King Arthur's Bones (6 page)

Gwenllian was numb with grief. Although Meurig was many years her senior, she loved him more than her other siblings, and their relationship had grown deeper still when he had made his home in Carmarthen. What would she do without him? Who would talk to her about the old Welsh ways, and teach her little-known snippets of her nation’s history? And what was she going to do about the bones he had entrusted to her care? The other Guardians were miles away – and messages to summon them were unlikely to get past Lord Rhys’s sentries anyway.

Hywel arrived with Daniel, the Norman monk from the nearby Augustine priory who served as castle chaplain, but she barely heard his muttered prayers. Daniel did not stay long – there were many others who needed his services. Hywel, pale with shock, carried Meurig inside his house, then went in search of a coffin.

‘A coffin?’ asked Gwenllian dully. ‘Why?’

‘They will be in high demand today,’ Hywel explained in a choked, broken voice. ‘And I am not letting
my
father go to the grave without one – he was the son of a prince, and I am going to ensure that he is buried as such. Stay with him until I return.’

‘Please do not be long,’ begged Gwenllian, too distressed to argue. She did not tell him why she could not linger long with her brother’s body. Hywel was family, but she had never really liked him, and felt Meurig had been right to entrust her, not his son, with his secret.

But it was fully dark by the time Hywel returned, two men at his heels toting the most handsome casket money could buy. By then, Gwenllian had been kneeling by Meurig for so long that she could barely move, and Hywel was obliged to help her stand.

Yet her mind had cleared, and she knew what she had to do: go to Merlin’s oak and inspect the damage. Then she would send for her husband, and they would excavate Arthur that very night – Symon would be full of self-recrimination for losing the castle, and digging up bones would take his mind off the debacle for a while. There was a risk of being seen, of course, but the tree cast its own shadows, and its far side was not overlooked by houses – unlike the near one, which she could see from Meurig’s window.

She left the house and started to walk along Priory Street towards it; even from a distance, she could see that the tree had indeed lost a branch.

She turned when she heard her name being called. Three men were hurrying towards her. One was John, her husband’s mousy little clerk, and the others were Meurig’s neighbours – Spilmon and Kyng. She liked Spilmon, but Cole had fined Kyng for selling underweight cheeses, and the man had been unpleasantly hostile to them both ever since.

‘There you are,’ Kyng said irritably. ‘We have been looking everywhere for you.’

‘Why?’ she asked. The other two men were refusing to meet her eyes, which was making her uneasy. ‘What is the matter?’

Kyng’s expression was vengeful. ‘Your husband would insist on fighting on when it should have been obvious that all was lost. He has been wounded, and Daniel says he is going to die.’

Gwenllian regarded the cheese-maker in mute horror, and Spilmon shot him an uncomfortable glance. ‘That was roughly done, friend. Could you not have found a gentler way to—’

‘It is not true!’ cried Gwenllian, cutting across him. ‘Symon surrendered hours ago, and I went with him to discuss terms with my father. He is rounding up his troops to
prevent
more violence, not to continue it. And he gave Lord Rhys his word that there would be no more skirmishing anyway.’

‘Well, he must have broken it, then,’ said Kyng spitefully.

‘Who can blame him?’ asked Spilmon, gesturing at the chaos around them. ‘It is dreadful, being forced to stand by and watch these louts rampage through our town, stealing and burning.’

‘Go to him, My Lady. Now,’ urged John. He was trembling violently, still terrified even though the fighting was over. ‘Or he will slip away before you can say your farewells.’

Gwenllian gazed at them. Surely they were mistaken? Symon would never break an oath solemnly sworn. ‘Where is he?’ she demanded.

‘St Peter’s Church – not far,’ replied John. His finger shook when he pointed towards it. ‘He was asking for his friend Boleton too, and it is bad luck to neglect a dying man’s last request, so I had better do as I am bidden.’

He scuttled away, aiming for Merlin’s oak and the priory beyond, where many Carmarthen folk – civilians and soldiers – had taken refuge. Gwenllian began to run in the opposite direction, stomach churning. She was vaguely aware of Spilmon escorting her. Kyng was not – he had waddled off towards his own home, confident that his iron-studded door and well-made window-shutters would protect him from harm, and eager to hide himself behind them. The moment she reached the church, Spilmon muttered an apology and was gone too. Gwenllian pushed open the door with unsteady hands and entered the darkness within.

Cole was in the Lady Chapel, guarded by a grizzled sergeant named Iefan and several soldiers. Daniel was there too. The monk shot to his feet when Gwenllian hurried towards them. A distant part of her mind noted that his habit was now torn and bloody, leading her to wonder whether he had ignored his order’s injunction against violence and had exacted his own vengeance for the havoc that had been wreaked on his town.

‘I am sorry,’ he said in a choked voice. His face was white, and she knew his distress was genuine – he and Cole were friends. ‘I have done all I can.’

Gwenllian dropped to her knees next to her husband. ‘What happened?’ she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. Symon was barely breathing, and the light from Daniel’s candle illuminated an unnatural pallor.

It was Iefan who answered. ‘He and I were rounding up the men, ordering them into the forest lest they felt like fighting again, but we became separated. Then I heard Daniel yelling for help.’

‘I had found Symon lying on the ground,’ explained Daniel in a whisper. ‘I think I saw someone running away, but I cannot be sure.’

‘Kyng accused us of picking off Lord Rhys’s best archers under cover of darkness. But we were not – it never occurred to us.’ Iefan reflected for a moment. ‘It might have occurred to Boleton though – he was livid when we surrendered, because he thought we could still win.’

‘Then he was wrong,’ said Daniel harshly. ‘Symon did his best, but we never had a chance. Lord Rhys’s men were simply too strong and too well organized.’

But Iefan was still thinking about Boleton. ‘Maybe
he
was picking off the enemy, and the prince’s men mistook the two of them in the dark – both are knights, of roughly the same size. Or maybe Boleton convinced Sir Symon to join him, although if he did they were not doing it for long – Sir Symon was gone from me for only a few moments.’

A decade of marriage to a soldier told Gwenllian that a dagger was responsible for her husband’s injury, but she was shocked to note its position: he had been stabbed in the back. What had he been doing to sustain such a wound?
Had
he and Boleton been waging a small war of their own? It did not seem likely, given Symon’s low opinion of truce-breakers. But Boleton had a sly tongue, and it would not be the first time he had used mangled logic to bring his slower-witted friend around to his way of thinking.

But it was no time to ponder. The cut was deep and had bled profusely, but it was also clean, and she thought she could repair the damage – with care and warmth, Symon might yet survive. She stood, feeling the horror and helplessness recede as grim resolve took over. She had lost a brother that day, but she was damned if she was going to lose a husband too.

‘We are taking him to Kyng’s house,’ she announced. ‘It is the nearest safe place.’

‘It is safe here,’ objected Daniel. ‘No one will attack a house of God.’

Gwenllian was not so sure about that, especially once the invaders got at Carmarthen’s copious supplies of ale and wine. And the church was a large building – too large for Iefan and his men to defend effectively. But no good would come of alarming them with grim predictions. ‘It is too cold,’ she said instead. ‘And Symon needs a fire. Lift him gently, and follow me.’

Kyng’s door was barricaded when they arrived, but she hammered and yelled until the cheese-maker had no choice but to answer – the rumpus was attracting attention. He was furious.

‘You cannot bring him in here!’ he hissed. ‘He broke the prince’s ceasefire, and
that
is why he was stabbed. I do not want
my
property incinerated as punishment for sheltering the enemy.’

‘I do not care what you want,’ snapped Gwenllian. ‘Stand aside.’

Kyng opened his mouth to argue, but there was something in her regal glare that warned him against it. Muttering venomously, he did as he was told. Iefan and his men carried Cole inside, and Gwenllian followed, heartened to note that there was a good fire burning in the hearth.

‘It is not as if Kyng has a family to consider – he is unmarried,’ muttered Iefan resentfully. Then he glanced around uneasily. ‘Where has he gone? It had better not be to bleat to the enemy that the constable lies here – the constable who was injured after the fighting was supposed to have stopped. Perhaps we had better move—’

‘We are not going anywhere,’ said Gwenllian firmly, acutely aware that Symon would not survive any more jostling. ‘We shall set a guard on the door – you can take it in turns.’

‘
I
cannot,’ said Daniel apologetically. ‘Others are dying too, and they also need my prayers. But you have Iefan, and Boleton will be about somewhere. When I see him, I shall send him to you – he will help.’

‘Assuming he is not fighting,’ muttered Iefan under his breath.

For everyone’s sake, including Boleton’s own, Gwenllian sincerely hoped he was not.

The night was one of the longest Gwenllian could remember. There was an orange glow in the sky where the castle still burned, and the street outside was full of noise – the raiders were drunk and growing increasingly wild. Skirmishes broke out as they squabbled over spoils, and the sound of clashing arms and screams made her want to put her hands over her ears. But no one attacked Kyng’s home. Iefan thought the thick door and shuttered windows were responsible, but Gwenllian knew the truth – that Lord Rhys had somehow learned his daughter was within and had ordered the place to be left alone.

Cole failed to improve as the hours dragged by, and she began to think Daniel might be right – he was going to die, and her determination to save him was not enough.

‘He keeps asking for Boleton,’ she whispered to Iefan, distressed by the patient’s agitated entreaties. ‘He would rest easier if Boleton were here, so where
is
he? Why does he not come?’

‘He must be with the men in the forest,’ replied Iefan. ‘He cannot know what has happened, or wild horses would not stop him from being here. He and Sir Symon are closer than brothers.’

During a quiet spell, Gwenllian went to the door for some fresh air. The priory had been set alight, illuminating Merlin’s oak in a stark silhouette. It was oddly lopsided, and she recalled Meurig’s fear that it was no longer capable of protecting the bones.

It occurred to her that she should send some of Cole’s men to guard them – it was not a good idea to leave them unattended when the town was full of men who were of a mind to steal. Obviously she could not tell them
what
they were minding, but she was perfectly capable of fabricating a tale they would believe. Unfortunately she knew they would refuse to leave their master. And she could not go herself – not only would she not abandon Symon either, but she could hardly excavate a heavy chest and spirit it away by herself.

Then her eye lit on a familiar, lanky figure. Gilbert the Thief was not the first man she would have turned to for help, but she was hardly overwhelmed with choices.

‘Gilbert,’ she called softly. ‘Come over here.’

The thief looked around uneasily, as if he imagined there might be another Gilbert in the area. By rights, he should have been hanged years before, but Cole disliked executions and preferred to incarcerate him in the castle prison instead. And Gilbert was not very good at his trade anyway – what he stole was invariably recovered – and people tended to regard him more as a lovable rogue than a criminal.

‘Will you do something for me?’ she asked when he was close enough to hear. ‘Will you stand by Merlin’s oak until I send someone to relieve you? I will pay you for your trouble.’

Gilbert’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Why?’

‘Because of the legend,’ she lied. ‘The one that says Carmarthen will cease to exist if the tree should fall. I thought you might like the honour of making sure that does not happen.’

Pride filled Gilbert’s face but then faded away. ‘I am sorry, lady, but I cannot. I have things to do, and it is more than my life is worth to ignore them.’

‘What things?’ she demanded indignantly. ‘What is more important than saving your town?’

Gilbert became flustered. ‘Just things, lady. It is best you do not ask – what you do not know cannot harm you. Just go back inside and pretend you never saw me.’

He left abruptly when shouts indicated the revellers were coming back. Gwenllian put her face in her hands and wished the night was over.

It was almost a week before Lord Rhys adjudged his warriors to be sufficiently sober to march to the next Norman castle he wanted destroyed. During that time the townsfolk – Norman, English and Welsh alike – were ordered to remain either in their homes or the priory. Cole hovered at the brink of death for four days, but then his fever broke and he slipped into a more natural sleep. When he woke, he asked for Boleton again.

‘He is in the forest, keeping our men in order until the prince leaves,’ replied Iefan with more confidence than Gwenllian felt was warranted.

Cole accepted the explanation though, and it was one time when she was grateful for his ingenuous habit of believing everything he was told. Then, before she could stop him – it was hardly a suitable subject for a sickroom – Iefan began to recite the names of everyone who had died in the raid, and she felt tears scald her eyes when Meurig’s was among them.

‘Meurig?’ echoed Cole, shocked. He groped for her hand. ‘Oh, Gwen! I am so sorry.’