The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

‘Then it will be the best documented hearing in the history of Carmarthen,’ drawled Stacpol, as Londres, Belat and Henry exchanged irritable glances. ‘Five separate reports! And I am sure they will all be accurate reflections of what happens here.’

‘He has just lost a friend,’ whispered Gwenllian to Cole. ‘Yet he here he is making snide remarks. Perhaps he is glad Asser is no more, because now no one can tell me what transpired between him and those clerks.’

‘You spout nonsense, Gwen,’ replied Cole shortly. A facet of her husband’s character that annoyed her intensely was an unquestioning allegiance to those he considered to be friends. Few deserved it, and he was invariably surprised to learn that his loyalty was misplaced, or that the ‘friends’ were nothing of the kind. ‘He is grieving deeply, as am I.’

When everyone was settled, Geoffrey asked for God’s blessing on the proceedings, then declared them open. Cadifor and Walter drew breath to speak, but Prior Roger was there first.

‘It has been a long time since we met, Cadifor,’ he said. ‘And I know why you came to this desolate backwater – you could not bear to remain at Llanthony when I was in charge.’

‘Carmarthen is not a desolate backwater,’ objected Cole, offended. He turned to Walter. ‘And you must agree, or you would not be here trying to steal it.’

‘I steal nothing,’ said Walter, tight-lipped. ‘I only claim what is lawfully mine.’

‘Why did you come, Prior Roger?’ asked Gwenllian quickly, before Cole could argue. Londres was grinning at her husband’s incautious words, and she had no doubt that Henry was gleefully recording them for the King’s edification. ‘Are Llanthony’s affairs still entwined with those of Hempsted?’

‘They are,’ replied Walter, before Roger could answer for himself. ‘Our foundations are very close, and we support each other in all things.’

‘If you say so,’ muttered Roger. ‘Although Llanthony will not benefit from this particular jaunt, and I would rather have stayed home. It may not be very comfortable without the income from Hempsted, but it is better than the open road in January.’

‘I imagine he is a hostage,’ Gwenllian murmured in Cole’s ear. ‘Walter brought him to prevent Llanthony from doing anything to harm Hempsted while he is away. Clever Walter! He has left nothing to chance.’

‘If I were a canon of Llanthony, I would not be too concerned about putting Roger in danger,’ Cole muttered back. ‘He is not a very nice man, and I imagine his monks are delighted to be rid of him for a while.’

They stopped whispering when Walter stood, towering over them all. He was a formidable presence, and Gwenllian was not surprised that so many churches and manors had fallen under the force of his personality.

‘I, Walter of Hempsted, hereby lay claim to Carmarthen Priory,’ he intoned in a powerful voice that rang through the ancient arches. ‘My claim is based on history – this place was founded by a Hempsted monk, and was always intended to be a cell. King John agrees, and has furnished us with a writ giving his approval.’

Belat produced a document, a luxurious thing of velum with a large red seal. ‘Anyone may look, but no one may touch,’ he said. ‘We cannot have it “accidentally” torn, and thus rendered null and void.’

Gwenllian immediately suspected that he did not want it examined too closely lest it was revealed as fraudulent, so she went at once to inspect it. Cadifor and Geoffrey did likewise, although Cole did not bother, knowing he could look all he liked, but was unlikely to spot anything amiss – he was a warrior, not a clerk, and was happy to leave such matters to Gwenllian. Unfortunately, she could detect nothing wrong either.

‘Perhaps a Hempsted monk did found Carmarthen,’ said Cadifor, when everyone was seated again. He made no remark on the document, but his expression was strained: Gwenllian was not the only one who thought it was probably genuine. ‘However, I cannot imagine that he intended you to come along a century later and claim it for yourself.’

‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Roger. Anticipating a lengthy hearing, he had brought some food with him, and the front of his habit was covered in crumbs. ‘Now can we go home?’

Gwenllian addressed him. ‘Hempsted was still a daughter house of Llanthony when this monk was founding cells. Ergo, it should be Llanthony making this claim, not Hempsted.’

Roger waved a careless hand. ‘I suppose so, but that would entail a great deal of work, and such details have never been my forte.’

‘No,’ said Cadifor acidly. ‘Details such as ensuring that Prior Martin wrote to the Pope to contest Hempsted’s bid for independence. Carmarthen would not be in this situation now if you had done your duty.’

‘It was Martin’s responsibility, not mine,’ objected Roger. ‘And he paid the price for his indolence. He will be in Hell as I speak, in a snake pit, which is the fate for those of a slothful disposition.’

‘Are you not concerned that you might join him there?’ asked Cadifor archly. ‘I know that you have done nothing to improve Llanthony’s lot since you were appointed, and its situation has gone from bad to worse.’

‘I am not slothful!’ declared Roger. ‘I just have a pragmatic approach to life, which entails not striving after impossible goals. You should learn from me, Cadifor. The King’s writ means you are already defeated.’

‘The King can issue writs all he likes,’ Cadifor shot back angrily, ‘but we are an independent house, and the only man who can decide otherwise is our Prior General. The King’s opinion is irrelevant in this matter.’

‘Watch your tongue, monk,’ hissed Henry menacingly. ‘There are many who would consider that remark treason.’

‘And there are many more who would consider it the truth,’ flashed Cadifor. ‘Walter’s claim is a contrived nonsense.’

As the argument raged back and forth, Geoffrey appealed for calm. It took him some time to regain control, after which he kept a tighter rein on the proceedings. First, he allowed Walter to state Hempsted’s case, and then he indicated that Cadifor should outline Carmarthen’s. When each had finished, Belat was permitted to speak; the clerk embarked on an intricate monologue explaining the King’s position. Londres and Henry nodded sagely, even applauding on occasion, although everyone else was bored and Cole did not follow it at all.

Roger was eating again, and Cole nudged Gwenllian when he saw that the portly prior had acquired some of the marchpanes intended for the bishop.

‘He has eaten at least ten,’ he whispered. ‘I doubt there are any left for Geoffrey. Dafydd will be livid.’

Belat droned on, while the scribes’ pens scratched steadily, although Gwenllian noted with dismay that the man from the castle wrote far more slowly than the others. Londres smirked when he saw she had noticed, making her wonder whether the fellow had been bribed to be inefficient.

Belat finished eventually, and although Roger continued to slumber, everyone else shuffled and stretched as Geoffrey summarised what had been said. Then the bishop declared the meeting over.

‘Reports will now be sent to our Prior General,’ he said. ‘And the King. Until we receive replies, I recommend that Walter’s retinue returns to Hempsted.’

Walter was outraged. ‘No! We attended this foolish hearing to be polite, but Belat has made the legal position abundantly clear: the King wants Hempsted to have Carmarthen, so that is the end of the matter.’

‘Nothing will be final until our Prior General had passed judgement,’ argued Cadifor. ‘Until then, you can go home. Sir Symon? See our “guests” off the premises, if you please.’