too.’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ said Cadifor fervently.

Cole wrapped Asser in his cloak, ready to be taken back to the castle, while Cadifor began to pray again for the dead man’s soul. The commotion had prompted two of the visitors to emerge from the guesthouse: Sacrist Gilbert from Hempsted and Llanthony’s fat Prior Roger.

‘Gluttony,’ declared Gilbert sanctimoniously, when he heard about the marchpanes. ‘Asser should have restrained himself.’

‘I love marchpanes,’ said Roger wistfully, while Gwenllian gripped Cole’s hand to prevent him from making a tart rejoinder. ‘They are my favourite of all things. Did this knight eat them all, or are there any left?’

‘Yes, but they are for the bishop,’ said Dafydd curtly. ‘And no one else.’

‘I am Prior of Llanthony,’ declared Roger angrily. ‘It is not for a mere cook to forbid sweetmeats to me. Now fetch them at once.’

‘You always were a greedy fellow, Roger,’ said Cadifor in distaste, while Dafydd glowered at the prior and refused to move. ‘You should beware. Greed is almost as deadly a sin as sloth – the vice that ended up killing your predecessor.’

Fortunately, a clatter of hoofs heralded the arrival of Geoffrey, so a quarrel was averted. Keen to assert his ecclesiastical authority with a show of pomp, the bishop had brought not only his secretarius and the castle scribe, as he had been asked, but a large number of richly clad attendants. They formed an impressive procession, and Gwenllian saw Cadifor’s monks take courage from the spectacle.

Walter emerged from the guesthouse, and hurried towards the prelate, ready to begin whispering in his ear. Bishop Geoffrey, however, was more concerned with Asser. He eyed Walter coldly until the prior fell silent, then walked to the dead knight’s body.

‘Pity,’ he said softly. ‘Asser was a good man. A crusader, no less.’

Gwenllian did not think the two were necessarily linked, and was of the opinion that most crusaders were violent brutes who should not have been allowed back into the country. Even her beloved Symon had done some terrible things in the name of the so-called holy war.

‘He died because he gorged on your marchpanes, Father Bishop,’ said Dafydd bluntly, and with a good deal of rancour.

Geoffrey blinked. ‘He choked on them?’

‘They probably brought about an apoplexy,’ explained Cadifor. ‘But you have some experience with medicine, Your Grace. Examine him, and give us your opinion.’

The bishop was famous for his skills as a healer, an unusual talent for a prelate, but one for which hundreds had been grateful. He knelt by the body, and Gwenllian was impressed by his calm, competent manner, although he eventually stood and raised his hands in a shrug.

‘I see nothing to tell me you are wrong, Prior Cadifor. An apoplexy is the most likely explanation for what happened. Poor, poor man.’

Gwenllian had always liked the Austins’ chapel. It was a pretty, silent place with large windows that made it light and airy, even on the darkest of days. It was stone-built, with a grey tiled roof, and boasted some of the finest carvings in the country. Cadifor led the way inside, where he arranged seats for Gwenllian, Cole, the bishop and the scribes. Londres and the Hempsted faction were left to fend for themselves. Walter snapped imperious fingers, and his canons brought him a chair that was far grander than anyone else’s. Geoffrey pursed his lips disapprovingly, and Gwenllian saw he was unimpressed with the petty point-scoring.

‘Send your scribe home, Cole,’ ordered Prior Walter. ‘You, too, Bishop. There is not enough room at the table, and there is no need for us all to record what is said. My man, Cadifor’s clerk and Henry are more than enough.’

‘It would be remiss not to keep our own account,’ said Gwenllian, sweetly, aware that Henry and Walter’s versions were likely to match, thus casting doubt on Cadifor’s. ‘Our scribe will stay.’

‘So will mine,’ added Geoffrey genially. ‘He is not doing anything else today.’