The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

‘Thank God!’ breathed Dunstan, crossing himself. ‘When? Today?’

Burchill shook his head. ‘Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after, if the thaw continues.’

Gwenllian was torn between wishing them gone before anyone else died, and needing them to stay so she could catch the culprit. She experienced a surge of helplessness. But how was she to find answers when every waking moment was spent trying to prevent quarrels? She fought down her rising panic, and filled her mind with resolve instead. No sly killer was going to give the King an excuse to blame Symon! If the guests argued, then so be it, but that day, she was going to concentrate on asking questions.

‘I shall be glad to be home,’ Gerald was saying. ‘Although I wish Pontius was coming with me. He was my most loyal supporter – and a friend, too.’

‘Was he?’ asked Prior Dunstan smoothly. ‘You cannot be Bishop of St Davids without your most loyal supporter, so perhaps you had better do the decent thing and withdraw.’

‘Never!’ declared Gerald. ‘I have been called by God, and it is not for me to refuse Him. And not for you to thwart Him, either.’

‘It will not be pleasant to break the sad news about Pontius to our Cathedral colleagues,’ said Foliot quietly. ‘He was popular.’

‘Not as popular as Hurso,’ countered Robert, purely to argue. ‘His death is a terrible blow to our Order, because…’ He struggled to think of a valid reason. ‘… because he had lovely writing.’

Gerald released a bray of derisive laughter, which had Prior Dunstan leaping furiously to his feet and Robert ducking behind him. Luci closed his eyes, as if in despair, while Foliot appeared to be praying under his breath.

‘I am sorry you will all leave with a negative impression of Carmarthen,’ said Norrys, although there was no sincerity in his voice. He poured himself more breakfast ale. ‘So I invite you all to return here when I am constable. I guarantee that no one will be murdered under my governorship. Cole is a-’

‘Stop,’ ordered Luci sharply. ‘It is not polite to denigrate one’s hosts, and I want no part in it. Ah, here is Archdeacon Osbert.’

Osbert had come to inform them of the arrangements he had made for burying Hurso, having persuaded the Carmarthen Austins to spare a plot in their cemetery. Gerald decided to accompany the cortège, because he said the priory was in his See, and Foliot offered to go too. Gwenllian was under the distinct impression that he was reluctant to let the bishop elect out of his sight – and not because he felt Gerald needed protection, either.

The little party set out, slithering on the rapidly melting ice. There was still a good deal of white on the surrounding hills, but it was melting quickly and Gwenllian thought Burchill was right to say the visitors would soon be able to leave. She turned to tell him so, but he had vanished. She was alarmed to note that Norrys was nowhere to be seen either.

‘Where has Norrys gone?’ she asked of Luci, who seemed quiet and preoccupied.

Luci shrugged. ‘He has friends here. He has probably gone visiting.’

Gwenllian was distinctly uneasy, but she put Norrys from her mind as they reached the market, and she saw the crowds that had gathered there, mostly people from the poorer part of the settlement. The mood was ugly, and the houses of several wealthy merchants had been pelted with dung. Cole was in the middle with his soldiers, struggling to keep the mob at bay. Gwenllian walked towards him, confident in the knowledge that not even the most reckless rioter would dare harm her.

‘Order them home,’ she whispered. ‘They cannot cause trouble if they are indoors.’

‘They all have legitimate reasons for being out,’ he replied tiredly. ‘Clearing the streets would be tantamount to declaring martial law.’

She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze before hurrying after their guests, glad he was prepared to be tolerant. Carmarthen folk were not naturally rebellious, and an iron fist was likely to be counterproductive. He was wise to be patient.

It did not take long to bury Hurso at the Austin Priory. Osbert raced through the ceremonies at a furious lick, unwilling to linger lest there was another outbreak of hostilities. It started to rain as they walked back to the castle, a drenching that went some way to emptying the streets of resentful paupers too. Gwenllian was glad to reach the warmth of the hall, and was also glad when Osbert offered to stay and help her with the guests.

‘Shall we rehearse The Play of Adam ?’ she asked quickly, as Dunstan and Gerald began to fight over a fireside chair. ‘Or would it be unseemly after a funeral?’

‘It is a religious work,’ stated Gerald loftily, ‘so I declare it a suitable pastime. Besides, what else can we do? I am not going out again in this weather.’

‘He means he is too frightened to wander lest someone repays him for murdering Hurso,’ said Robert slyly. ‘I suspect the corbel fell on Pontius by accident, but he killed Hurso in revenge, and now he is afraid of being a victim himself.’

‘I think we are all afraid,’ said Archdeacon Osbert softly before Gerald could reply. ‘But I do not believe any of us are killers. I think the culprit is a stranger who-’

‘You are right,’ nodded Norrys. ‘Carmarthen is a pit of insurrection, so of course killers, robbers and other villains stalk its streets. Cole should keep better control.’

‘Speaking of riots, I had better relieve Symon,’ said Burchill. ‘He will be anxious to return here and hunt the murderer.’

‘Where were you all day yesterday?’ asked Gwenllian, unease and fear prompting her to speak more bluntly than she had intended.

Burchill regarded her thoughtfully. ‘About my own business. Why?’

‘Because Symon needed your help to quell the trouble in the town, and I would have liked you here, but you were not available for either of us.’

Burchill sighed. ‘Yes, but it could not be helped.’

‘So where were you?’ pressed Gwenllian.

Burchill stared at her for a moment before replying. ‘If you do not identify the killer, Norrys will tell the King, and Symon will lose Carmarthen – or worse. I suggest you concentrate on that.’

Seething, Gwenllian watched him go. The pompous ass! How dare he remind her of her duties! And what was he hiding that he felt the need to conceal behind such strictures?

There was a buzz of excitement in the hall: the servants had scraped together an array of costumes and the players were eager to try them on. Their bubbling enthusiasm seemed inappropriate after a burial, and Gwenllian wondered whether they were ruthless or just putting brave faces on matters. Archdeacon Osbert was disinclined for frivolity, though, and asked if he might be excused the dressing-up.

‘I am surprised they are so excited over a drama,’ he confided. ‘To be frank, I would have thought such antics beneath their dignity.’

Foliot overheard and smiled wanly. ‘Why? Clerics are used to dressing up in elaborate garments and holding forth. The stage is their natural home.’

‘But not yours?’ asked Gwenllian.

Foliot shook his head. ‘I have never liked a lot of attention.’

‘How is your shoulder?’ asked Gwenllian, seeing him raise his hand to it. ‘Better?’

‘A little.’ Foliot smiled ruefully. ‘I do not usually tumble off ponies, but it was during an ambush.’

‘Which ambush?’ asked Osbert politely. ‘Gerald told me you were attacked twice.

Foliot nodded. ‘Once in Brecon and once in Trecastle. I fell in Trecastle, and would have been embarrassed had I not landed so terribly painfully.’

Gwenllian decided it was a good time to speak to Foliot without the others listening. Osbert started to leave, but she gestured for him to stay. There was nothing wrong with having the Archdeacon of Carmarthen as a witness to her interviews.