The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

‘I shall set the rushes alight,’ said Foliot. ‘They are dry and will burn well. Osbert, get ready to open the door – not too soon or servants might see the flames.’

‘And I will shoot anyone who tries to escape,’ Norrys warned his prisoners. ‘So move at your peril.’

‘Osbert!’ cried Burchill. ‘You are not a bad man – you cannot do this evil thing! You know Lady Gwenllian is with child. Do not let Foliot lead you down a dark path.’

‘It is good advice,’ said Gerald sternly. ‘Your immortal soul is in grave danger, because if I die, I shall ensure you never join me in heaven. And that is a promise.’

Osbert’s expression was agonised, and for a moment, Gwenllian’s hopes flared. But Norrys brought the hilt of his dagger down on the archdeacon’s head, and he crumpled. Foliot touched a torch to the floor, and there was a crackle as the rushes caught.

Norrys laughed wildly as flames licked towards his victims, but then stopped and stared at his chest in surprise. A knife was embedded in it, and Cole was racing towards him. Cole knocked the astonished Hospitaller from his feet, felled Foliot with a well-aimed punch, and yelled for servants to bring water.

As he held regular fire drills, no one needed instructions to form a line and pass buckets from hand to hand. It was an efficient operation, and the flames were out before any real damage was done. Shutters were thrown open to dispel the smoke, and the singed rushes were hauled out into the bailey. It was not long before the crisis was over.

Iefan, who had worked as hard as anyone, carried Luci to the chapel, but dumped Norrys’s body next to the spoiled flooring. Then he escorted Foliot and Osbert, the latter nursing a very sore head, to the castle cells. Gerald, Dunstan and Robert agreed a truce and repaired to the chapel together to give thanks for their deliverance.

‘I thought you were dead,’ said Gwenllian unsteadily, burying her face in Cole’s shoulder. ‘Norrys shot you without hesitation.’

‘He missed by a mile,’ said Cole dismissively. ‘He was a wretched warrior. Burchill knew I was unharmed, of course. It was why he warned you to think of the baby.’

‘To prevent me from risking myself needlessly,’ said Gwenllian in understanding. ‘He almost lost his sword arm defending me too. I was wrong to suspect him: he is a good friend – to both of us.’

‘The best,’ said Cole with a smile.

Life soon settled back to normal in Carmarthen. Gerald rode west towards St Davids and Dunstan rode east towards Canterbury. The merchants set their prices at a more reasonable level, and the citizens continued to complain about them anyway. Luci and Norrys were buried in the churchyard, and Cole escorted Osbert and Foliot to the Austin priory, to be incarcerated there until their fates could be decided.

‘I do not care what happens to them,’ Cole said to Gwenllian when he returned. ‘Just as long as they leave my town.’

‘They caused all manner of trouble,’ agreed Gwenllian. ‘They thought their actions were justified, and perhaps they were – Gerald will be trouble if he is bishop – but to commit murder to achieve them…’

‘None of it would have happened if Robert had not filched that poisoned wine for Wilfred,’ said Cole with a sigh. ‘Gerald would have swallowed it, and that would have been the end of him. Foliot and Pontius would have brought the sad news to St Davids, Dunstan would have gone home to Canterbury, and the entire business would have been over.’

‘I disagree,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Gerald is popular, and his supporters would have asked questions. Besides, I like Gerald. He defended you against Norrys.’

‘Yes, he did.’ Cole smiled. ‘He insisted on reading me some of his book before he left. I tried to dissuade him – I am not a man for sitting idle – but it was actually rather good. Perhaps he should confine himself to writing, and leave the Church to gentler men.’

‘Perhaps he should,’ said Gwenllian, thinking it must have been compelling indeed if it had secured Cole’s approval. He detested literary pursuits.

‘Do you think John will use the incident to oust us?’ Cole regarded her with a troubled expression. ‘There is no Norrys to twist the truth, but four men were murdered in my castle, there was a saboteur, and the poor did stage a riot. A reliable constable would not have let all that happen.’

‘I think we can trust Gerald to speak in our favour,’ said Gwenllian.

‘But that is what worries me. He is not popular with Canterbury or the King, and his support might do more harm than good.’

Gwenllian supposed it might, and there was no answer to his concerns. ‘Do you think Robert was right when he said that staging the Cain and Abel section of The Play of Adam brings bad luck?’ she asked uneasily. ‘I know it is wrong to be superstitious, but I cannot shake the conviction that something terrible is going to happen.’

‘Nothing will,’ said Cole, ever the optimist. Then he reconsidered. ‘Well, not unless Gerald is made bishop. His barbed tongue will alienate the King, and there will be trouble. He will claim our support as kinsfolk, and we shall be dragged into murky waters.’

Gwenllian regarded him unhappily. He was right, of course. ‘Perhaps the archbishop and the King will prevent his consecration.’

‘Perhaps. But I hope they find a kinder way to do it than Osbert and Foliot.’

Robert was pleased to be away from Carmarthen, and even more pleased to be away from Gerald. The man was arrogant and brash, and would do immeasurable harm to the Church if he was allowed to become one of its bishops. Robert had thought so from the moment he had first met him in Oseney Abbey, and he had no regrets about what he had done.

It had been easy to leave documents for Foliot to find outlining Gerald’s plans for the future – ones far more outrageous than even Gerald’s burning ambition could accommodate. Shocked by what Robert had penned in Gerald’s handwriting, Foliot had done his best to ensure that Gerald never reached home, but his failure meant that Robert had had to take matters into his own hands, just as he had done with Canon Wilfred.

Poor Foliot was innocent of poisoning the wine, of course, although no one would ever believe him. That had been Robert’s parting gift to Wilfred, payment for the months of misery he had suffered under that lazy, selfish old tyrant. He had intended Gerald to swallow some too, but Wilfred had spilled it in his death throes.

Of course, Wilfred was a killer himself. He talked in his sleep, and as the indolent old rogue had had a penchant for naps, Robert had heard him converse many times with his hapless victims. Robert knew for a fact that he had smothered a saintly abbot named Wigod, and there had also been others, although their names had meant nothing to him. The villain had deserved to die, and Robert felt he had done Oseney a great service by relieving it of his malevolent presence.

Robert was not sure why he cared so passionately that Gerald should not succeed in his ecclesiastical ambitions. Perhaps it was because such a man would make enemies for the Church – which Robert intended to rise high within – and he disliked anyone having the power to make it weak. Or perhaps it was the man’s objectionable character. He fingered the worn pages of The Play of Adam in his saddlebag. And then there was the fact that Gerald had prevented him from playing God, just as Wilfred had.

He scowled at Prior Dunstan riding beside him. Wilfred and Gerald were not the only ones who had interfered with his dreams. Dunstan had too. Would the prior reach Canterbury alive? Or would he die on this return journey? Of an accident, of course.