The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

‘No,’ he replied, although his guilty expression said otherwise. Sir Symon Cole was a terrible liar, which was one of the reasons Gwenllian loved him.

Of course, she thought wryly, it was his inability to prevaricate that had made their journey necessary in the first place. Other knights would have been able to look John – recently crowned King, following the death of his brother, Richard – in the eye and shower him with compliments, but not Cole. He considered the new monarch weak, treacherous and incompetent, and had elected to stay silent rather than say things he did not believe.

Unfortunately, John knew exactly what Cole thought, and was keen to replace him with one of his sycophants. Luckily for Cole, Gwenllian was the daughter of a powerful Welsh prince, and dismissing Cole without good cause would offend too many of her volatile kinsmen. So John had set him a challenge instead: if he could discover who had murdered Bath’s prior, he could keep Carmarthen; if he failed, he was to resign.

‘I miss Meurig,’ Gwenllian said, pulling her mind from politics. ‘By the time we go home, he will not know us.’

‘You think he is lacking in wits, then?’ asked Cole. ‘Like his father?’

Gwenllian knew what had prompted that remark. She was the clever one, who would catch the prior’s killer. Prudently, she changed the subject. ‘Will we reach Bath before dark?’

Cole squinted at the sky. ‘Yes, and I am looking forward to seeing the Master of St John’s Hospital again. You will like him, Gwen.’

Gwenllian decided to reserve judgement on that. Cole liked most people, and more villains than she cared to remember had been introduced with the earnest assurance that they were decent men.

‘Tell me again how you met,’ she said, to avoid passing comment.

‘I was injured during an ambush some years ago, and he helped me recover. He was a monk at Glastonbury, and was there when King Arthur’s relics were discovered.’

They exchanged a glance. They knew a great deal about King Arthur’s bones, and what had happened to them after they had been excavated. [1]Gwenllian eased her horse towards him, so they would not be overheard by Sergeant Iefan, who was riding behind.

‘I know the master of this hospital is your friend, but King John’s letter implied that Prior Hugh may have been murdered by a colleague. This master will be a colleague…’

Cole shook his head firmly. ‘He is the kindest, most generous man alive. I know I have said that about other people, but it really is true of him.’

Gwenllian stifled a sigh. Loyalty to friends was another of Cole’s virtues, but she hoped it would not impede their investigation. John’s determination to discredit him meant it was imperative that she solved the mystery, and she could not afford to be hindered by his blind affection for an old comrade.

Bath was a pretty place, its cluster of buildings dominated by the mighty abbey church. Its roads were well drained, and someone paid for them to be swept regularly, because they were almost as clean as Carmarthen’s. Cole led the way along the shop-lined main street.

‘I wish you had told the King what he wanted to hear.’ Gwenllian had never enjoyed travelling, and could not recall a time when she had been colder, wetter or more tired. ‘It would have saved a lot of trouble.’

‘Yes.’ Cole tried to sound apologetic, but he had a Norman’s love of horses, and for him, the prospect of days in the saddle was a delight. He liked dogs, too, and if she had not objected, he would have brought several with him and prolonged the journey by hunting.

He reined in outside a building with gracefully arched windows and a carving of St John the Baptist above the door.

‘This is the hospital. We shall visit it now, and find an inn afterwards – we cannot stay in the abbey, given that one of its monks might be a murderer.’

‘I would rather find an inn first,’ objected Gwenllian. ‘I am too wet and dirty for-’

‘No one will mind,’ said Cole, reaching up to lift her from the saddle.

He had opened the door before she could inform him that she had been thinking about her own comfort, not the impression she might make on Bath’s residents. She stepped inside reluctantly. The hospital was a pleasant building, and no expense had been spared on its construction. It comprised a chapel with a hall to house inmates on one side, and a chamber containing a pool of greenish water on the other. A corridor led to a yard at the back.

‘Bishop Reginald founded it,’ Cole explained, while they waited for someone to come to attend to them. ‘For the sick to enjoy the healing springs. He died eight years ago, and people have prayed at his tomb ever since. The merchant we met last night said that miracles started occurring there two months ago, beginning with the return of Bishop Savaric’s crosier.’

Gwenllian regarded him in confusion. ‘You mean his crook?’

Cole nodded. ‘It was stolen, apparently, but he prayed to Reginald, and the very next day, it appeared on the high altar. Since then, a number of people have been cured or granted boons. I intend to pray there myself – I should like our son to have a sister.’

His words startled Gwenllian enough that she was gaping when a priest arrived. He was a large, bulky fellow with a mane of black hair and wild eyes.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

‘To see Adam,’ replied Cole, unruffled by the hostile greeting. ‘He is an old friend.’

‘He is dead,’ said the priest, spite supplanting churlishness. ‘And it served him right. He was an evil man, and he came to an evil end.’

The announcement caused the colour to drain from Cole’s face. ‘He cannot be dead! And he is not evil, either. He is a healer!’

‘He was skilled at medicine,’ conceded the priest grudgingly. ‘But he was wicked in all else. I suppose you are the man charged to find out what happened to Prior Hugh? You took your time coming. We were beginning to think you had decided not to bother.’

‘The weather was bad,’ explained Cole shortly. ‘But who are you? And why-’

‘I am Dacus, Adam’s successor. He died two months ago, which was not a moment too soon, as far as I was concerned. Bath is a better place without his tainted presence in it.’

Cole stepped forward angrily, but Dacus did not shy away, as most people would have done when faced with an irate Norman warrior, and Gwenllian wondered whether he was entirely sane. She interposed herself between them, loath for the investigation to begin with violence.

‘If he really is dead, show us where he is buried,’ she ordered.

Dacus made a peculiar curtsy that made her even more convinced that something was awry, then led them to the yard. It was an odd combination of vegetable plot and cemetery, with graves in a line along the wall. He pointed to one in the corner.

‘How did he die?’ asked Cole hoarsely.

‘Throat torn out by a wolf,’ replied Dacus. ‘He was rash enough to visit Solsbury Hill on a full moon, and his body was found the following morning. Hugh died the same way, although I imagine you already know that.’

‘There are no wolves in England,’ said Gwenllian. ‘What really happened?’

Dacus glowered and became childishly sullen. ‘There are – ask anyone. Hugh was stupid to have lingered there after dark. Especially given what had happened to Adam.’

‘My wife is right,’ said Cole stiffly. ‘There are no wolves here, and if Adam and Hugh did die in the way you suggest, then some other beast did it. A dog, perhaps. Although it would take a monster to train one to act in such a way…’

Dacus laughed mockingly. ‘The manner of Hugh’s demise is news to you! I thought the King’s officer would have been better informed.’