King Arthur's Bones

I

Carmarthen, February 1196

Meurig was dying. The battle to repel the invaders was lost, and the castle was ablaze. The town rang with victory cries from Lord Rhys’s men, screams of terror from hapless civilians, and the roar of flames. The billowing smoke was making it difficult for Meurig to breathe, but an arrow had lodged in his spine and his legs no longer worked – he could not move to a more comfortable place to die. In an agony of despair, he wondered what would become of King Arthur’s remains now.

He had thought the bones he had spirited away from Glastonbury would be safe in Carmarthen. The pretty little town in southern Wales was under Norman control, it was true, but this paled into insignificance when its history was taken into account. It was said – and Meurig believed the tale with every fibre of his being – that Merlin the magician had been born there. And Merlin had always been Arthur’s protector.

He thought back to the perilous journey from Glastonbury, some five years before. It had taken weeks to trek through the wet countryside, always travelling at night so as not to be seen. All three of his sons had been with him – Hywel the eldest, jealous and brooding; jovial Young Meurig in the middle; and shy Dewi, his favourite. The box he had fashioned for the precious cargo was not very large – as long as a man’s arm, two-thirds as wide, and high enough to accommodate Arthur’s impressive skull. The wood was hard and black, and Meurig had coated it with a damp-repelling resin.

Once the bones were safely in Wales, he had dismissed the other men he had appointed to be Arthur’s Guardians – too large a party would have attracted attention – and continued the journey with only his sons for company. Naturally, the others had objected. Arthur was so important to Wales that they were appalled at the notion of leaving him, but Meurig had insisted. And they, dutiful souls, had deferred to his wishes and had returned to their homes, to carry on with their lives until they were summoned again. As the son of a Welsh prince, Meurig had always been a leader, and the Guardians – trusted friends, close kin and long-time allies in battle – were all men who acknowledged him as such.

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.

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.’

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.

II

Summer 1198

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.’

‘I did not ask. I suppose I shall have to interview him again.’ Cole did not sound enthusiastic.

‘Are there any witnesses to this horrible crime?’

‘If there were, they would have told me the name of the culprit, and he would be in my prison,’ replied Cole, uncharacteristically curt. ‘So, no, Gwen. No one saw what happened.’

But she knew what was really troubling him. ‘You offered to escort him home after the wine was finished. I heard you. But he refused. Do not even think of blaming yourself.’

He stared morosely into the bailey below. ‘I should have insisted. The people of Carmarthen have a poor bargain in me – I fail to protect them from raiders, and I fail to protect their monks.’

‘They could do a lot worse,’ she said briskly before he could grow too dejected. ‘And we shall avenge Daniel’s death by bringing his killer to justice.’

Cole regarded her doubtfully. ‘And how will we do that, when the villain left no witnesses and no clues as to his identity?’

‘By using our wits.’ She shot him a mischievous glance. ‘Well, my wits and your authority as constable, to be precise. No wicked murderer shall best us.’

Gwenllian spent a restless night reviewing all Cole had learned about the murder, although it was frustratingly little. Daniel had left the castle at roughly nine o’clock, and John had found him dead just after first light. Priory Street was a major thoroughfare, and although there was a curfew during the hours of darkness it was not very rigorously enforced, and she was sure someone must have seen something that would help them solve the crime.

She decided her first task would be to question John, to ascertain what he had been doing out discovering bodies at such an hour, and her second would be to inspect the scene of the murder. Cole claimed the culprit had left no clues, but he would have been thinking along the lines of dropped weapons or easily identifiable items of clothing, and it would not have occurred to him to look for more subtle evidence. And if grilling John and examining the place where a man had been bludgeoned to death did not provide answers, then she would interview the residents of Priory Street. Cole said that Boleton – whose remit it was to investigate crime – had already done that, but Boleton’s legendary laziness meant Gwenllian could not be sure he had been sufficiently diligent, and she felt it needed to be done again.

She was awake and dressed long before dawn, and she and Cole ate a hurried breakfast of bread, cheese and summer berries in the hall, both eager to begin their search for answers as soon as possible.

‘Is Daniel’s body in the priory?’ she asked, wondering whether anything might be gained from examining it. She doubted Cole – or Boleton, for that matter – would have thought to check it for clues.

‘I brought him here.’ Cole hesitated, but then pressed on. ‘Mistress Spilmon said it was wrong to foist a bloodstained corpse on his brethren, and asked if she might be allowed to… She will come to tend him this morning.’

‘Mistress Spilmon?’ asked Gwenllian, mystified. The wives of wealthy merchants did not usually volunteer to prepare bodies for the grave – that was a task performed by impoverished widows who needed the money. ‘Why would she do that?’

Cole shrugged sheepishly, in a way that made her sure he was holding something back. ‘He was her confessor – perhaps she wanted to perform this one last service in return. Did you want to see him?’

Gwenllian followed him across the bailey to the chapel, an unassuming building with wooden walls and a thatched roof. Daniel lay on a trestle table, and someone had covered him with a clean blanket. Cole removed it, then rolled the monk on to his side, so she could see the back of his head. The wound was not as fearsome as she had anticipated, and it seemed Daniel had been unlucky – the blow had caught him at an odd angle and he might have lived had it struck a little higher or a little lower.

‘Mistress Spilmon must have tended him already,’ she remarked. ‘There would have been some blood, but someone has washed it away. And his hair is damp.’

‘I did that last night,’ said Cole. ‘There was blood, and I did not want her to see it.’

Gwenllian regarded him askance. ‘She offered to lay him out, Symon, so I doubt she is squeamish about gore. But it was kindly done, and it certainly helps me, because I can see the wound has a very clear imprint. Can you?’

Cole bent over the body, squinting in the unsteady light of the lamp. Then he looked at her in confusion. ‘It looks like a cross. There is a long mark that leads from his crown towards his neck, and a shorter one that transects it.’

‘Precisely.’

He continued to regard her uncertainly. ‘Are you saying the culprit is another monk – that a cross from the priory was the murder weapon?’

His face was pale, and she understood this was not a very desirable solution – the Church was powerful and would object to a secular official accusing one of its members of heinous crimes.

‘Not necessarily, although we should bear it in mind. But crosses are not the only cruciform objects in existence. Look at your sword, for example. Were you to strike someone with its hilt, it would produce a wound shaped exactly like this one.’

He glanced at it. ‘I am not the killer – I was tucked up in bed with you when Daniel died.’

She said nothing, but his claim was not entirely true. She had heard Daniel leave, but it had been some time before Cole had joined her upstairs. She had asked him where he had been, and he had mumbled something about a raid on the kitchens for food. It was something he did not infrequently, and she had thought no more about it.

‘If Daniel was killed with a sword, then none of your soldiers is responsible,’ she went on. ‘Their hilts are too thick to have made this mark. In other words, the murder weapon would be a knight’s blade, not one owned by a common man.’

‘Then Daniel was killed with something else,’ said Cole firmly, ‘because the only knights in Carmarthen at the moment are Boleton and me. What else might it have been?’

Gwenllian was not surprised to hear him dismiss the possibility that Boleton might be responsible, given their close friendship. Personally she disliked the man, and had still not forgiven him for what she saw as his abandonment of Cole during Lord Rhys’s raid – not to mention his unattractive habit of running up debts and persuading Cole to settle them. Fortunately, though, a recent inheritance had made him comfortably wealthy, so he was currently paying for his own wine, whores and fine clothes.

‘Some pots have bases that are cruciform,’ she suggested. ‘Spilmon showed me one only last week, which he had bought in Bristol. It was very heavy, and might well kill a man.’

‘Spilmon,’ mused Cole. He did not add anything else, but his expression was troubled. ‘Can the body tell you anything more?’

She wished he had not washed it, feeling all manner of clues might have been lost in his misguided attempt to be sensitive. She inspected the rest of Daniel, noting that his habit bore two muddy patches where he would have fallen to his knees, and dust on the chest and stomach – from pitching forward into the dirt.

Then she picked up his purse, and emptied the contents into her hand. As Cole had said, it contained six pennies and a small phial. And there was something else too, caught in some loose stitching at the bottom. It was a finger-bone – one that suggested its owner would have been enormous.

Gwenllian’s mind reeled as she stared at what lay in her hand. Then she flung it away, frightened by it. Cole regarded her in astonishment, but it was a moment before she could speak.

‘Do you remember me telling you how my brother hid King Arthur’s bones under Merlin’s oak?’ she asked unsteadily. ‘And how someone overheard, and got them before I could do as he asked, and move them somewhere safe?’

Cole grimaced. ‘Yes – you were delayed, because you were nursing me. You had several suspects, although I cannot recall them all now.’

She began to list them for him. ‘I virtually told Gilbert the Thief that the oak held something worth stealing, while your clerk John has a nasty habit of eavesdropping. Did you know he was listening to you and Daniel two nights ago, by the way? I saw him in the shadows when I went to fetch a cup of water from the kitchen.’

Cole blinked. ‘Why would he do that? All we talked about was horses and the recent spate of thefts that have been plaguing the town.’

‘Have you asked Gilbert about those?’ asked Gwenllian dryly.

‘Of course. But Boleton and I searched the caches he usually uses for his stolen property, and they are empty. Besides, Boleton has been watching him, so he cannot be the culprit this time. Personally I suspect outsiders – outlaws from the forest, who sneak into the town after dark.’

They were getting away from the subject. ‘Boleton was on my list of suspects too,’ she said.

Cole scowled. ‘He was rounding up our men, to prevent trouble. He did not take your bones.’

Gwenllian did not argue, but she had her doubts. She had given the events of that fateful night a lot of thought, and could not escape one obvious conclusion – that Symon had been knifed to create a diversion, to prevent her from retrieving Meurig’s chest. She had done everything in her power to make him talk about what he had seen, but he had resisted, doggedly maintaining that it had been too dark to be sure of anything. Why would he keep his silence, unless he suspected the culprit was someone dear to him – a friend he was determined to protect?

‘Spilmon and Kyng own the houses on either side of Meurig’s,’ she continued, prudently steering the discussion away from murky waters. ‘That in itself is no reason to suspect them, but they recouped their losses very quickly after the raid. Is it because they sold valuable relics?’

‘The invasion started at the opposite end of the town from Priory Street,’ Cole pointed out. ‘Perhaps that gave them enough time to bury their own treasure – in other words, they did not lose as much as they claimed.’

‘Perhaps,’ acknowledged Gwenllian. She hesitated, but then pressed on. ‘I hate to include a family member on such a list, but Hywel has always been an enigma to me. He does not work, but never lacks for bread, and will not explain how.’

‘He has changed since his father’s death.’

It was an understatement of enormous proportion. Hywel had never been particularly amiable, but since the raid he had grown surly and withdrawn. It was entirely possible that he had delayed fetching Daniel in order to eavesdrop, and had then hurried off to attack Cole and steal the bones once his father was dead. Gwenllian recalled his curious insistence on acquiring a coffin – surely not a priority for most recently bereaved sons. And then what had he done? Sold the relics to the first religious house willing to buy them? Was that what kept him in ale when he did nothing to earn an honest day’s pay?

She closed her mind to the awful possibility and turned to the last of her suspects – the one who suddenly loomed larger than the others because of what she had just found in his purse.

‘Daniel was in the vicinity too,’ she said quietly. ‘He came to pray over Meurig’s body.’

Cole’s jaw dropped. ‘You suspected Daniel? But he was a monk!’

‘And monks cannot steal?’ Gwenllian pointed to where the bone had fallen. ‘I wager anything you please that this huge finger belonged to Arthur – Meurig said the bones in the chest were massive, and there cannot be that many enormous relics in existence. So how does it come to be in Daniel’s purse?’

Cole bent to retrieve it. He was a large man, but the bone dwarfed his hand. He stared at it for a while, and she could almost hear his mind working.

‘Do you really believe King Arthur was so vast?’ he asked eventually. ‘I have listened to dozens of ballads about the man, but none says he was a giant. Surely, if he were, one account would have drawn attention to the fact?’

It was a valid point. Could he be right, and the fact that Meurig said his chest contained a behemoth meant it was not Arthur? Gwenllian tried to recall what her brother had told her about the discovery at the abbey in the English marshes.

‘When Arthur’s leg was measured against that of a Glastonbury workman, it was almost twice as long. And the skull was so large that the distance between the eye sockets was more than the width of a hand. This was seen as proof that the skeleton belonged to a special man.’

‘Very special!’ remarked Cole caustically. ‘If you are right, then Arthur would have towered over his fellow warriors, and that would have made him very vulnerable in battle – any common bowman could have picked him off. Personally I do not believe he was a monster.’

‘Those were ancient times,’ she suggested tentatively. ‘Perhaps everyone was bigger then.’

‘In that case, you cannot use their unusual size to contend that they belonged to a special man,’ he argued with uncharacteristically impeccable logic. ‘They might belong to anyone. Was there anything in this Glastonbury tomb that might make identification certain? A sword, for example – perhaps one with an engraving on it?’

‘Well, there was hair,’ recalled Gwenllian. ‘Meurig said it belonged to Arthur’s queen. Apparently some of it fell to dust when it was grabbed.’

Cole looked dubious. ‘I saw ancient hair in France, but that did not disintegrate when I touched it. And it does not prove anything one way or the other anyway.’

She did not ask how he came to be handling old corpses – not all his soldiering stories were very salubrious. ‘Well, Meurig said the bones were Arthur’s, and that is enough for me,’ she said firmly. She nodded to the bone in his hand. ‘Can we be sure that it is human?’

‘Who knows? But may I make an observation about the phial in Daniel’s purse? I assumed it was filled with holy water – he was a monk and usually had some to hand – but I have just remembered that the priory uses round pots for that purpose. His is oval.’

Gwenllian was bemused. ‘What are you saying?’

‘That if his bottle does contain something holy, then it is not water blessed at the priory.’

Gwenllian narrowed her eyes. ‘So his purse held two relics, not one? This phial might contain something else from Meurig’s chest? Is that what you are suggesting?’

‘I am not suggesting anything; I am stating a fact. Interpreting it is for you to do.’

It was still dark when they left the chapel. Cole was regaling Gwenllian with descriptions of grisly relics he had seen on his various travels, but she was not listening. Her mind was full of what they had learned. Had Daniel overheard Meurig, then stabbed Cole in order to prevent her from claiming the bones? And was he really callous enough to have pursued a friendship with Symon afterwards, spending hours in his company and enjoying his generous, openhearted hospitality?

She frowned, trying to recall precisely what had happened when. She had ascertained at the time that Symon had been knifed not long after Meurig had died. And who had found him? Daniel! The monk had summoned Iefan, and together they had carried Cole to St Peter’s Church, where he had ordered Spilmon, Kyng and John to find her. She recalled how his habit had been torn and bloody, and how she had wondered whether he had ignored his vocation and joined in the fighting. But now it occurred to her that he might have been stabbing his friend instead. Or was she maligning the man? He had, after all, been ministering to those hurt in the fighting, so some stains were going to be inevitable.

She spotted Sergeant Iefan in the bailey, and beckoned him over. ‘You were with Symon very quickly after he was attacked two years ago. Will you tell me what you remember?’

‘Not this again, Gwen!’ groaned Cole. ‘Do you not think it is time to forget about it?’

‘Willingly,’ said Iefan, ignoring him and addressing Gwenllian. She was not the only one for whom the incident still rankled, even if the victim had put it from his mind. ‘It occurred not far from the castle, and there were a number of people milling about – Lord Rhys’s men as well as townsfolk. But no one saw it happen – and, believe me, I asked around afterwards. Daniel found Sir Symon – it was he who told us to take him to the church, because it was the safest place.’

‘Do you recall seeing blood on Daniel’s habit?’ she asked.

Iefan nodded. ‘And it was not his own either. But I turned a blind eye – if he was seized by the urge to knock a few raiders’ heads together, then good luck to him, I say.’

‘He joined in the fighting?’ Cole was startled. ‘But he told me he spent the whole time on his knees, praying. I remember thinking that it had been a waste of a strong pair of arms.’

‘Then he lied,’ said Iefan bluntly. ‘Not that I am accusing him of anything untoward, you understand. He was probably just embarrassed to admit there was a warrior beneath his habit.’

‘He did not linger long once we had arrived at Kyng’s home,’ mused Gwenllian. ‘He left with almost indecent haste.’

‘To minister to the dying,’ said Cole. ‘Not to excavate bones while you were otherwise engaged. He was a good man, and he was my friend. I refuse to believe anything bad about him.’

Gwenllian inclined her head. He was entitled to his opinion, as she was to hers. However, Cole was too trusting for his own good, because any number of people had seen the monk wandering around when he claimed to have been at his devotions. And if Daniel had lied about that, then what other untruths had he told? And why?

It was time to speak to John, the clerk who had discovered Daniel’s body. Cole sent a boy to wake him, unwilling to waste a single moment now the investigation was under way. John arrived yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked tired, as though he had spent a disturbed night, and Gwenllian wondered why – his duties at the castle were hardly onerous, so his fatigue was unlikely to be due to overwork.

‘I will finish the stores inventory today,’ he bleated in alarm when he saw Gwenllian. He was far more intimidated by the constable’s wife than the constable. ‘I have been busy of late.’

‘Doing what?’ asked Gwenllian evenly.

John became flustered. ‘Going through old documents – there is no point in keeping records of ancient transactions, as I am sure you will agree, sir.’ He gazed at Cole, hoping to elicit his support – the constable was well known for having scant patience with administration.

‘Really,’ said Gwenllian sweetly, before Cole could respond. ‘Perhaps later, you will show me what you have done, and we can admire the fruits of your labours together.’

John’s consternation intensified. ‘It is tedious stuff, My Lady,’ he babbled. ‘Normally I would delegate it to one of my underlings, but it seemed unfair to foist such a dull task on them.’

‘I see,’ said Gwenllian, not sure what to make of the tale. She decided to investigate, but not that morning. Daniel’s murder was a far more pressing matter. ‘But my husband did not summon you here to talk about your work. He has questions about what happened yesterday.’

‘You mean when I found Daniel?’ John gulped uneasily. ‘But I already told him about that.’

‘He would like you to tell him again. To iron out one or two inconsistencies.’

‘Inconsistencies?’ John was now seriously discomfited, and Gwenllian could see Cole frowning; clearly this had not happened when the clerk had been interviewed the previous day.

‘Well?’ she asked, when John did no more than stare in alarm.

‘I discovered Daniel just before dawn,’ John replied shakily. ‘He was lying face down under Merlin’s oak. When I saw the blood on his head, I guessed he had been unlawfully slain, so I ran to the priory to raise the alarm. Then you and Boleton arrived, sir, and I told you my tale.’

Gwenllian mulled the information over. ‘The wound was on the back of Daniel’s head, and he was lying on his front. That suggests he did not see his assailant coming – or he trusted the fellow enough to turn his back on him. He stumbled forward and died where he lay.’

‘Yes.’ John was nodding. ‘There was nothing to say he moved after he was hit.’

Of course, Gwenllian had already surmised how Daniel had fallen from the marks on his habit – the two muddy smears at knee height, where he had been knocked from his feet, and the dust on his chest where he had pitched to the ground. Then she frowned. Something was amiss. The answer clicked into her mind: the weather. She filed it away, to discuss with Cole when John was not there.

‘What do you think happened to Daniel?’ she asked of the clerk.

John swallowed. ‘That is not for me to say, My Lady. Sir Symon pointed out that his purse was not stolen, so it cannot have been robbery. Perhaps he was assaulted by someone who does not like foreigners – Daniel was Norman. Or it was a case of mistaken identity.’

Gwenllian raised her eyebrows. ‘You do not think his bulky figure in its monastic habit made him distinctive?’

‘Not if it was dark,’ John flashed back. ‘And there are several taverns near Merlin’s oak. Perhaps his killer was drunk – his judgement impaired.’

‘Why were you out at such an hour?’ demanded Gwenllian. ‘To walk there before anyone else means you must have risen very early – far earlier than you woke today. And it is common knowledge that you start work late.’

‘Yes, but I finish late too,’ John objected defensively. ‘I am still at my books long after everyone else has gone home.’

‘Even more reason to answer my question, then.’

John spread his hands in a shrug. ‘I could not sleep, so I went for a stroll to clear my mind. It is something I do not infrequently.’

Gwenllian nodded to the writing equipment the clerk had brought with him, having assumed, not unreasonably, that he had been summoned because his clerical skills were needed. He carried a sheaf of parchment, an inkwell, some pens and a portable desk.

‘You tote this wherever you go, do you not?’ she asked, taking the desk from him and turning it over in her hands. It was a heavy, well-made piece, built to last a lifetime.

The clerk stiffened, as if he had been accused of something. ‘Of course. I am a scribe. I cannot work without the tools of my trade. It is-’

‘Why were you listening to the discussion between my husband and Daniel two nights ago?’ interrupted Gwenllian, aiming to disconcert him. There was something about the diffident Englishman she had always found unappealing, and she had never really trusted him.

John regarded her in horror. ‘I was not-’

‘You were. I saw you,’ she said harshly. ‘Now answer my question.’

John’s cheeks burned. ‘They were talking about horses,’ he mumbled. ‘I am interested in horses, and could not help myself.’

Gwenllian asked one or two more questions, but it was clear the clerk had no more to add – or no more he was prepared to share, which, as she remarked to Symon when John had gone, was not necessarily the same thing.

‘Do you think he killed Daniel?’ asked Cole worriedly. ‘You certainly treated him as though he were a suspect.’

‘Only because he behaved like one.’ Gwenllian tapped her chin thoughtfully. ‘And I am unconvinced by his tale of early-morning walks. But despite his reluctance to cooperate, I still garnered a few interesting snippets from his answers.’

‘You did? The only thing I learned was that he likes horses – which surprises me, because he has never expressed an interest in them before. And he rides with all the grace of a sack of corn.’

She regarded him askance, amazed he should have believed the tale. ‘I think you will find that was a lie, cariad – he was listening for some other reason. Did you notice his portable writing desk, by the way? Its base is formed by two strips of wood that meet in the middle.’

Cole raised his eyebrows. ‘A heavy implement with a cross. Do you think it is the murder weapon?’

‘If so, then he cleaned it well, because there was no blood. And something else occurred to me as he spoke, although it is not something that points to his guilt – or lack thereof, come to that. It was fine yesterday – we have not had rain in days.’

‘For more than a week. What of it?’

‘The marks at knee level on Daniel’s habit were muddy. Muddy, Symon, not dusty. The surface of the ground is dry, although it will be damp deeper down. The stains on his chest were powdery, consistent with him falling face forward on to the hard ground. But what of his knees?’

He regarded her blankly. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘Then think! He was not on his knees because he stumbled on to them when he was hit, as I first thought – he was already on them.’

‘Praying?’ suggested Cole tentatively.

‘Digging!’ Gwenllian failed to understand why he could not see what was so obvious. ‘His knees came into contact with soil from deep within the ground – muddy soil – but his chest was only dusty. Moreover, he died at Merlin’s oak. And what was buried at Merlin’s oak?’

‘Arthur’s bones. But they are no longer there. Or are you saying you were careless and did not look as closely for the wretched things as you might have done? You overlooked them?’

‘I was careful – they had certainly gone. But that was two years ago, and now we find Daniel in possession of a relic that almost certainly came from Arthur’s chest.’ Gwenllian began to stride towards the gate. ‘So I suggest our first port of call this morning should be the place where Daniel was murdered.’

Bewildered and hopelessly out of his depth, Cole turned to follow her.

The questioning of a clerk at an hour when he was usually abed did not go unnoticed. The castle was a small community, and very little happened in it that was not soon common knowledge, so they had not reached the gate before Renald de Boleton intercepted them. Cole beamed a welcome at the knight he regarded as a brother, although Gwenllian’s greeting was rather more restrained.

‘What has poor John done that you felt compelled to haul him from his slumbers at such an ungodly hour?’ Boleton asked. He was wearing a fine new tunic that Gwenllian had not seen before. ‘The poor man is still shaking.’

‘Gwen asked him some questions,’ replied Cole, giving his friend the kind of look that said that should be explanation enough. It was not unknown for the princess to home in on some aspect of castle management that did not meet her approval and interrogate someone about it.

‘Questions about what?’ pressed Boleton. ‘The fact that he spends more time on personal matters than on his duties?’

‘Does he? I had not noticed.’ Cole’s shrug suggested he did not care either.

Gwenllian did. ‘What personal matters?’ she demanded.

‘He talks of taking the cowl,’ explained Boleton. ‘But decent clerks are hard to come by these days, so we should all try to dissuade him – for the good of the castle.’

‘John a monk?’ asked Cole, startled. ‘Will anyone accept him? He is such a quiet mouse.’

Boleton laughed. ‘He wants to join a monastery, not an army, brother! Quiet mice are no doubt highly prized in abbeys, especially ones who can write so prettily.’

Cole pondered the notion of anyone yearning for a monastic existence for a moment, then dismissed it as incomprehensible. ‘We were asking him about finding Daniel’s body.’

Boleton’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Investigating crime is my job. Are you telling me I am relieved of my responsibilities?’

‘Just Daniel’s death,’ replied Cole. ‘Gwen is going to solve that. But it is good news for you – it will leave you more time to deal with the burglaries that have the town in such an uproar.’

‘True,’ agreed Boleton. He frowned. ‘But surely you do not suspect John of killing Daniel? The monk was a large man, and an unfit scribbler like John could never have bested him.’

‘It takes no great strength to hit someone from behind. Especially if he is kneeling.’

Gwenllian winced, and wished Cole had not shared this particular piece of information, although she could not have said why.

‘Kneeling?’ pounced Boleton. ‘You mean he was killed while he was at prayer? But he was struck down under the tree in Priory Street. What are you suggesting? That he was dabbling in some pagan rite that had him on his knees under Merlin’s oak in high summer?’

‘Of course not,’ said Cole, before Gwenllian could stop him. ‘He may have been digging for something. In fact we are going to see what can be learned from the scene of the crime now.’

‘Intriguing,’ mused Boleton, rubbing his chin. ‘May I come with you? I am bored with looking into these dull thefts, and this sounds like an amusing diversion.’

‘Hardly a diversion,’ said Cole reproachfully. ‘Or amusing either. My friend is dead.’

Boleton, unrepentant, snorted his disdain. ‘A man who liked you for fine wine and chatter about horses, brother. I would hardly call him a friend.’

Gwenllian knew Boleton had resented the easy companionship between Cole and Daniel, but the knight’s words made her consider the fact anew. Was he jealous enough to take steps to put an end to it? He had gone out on the night in question – to hire a prostitute, he had said – and she had not heard him return. So he would have had the opportunity, while his fine hilt would almost certainly match Daniel’s injury. She wondered how she could question him without Symon realizing what she was doing – Cole would never entertain the possibility of one friend harming another and would try to stop her.

‘I should have walked home with him,’ Cole was saying quietly. ‘He would not be dead if I had done my duty.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Boleton. ‘Have you considered the possibility that you have had a narrow escape? That you might have suffered a blow to the head, too, had you accompanied him?’

Cole regarded him in horror. Clearly the possibility had not occurred to him.

‘Are you saying Daniel had enemies?’ asked Gwenllian, not sure what to make of the remark.

‘Well, he was unlikely to have been killed by someone who wished him well,’ drawled Boleton, regarding her steadily. She found his expression impossible to interpret.

‘But who would mean him harm?’ asked Cole. His face was pale, and Gwenllian could tell the notion of the monk having enemies disturbed him deeply – in his code of honour, friends were supposed to protect each other from those.

Boleton shook his head slowly. ‘I do not know. No one relieved him of his purse, so he was not the victim of a robbery. And do not tell me the thief was disturbed before he could complete his grim business, because the body lay under a tree all night. When no alarm was raised, any self-respecting villain would have returned to finish what he had started.’

It was a good point, although Gwenllian declined to acknowledge it. ‘Then what would you say was the motive?’

Boleton held her gaze. ‘I really do not have the faintest idea. But I am sure that if anyone can find out, it will be you.’

Wondering why she felt as though she had been insulted, rather than complimented, Gwenllian followed the two knights towards the gate. She found herself staring at the hilt of Boleton’s elegant sword. Was it wishful thinking, or was it a better match for the imprint on Daniel’s skull than Cole’s more robust one? She edged closer, but a thread of cloth suggested it had enjoyed a recent cleaning. Was that significant? Boleton was usually lax about weapon maintenance, and Cole was always berating him about it. She was not sure what to think, but Boleton was firmly at the top of her list of suspects.

To reach Merlin’s oak from the castle entailed heading towards St Peter’s Church, then continuing on past it into Priory Street. The tree stood at the far end of the road. When they arrived at the tree, Cole and Boleton began to poke about in the long grass with sticks, although not very systematically, while Gwenllian stared up at the shady green canopy.

‘What have you seen?’ she asked it softly. ‘Who killed Daniel? Who stole the bones Meurig hid – and almost murdered my husband into the bargain?’

A summer breeze whispered through the branches. Then a leaf fell and spiralled slowly to the ground. Gwenllian followed it with her eyes, watching it come to rest on a patch of grass. She bent to inspect it. It was healthy, shiny and green, and she wondered why it should have dropped. She started to pick it up, but her fingers closed around some blades of grass as well as its stem, and when she lifted the leaf the grass rose with it.

‘Symon!’ she shouted, excited. ‘Come and look!’

‘Weeds,’ drawled Boleton, when the two knights had darted around the tree to find the constable’s wife brandishing a fistful of vegetation. ‘How very fascinating!’

‘Turf,’ explained Gwenllian curtly, not liking his tone. ‘Grass excavated carefully, so it could be replaced and no one would know a hole had been dug.’

Cole was on his knees, hauling up clumps of sod. He tossed them to one side, until he had cleared a neat square that was roughly the length of his arm. The soil below was damp and hard and had clearly been stamped into place. Before Gwenllian could stop him, Boleton had stepped into the hole.

‘The digger had average-sized feet,’ he announced authoritatively. ‘Smaller than mine. Do you see the print he left?’

‘Not really,’ replied Gwenllian acidly. ‘Your trampling has just obliterated it – along with any clue it might have yielded.’

Boleton sighed. ‘How foolish of me! It was a very clear impression too.’

Gwenllian studied him hard but could not decide whether he was mocking her or was genuinely contrite. She opened her mouth to say something sharp, but Cole spoke first.

‘It does not matter, brother. I saw the mark before you trod on it, and it was unremarkable. I doubt it could have told us anything useful.’

Gwenllian scowled at them both and heartily wished they had stayed in the castle. Cole she could control, but Boleton was obviously going to be a nuisance. She fought down her irritation and knelt, hoping to find some other clue. Unfortunately there was nothing to see but recently excavated earth.

Cole borrowed a spade from Spilmon the grocer, whose house was nearby, and began to dig, relishing the opportunity to indulge in the kind of physical exercise that was generally frowned on for royally appointed officials. Boleton offered to take a turn, but not with much conviction, and was more than happy to lie in the shade while his friend did the work. He tossed a boy a penny to fetch him a jug of ale and settled back with an indolent sigh.

The sight of the constable wielding a shovel was enough to attract attention, and it was not long before a crowd had gathered. Hywel was among them, so Gwenllian went to greet her nephew, pleased by the chance to abandon Norman French and speak her native tongue. But Hywel was not of a mind to exchange pleasantries. He scowled towards Cole.

‘What is he doing?’

‘Investigating Daniel’s murder.’

‘By digging holes?’ Hywel asked incredulously. ‘I know he is stupid, but I did not think he had lost his wits completely.’

Gwenllian fixed him with a glare that had him stepping back in alarm. ‘He is not stupid.’

‘He was stupid two years ago,’ muttered Hywel. He was drunk, as usual, and did not know when it was more prudent to stay quiet. ‘If he had done his duty, my father would still be alive.’

‘I am tired of hearing this,’ said Gwenllian. Hywel started to raise a wineskin to his lips, but she slapped it down. ‘I miss him too, but it is time you pulled yourself together. Do you think he would be proud, seeing what you have become? A drunkard, wallowing in events of the past?’

Hywel regarded her through bloodshot eyes, then turned abruptly and shouldered his way through the crowd. She closed her eyes, temper subsiding as quickly as it had risen. She had not meant to be cruel, but she was weary of his recriminations, and someone needed to tell him the truth about himself. She dragged her thoughts away from Hywel when Cole cleared away the last of the loose soil, and his spade chopped towards the harder earth around the tree’s roots.

‘Stop!’ she cried. Was it was her imagination, or were the leaves shivering in agitation above her head? ‘The hole is empty. You have proved someone came a-digging, but whoever it was has left nothing behind.’

Cole leaned on his shovel and wiped sweat from his eyes with his sleeve. Then he frowned, leaned down to pluck something from the grass and handed it to Gwenllian.

‘A phial,’ she mused. ‘Oval – and identical to the one we found in Daniel’s purse.’

‘Not identical – this one is empty,’ he said. ‘What do you think it means?’

Gwenllian considered. ‘I think you were right to assume the contents of Daniel’s little bottle were special. Perhaps someone believes the tree under which Arthur lay is sacred, and has been filling phials with rainwater that has dripped from its leaves.’

Cole’s expression was dubious. ‘But why should such a thing be in Daniel’s purse? I cannot see him falling for such foolery. He was a monk, not some superstitious bumpkin.’

Gwenllian did not know what to think. ‘If you are sure there is nothing else to find, we should refill the hole. I do not think the tree will appreciate being left with its roots exposed.’

It took Cole considerably less time to fill the hole than it had to dig it. When he had finished, Gwenllian replaced the turf and stamped it down. Despite their care, the grass still stood proud of the surrounding vegetation, and it told her that whoever had excavated the original pit had gone to considerable trouble to ensure his handiwork remained hidden. She wondered why.

Cole wiped his hands on his shirt, then accepted a drink from Boleton’s jug. ‘I am not sure that was worth the effort. We still do not know how the hole is connected to Daniel.’

‘It is not connected,’ said Boleton scornfully. ‘Obviously. He did not dig it – unless someone waited until he had patted it all back in its rightful place before killing him, which seems unlikely. Perhaps he just had the bad luck to spot the digger at work and was murdered for his silence.’

Gwenllian drew Cole away from him. ‘This hole is dug on the town side of the tree,’ she whispered, ‘but Meurig buried Arthur on the far side. Two different pits, two different places.’

He regarded her uncertainly. ‘What are you saying? That whoever tried to steal the bones two years ago dug in the wrong location? That Arthur has been here all along?’

‘No, I could tell by looking at Meurig’s pit that it had held a chest – the tree had wrapped its roots around it like a cradle. I have no idea why anyone should have been digging on the opposite side now. Perhaps it is nothing to do with Arthur, although…’

‘Although it is an odd coincidence. Poor Daniel. I wonder what he stumbled across.’

Gwenllian frowned. ‘I cannot believe the culprit did not make some kind of noise. So it is time to ask the people of Priory Street what they heard or saw.’

Gwenllian did not want Cole or Boleton with her when she spoke to potential witnesses, because no one was going to be free with information when a pair of Norman knights were looming behind her. Unfortunately she could not think of a way to be rid of them, and when she suggested they separate to ask questions, Boleton made a casual remark about an official investigation sending the murderer into a panic. It was cleverly done, because once the seed was planted in Cole’s mind there was no way he was going to let his wife conduct an enquiry on her own. And where Cole went, so went Boleton.

Trying to look on the bright side, telling herself that people would be less inclined to lie when two warriors with sharp swords were at her back, she knocked on the door of the first house.

It was owned by a cobbler, who was visibly alarmed by a visit from the constable and his henchman, and would certainly have been forthcoming had he had information to share. Unfortunately he had none, other than that Daniel had died on the eve of the Feast of St Peter. It was an important festival – a patronal one – and there had been a vigil in St Peter’s Church. The cobbler had remained all night, devoutly on his knees, and so had many other Priory Street folk.

‘But not Kyng and the Spilmons,’ mused Gwenllian as they left. ‘We will talk to them next.’

‘Hywel was not there either,’ said Boleton challengingly. ‘Or are we overlooking kin?’

‘We are not,’ replied Gwenllian frostily. ‘We shall speak to anyone who was home on the night of the crime.’

‘Then let us start with Hywel,’ suggested Boleton. ‘He has a military past, and he was all but unhinged by the death of his father. It would not surprise me to learn he killed a monk.’

‘He has a point, Gwen,’ said Cole in a low voice, when Boleton stopped to exchange greetings with one of the town’s prostitutes – the most expensive one, Gwenllian noticed; his recent inheritance was allowing him to enjoy all manner of costly treats. ‘Hywel is a ruffian.’

‘He is,’ agreed Gwenllian with a sigh. ‘But I had better speak to him alone. He is unlikely to be very forthcoming if you are there – you know he does not like you. So stay here and-’

‘No,’ said Cole immediately.

Gwenllian touched his arm. ‘He is family, Symon. He would never harm me.’

It was rare that Gwenllian lost a battle of wills with her husband, but Cole’s distrust of Hywel ran deep, so it was three people who knocked on her nephew’s door. Gwenllian noticed how the house, like its occupant, had turned shabby since Meurig had died.

‘What do you want?’ demanded Hywel. He seemed less drunk than he had been shortly before, as if his aunt’s hard words had sobered him. They had done nothing to improve his temper, though. ‘If it is ale you’re after digging that hole, you can go to hell. Norman curs do not deserve my piss.’

He spoke Welsh, sufficiently rapidly that Cole could not follow, although it was obvious from his hate-filled expression that he had not said anything polite. Boleton inspected his fingernails, feigning boredom, although his eyes were alert, and his right hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

‘We only want to talk,’ replied Gwenllian quietly in Norman French. ‘I need to know if you heard or saw anything that might help us catch Daniel’s killer.’

Hywel continued to scowl. ‘I was in the tavern that night.’ He spoke Norman French in a way that said he did so unwillingly. ‘I came home when it was dark, and heard and saw nothing.’

‘But Daniel left the castle after dark,’ said Cole hopefully. ‘Are you sure you-’

‘Yes, I am sure,’ snarled Hywel. ‘Of course, Daniel would not be dead if you had escorted him home. You know there has been trouble with thieves in the town, and you should not have let him wander around alone. His death is your fault – like so many others.’

Cole flinched, and Gwenllian did not like the flash of spiteful triumph in her nephew’s eyes when he saw the barb had gone home. She put out a restraining hand when Boleton took an angry step forward.

‘What trouble with thieves?’ she asked.

‘The spate of petty larceny,’ explained Boleton. His voice was tight, suggesting his temper was only just under control. ‘Cole believes outlaws from the forest are responsible.’

‘It is not petty larceny,’ argued Cole. ‘Spilmon lost a box of coins, while the priory was relieved of valuable altar dressings. The culprits know exactly which places to target, and when. It is uncanny.’

Gwenllian looked from one to the other. ‘Then surely it is possible that Daniel was attacked by these felons? Perhaps he saw them hiding their ill-gotten gains under the tree, and they killed him to ensure he could never identify them.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Boleton. ‘Personally I believe the culprit to be a local man – I am sure you are wrong about the thefts being the work of outsiders, brother. You and I have spent days scouring the forest, but we have found no trace of outlaw camps.’

Cole frowned. ‘But I have spoken to witnesses who have seen strangers-’

‘Drunkards and beggars who will say anything for a penny,’ interrupted Boleton. ‘We have no credible witnesses – and you will waste your time if you follow their testimony. But we are wasting time now – we want to know what happened to Daniel, and this discussion can wait.’

Cole turned back to Hywel. ‘Please think carefully. Are you sure you did not see anything-’

‘If I did, I would not tell you,’ said Hywel tauntingly. ‘Daniel got what he deserved anyway.’

‘Hywel!’ exclaimed Gwenllian, shocked. ‘What a terrible thing to say! Daniel was a gentle man who took his vows seriously.’

‘Only the ones that suited him,’ said Hywel, oozing malice. ‘Just ask your husband.’

And with that he turned on his heel and marched back inside his house, slamming the door behind him. It made a crack like a thunderclap, and echoed along the otherwise peaceful street. Gwenllian looked at Cole and raised her eyebrows to indicate that an explanation was in order.

‘I did not want to tell you,’ he said sheepishly.

‘Tell me what?’ demanded Gwenllian, hands on hips. She was aware of Boleton looking equally bemused – Symon had not confided in him either.

‘Daniel had a lady,’ Cole mumbled uncomfortably. ‘I learned about it the night you and I were married, but it was their secret, not mine.’ The last part was spoken defensively, as if he imagined his wife might think less of him for keeping silent for so many years.

Gwenllian regarded him in exasperation. ‘But the identity of this lover might have a bearing on his death. You should have told me about her last night.’

‘You should,’ agreed Boleton. ‘So you had better tell us now. Do not look troubled, brother! Hywel knows about her, so it will not be long before Daniel’s secret is out.’

‘Meurig knew,’ hedged Cole. ‘He was an observant man, and noticed comings and goings. We discussed it once, then agreed to forget about it. It was not our business.’

‘Who is she, Symon?’ asked Gwenllian, although facts were coming together in her mind and she thought she had the answer. ‘Is it Mistress Spilmon?’

Cole gaped at her. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because she offered to tend Daniel’s body, and because you were considerate enough to wash it for her, to spare her the sight of his blood.’

‘Well, then,’ said Boleton, looking towards the grocer’s house. ‘Perhaps there is your culprit for Daniel’s murder. No man likes to be a cuckold.’

Gwenllian did not need to knock on Spilmon’s door, because the grocer was already hurrying towards them, Kyng at his heels. Cole saw the scowl Gwenllian directed towards the cheese-maker and the malevolent expression she received in return, and he shook his head in incomprehension.

‘Lord Rhys attacked Carmarthen more than two years ago,’ he whispered to her. ‘Do you not think it is time to forget what happened?’

Gwenllian raised her eyebrows. ‘I do not – especially not today. My brother confided his secret to me on that fateful night, and someone stabbed you in order to steal Arthur’s chest from Merlin’s oak. And now Daniel is brained under that very same tree with a large bone in his purse. It is a time for remembering, not forgetting.’

‘Not if Boleton is right, and Spilmon has just learned his wife has had a lover for the last ten years. That would make Arthur’s bones irrelevant, while the relics in Daniel’s purse might be a coincidence.’

‘Of course they might,’ said Gwenllian flatly, wondering how he could even suggest such a thing. ‘But Boleton might be wrong, and Spilmon may still be in blissful ignorance. In which case I suggest that nothing can be gained from incautious words. You had better leave this to me.’

‘All right,’ said Cole, not bothering to hide his relief. He was not very good at the kind of subtle probing necessary to elicit answers without revealing what he knew. ‘I will just listen.’

‘I hope you are not planning to chop down Merlin’s oak,’ said Spilmon when he was close enough to speak. ‘You know the legend, do you not – that the town will fall if it is destroyed?’

‘A branch was lopped off two years ago, and look what happened then,’ added Kyng. ‘Lord Rhys stormed in and almost killed us all. We are lucky we survived – no thanks to some.’

‘The cheese-maker thinks to blame us,’ said Boleton to Cole, hand resting threateningly on the hilt of his sword. ‘But the raid was carried out by his countrymen, not ours.’

‘Actually the branch came off during the raid,’ said Cole to Kyng, although Gwenllian was sure the man knew it – he had just twisted the facts to make accusatory remarks. ‘It did not come down in advance, to warn of pending disaster. It was an accident.’

‘The tree does not allow accidents to befall it,’ said Spilmon. He sounded indignant on its behalf. ‘Everything that happens around it happens for a reason. Take Daniel, for example. His death was not a random act of violence, but will have a greater meaning.’

‘Really?’ asked Gwenllian, putting on her most winning smile. ‘What sort of meaning?’

Spilmon leaned towards her conspiratorially. ‘I heard odd sounds the night he died, and I am sure he was scrabbling about by its roots. Merlin’s oak does not appreciate tampering.’

Gwenllian glanced at Boleton. Cole had given the impression that the knight had already interviewed the residents of Priory Street about Daniel’s death, so why had Boleton not mentioned Spilmon’s testimony? It represented an important clue, after all.

‘I did not manage to speak to Spilmon yesterday,’ Boleton said, seeing her look and understanding what it meant. He was unconcerned by her immediate exasperation. ‘He was out when I did my rounds, and I forgot to return later.’

Gwenllian did not know whether to believe him. She turned to the grocer. ‘Did you see Daniel with a spade?’

‘No, but he walked past my house not long before these strange noises started, so it must have been him. The man was a fool, wandering about in a town that is the domain of violent robbers.’

‘Violent robbers?’ echoed Boleton, regarding him contemptuously. ‘Do you refer to the minor thefts that have occurred of late? Really, man! You exaggerate!’

‘And you understate!’ countered Kyng, stepping forward belligerently. ‘But I know why you make light of the matter – because you have failed to catch the culprits.’

‘Those scoundrels stole a fortune from me,’ added Spilmon before Boleton could respond to the charge. ‘And they are growing increasingly brazen. Did you hear that they had the audacity to attack the priory and make off with its finest cross – a great heavy gold one?’

‘A cross?’ asked Cole sharply. ‘I thought they had lost some altar dressings.’

Kyng sneered at him. ‘A cross is an altar dressing, constable.’ He managed to inject considerable scorn into the last word, and might just as well have said ‘stupid’.

But Cole was looking at Boleton. ‘You visited the priory and recorded their complaint. Why did you not tell me an item of such great value was taken?’

Boleton shrugged. ‘Because the modus operandi was different from the other thefts – it took place in a crowded priory and the culprit stole only the one piece. There was no need to bother you with it, not when you are so busy at the castle. And I am quite capable of investigating the business myself.’

Cole nodded acceptance of the explanation, although Gwenllian frowned. Why had Boleton used the term ‘altar dressings’ to describe the stolen property, when ‘cross’ would have sufficed? And was his intention really to save a busy man from worry? But there were more important issues to ponder than Boleton’s curious behaviour.

‘Where were you the night Daniel died?’ she asked of Kyng. ‘We understand you and Spilmon were notable by your absence at the vigil in St Peter’s Church.’

‘We had other business,’ Kyng replied smoothly, although the flash of alarm in Spilmon’s eyes did not escape Gwenllian’s attention. ‘Spilmon and I stayed in his house all night, going over ledgers. We can account for each other, but there is no one else to verify our tale.’

‘What about your wife?’ asked Gwenllian of the grocer. ‘Was she not with you?’

‘She was at the vigil,’ replied Spilmon.

But the cobbler had told them she was not, and he had had no reason to lie. Gwenllian could only assume that Mistress Spilmon had taken the opportunity to spend time with Daniel. But then how had Daniel come to die? Surely, if she had seen the attacker, she would have spoken out? Or had she tired of her monastic lover, and murder seemed a good way to end the situation?

‘No,’ said Cole, when Gwenllian pulled him to one side and suggested Mistress Spilmon as a culprit. ‘She was distraught when I told her what had happened. And I do not see her offering to clean his corpse if she were the killer either. She would have been keen to stay away from it.’

He had a point, and Gwenllian was beginning to feel frustrated. There were simply too many questions and too few reliable answers. She nodded a curt farewell to the merchants, and saw their relief. It aroused her suspicions, but she did not want to raise the question of Mistress Spilmon’s infidelity without good cause – not to spare the grocer’s feelings, but for the sake of the shy, colourless woman who was his wife.

Gwenllian happened to glance back at the two merchants when she was halfway down the street and saw them jump away from each other. Spilmon looked positively furtive, but Kyng had the audacity to wave. She was not sure what it meant, but there was something about their odd behaviour that set the glimmer of a solution burning at the back of her mind.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of Gilbert the Thief, who immediately shoved a cloth-wrapped bundle behind his back. Cole regarded him wearily.

‘What have you stolen now?’ He held out his hand. ‘Come on. Give it to me.’

‘I found it,’ said Gilbert defensively.

‘Oh, let him be,’ said Boleton impatiently. ‘It should be beneath your dignity to treat with such creatures, and he is not worth your time. Leave him, and I will deal with him tomorrow.’

‘Good idea,’ said Gilbert, beginning to edge away. ‘Thank you, sir. Feel free to come any time. I shall be waiting for you. We might even have a mug of ale together.’

‘Do not push your luck,’ growled Boleton, although Gwenllian could see he was amused by the man’s cheek.

But Cole did not find the situation funny. He moved suddenly, faster than the thief anticipated, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. Gilbert squealed in alarm and tried to keep his prize out of the constable’s reach, but to no avail. Cole snatched it from him, shoved Gilbert into Boleton’s arms and began to pull off the wrappings. Then Boleton yelped suddenly, wringing his hand, and Gilbert darted away, disappearing down a nearby lane. Immediately Cole started after him, but Boleton yanked him back, hard enough to make him stagger.

‘Remember your dignity,’ he hissed. ‘Knights of your standing do not hare after felons like common foot soldiers, and we know where the man lives. I shall visit him later and invite him to spend a few days in the dungeons. He is due for a spell under lock and key anyway – for biting me, if nothing else.’

But Cole’s face was white with anger. He leaned down and retrieved the bundle he had dropped. ‘It was different this time,’ he snapped. ‘Look at what he stole!’

He hauled the last of the sacking away to reveal a heavy jewelled cross.

‘We wasted a day,’ said Cole gloomily as he sat with Gwenllian in their bedchamber that evening. The daylight was fading, sending an orange glow around the little room. She was straining her eyes to sew, and he was honing his sword. ‘We learned nothing useful, and Daniel will go to his grave unavenged.’

‘Nonsense,’ she exclaimed, surprised he should think so. ‘We discovered a great many interesting facts. For example, I have narrowed my list of suspects down to six men – all of whom had the opportunity and a reason to want Daniel dead.’

‘Six men?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘Do you mean the robbers from the forest? Witnesses tell me they come to do their sly work in a pack.’

‘Not them – Boleton is right about that, at least. I asked a few questions around the castle this evening and learned that they have been disturbed at least twice – their response is not to stand and fight but to run away as fast as their legs will carry them. They are not killers.’

‘Then who are these six? One must be Spilmon. His motive would be that he learned about the affair between Daniel and his wife, while you told me that he owns a pot with a cruciform base. Another will be Kyng – he wore a heavy dagger in his belt today, which might well match the wound in Daniel’s head.’

She smiled. ‘That was observant of you – I did not notice it. And Kyng, like Spilmon, has no proper alibi for Daniel’s death. Of course, there is the question of Kyng’s motive.’ She tapped her chin thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he did it to avenge Spilmon’s injured pride. Or perhaps he resented the fact that Daniel was your friend – you know how he hates you.’

‘Perhaps.’ Cole did not sound convinced, but Gwenllian would not put anything past the vitriolic cheese-maker.

‘My third suspect is Gilbert, for obvious reasons,’ she went on. ‘He is an inveterate thief, and Daniel may well have caught him stealing. And he had that cross from the priory. Were they pleased to have it back, by the way?’

‘Very – they said it is the most valuable thing they own. But I wish Boleton had kept a firmer hold on Gilbert, because the wretched man has disappeared. I know he will not stay away long – he never does – but I want to talk to him now, not in several days’ time.’

‘My fourth suspect is John,’ Gwenllian continued. ‘His writing desk has a cruciform bottom, and he was furtive when he spoke to us earlier. He eavesdropped on you and Daniel on the night of the murder, and I am unconvinced by his tale of being interested in horses. He listened for some other reason.’

‘What about Hywel? Does he feature on this list?’

Gwenllian nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, although it grieves me to say it. He is sullen, bitter and unpredictable, and he owns a sword with a cross-shaped hilt. My last suspect is Boleton.’

A pained look crossed Cole’s face. ‘No. I will not entertain-’

‘He exhibited a curious desire to dog our footsteps today, and his sword looks a better match for the murder weapon that any of the other items we have seen. Moreover, he was jealous of your friendship with Daniel – he likes to think he is the constable’s indispensable confidant.’

‘No,’ repeated Cole angrily. ‘You are wrong. Boleton is not a cold-blooded killer.’

Knowing there was no point in arguing with him, she let the matter drop. ‘These men are the same ones I suspect for stealing Arthur’s bones,’ she said, aiming to dilute his irritation by piquing his interest in another matter. It worked, as she knew it would.

‘Really?’ he asked, mystified. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion?’

‘Because of the reasons we have already discussed. Kyng and Spilmon recouped their losses suspiciously quickly after my father’s raid – perhaps they sold the relics. Meanwhile, Hywel has access to money that allows him to drink all day and never lift a finger.’

‘And you essentially told Gilbert there was something valuable under the tree,’ mused Cole. ‘While John likes to listen to other men’s private discussions. You said at the time that all five were in the vicinity when Meurig told you about the bones.’

She nodded. ‘Any one of them could have overheard him. As could Daniel.’ And so could Boleton, she thought, although it did not seem a good idea to mention it.

Cole yawned. ‘Well, I can make no sense of it, and it has been a long day. Perhaps answers will come tomorrow.’

It was in the deepest part of the night when the alarm was raised. Iefan burst into the bedchamber to announce that something was happening in Priory Street. Snapping into instant wakefulness, like the warrior he was, Cole dragged on tunic and hose, and was buckling a sword around his waist as he ran from the room moments later.

Because it was Priory Street, and she thought it might have a bearing on Daniel’s murder, Gwenllian threw a cloak over her nightshift and followed him down the stairs.

‘No,’ he said, seeing she intended to accompany him. ‘The thieves have been spotted creeping about, so this is our opportunity to catch them red-handed. You cannot come with me this time.’

‘Then be careful.’

But Cole did not hear, because he was already halfway across the bailey, sprinting to catch up with the party of men who were heading out under Iefan’s direction. They were all armed to the teeth, grim-faced and determined. She waited until they were out of sight, then followed, fixing the guard on gate duty with one of her regal glowers when he tried to stop her.

She kept to the shadows, although the soldiers did not once look behind them. They moved quickly, and she found herself obliged to run to keep up. The town was silent, other than their soft footfalls. They passed the dark mass of St Peter’s Church, with its spacious churchyard and grassy knoll, and slowed down when they reached the town end of Priory Street.

Cole issued a series of low-voiced instructions, and the soldiers split into two groups – he led one down a nearby alley, while the other stayed with Iefan. It did not take Gwenllian long to understand his plan – furtive shadows could be seen massing near Kyng’s home, in the middle of the street, and Cole aimed to ambush them in a pincer-like movement. A quick count told her that there were probably a dozen thieves, all cloaked and hooded against identification. By contrast, Cole and Iefan had eight soldiers, four in each little band.

Blissfully unaware of the trap that was springing, the burglars approached Kyng’s house. Gwenllian was mystified. With its iron-studded door and sturdy window-shutters, it was by far the most secure house in the town, although she knew it was stuffed to the gills with treasure – she remembered seeing it when she had commandeered the place after Lord Rhys’s raid.

The felons seemed to be looking at the large window on the upper floor, but it was a long way off the ground and would be unreachable by all but the very longest ladder. She wondered what they intended to do.

Then one villain, taller than the others, beckoned his cronies towards him and began to mutter. When he had finished, a handful went to crouch directly beneath the window. As soon as they were in position, others moved forward and began to climb on top of them. Fascinated, Gwenllian saw a human pyramid begin to form. Despite his disguise, Gwenllian knew it was Gilbert the Thief who was assisted to the top, because she recognized his lanky frame. He opened the latch with consummate ease and disappeared inside the house.

Moments later, a bundle was handed out, followed quickly by another. With silent efficiency, they were passed down to the leader, who deftly packed them into sacks. More items followed, and Gwenllian was amazed by the skill and speed of the operation. It was not long before several bags had been filled. Then there was a low whistle, and Gilbert began to climb out.

With a blood-curdling yell, Iefan leaped into action, tearing forward with his dagger raised. The pyramid immediately disintegrated, leaving Gilbert dangling from the window-ledge by his fingertips. He began to screech, but his accomplices were more interested in saving themselves than rescuing him. As one, they turned from Iefan and began to run towards Merlin’s oak. But it was to find themselves facing Cole and his men, who stood in a line across the street, weapons at the ready. A few tried to jig around them, but most seemed to accept that the situation was hopeless and offered no resistance as they were rounded up.

But their leader fought like a tiger. Unlike his accomplices, he had brought a sword, and he slashed viciously at the soldiers who tried to bar his way. Unnerved by the ferocity of the attack, they fell back. Cole dived towards him, and they exchanged a series of brutal blows that made both men stagger. Iefan hurried to help, but his timing was poor and Cole was obliged to twist awkwardly to avoid striking him instead. The leader took advantage of the constable’s momentary loss of balance to escape down a nearby alley.

Cole set off after him. Seeing their leader make a bid for freedom encouraged several burglars to do likewise, and Iefan was hard-pressed to keep them in order. Meanwhile, the sudden racket had woken Priory Street’s residents. Lights gleamed under window-shutters, and doors opened as people came to see what was going on. Their curiosity turned to outrage when it became known that here were the thieves who had been relieving decent folk of their belongings, and then Iefan was obliged to turn protector, as well as captor.

Gwenllian stared at the alley, heart thumping as she willed Symon to return unscathed. It was not long before he did, empty-handed and furious. He growled to Iefan that his quarry had backtracked unexpectedly and ambushed him. He had managed to deflect the killing blow, but it had sent him sprawling, granting the felon vital moments to disappear into the night.

‘These vermin say they do not know his name,’ said Iefan, jerking his head towards the subdued prisoners. ‘They claim he just appears in the forest and guides them to the houses he wants them to burgle. A likely story!’

Cole did not reply. He strode towards Kyng’s house, flung open the door and marched inside, appearing moments later at the window from which Gilbert still dangled. Gwenllian abandoned her hiding place and moved forward to help – she could tell by the stiff way Cole walked that he had jolted his old stab wound, and he would not be able to rescue Gilbert one-handed.

‘Your leader,’ Cole said, making no attempt to reach down to the thief. ‘What is his name?’

‘No, I will never betray him,’ cried Gilbert. He sounded terrified. ‘His secret is safe with me.’

‘Really?’ said Cole. His voice held an odd timbre that Gwenllian had never heard before. She froze, uncertain and uneasy.

‘Please!’ wailed Gilbert. ‘My fingers are numb – I will fall at any moment!’

‘Then you had better give me a reason to help you,’ said Cole coldly.

He leaned forward when Gilbert whispered something. For a moment he did nothing, but then he reached out of the window and gripped Gilbert’s wrist, hauling him upwards until the thief was able to gain a better purchase on the window-sill. He could not manage more with one arm, but it was enough for Gilbert to gasp his gratitude.

Gwenllian heaved a sigh of relief, afraid Symon might really have let the man fall for refusing to cooperate, but sure it would have plagued his conscience later.

She was not sure what happened next. Suddenly Cole bellowed John’s name in a voice loud enough to have been heard at the castle, and she turned just in time to see the clerk slinking along the opposite side of the road. He was cloaked and hooded, like the burglars. Cole’s yell had stopped him dead in his tracks, but then he started to run, aiming for the alleys that led to the river. Next, there was a cry and a thump, and when Gwenllian whipped around to look back at Kyng’s window, it was to see Gilbert crumpled beneath it. Cole shot through the door moments later, and tore after his clerk.

John had a head start on the constable, but Cole was faster and fitter and caught him with ease. In the faint lamplight from one of the houses, Gwenllian saw the glint of steel as a dagger was wielded. Without stopping to consider the consequences, she raced towards them.

By the time she arrived, John was lying on the ground and Symon was standing over him. A spreading stain of red seeped from under the clerk, and he was gasping for breath. He saw Gwenllian, and murmured just one sentence before he went limp.

‘Beware the one you love.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Cole angrily. ‘He killed himself rather than face justice. But what are you doing here, Gwen? I thought I told you to stay in the castle.’

Gwenllian gazed numbly at him. ‘Face justice? You mean he was one of the thieves?’

Cole gestured to the clerk’s clothing. ‘Apparently so. Why else would he run when I called?’

‘What happened to Gilbert? Did he also kill himself, rather than face justice?’

Cole swivelled around, looking towards the unmoving figure under the window. ‘He fell? I thought I had pulled him far enough inside to save himself. I suppose his hands must have been too fatigued to hold him. What a nuisance! Now there are no witnesses to identify the leader.’

‘Not the other burglars?’ asked Gwenllian. But then she recalled what Iefan had said.

‘He disguised himself – they would not know him if he stood in front of them.’

‘I see,’ said Gwenllian, aware of a cold hand of fear gripping her heart. The only two witnesses were permanently silenced, and Cole had been near both when they had died. And John had warned her to beware the one she loved. What was going on?

When Gwenllian said nothing else, Cole took her hand and tugged her towards Kyng’s house. She tried to pull away, but he was too strong. He did stop, however, and turn to look at her.

‘If you have been watching,’ he said impatiently, ‘you will be aware that Kyng is the only Priory Street resident who is not out demanding to know what is happening. Something is wrong, and we need to investigate. As you are here, you may as well come with me.’

As he spoke, Gwenllian saw that the cheese-maker’s house was the only one not ablaze with lanterns, and although the stairs to the upper chambers could be negotiated using light from outside, the parlour was pitch black. Cole fiddled with a tinder and lit a lamp. It illuminated a scene neither could have anticipated.

Hywel was lying on the floor, grey-faced and immobile. With a cry of horror, Gwenllian ran towards him. There was a cup near his hand, and when she picked it up she saw a frothy residue at the bottom. Poison.

‘Kyng offered me wine,’ Hywel said in a low, strained voice. ‘And, like a fool, I accepted.’

‘Why should you not have accepted?’ asked Cole, puzzled. ‘Drinking with neighbours is-’

‘Not with neighbours you have wronged,’ interrupted Gwenllian quietly.

She knelt next to her nephew and rested his head in her lap. She could tell by his pallor and laboured breathing that he was dying, and she was grateful the cheese-maker had used a substance that did not seem to be causing his victim pain.

‘I only learned about Mistress Spilmon and Daniel yesterday,’ she went on softly, ‘but Meurig knew, and so did you. You acquire money, but not by working. It is obvious now that you earn it from blackmail – you have been extorting money from Spilmon. And from Kyng too.’

‘Kyng?’ echoed Cole, hopelessly bewildered. ‘What does Kyng have to do with it?’

Gwenllian recalled the strange behaviour of the two men earlier, when they had jumped apart as she had turned to look at them. She had known then that their reaction was significant, and she had been right.

‘A woman cannot possibly deceive her husband for so many years,’ she began. ‘At least, not in a functional marriage. But Kyng and Spilmon are always together, which is probably why Spilmon’s wife turned elsewhere for affection. They are respected merchants, and no doubt paid handsomely to keep their relationship quiet.’

Hywel inclined his head, but there was no sign of remorse. ‘Their sordid secret has kept me in ale and meat for more than two years. But then I decided to leave Carmarthen, and needed a more substantial sum. I should have been suspicious when they agreed and poured wine to seal our bargain…’

Gwenllian was full of sorrow for what Hywel had become. ‘Your father did not teach you to capitalize on the vulnerability of others. You soil his precious memory.’

Hywel looked away. ‘Why should I care about his memory? He did not love me. He should have told me where he hid the bones, but instead he chose you – his favourite.’

Gwenllian smoothed the hair from his forehead. ‘Actually, I believe he did tell you. I think he knew it was you who was listening behind the door when he gave me his secret.’

‘The eavesdropper was Hywel?’ asked Cole, startled. ‘He stole the bones?’

‘I did not steal them,’ objected Hywel weakly. ‘I-’

Cole ignored him and addressed Gwenllian. ‘How did you guess it was him?’

‘Because he has just admitted to knowing that Meurig told me about the bones – you are the only person I have ever told about that, which means Hywel must have been the eavesdropper. There is no other way he can have known.’

‘I was listening behind the door,’ acknowledged Hywel. ‘But how did my father know?’

‘After I discovered the bones were missing, I went to the place where he had died and lay down there. He would have been able to see shoes from where he lay.’

‘And he recognized mine,’ breathed Hywel. ‘He trusted me after all.’

‘I should have guessed this years ago,’ Gwenllian went on. ‘Because it is obvious now that the bones have been in the custody of someone who cares about them. They have not been sold for a quick profit, but have disappeared – kept safe. My other suspects would not have been so restrained.’

‘Where are they, Hywel?’ asked Cole, adding bluntly: ‘You are dying, so you had better tell someone, or they will be lost for ever.’

‘I will confide in Gwenllian,’ said Hywel softly. ‘But not you.’

Cole shrugged. ‘As you please. I will hunt down Kyng and Spilmon instead – they have committed murder here and must answer for their crime.’

When Cole’s footsteps had died away, Hywel shot Gwenllian an anguished look. ‘I have been so bitter and angry. I might not have tormented Kyng and Spilmon had I known… Things could have been so different!’

‘Perhaps you would not have stabbed my husband either. No, do not deny it – I know he was attacked to distract me while the bones were removed. You pretended to hunt for a coffin, but instead you hunted Symon – and you almost killed him!’

‘He started to turn when I came up behind him, and panic made me strike harder than I intended. I was about to fetch you, but Daniel arrived and took over. So I went to dig up the chest instead.’

‘What did you do with it?’

‘Buried it in the priory. But the whole business preyed on my conscience, and one night, in an agony of guilt, I went to my confessor.’

‘Daniel,’ said Gwenllian, beginning to understand at last.

‘He was not a good man, although he hid his dark nature well. He wanted me to tell him where I had put the bones, and when I refused he began to follow me.’

‘I know he was deceitful,’ said Gwenllian softly. ‘He said he tended the wounded on the night of the raid, but no one saw him praying. And he escaped from Symon’s sickroom with unseemly haste. I suspect he spent his time stealing – for a monk, he had expensive tastes.’

‘You are right.’ Hywel coughed wetly, struggling for breath. ‘Your fool of a husband considered him a friend, but Daniel was interested only in the fine food and wine available at the castle. And he stole in his capacity as chaplain too. John suspected, and he was going through old accounts to learn how.’

‘Is that why he eavesdropped on Symon and Daniel?’ asked Gwenllian, more of herself than Hywel. ‘But John was a thief himself – in league with forest felons, no less. Why would he work so hard to catch a fellow criminal?’

‘John was a reluctant villain – he stole because he was bullied into it. But he did not like the notion of Daniel cheating the castle.’

‘Why did John not tell us what he was doing? We could have helped.’

‘You? Do not be a fool! He was terrified of you, while Cole was Daniel’s friend. You were the last people on Earth he would have confided in. He was probably frightened of Daniel too. Incidentally, it was Daniel who stole that big gold cross from his priory.’

Gwenllian stared at him. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because the chapel is locked up as tight as a prison at night – no common thief could ever get inside. The thief had to be a monk. Besides, I saw it next to his body.’ Hywel’s voice was growing weaker.

Gwenllian frowned. ‘But you told me earlier that you saw nothing suspicious that night.’

Hywel looked away. ‘I lied – I did not want to help Cole. The cross was just lying there, so I took it, and Gilbert offered to sell it for me.’

He was fading fast, but Gwenllian still needed answers. She spoke more quickly. ‘I found a bone in Daniel’s purse. Was it one of Arthur’s? Did Daniel find where you buried him?’

Hywel managed a wan smile. ‘I gave him an animal bone – told him it was Arthur’s finger in the hope that it would make him leave me alone. He dipped it in water, which he decanted into bottles to sell as relics. But I do not have long left, so I had better tell you where I hid the chest.’

‘You have told me – in the priory grounds.’

‘I was afraid of Daniel, so I moved it. I was going to take it to Abbey Dore tomorrow – their sexton is sympathetic to Welsh interests, and where better to hide Arthur’s bones than right under Norman noses? But I came here first, to get my blood money from Kyng and Spilmon.’

Then he whispered his secret, much as his father had done two years before. After that, it was not long before he began to slip away. Just before he died, he opened his eyes.

‘Have you asked Cole for his whereabouts on the night Daniel was murdered?’

‘What do you mean?’ she demanded, recalling uncomfortably that Cole had not come directly to bed after Daniel had left – he said he had been raiding the kitchens for food.

But Hywel was dead.

Gwenllian wept when her nephew had gone, although few of the tears were for him. The night had exposed so many dark secrets that she wished she had done as Cole had ordered and remained in the castle. She came to her feet when she heard footsteps outside, and her heart began to hammer in her chest. Was it Symon, coming to ask the whereabouts of Arthur’s bones? Kyng and Spilmon, to see whether their victim was dead? But it was Boleton.

‘My husband is not here,’ she began. ‘He-’

But Boleton put his finger to his lips, and she saw that his face was pale and filmed with sweat. ‘Do not give me away,’ he whispered. ‘Please! He is hunting for me.’

She regarded him in confusion. ‘Who is?’

‘Cole. He has accused me of being the forest thieves’ leader.’

Gwenllian felt her jaw drop. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because the real leader is him. But he knows the game is up, and intends to evade justice by having me blamed in his place. And I thought we were friends!’

Gwenllian’s thoughts whirled. ‘But he-’

‘Just think about it,’ urged Boleton desperately. ‘Who, as constable, is well placed to round up outlaws and make a bargain with them – they burgle Carmarthen homes and he looks the other way for a share of the proceeds? Who else could force malleable locals, like John and Gilbert, to join his vile game – to say which houses to rob and when? But they have been arrested, so he is covering his tracks by saying I am the one who organized the whole affair.’

‘But John and Gilbert are dead. One from being stabbed and the other from a fall. And Iefan said the forest folk do not know the name of the man who recruited them. Symon has no need-’

‘Dead?’ echoed Boleton. His face was ashen. ‘Was Cole nearby when they met their ends?’

‘Yes.’ She was unable to control the tremble in her voice.

‘Then he has eliminated the only witnesses to my innocence,’ breathed Boleton.

‘I do not understand,’ she said, backing away. She was beginning to be frightened.

‘Surely you must have worked it out by now? Why do you think I have not shared details of my investigation with him? Why do you think I have tried to keep him away from Gilbert – an important witness? Why do you think John was so terrified when he was summoned at the crack of dawn yesterday? And why do you think I insisted on coming with you while you asked questions about Daniel’s murder?’

Gwenllian felt sick. ‘Are you saying Symon killed Daniel with the priory’s cross?’

Boleton nodded. ‘He is a dangerous man and must be stopped. Will you help? He is a better swordsman than me, and I cannot best him alone. You must distract him while I-’

He broke off when there was a clatter of footsteps. He drew his sword and stepped behind the door just as Cole burst in, breathless and gasping.

‘We caught them! They were on a ship, ready to sail for Ireland. They confessed everything – how they were lovers and Hywel blackmailed them. How they poisoned him and were discussing how to dispose of the body when my soldiers arrived – they did not realize the rumpus was for someone else’s crime, so they tried to escape. I doubt they will hang, because they can claim benefit of-’

‘Symon! Watch out!’ Gwenllian screamed.

Only Cole’s instinctive duck saved him from decapitation. Boleton’s blade smashed into a table, which flew into pieces. Cole’s sword was in his hand even before he had recovered his balance, ready to do battle.

‘Why did you warn him?’ cried Boleton, ripping his weapon from the shattered wood. ‘Did you not hear a word I said?’

‘He is not this criminal mastermind,’ shouted Gwenllian, tears spurting. ‘You are.’

For a moment no one moved. Then Boleton backed away from Cole, sword held defensively.

‘You are making a terrible mistake, My Lady.’ He was pale and his voice shook. ‘He has just killed the two men who can testify to his identity – you told me that yourself.’

‘Gilbert is not dead,’ said Cole, looking from one to the other in confusion. ‘He is knocked out of his wits. Perhaps I should have pulled him further through the window, but I saw John-’

‘And you knifed him,’ finished Boleton. He appealed to Gwenllian. ‘Help me make an end of this evil-’

‘John knifed himself,’ said Cole, his face a mask of bewilderment. ‘His weapon is still embedded in his stomach, if you care to look. But my dagger is here, at my side.’

‘Mistress, please,’ begged Boleton. ‘You were beginning to be convinced by my reasoning-’

‘Actually I was encouraging you to talk, to give Symon time to rescue me,’ said Gwenllian coldly. ‘He is not the leader of these thieves, and you will never make me believe otherwise. So put up your sword, and let us be done with this nonsense before someone is hurt.’

Cole regarded his friend in shock. ‘You told her I committed these burglaries?’

‘Yes, he did,’ said Gwenllian, going to stand next to him. ‘But there are many reasons why that cannot be true.’

‘Then name them,’ challenged Boleton, gripping his sword in both hands.

She might have said Symon did not possess the wits for such sly subterfuge, but she refused to denigrate him to his treacherous friend. She began to outline what she had deduced instead.

‘First, you accuse him of being in a position to forge an alliance with outlaws, but the same applies to you – more so, because you are the knight in charge of solving crime and you often meet villains. Second, he can barely persuade John to raise his pen, let alone join a criminal fraternity. Third, you did not dog our footsteps yesterday to prevent him from destroying evidence, but to protect yourself. Fourth, look at your fine new clothes. I do not believe your tale about a recent inheritance.’

‘That did seem odd, brother,’ said Cole quietly. ‘We have been friends for years, and you never mentioned this dowager aunt before.’

‘Then there is your relationship with Gilbert,’ Gwenllian went on. ‘You stopped Symon from arresting him yesterday, and you were in his company during Lord Rhys’s raid – like Daniel, you stole at a time when it would be blamed on the invaders. Gilbert said he had things to do that night and seemed frightened – you were using him to make the most of the chaos.’

‘You draw ridiculous conclusions,’ shouted Boleton angrily. ‘It is not-’

‘Afterwards, when theft became too dangerous, you fled to the forest,’ Gwenllian cut across him. ‘You spun a wild tale about single-handedly fending off forest-dwelling robbers, which I did not believe. But I should have done, because that part was true – and later you decided to put your new acquaintances to good use.’

‘This is arrant rubbish,’ objected Boleton hotly. ‘I am not a-’

‘Gilbert betrayed you before he fell,’ Gwenllian forged on. ‘I saw the distress on Symon’s face when the name of the leader was whispered, although I could also tell he had already guessed it – it was confirmation of what he feared. Meanwhile, Gilbert misunderstood his reason for asking – he thought he was being tested, to see whether he would inform on the constable’s closest friend.’

Cole regarded him unhappily. ‘I had already guessed, brother. You see, you doubled back to ambush me when I chased you towards the river, and I recognized the manoeuvre – we used it together many times in France.’

‘And then there was poor John,’ Gwenllian went on. ‘You recruited him to your nasty cabal, knowing he did not have the strength of character to resist. Was he really so useful?’

‘He was about to expose Daniel as a villain.’ Boleton rounded on Cole. ‘Your so-called friend, who was stealing from the castle. Another few days with the accounts, and John would have had all the evidence he needed.’

‘You always were jealous of Daniel’s relationship with Symon,’ said Gwenllian in distaste. ‘You must have been delighted to learn he was dishonest. No wonder you did not want John to take holy orders – who else would trawl through old records on your behalf? But you drove him to suicide.’

Boleton was outraged. ‘It was not me at his side when he died. It was Cole.’

‘John’s last words were meant for you,’ said Gwenllian, turning to her husband. ‘“Beware the one you love.” I thought he was speaking to me, but he was warning you of Boleton.’

Cole looked sadly at the knight. ‘I wish I knew what led you to this.’

Boleton opened his mouth to protest his innocence again, but then closed it. He regarded Cole sullenly. ‘Is it not obvious? I am more suited to high office than you in every way – I am a better administrator, I am infinitely more intelligent and I have ambition. I should have been constable, but the king gave the post to you, just because you are good with a sword.’

‘You did not have to come with me,’ said Cole reasonably. ‘You could have-’

‘I thought I could be content here, with a life of indolent leisure,’ spat Boleton. ‘But I was wrong. I am bored, and the more I think about it, the more it is apparent that the king made a mistake. You are a brainless fool who lets his wife make all the decisions.’

‘Symon, no!’ cried Gwenllian, when Cole took a firmer grip on his weapon and stepped forward. He did not care about the affront to himself, but no one insulted his wife. ‘Do not kill him in anger. Disarm him. Let the law be his judge.’

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse, and although he was the better swordsman of the two, his old wound was clearly paining him that night. He might lose.

‘Gwen is right,’ Cole said eventually. ‘We should not fight each other. Yield to me.’

Boleton also hesitated, but then did as he was told, dropping sword and dagger on the floor. Cole sheathed his own blade and indicated that Boleton was to precede him out of the house. It was too easy, and every one of Gwenllian’s senses clamoured that treachery was in the air. It was not long in coming.

With a sudden roar, Boleton spun around, stabbing wildly with a knife he had concealed in his sleeve. Cole managed to duck away, but the manoeuvre unbalanced him and he fell. Boleton’s face was an impassive mask as he moved in for the kill.

But he had reckoned without Gwenllian. She darted towards the table, grabbed a pot and brought it down on Boleton’s head. He crashed to his knees. Cole was quick to take advantage, and by the time Boleton’s wits had cleared there was a knife at his throat. Cole regarded his friend in silence for a moment, then stood back and nodded towards the open door.

‘Go, brother,’ he said softly. ‘Ride to the coast, take a ship and do not return.’

‘No!’ cried Gwenllian. ‘He will-’

‘I hate this house,’ interrupted Cole, looking around unhappily. ‘I almost died here after Hywel stabbed me, and now my dearest friend tries to complete the business. It has an evil aura.’

Gwenllian gazed at him. ‘How long have you known Hywel was your attacker?’

‘I have always known – I saw him. But it seemed unkind to tell you when you had just lost your brother.’

‘Dear Symon.’ Gwenllian felt tears scald her eyes. ‘You kept your silence to protect me?’

Cole shuddered as he surveyed Kyng’s parlour a second time. ‘There has been enough death and deceit in this house, and I do not want more of it.’ He gestured to the door, but he did not look at Boleton. ‘Go, and never come back.’

Without a word Boleton slunk away into the night.

III

In the weeks that followed, Gwenllian was acutely uneasy, sure it was only a matter of time before Boleton came to wreak vengeance on his erstwhile friend. But then a cousin brought her some news. He spoke rapidly in Welsh, too fast for Cole’s meagre grasp of the language.

‘The sly knight tried to make the surviving forest folk attack the town, to create a diversion while he killed your husband, but they turned against him. Shall I tell you where they buried his body?’

Gwenllian glanced at Symon. ‘No. I think it is better to believe he escaped. My husband has endured enough treachery, and he does not need to hear more of it.’

Cole had placed a guard on the place where Hywel had hidden Arthur’s bones while Gwenllian made some enquiries about Abbey Dore. Within a month word began to trickle back that the Welsh sexton was indeed a man who could be trusted, so she resolved to follow her nephew’s plan and take them there. A Norman abbey in Herefordshire would not have been her first choice of hiding places, but Lord Rhys’s warring sons meant that southern Wales was currently an unstable, uncertain place. It was certainly time for Arthur to be moved – and to enlist the help of the men Meurig had appointed as Guardians.

The moment she made her decision, she and Cole went to Merlin’s oak. It was a beautiful autumn evening, with the scent of the harvest in the air and the sun bathing the land in a warm, golden light.

‘It was clever of Hywel to put the bones back in Meurig’s original hiding place – the cradle of roots – after Daniel began to suspect they were in the priory,’ Cole remarked. ‘But why was there a pit on the other side of the tree too – the one Daniel was kneeling by when he was murdered?’

‘It was a decoy hole. Hywel dug it because he was afraid Daniel might guess where he had moved them. And he was right to be cautious, because Daniel was poking around it when he died – the mud on his knees attested to that.’

‘Meurig should not have told you his secret when he knew Hywel was listening,’ said Cole resentfully. ‘He should have known better.’

It was a curious thing to say. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Dewi – Hywel’s brother – was shot by would-be robbers on the way from Glastonbury. Or so Meurig told everyone. But I saw Dewi’s body, and it was no arrow that killed him. He was stabbed.’

Gwenllian’s mind reeled. ‘Stabbed?’

Cole nodded. ‘I knew Hywel was the culprit from some incautious remark he made. But Meurig said it would upset you if I arrested one nephew for murdering another. It was a clever ploy – he knew exactly how to stay my hand.’

Gwenllian stared at him. ‘You knew this terrible secret but did not think to share it with me?’

‘Meurig asked me not to. It was a nasty business – Hywel killed Dewi because Dewi was Meurig’s favourite. Meurig was deeply ashamed. He did not want you, or anyone else, to know.’

Gwenllian shook her head slowly. She had wondered why Hywel had stabbed Cole in order to prevent her from claiming the bones – why not attack her, who was smaller and posed less of a threat? The answer was obvious now – he wanted revenge on the man who knew his dark secret. It explained why he had spent his dying breath trying to implicate Symon in a murder too.

‘But Meurig should not have told you about the bones when he knew Hywel was listening,’ Cole was saying. ‘It might have put you in terrible danger.’

‘Oh, Symon!’ said Gwenllian, exasperated. ‘I might have worked out what had happened to the bones years ago, if I had known all this! Do you really think I warrant such cosseting?’

Cole considered the question carefully, then nodded, smiling as he did so. ‘There is nothing I would not do to protect you. And Meurig felt the same way.’

There was nothing to say to such a remark, and they walked in silence for a while. Gwenllian found herself thinking about the people who had been touched by the events of the summer. No one missed Hywel’s drink-fuelled bitterness or Boleton’s acid tongue, but the castle clerks grieved for John, and the town’s merchants had been sorry when Kyng and Spilmon were banished from the realm.

Meanwhile, Gilbert had recovered from his fall and, in exchange for his freedom, told Cole where Boleton kept the proceeds of his crimes. It had all been returned to its grateful owners.

And people mourned Daniel as a good man. Gwenllian had completed what John had started, and had been appalled by the extent of Daniel’s dishonesty. But Cole, ever loyal, even to friends who did not deserve it, had persuaded her that nothing could be gained by exposing the monk’s penchant for the castle’s money. So Daniel’s reputation as a fine, generous, upright man remained unsullied.

‘We searched for one villain in all this, but it transpired there were many,’ she said ruefully. ‘Daniel stole from us and his priory, Hywel was a blackmailer, Kyng and Spilmon plotted murder, John and Gilbert joined forces with criminals, and Boleton-’

‘Boleton was the worst of them all,’ finished Cole flatly. ‘You were right about him all along. I should have listened to you more.’

‘If you had listened to me less, he might not have turned against you – it was the fact that I help you with your work that annoyed him.’

‘But then my men would have mutinied instead,’ he said with a rueful grin. ‘They know who organizes their regular pay, decent meals and clean bedding. No, Gwen. Listening to you is a very good idea.’

When they arrived at Merlin’s oak, Cole unbuckled his sword and dagger, placing them on a wide, shelf-like branch to keep them out of the way. Then he touched the spade to the soil and began to dig. The soil yielded easily, as if the tree knew it was time to give up its treasure.

‘We never did learn who killed Daniel,’ said Gwenllian, settling down to watch him. The leaves whispered in the breeze, creating dappled patterns of sun and shade on the grass below. Then there was a rather harder gust, and Cole gave a yelp. The branch had swayed, causing the dagger to drop and strike his shoulder.

‘It was a good thing it was not the sword that fell,’ he grumbled, rubbing it. ‘Or you might be finishing this on your own.’

‘Daniel!’ exclaimed Gwenllian, as all became clear. ‘He stole the priory’s cross and Hywel found it next to his corpse. I understand now! No one killed him – it was an accident!’

She hurried to the other side of the tree and saw a similar shelf-like branch over Hywel’s decoy pit, although it was much higher. Cole climbed up to see scuffs on the bark, where something had rested.

‘He must have set his stolen property here,’ he said, ‘while he dug for the bones-’

‘Lest someone walked by and caught him with it…’

‘But it fell on him as he was patting the last of the turf back into place. It was a heavy thing, and you told me it caught a vulnerable point on his skull.’ Cole shivered suddenly and lowered his voice. ‘But it was not an accident, Gwen – the tree killed him.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Gwenllian, walking around the mighty trunk to their own hole. She could already see the top of the plain, dark-wooded chest that contained the bones, and it would not be long before they had it out. ‘But I do not think it means us harm – it is willing to let Arthur go this time.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Cole, glancing uneasily at the branches above. ‘The sooner he is in Herefordshire, the better. I hope he will be safe there.’

‘He will be,’ said Gwenllian softly, thinking of the sexton in Abbey Dore and of the group of silent, sober men who were even now waiting in the forest – the Guardians were ready to do their duty. One was Meurig’s middle son, Young Meurig, who had always been her favourite nephew. From now on, Arthur’s bones would be watched over by them and by their descendants.

She rested her hand on her belly, smiling as she felt the kick of life within. And by her own sons, of course. After ten years she had all but given up hope of a child, but suddenly she was pregnant. She could not help but wonder whether she owed the miracle to Arthur, or perhaps Merlin, who wanted her heirs to guard Wales’s most precious treasure. She knew it was a son that grew inside her, and she also knew what he was going to be named – Meurig, after the brave, noble man who had set Arthur’s bones on the road to their rightful destiny.

Historical note

Norman-held Carmarthen was attacked by Rhys, Prince of Deheubarth, in 1196, when he sacked the town and burned the castle. The constable at the time was Symon Cole. Lord Rhys died the following year, and his sons turned on each other, giving the Sheriff of Hereford (William de Briouze) ample time to rebuild the fortress in stone. Rhys is thought to have sired at least eighteen children, although tracing them is difficult due to his penchant for giving them the same names (he had at least three Maredudds and two Gwenllians). As was the custom of the day, his daughters were married off to politically important allies.

An entry in the Cartulary of St John, Carmarthen, dated between 1194 and 1198, refers to a deed in which de Briouze donated the church of Ebernant to Carmarthen’s priory. Ebernant had belonged to Lord Rhys, and the gift was to compensate the priory for his attack. The writ’s witnesses include Renald de Boleton, knight, John the clerk, Gilbert, Robert Spilmon, William Kyng and Daniel Adam the chaplain. King Street and Spilman Street are still extant in the town.

There was a famous tree in Carmarthen called Merlin’s oak, but it was probably planted in the seventeenth century, perhaps to mark the Restoration. But local legend maintains it was put there by Merlin, who is said to have been born in the town. The last remnants of the oak were removed from the end of Priory Street in 1978.