The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

There followed the sounds of a clumsy skirmish – swords whipping through the air, mostly failing to connect but occasionally resulting in a clash or a grunt, and muttered curses. There was another sound, too: a deep, guttural growl. Had the invaders brought an animal? Gwenllian’s blood ran cold at the notion.

‘Kill him quickly!’ came a furious hiss. ‘You are making too much noise.’

Gwenllian tried to identify the voice, but she had never been good at recognising whispers. Sparks flew when a sword struck the stone wall. Then she heard a cudgel land with a sickening thud, and Cole gasped in pain. A second blow followed, and she sensed his assailants home in on the sound. Unwilling to cower while he was battered to death, she began to scream as loudly as she could.

‘Silence her!’ came the frantic voice.

Gwenllian kept yelling, punching away the hands that tried to lay hold of her. Then footsteps hammered on the stairs. Rescue! A sudden draught told her a window had been opened. The hands withdrew, and she scrambled from under the bed just in time to see three shadows jostling with each other to make their escape.

Cole struggled to his feet and started to follow, but reeled dizzily. Iefan jerked him back before he could tumble out.

‘You cannot fight with a broken sword,’ the sergeant said gruffly. ‘I will go.’

Cole glanced at the weapon in his hand, and swore when he saw the tip of the blade had sheared off. He sat on the bed, hand to his side, and smiled wanly at Gwenllian.

‘I thought I was dead once they had knocked me down, but your howls drove them off.’

Gwenllian inspected his ribs. The cudgel’s imprints were etched clearly into his skin, long red marks already darkening into bruises. There were lacerations at one end, too, where she assumed sharp objects had been hammered into it, to render it more deadly.

Eventually, Iefan returned to report that their attackers had escaped him. Tracking was difficult at night, and the culprits knew the city better than he. Then the landlord arrived, all horrified concern. Nothing like it had ever happened before, he told them; Gwenllian was sure he was telling the truth. He refused to leave until he was sure they believed him, so it was some time before she and Cole were alone again.

‘It was too dark to see, but they had an animal,’ she said. ‘I heard snarls…’

‘A dog,’ nodded Cole. ‘I heard it, too. And they were professional warriors – I could tell by the way they fought.’

‘Osmun and Fevil? Or soldiers hired by someone else? Regardless, it tells us that someone does not want us asking questions.’

Gwenllian dozed fitfully for the rest of the night, while Cole declined to sleep at all; he stood guard by the door, honing a dagger to keep himself awake. As soon as it was light, they went to find a smith who could mend his sword.

They were directed to a man who had set up business by one of the springs, the stench of hot metal vying with the sulphurous odour of steaming water. He was chewing a stick of dried meat, which he was evidently in the habit of sharing with local dogs, because a pack had gathered by his door. Gwenllian gave them a wide berth, but Cole stopped to pet a couple; they swarmed around him, tails wagging.

Once the smith had assured Cole that the sword would be repaired by the following day, they left for the abbey. Gwenllian wanted to see Reginald’s grave, although Cole grumbled that they would be better off confronting Dacus.

The tomb was a simple one, near the high altar, and was surrounded by pilgrims. Robert detached himself from the throng, and came to greet them.

‘The miracles started here two months ago,’ he said proudly. ‘Beginning with the return of Savaric’s crosier.’

‘But Reginald has been dead for eight years,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Why the delay?’

‘Who knows the minds of the saints?’ Robert turned his gaze heavenward.

‘Perhaps these miracles should be attributed to Adam, not Reginald,’ suggested Cole. ‘They coincide with his murder, after all.’

Robert’s beatific expression slipped a little. ‘I doubt Adam would have returned Savaric’s crosier. He was generally sympathetic to thieves – he often tended them in his hospital.’

‘Assuming the crosier was stolen in the first place,’ muttered Gwenllian.

‘What are you saying?’ cried Robert, loudly enough to attract the attention of Walter, who was collecting coins from hopeful penitents. ‘Of course it was stolen!’

‘It was,’ agreed Walter, coming to join them. ‘And to suggest otherwise infers that Reginald’s cult is based on deception.’

‘Do either of you own a vicious dog?’ asked Cole, changing the subject abruptly enough to make both monks blink their surprise.

‘No, of course not!’ replied Walter irritably. ‘I do not allow fierce creatures in my abbey.’

‘But Reginald kept hounds,’ mused Robert. ‘He had kennels built in the Prior’s Garden. These days, we use them to store the urine we shall use for tanning leather this winter.’

‘The wind blows the stench away from my house,’ said Walter. Then he added with a grimace, ‘Most of the time, at least. Would you like to see them? I can provide pomanders.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Gwenllian in distaste.

‘As you wish,’ said Walter. ‘What prompted you to ask about dogs?’

‘They probably think one was used to kill Adam and Hugh,’ explained Robert. He turned back to Cole. ‘Osmun and Fevil keep hounds – an entire pack of them.’

‘I doubt those animals are responsible,’ countered Walter. ‘They are used for hunting.’

‘Visit them, and decide for yourself,’ said Robert slyly, ignoring his prior’s immediate glare at the suggestion. Then he gave a small bow. ‘But you must excuse me: I have religious duties to perform.’

He hurried back to the pilgrims, and Walter followed, apparently unwilling to be seen as less devout than his sacrist. After a moment, Cole went to kneel at the tomb. When he had finished his prayers, Walter was ready with a bowl for his donation.

Cole took a deep, careful breath as they left the abbey, then winced. ‘It still hurts,’ he complained. ‘And if you are not pregnant by the time we leave, I am getting my money back.’

Gwenllian regarded him askance. ‘What did you-’

‘Can we look for this dangerous dog now?’ interrupted Cole impatiently. ‘When we have it, we shall know our killer. We shall begin with Dacus, at the hospital.’

Dacus was supervising his elderly charges as they took the healing waters. They splashed and wallowed like children, and he smiled indulgently as he sat in a chair, a fat ginger cat in his lap. His contented expression evaporated when he saw Cole.

‘The man who admits to befriending Evil Adam,’ he sneered, standing abruptly. The cat hissed its disapproval as it was deposited on the floor. ‘What do you want?’

‘Do you own a dog?’ asked Cole, manfully overlooking the slur on his friend.

‘I prefer cats.’ Dacus’ eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘Why? Is it because the wolf came after you last night, and you are eager to know who controls it?’

‘How do you know what happened last night?’ demanded Cole suspiciously.

‘News travels fast in Bath. But there is no wolf here at the hospital. Try asking Osmun and Fevil – they like savage beasts. Savaric has one, too; Pica gave it to him.’

‘Why would Pica give Savaric a gift?’ asked Cole, bemused. ‘They dislike each other.’

Dacus’ voice took on the curious singsong quality he had used the first time they had met. It made him sound demented. ‘It was a bribe, presented three months ago, to encourage Savaric to relinquish his claim on Glastonbury. It did not work, of course.’