The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

‘I do not envy you, Cole,’ whispered Londres gloatingly. ‘Your standing orders are to defend the town, but the King’s writ demands that you support Walter. His commands are contradictory, and I am glad I do not have to choose between them.’

‘I am glad you do not, too,’ said Gwenllian coolly. ‘You would be incapable of doing so sensibly, and would be an embarrassment to the Crown.’

She turned her back on him, although not before she had seen his cheeks colour with anger.

‘Londres is right, Cole,’ said Belat smugly. ‘You are in a difficult position, and I am sure the King will be interested in how you handle it.’

‘It is not the first diplomatic crisis we have managed,’ said Gwenllian, nettled by the presumption that Symon would be unequal to the task. ‘We have gained considerable experience during the last twenty years.’

‘Twenty years,’ mused Henry. He was carrying his account of the meeting, and she was amazed by how much he had written. ‘Perhaps it is time to retire. A man becomes stale if left in one place for too long.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Londres sourly, scowling at Gwenllian. ‘And if not, there are many other ways to oust complacent officials.’

‘Did they just threaten us?’ asked Cole, as the trio walked away together.

‘I believe they did,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘So we must be on our guard.’

Cadifor invited Gwenllian and Cole to eat in the refectory when he emerged from the church, although he scowled irritably when the bishop informed him that good manners dictated that the Hempsted men must be included in the meal, too. His canons served their rivals with ill grace, and Cole and Gwenllian exchanged a wry glance when they saw one spitting in Prior Walter’s ale. She and Cole sat with the Carmarthen men, while the bishop trotted from one side of the room to the other in a determined effort to be impartial.

‘I am afraid there are no marchpanes, Your Grace,’ said Dafydd, pale with suppressed fury. ‘Asser took four, but then someone came along and stole the rest.’

‘Roger,’ said Cadifor immediately. ‘I saw him scoff them all while Belat was pontificating.’

‘Where is Roger?’ asked Geoffrey, looking around genially. ‘It is unlike him to miss a meal. I have never met anyone who enjoys his victuals so.’

‘He does not need to eat now,’ said Cadifor sourly, ‘because he devoured enough for ten men while we were in the chapel. Doubtless he has gone for a postprandial nap. He always was a lazy man. Indeed, Walter’s ambitions would have been thwarted years ago if he and Martin had stayed awake more.’

Geoffrey smiled. ‘And you would still be Llanthony’s almoner – we all know you only accepted a post in Carmarthen because you could not bear to serve under Roger. However, you have performed wonders here, so much good has come from your promotion.’

‘But it will all be for nothing if Walter wins,’ said Cadifor bitterly. ‘Carmarthen will not thrive under him. He will bleed us dry to keep Hempsted in riches, and all I have built will be lost. Damn him! And damn Roger, too!’

The bishop intoned a tactful final grace at that point. Gwenllian and Cole stood, and were about to return to the castle when Walter and Gilbert came to speak to Cadifor. Cole stopped, unwilling to leave if there was about to be another spat.

‘An adequate feast, Cadifor,’ said Walter coolly. ‘But not of a standard that will be tolerated now we are in charge.’

‘No,’ agreed Gilbert. ‘There was sawdust in my bread and a nail in my broth.’

‘We are a poor foundation,’ said Cadifor innocently. ‘Once we have paid our dues to the King and dispensed alms to the poor, there is very little left for luxurious living.’

‘Then the poor will have to tighten their belts,’ said Walter. He turned to Geoffrey, who was listening with a troubled expression on his kindly features. ‘Will you give me medicine to ease the pain in my innards? Your elixirs are far more effective than the ones Gilbert makes me.’

‘Your innards would fare better if you did not work so hard,’ advised Geoffrey, while Sacrist Gilbert shot his superior a disagreeable glance for his ingratitude. ‘Rest and regular meals will cure your affliction, but you refuse to heed my advice.’

‘A remedy, please,’ said Walter coldly, holding out his hand.

‘I do not have one with me,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘I did not imagine that my medical skills would be needed today, so I left my bag in the castle.’

‘I will make you something,’ offered Gwenllian, thinking that a tincture of chalk and poppy juice would ease Walter’s discomfort. And when he was not in pain, perhaps he would be more willing to listen to reason.

‘No, thank you,’ said Walter coldly. ‘I would rather suffer than accept help from a woman, especially one who hails from this godforsaken hole.’

‘As you wish,’ said Gwenllian, equally icy. ‘Enjoy your night.’

‘He is a disagreeable fellow,’ said Geoffrey, once Walter and Gilbert had retired to the guesthouse. ‘But I did not know you were a healer, Lady Gwenllian. I have always been interested in medicine. Indeed, had my family not given me to the Church, I would have become a physician.’

They exchanged remedies for acid stomachs while Cole arranged for soldiers from the castle to stand guard outside the guesthouse, to prevent anyone from entering or leaving – if the two factions did not meet, then there could be no further trouble that night.

When Cole had finished, he and the bishop went to fetch their horses while Gwenllian waited in the yard. Darkness had fallen, but light spilled from the guesthouse windows, all of which had ill-fitting shutters. She could not help but notice that one was the room allocated to the two clerks. She glanced around quickly, but no one was looking and the shadows were thick. She put her eye to the biggest crack and peered inside. Belat was dictating and Henry writing.

‘Slow down,’ Henry hissed, stopping to wring his hand. ‘My fingers hurt.’

‘We cannot,’ said Belat urgently. ‘The bishop may ask to see our transcript, and we must have it ready.’

‘I wrote a perfectly good account the first time,’ snapped Henry. ‘It exposed Cole as a blundering buffoon, as per our agreement with Londres, and showed Walter to be the rightful ruler of this house. We do not need to copy it out all over again.’

‘But I do not want to be part of Londres’ plot to topple Cole,’ said Belat. ‘I think the King has forgotten whatever petty squabble prompted him to send Londres here to spy five years ago, and now His Majesty does not care who rules Carmarthen, as long as its taxes are paid on time. Indeed, ousting an efficient governor may even turn John against us.’

‘But we made a financial arrangement with Londres,’ argued Henry.

‘So?’ asked Belat archly. ‘What can he do? Complain that we failed to write lies about a royally appointed official? Forget Londres! He can rot here for the rest of his life for all I care. We have bigger fish to fry – namely seeing Walter installed in this priory. The King will not be pleased if his writ is contested.’

‘No,’ agreed Henry. ‘His barons challenge his authority at every turn, and he will not want monasteries doing it, too. But what shall we do about the accounts written by the others? Walter’s will match ours, but Cole’s, Cadifor’s and the bishop’s will not.’

‘Londres paid the castle scribe to write what we tell him, while the bishop’s secretarius is a friend of mine. Four accounts will tally, so Cadifor’s will be disregarded. Now write.’

They returned to their work, leaving Gwenllian thoughtful. Then she became aware of a shadow at her side, and was unsettled to see that it was Stacpol, tall and menacing in the gloom.