King Arthur's Bones (7 page)

She took a deep breath to compose herself. Symon hated to see her cry, and she did not want him upset. ‘Never mind that – we should talk about you. Do you recall what happened?’

‘Kyng said you were picking off the enemy’s best archers,’ promted Iefan. ‘Were you?’

‘No!’ exclaimed Cole, appalled. ‘I had surrendered, and the prince had accepted my pledge of good behaviour. Of course I was not fighting!’

‘Then tell us who attacked you,’ urged Iefan grimly. ‘I will see he answers for his crime.’

‘It was dark – I could not see.’ But Cole was a poor liar, especially to anyone who knew him.

‘Who was it?’ demanded Gwenllian, thinking she would strangle the culprit with her bare hands; the murderous attack had come far too close to succeeding.

‘All men look alike in winter cloaks,’ Cole murmured, closing his eyes so he would not have to meet hers. ‘It might have been anyone.’

His face was ashen, so she did not press him. He fell into a doze and was still asleep when the prince rode away the next day, taking with him a hefty chunk of Carmarthen’s portable wealth.

The moment the dust settled, the townsfolk began to emerge from their hiding places. Gwilym Kyng was among the first to arrive, anxious to see whether his house was still standing, although he refused to acknowledge that it was Gwenllian’s presence that had saved it from the torch. Spilmon and his insipid wife, whose name Gwenllian could never remember, had accompanied him.

‘Where have
you
been?’ demanded Iefan coolly. ‘You slipped away like a snake in a—’

‘Of course I fled!’ snapped Kyng. ‘What did you expect? For me to die with you, when Lord Rhys set fire to the place where his enemy lay? But Rhys has gone thank God, and now I want you gone too. Your clerk has arranged you accommodation near the castle, so please leave.’

‘We cannot move Symon yet,’ said Gwenllian, aghast. ‘He is too weak.’

‘I do not care. It is his fault the town lies in ruins – he should have protected us.’

‘Easy, friend,’ whispered Spilmon, embarrassed. ‘He did his best – and almost died for it.’

‘Well, his best was not good enough,’ said Kyng angrily. ‘It will take years for the town to recover from this disaster – if ever. Moreover, the raiders have not only stolen all my cheeses, but they burned my dairy into the bargain. I am ruined! And I want him out of my home. Now!’

‘We are not moving him until he is strong enough,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘So I suggest you lodge elsewhere, if you find his presence so objectionable.’

‘You can stay with me, Gwilym,’ offered Spilmon generously. ‘I am missing a roof, but my downstairs rooms are relatively unscathed.’

‘We cannot accept guests,’ whispered Spilmon’s wife. ‘We have only one bed left.’ Spilmon shot her a pained smile. ‘Then you can lodge with your sister while Gwilym and I stay here in Priory Street. These are trying times, and we must all make sacrifices.’

Mistress Spilmon grimaced, as if she thought her sacrifice was rather greater than her husband’s, but she bowed her head and accepted his decision. Gwenllian raised her eyebrows, thinking she would have strong words to say to Symon if he ever treated
her
with such rank disregard. She watched the two merchants march away arm in arm, while Mistress Spilmon trailed along behind them.

Daniel was the next to seek them out. He looked exhausted and said he had spent much of the week either burying the dead or absolving the dying. Atrocities had been committed by both sides, and he estimated that more had died during the pillaging than in the initial attack.

‘But at least Symon is not among them,’ he said with a tired smile. ‘I thought he was lost when I saw his wound, but God saw fit to spare him.’

Eventually Boleton arrived, breathless and dishevelled, claiming he had spent the entire time of the occupation rallying Carmarthen’s garrison in the woods, ready to drive the invaders out.

‘I was about to spring into action when I saw them riding away,’ he declared. ‘So I decided to let them go. Why risk the lives of our men when the enemy was leaving anyway?’

‘I am glad you stayed your hand,’ said Cole. The relentless stream of visitors was taking its toll, and his voice was weak. ‘We had surrendered – promised we would not fight again.’

Boleton waved a dismissive hand. ‘That was before Lord Rhys started looting. It would have been he who broke the terms of the truce, not us, and I am sorry I did not get the chance to tackle him.’

‘Boleton’s tale
is
true,’ said Iefan in a low voice to Gwenllian, seeing the doubt in her face. ‘He
did
move troops about in the forest – the men told me.’

‘I am sure he did. But moving and intending to attack are two different things.’

She studied Boleton carefully. He was a handsome man in his thirties, who might have done well for himself had he not been so unashamedly lazy. Cole liked having his friend to hand and had created a post for him at the castle, thoughtfully ensuring it was one that did not entail too much work – Boleton’s duties revolved around investigating crime, but as Carmarthen was relatively law-abiding, the effort required to fulfil them was negligible.

Was
Boleton telling the truth about what he had been doing for the past week? He did not look as if he had been sleeping rough, and Gwenllian was sceptical of his next tale too – that he had fought off a large band of vicious forest-dwelling robbers single-handed.

John the clerk arrived halfway through it, bursting with administrative matters that required urgent attention. Unfortunately for him, Gwenllian decided Symon had had enough at that point, and ushered everyone out.

‘I cannot leave until I know what to do about the supplies that were stolen,’ objected John in dismay. ‘And there is a missive from the Sheriff of Hereford that requires an immediate answer.’

‘It will have to wait,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘My husband needs to rest now.’

‘It is not him I want – it is you. You make all the important decisions anyway.’ John raised his hands defensively when she started to object. ‘I mean no disrespect, My Lady. It is an arrangement that works very well – your brains and his authority.’

Gwenllian knew it was true, but it sounded disloyal coming from John. Knowing nothing would be gained by sending the man away with a flea in his ear, she dealt with his questions, then walked to Merlin’s oak, grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs at last.

Like the town, the tree bore the ravages of battle. There was a gash of pale wood where a branch had been hacked off, and some of its leaves had been singed. But even so, it stood tall and strong. She ran gentle fingers over the crusty bark and thought her brother had been right to entrust his secret to its care. It exuded an air of comforting permanence, and she had the strange sense that Merlin’s power still coursed through it. She started to walk in a slow circle around its trunk, then stopped in horror when she reached the other side.

There was a gaping pit in the ground. The roots had grown to form a protective cocoon around whatever had been placed there, and someone had used an axe to hack through them.

She stared into the empty hole as she thought about Meurig’s last words. She had tried to stop him from speaking, partly because she had not wanted him to die before Daniel could absolve him, but also because she was sure someone else had been listening – someone who had slipped into Meurig’s house and lurked behind his door. But who?

She racked her brains, trying to think who might have spotted her kneeling next to her brother and come to see whether he was confiding details of hidden money. Everyone with sense had buried what they could when the attack had started, so it was not inconceivable that someone had surmised that he was telling her the whereabouts of hastily concealed wealth.

She closed her eyes, recalling the people she had seen – Kyng and Spilmon; John the clerk; Boleton, before he had escaped to the forest; Gilbert the Thief. Meanwhile, Hywel had gone to fetch Daniel but had taken longer than he should have done – perhaps he had returned to listen to what his father had to say. Or was the villain one of Lord Rhys’s men, and the precious relics were even now being toted east?

But would anyone have the audacity to lay thieving hands on King Arthur’s bones? Of course they would, she thought grimly, because such items were worth a king’s ransom – no religious foundation would pass up the opportunity to buy such a prize. And there was Glastonbury to consider – its abbot would no doubt be delighted to receive back what had been taken from him.

Trying to track them down after so many days would be impossible, and she dropped to her knees and wept when she saw she had let Meurig down – she had lost what he had given his life to protect.

It was more than two years since Lord Rhys had attacked Carmarthen. Buoyed up by the ease of his victory, he had gone on to sack Colwyn and Radnor, and the Normans had been hard-pressed to contain the grizzled old warrior. Then he had died suddenly, and his heirs were more interested in sparring with each other than harrying Marcher lords. Peace reigned, albeit an uneasy one, giving Carmarthen a chance to recover.

The first task was to repair the castle. The Marcher lords had learned their lesson with fortresses made of wood, so Carmarthen was rebuilt in stone. It was not long before the keep had been given a sturdy curtain wall studded with towers. The bailey was extended too, and deeper ditches dug for defence. Meanwhile, the townsfolk plundered the surrounding forest for wood and pilfered nails from the castle-builders, so houses and shops were soon restored as well. Apart from a grassy knoll in St Peter’s churchyard, where those killed in the raid had been buried, there was little to remind the inhabitants of the horrors of Lord Rhys’s visit.

It was a busy time for Gwenllian. As constable, it was Cole’s responsibility to oversee the building work, and once he had recovered he flung himself into the physical side of the operation with great enthusiasm, leaving his wife to manage what he considered the mundane tasks – organizing labour rotas, commissioning supplies and hiring suitable craftsmen. With his brute strength and her talent for administration, the work proceeded apace, and she had scant opportunity to dwell on Meurig’s death or the loss of Arthur’s bones.

One day, when the project was nearing completion, they stood together on the new battlements, enjoying the warmth of a summer evening as the sun set in a blaze of red-gold over the Tywi Valley. By standing on tiptoe, Gwenllian could see the topmost branches of Merlin’s oak, just visible between St Peter’s Church and the towers of the priory beyond. Some judicial pruning had corrected its lopsided appearance, and the great gash in its bark had healed.

Although she rarely thought of the chest Meurig had buried, she did consider it then, wondering again who had stolen it. She had expected to hear of the relics being offered for sale – Lord Rhys had sired a number of children, legitimate and otherwise, which meant Gwenllian had a large complement of half-brothers and sisters to supply her with news and gossip, and little happened that was not reported to her. But there had not been so much as a whisper about the bones. It both puzzled and irritated her – she did not like mysteries.

She had been pondering the matter for some time before it occurred to her that Cole was unusually quiet. He was normally full of chatter at the end of the day, eager to tell her whom he had met and what he had done, and it was rare for him to be silent. She regarded him in concern.

‘What is wrong, Symon?’

He pulled himself from his reverie and shot her an unconvincing smile. ‘Nothing.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Do not lie – we both know you are hopeless at it. So tell me what is the matter. I am sure we will be able to find a solution – we usually do.’

‘
You
usually do,’ he corrected glumly. ‘Very well, then. Daniel was murdered last night.’

‘Our chaplain?’ she cried in horror. ‘Why would anyone kill him? Who have you arrested?’

Cole grimaced. ‘No one – I do not know who was responsible.’

‘Then what are you doing to find the culprit? I cannot imagine Daniel had enemies – he had his faults, of course, but he was a tolerant, patient confessor and that alone made him popular.’

‘What faults?’ asked Cole, a little sharply. Daniel was his friend – two Normans a long way from home, who shared a fondness for horses and fine wine.

Gwenllian touched his arm sympathetically, seeing it was not a good time to remind him that the monk had been rather worldly for a man sworn to poverty – he preferred the rich foods available at the castle to the simple fare of his priory, and never declined gifts from his flock. But his gentle compassion in the confessional meant people tended to view his weaknesses with indulgent affection. She doubted anyone would have killed him over them.

‘He was wealthy for a monk,’ she mused, trying to think of another motive. ‘Perhaps he was the victim of a robbery.’

‘No, because he still had his purse – it was the first thing I checked. It contained six pennies and a little phial of something I assumed to be holy water.’

‘Tell me what you know of his death,’ she ordered, not bothering to point out that felons tended to run away if they were disturbed, so the presence of the purse proved nothing one way or the other.

‘He celebrated a special Mass for the castle carpenters last night. Afterwards he and I shared a jug of wine in the hall, and it was dark by the time he left. He was killed on his way home.’

‘How did he die?’

‘He was hit over the head with something heavy.’

‘Where did it happen?’

‘By Merlin’s oak, which is within spitting distance of his priory.’ Cole’s voice broke as he added: ‘He was almost home.’

‘When was he found?’ asked Gwenllian, touching his arm a second time.

‘This morning. His brethren did not worry when he failed to return last night, because his duties as castle chaplain often keep him out late. His body was discovered at dawn, by my clerk.’

‘What was John doing there at such an hour?’ Gwenllian was immediately suspicious. ‘He lives here in the castle and has no reason to be on the other side of town at dawn.’