King Arthur's Bones (5 page)

Of course, he had paid a terrible price for his decision. A robbers’ ambush near Dinefwr had almost seen the bones lost, and afterwards . . . Meurig bit back a sob. When the raid was over, and the villains had been successfully repelled, his beloved Dewi lay dead. He was not sure he would ever forgive himself for that.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, pushing the painful memories from his mind as he focused his thoughts on his current predicament. What was he going to do about Arthur? How was he to protect the bones if he could not even climb to his feet? And why had Merlin failed to watch over his erstwhile protégé? Meurig closed his eyes in despair. Carmarthen had been a
good
choice. The ancient king
should
have been safe there.

But Meurig had reckoned without the Lord Rhys, who had always resented the fact that Normans occupied the strip of land south of his stronghold – and who had finally elected to do something about it. It was ironic, Meurig thought bitterly, that the hope of Wales should be put at risk, albeit unwittingly, by one of Wales’s greatest heroes. It was even more ironic that the feisty old warrior-prince was Meurig’s own father. Bitterly, Meurig ap Rhys reflected on the events that had seen him racing to defend the treasure he had hidden – and that had resulted in him being mistaken for a Norman and shot by Welsh bowmen.

Lord Rhys had attacked Carmarthen in the darkest part of the night, when most of the garrison was asleep and the sentries were handicapped by a bank of clouds that blotted out the moonlight. His small but efficient force had swept into the town before the Normans realized what was happening. By the time the alarm was raised, Rhys’s men had gained control of the castle bailey. The ensuing fighting was ferocious and had lasted all morning. Meurig had not joined in – his sole objective was to protect the ancient oak under which he had buried Arthur.

Hours had passed, and he began to hope that the worst was over. But then the invaders had swarmed into his part of the town, and they had seen not a Welshman standing sentinel by a tree, but a stranger with a sword. Before he could open his mouth to say he was a son of Lord Rhys, he had been cut down by archers.

Afraid they might return to see what he had thought worth protecting, he had dragged himself the short distance to his house, where he had hidden among the ivy that grew around his door. He wished he could go inside, because night was approaching and it was bitterly cold. But his strength was spent: he would now die where he lay.

He closed his eyes and wished with all his heart that his father had chosen another Norman-held settlement to harry. After hiding the bones in Carmarthen, Meurig had settled there, and he was fond of its winding streets, busy riverside dock, stalwart castle and handsome buildings. His pretty little cottage had a Welsh cheese-maker on one side and an English grocer on the other. He liked them both, and hoped they would survive the raid.

Of course, there was another reason why Carmarthen was attractive to him: his favourite sister, Gwenllian, lived there. Ten years before, Lord Rhys had forced her to marry the town’s constable – Sir Symon Cole was one of King Henry II’s favourite soldiers, and it had suited Rhys to forge an alliance with his Norman neighbours at the time.

Unfortunately the alliance had died along with old King Henry, and Rhys had either forgotten or did not care that the castle he was now attacking was held by his son-in-law. Meurig could hear Cole in the distance, yelling to his scattered troops. Was he preparing a counter-offensive? Meurig hoped not. The battle was lost, and futile heroics were likely to get him killed – and then Gwenllian would be inconsolable, because although she had objected to the match at first, she had grown to love her brave, if not overly intelligent, spouse.

Meurig opened his eyes and looked towards the end of the street, where the old oak stood. Legend said the tree had been planted by Merlin himself, and although most people dismissed it as a fairy tale, Meurig felt it was true. Whenever he touched its ancient bark, he could almost feel the magic coursing through it.

So, shortly after he had arrived in Carmarthen, he had taken Arthur’s chest and gone out alone one night, to dig between the tree’s gnarled roots. It had been an evening when the town’s richest merchant had invited everyone to celebrate a daughter’s marriage, so Meurig knew he would be safe from prying eyes. The box had fitted into the hole as snugly as a babe in a cradle, and putting it there had felt so innately right that Meurig had the peculiar sense that the tree had been waiting for it. Even the memory was enough to make him smile, in pain though he was.

But he did not smile for long. Through the swirling smoke, he could see that the tree had been damaged – a branch had fallen. He experienced a great lurching fear in the pit of his stomach. Was this the beginning of its end? Was it no longer able to provide a haven for his secret? Gradually it dawned on him that the bones would have to be moved – taken somewhere they would be safe.

But how? He did not have the strength to stand, let alone excavate a chest. He felt sick with self-recrimination. He had told no one where he had hidden Arthur, not even his sons, because it had seemed an unfair burden to foist on young men – and the prospect of his own premature death had never occurred to him. He had not even sent word to the Guardians, although he had always intended to; somehow, he had never managed to get around to it. He berated himself as he lay there. How could he have been so negligent?

He thought about his two surviving sons. Young Meurig was away in Gwynedd, learning to be a warrior. And Hywel? Where was he? Meurig had not seen him since the fighting had started, and hoped he had not been harmed. Had he taken part in the battle? Meurig was sure he had. Hywel was cold and brutal, and would have relished the opportunity to wage war against Normans. Or rather, against Cole. For reasons Meurig had never fully understood, Hywel hated Gwenllian’s constable husband with a cold and deadly passion.

As he lay in his doorway, Meurig wished Dewi had not died and Young Meurig was to hand. Could Hywel be trusted with the secret, even if he did come home? Meurig had to pass it to someone, so word could be sent to the Guardians. But what if Hywel did not come? Who else was there? There were people around – the street, just beyond his veil of ivy, was full of them, racing this way and that, howling at the top of their voices, some in triumph and some in fear.

Now most of the skirmishing was over, the prince’s men had turned to looting. Priory Street, where Meurig lived, was home to several wealthy men, and the invaders were beginning to congregate there, like flies around meat. He could see his neighbours, Spilmon the grocer and Kyng the cheese-maker, barricading their homes. Kyng’s was like a small fortress already, with a great, thick door and sturdy window-shutters, but Spilmon was offering increasingly wild sums of money to any local man willing to help him repel thieves. Could they be trusted with the secret? Gwilym Kyng was Welsh, so he should welcome the chance to serve his country. Regrettably, though, Meurig knew Kyng would be more interested in defending his own possessions than in rescuing ancient relics.

Next he saw the constable’s clerk, a timid, diffident Englishman named John. But John was far too feeble to be of use – he was trembling so violently he could barely walk, and Daniel, the castle chaplain, was almost carrying him towards the sanctuary of the priory. What about Daniel, then? He was said to be a decent man. But he would not do either – his first loyalty would be to the Church, and Meurig was afraid he would hand the bones to his Norman prior, in a monkish act of obedience.

Behind them was another Carmarthen resident, generally known as Gilbert the Thief. Obviously
he
was not a suitable candidate, but what about the fellow with him, Sir Renald de Boleton? The Norman knight was acid-tongued and lazy, but he was a competent warrior and unquestionably intelligent. Would he accede to a dying man’s last wish and carry a message to the Guardians? Meurig supposed he would and opened his mouth to call out. But suddenly someone was pushing his way through the ivy. It was Hywel.

‘Father!’ Hywel gasped, dropping to his knees and seizing Meurig’s hand. ‘I have been looking for you all day – I did not see you among these leaves when I was here earlier. I thought . . .’

‘Not dead yet,’ Meurig said with a wan smile, indicating his wound. ‘But it will not be long now. No! Do not carry me inside – it will only hasten my end, and there are matters to discuss.’

Hywel glanced around quickly, to ensure that no one else was close enough to hear. ‘You refer to Arthur’s bones? You appointed me a Guardian, but never told me where they are hidden. You had better tell me now, because they may not be safe here much longer. They must be moved.’

‘But moved where?’ Meurig’s voice was full of anguish. ‘Wales is full of tiny kingdoms, all unstable and constantly at war. How can we know which ones will prevail?’

‘Then give them to Lord Rhys.’ It was not the first time Hywel had suggested this solution, and hearing it again made Meurig uneasy. ‘My grandfather is a good man and a great leader.’

‘He is old and has too many enemies – putting Arthur’s bones in his care runs the risk of them falling into the wrong hands. And that must never happen.’

Hywel was about to argue, but there was a movement behind him. ‘Your sister is here,’ he said with a resentful scowl – he had always been jealous of his father’s affection for Gwenllian. ‘We joined forces when we realized you were missing and have been searching together.’

Meurig felt a great surge of relief. His shrewd, beautiful kinswoman would know what to do, and there was no one in the world he trusted more. He smiled when she knelt next to him. There were cinders in her black hair, and her face was smudged with soot, but she was still the loveliest woman in Carmarthen. She turned to Hywel.

‘Fetch Brother Daniel from the priory,’ she said urgently. ‘Hurry!’

‘Fetch him yourself,’ retorted Hywel indignantly. ‘I am not leaving. I need to hear—’

‘This is no time to be thinking of yourself,’ she interrupted sharply. She fixed him with an imperious glare, looking every inch a princess of Wales. ‘Go!’

Lesser men than Hywel had been cowed by that expression, and he began to back away. Gwenllian watched him go, then turned her attention to Meurig, smoothing the flint-sharp widow’s peak from his forehead with gentle hands.

‘There is something I must tell you,’ he whispered. ‘It is a terrible secret, and I am sorry to burden you with it, but there is no one else.’

Gwenllian tried to stop him from talking, to save his breath for his confessor, but he would not be silenced.

‘You remember the stories of Arthur?’ he asked, his words coming in an urgent rush. ‘How he will lead our people out of oppression and into an age of peace and prosperity? How he represents all our future hopes? For the proud nation we shall be when we are free?’

Gwenllian thought he was rambling. ‘Of course,’ she said soothingly. ‘You told me these tales when I was a child on your knee, and I will never forget them. But rest now, because—’

‘It means Arthur did not die,’ Meurig pressed on, eyes boring into hers, trying to make her understand. ‘If he had, he could not be sleeping in a cave, ready to wake and lead us to victory.’

‘No,’ agreed Gwenllian, bemused. She wondered if he was delirious, and tried to quieten him a second time.

‘But what if his bones were found?’ whispered Meurig, riding across her concerns. There was nothing he would have liked more than to close his eyes, content in the knowledge that she was with him, but it was a luxury he could not afford. ‘What would that mean for Wales?’

Gwenllian shrugged, the puzzled expression on her face telling him she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I do not know – that we have no hope, I suppose.’

‘Quite. So they—’ Meurig faltered when there was a faint sound behind his front door. Was someone there, listening? But there was no time to ask Gwenllian to investigate. He pressed on. ‘So they must
never
be discovered. Or, if they are, then they must be delivered into the hands of people who will know what to do with them – for the good of Wales.’

‘Then if ever I hear of them excavated, I shall—’ Gwenllian began reassuringly.

‘But they
have
been excavated,’ Meurig whispered. ‘Arthur’s body was exhumed at the abbey in Glastonbury five years ago.’

Gwenllian gaped at him. ‘How do you know? And how can you be sure it is Arthur’s—’

‘One of the monks is Welsh,’ interrupted Meurig, speaking even more urgently, because he could feel the darkness of death approaching. ‘He told me what had happened, and together we managed to spirit the bones away. I brought them here, to Carmarthen. Because of Merlin.’

‘Arthur’s protector,’ said Gwenllian, understanding immediately. Meurig gave a brief smile – she always was quick-witted. Then her face clouded. ‘Is that when poor Dewi . . .’

Meurig winced, then nodded. ‘Yes, Dewi was killed bringing him here.’

There was another sound behind the door, and this time Gwenllian heard it too. She started to move towards it, but Meurig grabbed her hand and held it tightly. There was simply no time.

‘Listen to me, carefully, Gwenllian. The future of Wales depends on it.’

He described the bones from the abbey, the hank of hair discovered with them, and listed the men he had chosen to act as Guardians. She nodded her approval at his choices, although he could tell from her expression that she thought they should have been closer to hand.

‘I buried Arthur under Merlin’s oak,’ he concluded, lying back exhausted. ‘On the far side of the tree. But it has been damaged, and he is no longer safe. So you must retrieve him and put him somewhere secure.
You
are a Guardian now.’

‘And take him where?’ Gwenllian was appalled by the responsibility being imposed on her.

But Meurig did not reply. Her voice seemed a long way away, and when his head lolled to one side he was unable to stop it. With his vision fading, the last thing he saw was a pair of feet – someone
was
hiding behind the door by which he was lying, and that person had heard every word he had said. He tried to speak again, but his strength was spent. He closed his eyes and died without another word.