King Arthur's Bones (21 page)

His uncle’s face appeared dimly at the other end, slightly more visible now in the eastern morning light. His voice was almost eager, different from the resigned apathy of the previous day. ‘That Father Samson from Llanfihangel Crucorney came here at first light, God bless him!’

‘What did he want? To shrive you before you hang?’ said Arwyn bitterly.

‘Not at all! He was trying to save my life.’

Owain explained that the Welsh priest had exhorted him to claim sanctuary, as he was in a church! At first he had not taken him seriously, but Father Samson was emphatic in claiming that being on consecrated ground made it legal for him to be a sanctuary-seeker and to demand his forty days’ grace, free from arrest.

Madoc gave a great shout, which startled the guard, but they ignored him. ‘I recall one of the old men in the village telling of such a case here years ago,’ he said excitedly. ‘He’d stolen a sheep from up on Garway common, but he ran to the church here and sat in the chancel, holding on to the altar for weeks. I can’t recall what happened to him.’

‘The priest says they have to call the county coroner, then after performing the right rituals, the accused can be sent out of the country,’ called Owain through his diminutive window. ‘He’s gone over to see the preceptor about it now.’

Arwyn was doubtful about this ray of hope. ‘I can’t see those swine in Grosmont accepting this! They’ll just drag him out of there – after all, it is a prison.’

‘Well, let’s go into the church, brother, and pray that it does come about,’ suggested Madoc.

Half an hour later a heated argument was going on in the preceptory yard, across the lane from the church. Sergeant Shattock had arrived on horseback with two men-at-arms and a spare horse to carry the prisoner back to Grosmont, about three miles away. Father Samson, in a rather threadbare cloak over his cassock, stood in the gateway where he had patiently awaited the expected escort and then informed them that they could not take Owain ap Hywel, as he had claimed sanctuary.

‘Don’t be damned silly, begging your pardon, Father,’ growled Shattock. ‘The fellow’s in gaol and we mean to take him out.’

‘He’s also in a church and, having declared himself a sanctuary-seeker, you can’t have him!’ said the priest stubbornly. ‘There are severe penalties laid down for violating that sacred right.’

‘He’s in bloody gaol!’ yelled the sergeant furiously. ‘Now get out of my way!’

He pushed the slightly built cleric aside and waved to his men to follow him to the church, but a stern voice rang out behind him.

‘Stop, fellow! Come back here.’

Shattock was not accustomed to being spoken to in this fashion, even by the steward or Edmund Crouchback. He swung around, ready to shower blasphemies on the speaker, but they died in his throat when he saw who was addressing him. A tall Templar Knight, flanked by two of his fellows, stood in their forbidding black winter cloaks with the red crosses. They formed an impressive sight as they regarded him impassively.

He walked back towards them, his eyes on the preceptor, Ivo de Etton, whom he knew by sight and reputation.

‘Sir, I am but carrying out my duty. I have been commanded by the prince’s steward to bring this man to the castle for trial.’

‘Well, you can’t!’ the preceptor responded flatly. ‘He is in a church and has claimed sanctuary.’

‘But he’s in the tower, sir – not even joined to the church!’

One of the other knights shook his head at the sergeant. ‘That’s of no consequence,’ said Robert de Longton. ‘Anywhere within the consecrated ground is sufficient. If he only crawled through the churchyard gate, he would still be entitled to sanctuary.’

Shattock was not going to give up easily. ‘But he’s a murderer, not just some serf who’s illegally trapped a rabbit!’

‘That’s also immaterial,’ snapped the third Templar, John de Coningham. ‘Unless it involves sacrilege, the nature of the crime does not matter.’

‘I have to take him back to Grosmont!’ yelled the stubborn sergeant. ‘They are waiting to hang him. I’ll be in big trouble if I go back without him.’

‘That’s your problem, soldier,’ snapped de Coningham. ‘And it says little for natural justice that you intend executing this man even before he goes to trial.’

Red in the face with anger, Shattock looked around and stared at the church down the lane. He was contemplating dragging Owain out of the tower and be damned to these monks, even though their reputation for battle was legendary.

The preceptor seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t even dare think about violating our church, sergeant!’ he barked. ‘You will answer to our Grand Master himself if you do. You could suffer greatly – fines, imprisonment, even excommunication!’

In spite of his military calling, Shattock was in awe of the Church and knew that for the moment he was beaten. He was unsure if these Templars carried their swords under their cloaks, but in any event his ingrained discipline ensured that there was no way in which he was going to challenge three knights. Let the bloody steward or the Crouchback sort it out, he decided.

‘So what happens next, sirs?’ he muttered.

‘We will send to Hereford for the coroner,’ replied Ivo. ‘He has to take a confession from the prisoner and then arrange for him to abjure the realm.’

Shattock’s face reddened again in outrage. ‘You mean the sod will get away with it?’ he roared.

‘As he’s not been tried yet, we don’t know that there’s anything for him to get away with,’ said the preceptor calmly. ‘You should go back to the castle and report what has happened, and we will get the coroner here as soon as possible. I’ll send a man to Hereford straight away.’

The sergeant stomped towards the gate. ‘Prince Edmund is due shortly. He will have something to say about this!’ he warned.

‘He can say what he likes,’ responded Ivo placidly. ‘The refuge of sanctuary is older than Christianity itself, and no king or prince has any power over it. You can petition the Holy Father in Rome if you like – you might get an answer within six months!’

‘But your man will be gone long before forty days have passed,’ added Brother Robert maliciously. He had taken a marked dislike to the soldier’s arrogance.

Shattock bristled. ‘I’m not taking my guard from the door,’ he snarled as he walked into the lane. ‘If I do, that Welshman will be off quicker than a scalded cat!’

When he had gone, still fuming with injured pride, the preceptor sent John de Coningham over to the church tower to explain to Owain what was going to happen. John knew the carter well enough after Owain’s years of service to the farm and was solicitous about his well-being, checking that his nephews had brought him sufficient food and drink for the day.

‘Do I have to stay in this damned cell, sir?’ asked the captive. ‘There’s not even a bucket in here for me to use.’

The Templar considered this for a moment. ‘I see no reason why you should not move into the church. I have read in our records that there have been several sanctuary-seekers here over the years, and they have all sojourned there.’

In spite of the guard’s feeble protests, Owain was released and taken to the round nave a few yards away, where he could sit or lie on the shelf around the walls, built for the feeble and aged parishioners, as there were no chairs or pews on the floor of beaten earth.

‘I’ll send a bucket over for your use,’ promised the knight as he left. ‘Understand that if you leave the confines of the church grounds, you are liable to be slain on the spot – that is the law.’ He forced the reluctant man-at-arms to stand outside the churchyard gate, telling him that he could only act against the accused if he put a foot outside it.

Satisfied, he left the reprieved Welshman to his thoughts.

In the tower room of Grosmont, Jacques d’Isigny listened impassively to the sergeant’s ranting. Though he was annoyed at the interference of the preceptory monks in his administration of justice in the area, he had more pressing matters to deal with than some peasant who may have assaulted his own brother. Furthermore, he had no intention of standing up to the Templars, who were virtually immune from interference from Church or state, being accountable only to the Pope. If Edmund Crouchback wanted to make an issue of it when he arrived, that was up to him, but with the spectre of Thomas Becket and the consequences to Edmund’s great-grandfather still hovering, violation of sanctuary was hardly to be contemplated for such a trivial matter.

‘Make sure he does not escape from the church, but do nothing else,’ he commanded Shattock. ‘We will see what Prince Edmund advises when he comes. Until then, let the coroner deal with this lout. Maybe he will refuse to take a confession, in which case we have to wait forty days, then the coroner will close up the church and let him starve.’

The sergeant scowled, still smarting from his loss of face at Garway.

‘And if the coroner does allow him to abjure, are we to let the bastard walk away?’ he demanded.

The steward stroked his smooth chin. ‘Then we let his family and their friends know which route he is given. Maybe they can engineer some unfortunate accident on the way.’

This was Jacques’ only concern, that allowing the Welshman to escape would anger the Scudamores, who were an influential family in these parts. To see the alleged killer of their bailiff escape to a port and sail away might not be something that Sir Vincent would appreciate. His ruminations were broken by a clerk demanding his attention, as the master mason was clamouring for the steward’s attention about some problem with the grand new chimney, and Jacques put away the irritation of a Welsh felon for more immediate concerns.

Back at Garway, Madoc took time from his duties in the farm to go over again to the church, where he found Owain sitting against the wall in the peculiar round nave, staring at the great Norman arch that led into the chancel, which was the original old church.

‘I didn’t kill Ralph, you must know that,’ he said, turning his face to his nephew.

‘I never thought for a moment that you did,’ replied Madoc loyally. ‘Though I’m damned if I know who did.’

‘Much as my brother and I had our differences, I’m sure he didn’t denounce me to the castle as a rebel,’ he said bitterly. ‘It must have been his scrawny wife or one of those sons of his.’

Madoc shrugged and spoke of more immediate matters. ‘The Templars, bless them, seem to be on your side. At least they don’t make judgments without any evidence.’

‘What’s going to happen to me, lad?’

‘The preceptor has sent Edwin on a horse to Hereford, to notify the coroner. He should be back with news by tonight.’

Owain was hazy about how the English legal system worked. ‘What happens then?’

Madoc had questioned Robert de Longton about this, as he was the most approachable of the three Templar Knights. ‘It seems the coroner has to take your confession, then send you to a harbour to take ship out of England, never to return.’

‘Suits me, though where the hell am I to go?’

‘France or Ireland are the usual places, now that Wales has been declared part of England by that evil king of theirs,’ replied Madoc. ‘But you could get back to Gwynedd from Ireland.’

‘How can I make a confession when I didn’t do anything?’

His nephew shrugged. ‘If it saves your neck, does it matter? God will know you are innocent.’

Owain looked up to make sure that no one was within earshot, especially the guard. ‘What about the relics? Are they still safe?’

Madoc nodded. ‘But we can’t leave them there much longer. Someone will soon need straw and then the box would almost certainly be found.’

‘Can you not take them straight back to Abbey Dore and get Meredydd to bury them again?’

His nephew nodded. ‘That’s what we intend doing, but it’s a day’s work and we can’t leave you while all this coroner business is going on.’ Deciding that he had better get back to work, he emptied Owain’s bucket at the edge of the churchyard and left his uncle to his lonely vigil in the nave.

It was dusk when he arrived back with Arwyn to take Owain more food and tell him that they had sent a message by one of the farm boys to Rhiannon, who would come to see him the next day, walking the miles from Pandy and back.

One of the Templar lay brothers had given him a rushlight, and he sat in the gloom with the yellow glow illuminating his face as they came in. He had news for them too, as the messenger who had gone to Hereford had returned with the news that the coroner would come the day after tomorrow. He had sent instructions that a sackcloth robe be prepared for the confession and that the sanctuary-seeker should himself fashion a cross from wood found in the churchyard, the standard accoutrements for anyone abjuring the realm.

‘Have you heard any news from Kentchurch Court?’ asked Owain. ‘I’ll not be able to go to my brother’s burial now. Much as we disagreed about almost everything, he was still of my family.’

‘I doubt that we would be very welcome there either,’ said Arwyn ruefully. ‘They look on us as your sons, rather than nephews, so we’d not be popular at the funeral.’

‘So who
did
slay Ralph?’ pondered Madoc. ‘Though from what I’ve heard, it was him falling on to a rock with his forehead that killed him, rather than the blow on the back of his head, so maybe the assailant just wanted to hurt him.’

Owain shrugged in the gloom, ‘Whatever happened, I certainly had no part in it. I was skulking down in the woods by the river that night.’

‘Bailiffs are not popular people,’ observed Arwyn. ‘He used to hold the manor court quite often and must have sent scores of poachers and other miscreants to the stocks – or laid heavy fines on them. Maybe one of those decided to get his revenge.’

‘Let’s not concern ourselves with that now,’ said Madoc. ‘We have enough to worry about with getting Owain out of here alive.’

The coroner, Humphrey de Bosco, was a heavy, short-necked man with a red face and bulbous nose that suggested his fondness for the wine flask. A knight with a small manor near Hereford, he had fought briefly in the Irish wars and then, mainly for lack of any other candidate for this unpaid task, had been appointed coroner, which he pursued with no great enthusiasm.