The Deadliest Sin

The Fourth Sin

‘Lust, greed and avarice are grave sins indeed,’ said John Wynter, prior of the Austin canons in Carmarthen, a tall, hatchet-faced man who had nodded approvingly at the punishments meted out to the wrongdoers in the previous tales. ‘But there is one graver yet.’

Wynter had strong opinions about sin, which was why he had been prepared to leave his comfortable monastery when all sensible folk were closing their doors and huddling together in the hope that the deadly pestilence would pass them by. It had not been his own lapses that had driven him east, of course: he had been appointed by his Prior General to sit in judgement over others – at their sister house in Walsingham.

‘A sin worse than greed?’ asked Katie Valier sceptically. Outside, an owl hooted in the night, as if agreeing with her. ‘Or lust and avarice?’

‘Sloth,’ hissed Wynter, ‘is the deadliest sin.’

‘I hardly think so!’ declared Katie. ‘You are wrong, Father Prior.’

‘It is the most deadly transgression because of its insidious effects on the soul,’ boomed Wynter in the deep, sepulchral voice that had made many a Carmarthen novice quail in his boots. ‘And I do not refer to simple laziness, but to an emptiness of the soul.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Katie, shaking her pretty head. ‘Why should-’

‘It is a spiritual apathy that will lead even good men to Hell,’ interrupted Wynter. ‘And I shall prove it. Here is a tale I was told many years ago. It describes what happens to those who allow sloth to rule them, and will be a warning to you all.’

He glanced around, saw he had his companions’ complete attention, and began with his tale of…

Sloth

Autumn 1205, the Austin Priory of Llanthony, Monmouthshire

Prior Martin had many vices, but the one that disturbed his monks the most was his determination to enjoy an easy life. He disliked making decisions, and had a nasty habit of postponing them until they no longer mattered, while any problems brought to him were dismissed with an airy wave and the injunction to ask God for a solution instead.

Unfortunately, that would not do for the matter that currently troubled the monastery – one that his canons felt would not have arisen if Martin had not been so lazy. Their daughter house in Gloucestershire had grown rich and fat under its powerful patrons and energetic leaders, and was clamouring for independence. It could not be given. The ‘cell’ at Hempsted was an important source of revenue, one Llanthony could not afford to lose.

The canons stood in the refectory, hands folded demurely inside their sleeves and their heads bowed, although all were in a state of high agitation, because a deputation from Hempsted had just arrived – a dozen sleekly arrogant monks who looked around disdainfully, comparing Llanthony’s cracked plaster and leaking roofs to their own palatial dwellings. They were led by Canon Walter, a ruthlessly determined man who would do anything to be Hempsted’s first prior. He was unwell, as attested by his pallor and damp forehead, but that did not make his ambition burn any less fiercely. He was aided and abetted by Gilbert, his monkey-faced sacrist, who intended eventually to step into Walter’s shoes – and better a prior’s shoes than those of a mere deputy under the thumb of Llanthony.

Also among Walter’s entourage were two royal clerks, sly, slippery individuals there to ensure the King did not lose out on any deals that were made between the two foundations. The royal treasury was always empty, and King John’s officials were assiduous in sniffing out sources of free money on their monarch’s behalf. The Llanthony men only hoped that Martin would not accede to unreasonable demands just because he could not be bothered to do battle.

Walter and his companions were not the only ones who had braved the wild Monmouthshire hills to visit Llanthony. Bishop Geoffrey had also arrived. He had been prior of Llanthony himself before being elevated to the See of St David’s, and although he was a likeable, friendly man, it was expensive to keep a prelate in the style to which he was accustomed, and his company was an expense Llanthony could have done without.

Then there were three knights who had requested a few nights’ respite as they travelled west to join the military garrison at Carmarthen. They were battle-honed Norman warriors who had reacted indignantly when Prior Martin had evicted them from the guesthouse to make room for the bishop. Their surcoats showed them to be crusaders, and such men were known to be dangerous and unpredictable. The monks did not like them, and wished they would go.

‘You must make sure Martin stands firm,’ whispered Almoner Cadifor to Sub-Prior Roger, although he suspected he was wasting his breath. Roger had followed Martin’s example, and was shockingly indolent. ‘We may not survive if we lose Hempsted.’

‘Not even the King will dare strip us of our most valuable asset,’ said Roger with a complacent smile. ‘If he tries, we shall appeal to the Pope.’

‘Of course!’ Cadifor sagged in relief. ‘Martin has already contacted Rome to outline our position, so His Holiness will certainly find in our favour.’

Roger’s expression was sheepish. ‘Martin has not written yet, but I shall suggest he does it tonight. Or tomorrow, perhaps.’

Cadifor’s jaw fell. ‘But he promised to do it months ago, and you pledged to ensure it was done! We discussed it at length in chapter meetings, and you-’

‘Do not rail at me,’ snapped Roger. ‘You, who cannot possibly understand the trials and tribulations that running a large foundation like ours requires.’

Cadifor was so astounded by the statement – it was common knowledge that he did far more to ensure the monastery’s survival than anyone else – that he could do nothing but gape as Roger waddled away.

‘I recommend we retire to the chapel, to pray for our future,’ he said stiffly to his brethren, once he had found his tongue again. ‘I think our home is sorely in need of petitions.’

They did as he suggested, but it was not long before whispered conversations broke out. Why had Walter brought so many monks with him, and why were royal clerks in his retinue? The King had always preferred Hempsted’s manicured splendour to the bleak beauty of Llanthony, so had he decided to back Walter’s bid for freedom? The muttering stopped at the sound of clattering footsteps. It was Oswin, their youngest novice, racing up the nave.

‘I eavesdropped on Martin’s meeting with the Hempsted monks,’ he blurted. ‘I know it was wrong, but I wanted to find out what was in store for us.’

‘What did you hear?’ demanded Cadifor, overlooking the fact that he should not encourage such unseemly conduct by asking questions.

‘They came to present a writ from the Pope, giving Hempsted its independence. We have lost! Walter has become Prior Walter, and he is here to lay claim to numerous farms and manors that he says now belong to him.’

There was an immediate clamour of consternation, but Cadifor silenced it with an irritable gesture. Oswin had more to report.

‘Prior Martin told Walter that he should have warned us of his plan to petition His Holiness,’ Oswin went on. ‘Walter replied that he had, but that Martin had ignored the letter.’

‘There was a letter from Hempsted,’ recalled the cellarer. ‘Back in March. I saw Martin reading it, but when I asked what it was about, he told me it was nothing.’

‘Martin knew we would be furious,’ Oswin continued. ‘He called Walter a greedy pig, so Walter slapped him. Martin slapped Walter back, but much harder, and threats were made by everyone before things calmed down.’

‘Oh, Martin is indignant now,’ said Cadifor bitterly. ‘But we would not be in this position if he had written to Rome as he promised. He was too lazy – and so was Roger for failing to ensure that he did his duty. Damn them both!’

‘What will become of us?’ asked Oswin tearfully. ‘Will we starve?’

‘Hopefully not,’ replied Cadifor. ‘We shall have to tighten our belts, of course, but we did not take the tonsure to live in luxury.’

No one seemed particularly comforted by this, but the bell rang for vespers, so they took their places in the chancel. Before they settled down to their devotions, there were many angry whispers regarding what would be said to Martin at the next chapter.

But Martin did not live to hear them. He was found dead the following morning, just before the meeting at which the formal separation was to be discussed. There were no signs of foul play, but few thought his death was natural. The visitors claimed he had been killed by his own canons. His canons accused the visitors, citing the unseemly fracas in the solar. The knights did not escape censure either: they had been offended that Martin had evicted them from the guesthouse, and such men were sensitive about slights to their dignity.

Martin was carried to the church and laid in a coffin, but prayers were perfunctory, as everyone’s thoughts were on the upcoming meeting. This took place in the chapter house, and was a lengthy, acrimonious event. There was not a man among them who did not storm out at one point or another, so when it was over, no one could claim to have sat through the whole thing. Even Bishop Geoffrey, who had offered to mediate, had thrown up his hands in despair after several hours of continuous bickering, and gone to lie down until he had his exasperation under control.

Eventually, it was over, and the Hempsted men were preparing to leave when there was a yell from the church, and Oswin hurtled out, gibbering about desecration. Everyone hurried inside to see that someone had scratched a message on Martin’s casket: ‘Sloth is the deadliest of sins.’

‘It certainly was for him,’ muttered Cadifor. ‘It saw him murdered.’

Winter 1208, Carmarthen

The weather was glorious – cold, crisp and clear. A pale sun shone in a cloudless sky, and the winter-bare trees were coated in rime. The carpet of dead leaves on the forest floor crunched underfoot, and the air smelled clean and fresh.

‘It will snow soon,’ said Sir Philipp Stacpol, whose crusader’s surcoat was spotlessly clean and whose armour gleamed, even after two nights of sleeping under the stars.

Sir Symon Cole, constable of Carmarthen Castle, cared nothing for such gloomy predictions. A guilelessly optimistic man, he lived for the present, and could not recall a time when he had been happier. His wife and children were a constant source of delight, there was peace in the region he governed, and he was riding his favourite horse. His naturally ebullient spirit soared, and he began to sing.

‘You tempt fate with your unseemly cheeriness,’ warned Stacpol waspishly. ‘It is never wise to be too joyful. Bad luck will certainly follow.’

Cole laughed. ‘It already has, Stacpol. Your horse is lame, and our hunt has ended early.’

‘I meant real bad luck,’ said Stacpol darkly. ‘Like a visit from the King or a rebellion. Or worse yet, an intricate political problem.’

Cole winced. He had scant talent for diplomacy, but fortunately he had married Gwenllian, who was the cleverest person he knew, and she excelled at dealing with such matters. He smiled fondly when he thought of her. It had been an arranged marriage that neither had wanted, but they had grown to love each other, and now he felt blessed to have such an intelligent, insightful wife. He had been Carmarthen’s constable for two decades, and knew he would not have kept the post for so long without her.

When they reached the top of the hill, he dismounted to gaze at his town, which stood a mile or so distant. Over the years, he had replaced the castle’s wooden palisade with stone curtain walls, and would raise a new gatehouse in the spring. He had already built handsome living quarters for his household, and clean, airy barracks for his men. It was a fortress to be proud of, and he was glad that old King Henry had made him constable – and glad that Henry’s successors, Richard and John, had renewed his appointment.

Of course, he had had his differences with John, whom he considered weak, treacherous and fickle, but that had been years ago, and their quarrels had long been forgotten – by Cole, at least. And John? As far as Cole could see, His Majesty had his hands too full with rebellious barons to worry about a distant Welsh outpost. As long as Carmarthen’s taxes were paid on time, the region was left to its own devices.

He tore his eyes away from the castle to look at the rest of the town. It was a sizeable settlement, with a busy market, a good bridge across the River Tywi, and a thriving quayside that could accommodate sea-going vessels.

A short distance north-east was the Austin priory. Recently, the canons had rebuilt their perimeter walls and purchased a new set of gates. Cole kept good order in the area, and his marriage to a native princess meant relations were better between the Norman invaders and the resident Welsh than in many places, but trouble was not unknown, even so. The priory, with its pretty chapel and handsome cluster of buildings, would be an obvious target for marauders, and Cole thought the Austins wise to strengthen their defences.

His companions came to stand next to him: Stacpol, breathing hard because he had been obliged to lead his lame horse while the others had ridden; Sergeant Iefan, who had fought at Cole’s side for so many years that he was more friend than subordinate; and Elidor and Asser, solid, reliable men from Normandy. Cole was about to mount up again when he saw a dark smudge above the priory. He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun.

‘Is that smoke?’

‘The monks must be burning rubbish,’ said Stacpol.

‘That is too big a fire for rubbish.’ Cole reached for his reins and vaulted into the saddle. ‘The priory is under attack!’

He jabbed his spurs into the horse’s flanks and was away, ignoring the others’ yells for him to wait. He dismounted when he neared the monastery, and crept forward on foot, too experienced a warrior to rush headlong into a situation without first taking stock. He reached a good vantage point, and began to assess what was happening.

The priory gates had been set alight, which accounted for the smoke. Then the remnants had been kicked aside and invaders had surged in. So much for the new defences! Peering through the gap, Cole saw a tall but stooped Austin barking orders, while Carmarthen’s prior, shorter by a head and not nearly as imposing, harangued him furiously. The rest of Carmarthen’s monks – fifteen of them, with roughly the same number of lay brethren – had been ordered to stand outside the chapter house, where they were being guarded by soldiers.

Cole turned at a sound behind him. It was his knights and Iefan. All four were tightening the buckles on their armour and checking that their swords were loose in their scabbards, ready for battle. He briefed them quickly.

‘There are about twenty soldiers – mercenaries, by the look of them – and a dozen Austin canons. I have never seen any of the monks before, but that thin, lanky fellow is obviously in charge. And for some reason, Londres, our bailiff, is with them.’

‘Londres!’ spat Iefan. ‘Trust him to be involved where trouble strikes.’

Londres had arrived in Carmarthen five years before, officially appointed by the King to collect fees and fines. It had been obvious from the start that his real remit had been to spy on Cole and itemise any failings, but Gwenllian was efficient, and Londres had found nothing untoward to report. He had grown increasingly frustrated as time passed, desperate to find something, anything, which could be used as an excuse to return to Westminster.

Unfortunately, the King had long since forgotten about the bailiff and his mission, and Londres had been left to fester. He was deeply unpopular in the town, because he was dishonest, selfish and sly. The inexorable passing of time had made him more bitter and angry than ever, and recent weeks had seen him brazenly demanding unlawful levies, and flouting the constable’s authority at every turn.

‘I recognise the tall monk – he is Prior Walter from Hempsted,’ said Asser. He turned to Stacpol and Elidor. ‘Do you remember him from our journey here three years ago? We had stopped to rest at Llanthony, and he arrived to declare Hempsted’s independence.’

Elidor nodded. ‘The Llanthony canons told me later that he had purchased the necessary documents from the Pope – Hempsted’s freedom was won by deceit, not merit. Since then, he has been expanding his empire, riding all over the country to inform churches, villages and manors that they are now under his control.’

‘For the tithes,’ explained Asser, seeing Cole frown in puzzlement. ‘His monastery is twice as rich as it was when he took over, thanks to his diligence.’

‘And it seems that Carmarthen Priory has just become his latest conquest,’ finished Elidor.

‘On what grounds?’ demanded Cole, full of indignation.

Elidor shrugged. ‘He will have a document to prove his case. He always does.’

Cole’s first instinct was to storm the place and oust the invaders. Four knights and Iefan would be more than a match for mere foot soldiers. But the mention of documents stayed his hand. Clearly, this was a matter that required diplomacy, not brute force. He turned to Iefan.

‘Fetch Gwenllian. She will know what to do.’

Gwenllian was relieved when Iefan appeared. She was perfectly able to manage the castle in peacetime, but she had received reports that a contingent of soldiers was moving in Carmarthen’s direction. Then she had seen the plume of smoke. She had ordered the castle secured, the armoury opened, and the townsfolk had been invited to take refuge in the bailey, but Cole was the one who did the fighting, and she did not know what to do next.

She heard Iefan’s report in the solar, where she had gone to be with her children – three boisterous sons and a daughter who was the apple of Cole’s eye. They were not alone. Bishop Geoffrey had turned up the previous day on an official visitation. Gwenllian had not known that the prelate was coming – he tended to travel after Easter, when the roads were better – but it had not taken her long to discover that Cole had, and that the hunting trip had been timed to coincide with the prelate’s arrival. Cole had nothing against Geoffrey in particular, but he found clerics dull company in general, with little to say about important matters like horses, dogs and warfare.

The bishop had been entertaining the children, to take their minds off the trouble outside, and they had been enjoying themselves. The younger ones sat in his lap, while the older pair hung on his every word. There was a chorus of dismay when he announced his intention of accompanying their mother to the monastery.

‘Stay here, Your Grace,’ Gwenllian advised. Geoffrey was no longer young, and she was not sure what to expect from the situation. Moreover, Cole would not thank her for lumbering him with an elderly churchman if he was obliged to do battle.

‘I am not afraid,’ Geoffrey declared, although his unsteady voice suggested otherwise. ‘And the priory is in my See. Of course I must be there to defend it.’

‘But my husband wants to assess the situation before taking action. Look after my children until we discover what is happening. Then we will send for you.’

Geoffrey was reluctant, but Gwenllian convinced him eventually. He gave a wan smile when the children whooped their delight at the prospect of keeping him a little longer.

‘I have heard rumours that Prior Walter was spreading his wings,’ he said soberly. ‘But I did not know that he aimed to spread them in my diocese.’

‘Will his claim on our priory be legal?’ she asked.

‘I hope not! Cadifor is a very good prior, and I should not like him replaced by a less competent man. Or a less likeable one.’

‘Nor would I. Did you know that Cadifor was a monk at Llanthony before he came here?’

‘Of course – I was once a monk at Llanthony, too. We were there together.’

Gwenllian had forgotten that. ‘Yes – you were prior before Martin, the man whose legendary laziness lost Llanthony her wealthy daughter house.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘I repelled Walter’s bids for independence when I was in charge, and now I see what power has done to him, I realise that I was right to resist his demands. Such lust for expansion makes me very uneasy. But go now, and send me word as soon as you can.’

The streets were deserted as Gwenllian and Iefan hurried through them, although a few merchants had declined to leave their properties unguarded, risking death to prevent the loss of their riches. They called out to Gwenllian for news as she sped past, but there was no time to answer them.

‘If Walter wants our priory for himself, why did he set it alight?’ she asked the sergeant. ‘It will be no use to him if it is irreparably damaged. Moreover, its residents are monks from his own Order.’

‘He only incinerated the gates,’ explained Iefan. ‘Prior Cadifor refused to let him in, so he ordered them to be burned down. Stacpol, Elidor and Asser, who have met him before, say he is greedy and ruthless.’

‘It sounds to me as though this is a matter for the Austins to sort out between themselves,’ said Gwenllian uneasily. ‘They will not thank us for meddling.’

‘Cadifor will – Walter has enforced his claim by flooding the monastery with soldiers. He will certainly want our help.’

Iefan indicated she should remain silent as they stepped off the road, taking a narrow path that led to where Cole and his knights were waiting impatiently for her.

‘Walter claims that Carmarthen Priory was founded by a monk from Hempsted in the distant past,’ Cole whispered indignantly, ‘which means it should be Hempsted’s now. He has documents to prove it, one of which bears the King’s seal. I just heard him brag about it.’

‘Then we must distance ourselves from the affair,’ said Gwenllian in alarm. ‘The King will accuse you of treason if we challenge his decisions. Let Bishop Geoffrey mediate – he is an Austin, as well as Prelate of St David’s. He arrived here the day after you went hunting.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Cole had the grace to look sheepish. ‘I forgot to mention his letter…’

‘I am sure you did,’ said Gwenllian coolly. ‘Just as I am sure it was pure happenstance that led you to suggest a hunting expedition the day before he was due to appear.’

Cole started to make excuses, but stopped abruptly and lunged towards the bushes. He shrugged when he returned and saw her questioning frown. ‘I thought someone was in there.’

Gwenllian supposed it was a townsman, spying so he would have a tale to tell in the taverns that night. ‘Come home, and let the bishop take over.’

‘I cannot, Gwen. This priory is under my protection, and it would be a dereliction of duty to ignore armed invaders. Besides, you need to look at Walter’s document and tell me if it truly does come from the King. Walter might be lying – Cadifor certainly thinks there are grounds for debate, as he has been yelling about it ever since Walter shoved the tiny thing under his nose.’

‘It has been difficult to stand here and do nothing while Walter struts about like a peacock,’ said Elidor sourly. ‘I should love to storm the place and throw him out.’

‘So would I,’ agreed Asser. ‘Yet I suspect the writ will be genuine. The two men standing by the dormitory are royal clerks. Their names are Belat and Henry.’

He pointed. Belat had long dark hair and was dressed entirely in black; Henry was fair and might have been handsome were it not for the selfish pout of his lips.

‘I know them well,’ said Stacpol grimly. ‘They will turn the King against Carmarthen if they survive our assault, so I suggest we make sure they don’t. When we attack, I will kill them before they can slither away. They are…’

He trailed off, and Gwenllian could tell that he wished he had held his tongue. Her interest was piqued. She had never liked these particular knights, considering them vicious and stupid, and Stacpol had always seemed the worst. She wondered what business such a mindless brute could have had with John’s officials that resulted in him ‘knowing them well.’ She asked.

‘I cannot discuss it,’ Stacpol replied stiffly. ‘It was a private matter.’

Asser laughed. ‘Do not think you will keep secrets from Lady Gwenllian! She will have them from you in no time at all. And if not from you, then from me.’

‘No – you will not speak out of turn,’ said Stacpol, so coldly that the merry twinkle in Asser’s eyes was immediately extinguished.

Elidor looked from one to the other in bemusement. ‘Did something happen when we met Belat and Henry at Llanthony then? I remember Walter arriving to declare Hempsted’s independence, and those two clerks were there to oversee the matter…’

‘It was before that,’ replied Stacpol shortly. ‘Please do not question me further, because I am not at liberty to discuss it.’

Gwenllian’s curiosity intensified, and she determined that Asser would be proven right: she would have the tale from him or Stacpol.

‘Londres knew this was going to happen,’ Cole was saying bitterly. ‘I can tell by the way that he and Prior Walter huddle together that they have had dealings before. They are in league, and it was doubtless he who suggested that they stage their assault today.’

Stacpol frowned. ‘Why today?’

‘Because we would have been away hunting if your horse had not gone lame and brought us home early. Perhaps you were right to warn me about bad luck. I should not have started singing.’

Cole insisted on riding into the priory on his best warhorse, determined to make Walter see that he was dealing with professional warriors, not country bumpkins who rarely saw military action. He, his knights and Iefan were an impressive sight in their armour and crusaders’ surcoats, and Prior Walter’s soldiers blanched – he had been right to predict that they would pose no problem in the event of a skirmish. Gwenllian followed them inside on foot.

There were six men among the invaders who looked important. Gwenllian instinctively distrusted Belat and Henry, thinking they were exactly the type of men the King would hire – sly and deceitful. Bailiff Londres was cast in the same mould.

Walter was lean and cadaverous, with the look of death about him. She wondered if he would live long enough to enjoy the empire he had built, although his burning eyes suggested he would not let ill health interfere with his plans. His sacrist, Gilbert, hovered at his shoulder, reminding her of a monkey with his heavy eyebrows, beadlike eyes and dark complexion.

And finally, there was Roger, appointed prior of Llanthony after Martin’s death, although Gwenllian was not sure why he was present. He was a plump, flabby man with soft white hands. There was something disagreeably lethargic about him, and he regarded Cole and his companions with disinterested eyes, as if he could not be bothered to ask who they were.

Cadifor broke away from his captors and stumbled towards Cole in relief, while his canons cheered, clearly believing all would be well now that the constable was there. Gwenllian was sorry they were going to be disappointed.

‘They have no right!’ Cadifor was tearful with anger, and as he was usually calm and measured, it was unsettling to see him so distraught. Since taking up his appointment in Carmarthen, he had worked hard to enhance the priory’s reputation for scholarship and generosity, and he was greatly admired in the town. ‘Walter will not wrest a second foundation from under my nose. Order him gone, Sir Symon. With your sword, if necessary.’

‘The only people who can resolve this dispute are the King and your Prior General,’ said Gwenllian quickly, lest Symon should think to oblige. ‘All we can do is prepare a document outlining each side’s case, to help them make their decision. I recommend a formal hearing in the chapel, with Bishop Geoffrey presiding.’

‘It is none of Bishop Geoffrey’s business,’ declared Londres arrogantly. ‘Let him stay in the castle, away from matters that do not concern him.’

‘You think the fate of a priory in his See does not concern him?’ asked Gwenllian icily. ‘Especially one belonging to his own Order?’

‘Bailiff Londres is right, madam,’ said Walter curtly. ‘This is a matter for the very highest authorities. Mere prelates and constables will meddle at their peril.’

‘I am sure you would like us to leave,’ said Gwenllian, beginning to understand why Symon had wanted to settle the matter by force. ‘But we have a responsibility to assess the situation, so we can provide His Majesty with an accurate report.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Belat haughtily. ‘My colleague, Henry, will document any proceedings, and his is the account that the King will trust.’

Gwenllian smiled sweetly at him. ‘Perhaps so, sir. However, we are nothing if not thorough here at Carmarthen. We shall make our own record, and the bishop will be a witness.’

‘I want him here,’ added Cadifor. ‘He used to be Prior of Llanthony, while Carmarthen is in his See. Thus, he has associations with both foundations, and will be impartial.’

‘Unlike those two royal clerks,’ murmured Stacpol to Gwenllian. ‘You should not trust them as far as you can spit.’

Iefan went to fetch Geoffrey, but Gwenllian knew it would be some time before the elderly churchman arrived – the bishop would want to don suitable vestments for the occasion, and there would be horses to saddle and secretaries to brief. But that was no bad thing, as it would allow time for tempers to cool. All she had to do in the interim was keep the two factions apart.

She said as much to Cole, who immediately ordered Carmarthen’s canons to the kitchen to prepare food, while the Hempsted monks were ‘invited’ to wait in the guesthouse. She expected them to argue, but no one did. The soldiers took the opportunity to slink to the stables, patently relieved not to be doing battle with Norman knights.

‘You cannot order Henry and me around,’ declared Belat, declining to move. ‘We do what we like, because we have the authority of the King.’

‘So do I,’ stated Londres. He edged behind the two clerks when Cole glared at him, daring the constable to push past them to grab him. Cole might have obliged had Gwenllian not laid a cautionary hand on his arm – Londres was not worth the trouble that would follow. Prior Cadifor also lingered, reluctant to go anywhere while his monastery was under threat.

‘I cannot imagine why Walter wants this place,’ said Belat, looking around in disdain. ‘It is mean and shabby compared to Hempsted.’

‘We earn a respectable income from the sale of our wool,’ snapped Cadifor, nettled, but his face fell when Belat’s expression turned triumphant: the clerk had tricked him into revealing something that he should have kept quiet.

‘The King will be delighted to hear it,’ said Henry smoothly, ‘and will raise your taxes accordingly. Or rather, raise Walter’s taxes, as it is now his responsibility to pay them.’

‘I will not yield my priory’s independence without a fight,’ snapped Cadifor, ‘no matter what fictitious document you produce.’

‘It is not fictitious,’ averred Belat. ‘As you will discover if you challenge it. Of course, there may be a way round the problem, although such solutions are very expensive…’

Cadifor blanched. The kind of ‘solution’ sold by corrupt clerks tended to impoverish their recipients for years. Gwenllian regarded the pair in distaste. She had met their type before – ruthless, grasping individuals who used the authority vested in them to line their own pockets. She glanced at Londres, not surprised that the dishonest bailiff had elected to play a role in the unfolding drama.

‘Of course, it will have to be settled before Bishop Geoffrey arrives and starts to poke his nose into our affairs,’ said Henry. ‘So make up your mind now. Do you want us to persuade His Majesty to revoke the deed?’

Cadifor stood straight and there was a defiant jut to his chin. ‘There will be no need for underhand practices, thank you. We are in the right, and Bishop Geoffrey will not support the King in a matter that is blatantly illegal.’

‘He will not,’ agreed Gwenllian. Having met the unpleasant Walter, she was now firmly on Cadifor’s side. ‘And his opinion will be recorded in the transcripts of today’s proceedings, which may help to convince His Majesty of the unfairness of the situation.’

Belat and Henry exchanged angry glances, and she saw they had not reckoned on having the views of a powerful churchman included in the account that would be presented at Court. Good, she thought. Perhaps justice would prevail after all.

Belat and Henry grabbed Londres’ arms and hauled him away, no doubt to remonstrate with him for not warning them that this might happen. Gwenllian stared absently towards the kitchen, wondering what more she could do to further Cadifor’s cause. Cole was standing with Elidor, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, while the other two knights had gone inside to beg for food. Suddenly, Stacpol dashed out.

‘Lady Gwenllian, come quick!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Asser has been taken ill.’

The kitchen was a massive room with two large fireplaces and lines of scrubbed tables. Pots and pans hung on the walls, and there was a pleasantly sweet smell of simmering fruit. Asser lay on the floor with his eyes closed. Gwenllian knelt next to him, but it took no more than a glance to see that he was well beyond her meagre medical skills – his face was white, his life-beat feeble, and his breathing unnaturally shallow.

‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Cole. ‘He was perfectly well a few moments ago.’

He grabbed the stricken man’s shoulder and shook it. Asser opened his eyes, but they were glazed, and Gwenllian doubted that whatever he whispered in Cole’s ear would make sense. Then he went limp. She glanced up and saw Stacpol in the doorway, his expression closed and distant.

‘It must have been an apoplexy,’ said Prior Cadifor, when Gwenllian had pronounced Asser dead and his monks had intoned the necessary prayers. ‘He was a large man who ate too much, and he was excitable. Such men are prone to these sorts of attacks.’

‘But he has never had one before,’ objected Cole.

‘Yes, he has,’ countered Stacpol. ‘About a month ago. He told me not to mention it, lest you sent him back to Normandy and recruited a fitter man to take his place.’

Cole would have done. He had licence to keep six knights, and could not afford to house one who was unable to fulfil his duties. Gwenllian glanced at Stacpol again, and was surprised by his lack of emotion – he and Asser had been friends. Was he manfully concealing his grief, or was he actually relieved? Asser had, after all, witnessed Stacpol’s previous encounter with the royal clerks and had threatened to reveal whatever had transpired.

‘How curious that he should die now,’ she said, looking hard at him. Stacpol only stared back, his expression impossible to read.

‘Not really,’ said Prior Cadifor. ‘As I said, such men are prone to this kind of ailment.’

‘Especially when they are under strain,’ agreed Stacpol, a little too quickly for Gwenllian’s liking. ‘And today has been full of vexation.’

‘Not for him,’ countered Cole. ‘It was not his horse that went lame, forcing its owner to run about in full armour. Nor was he obliged to solve this business with Walter. All he had to do was sit on his stallion and look menacing, which should not have been too difficult.’

‘I refer to the quarrel he had with the cook,’ said Stacpol. ‘That was vexing.’

All eyes turned to the monk in question, a plump, volatile man named Dafydd.

‘Of course I gave him a piece of my mind,’ Dafydd snapped, although his eyes were uneasy. ‘He ate some of the marchpanes I made for the bishop. Geoffrey loves them, and I always prepare a batch when he visits. But Asser came along and stole a handful before I could stop him. And I cannot make more, because we are out of almonds.’

‘He took only four,’ said Stacpol reproachfully. ‘I am sure they will not be missed.’

‘Yes, they will,’ argued Dafydd bitterly. ‘The bishop ate a lot when he called in to see us last night, so there were only a few left.’ He smiled fondly. ‘I like to spoil Bishop Geoffrey. He has always been good to us. He will prove a friend over these current troubles, too.’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ said Cadifor fervently.

Cole wrapped Asser in his cloak, ready to be taken back to the castle, while Cadifor began to pray again for the dead man’s soul. The commotion had prompted two of the visitors to emerge from the guesthouse: Sacrist Gilbert from Hempsted and Llanthony’s fat Prior Roger.

‘Gluttony,’ declared Gilbert sanctimoniously, when he heard about the marchpanes. ‘Asser should have restrained himself.’

‘I love marchpanes,’ said Roger wistfully, while Gwenllian gripped Cole’s hand to prevent him from making a tart rejoinder. ‘They are my favourite of all things. Did this knight eat them all, or are there any left?’

‘Yes, but they are for the bishop,’ said Dafydd curtly. ‘And no one else.’

‘I am Prior of Llanthony,’ declared Roger angrily. ‘It is not for a mere cook to forbid sweetmeats to me. Now fetch them at once.’

‘You always were a greedy fellow, Roger,’ said Cadifor in distaste, while Dafydd glowered at the prior and refused to move. ‘You should beware. Greed is almost as deadly a sin as sloth – the vice that ended up killing your predecessor.’

Fortunately, a clatter of hoofs heralded the arrival of Geoffrey, so a quarrel was averted. Keen to assert his ecclesiastical authority with a show of pomp, the bishop had brought not only his secretarius and the castle scribe, as he had been asked, but a large number of richly clad attendants. They formed an impressive procession, and Gwenllian saw Cadifor’s monks take courage from the spectacle.

Walter emerged from the guesthouse, and hurried towards the prelate, ready to begin whispering in his ear. Bishop Geoffrey, however, was more concerned with Asser. He eyed Walter coldly until the prior fell silent, then walked to the dead knight’s body.

‘Pity,’ he said softly. ‘Asser was a good man. A crusader, no less.’

Gwenllian did not think the two were necessarily linked, and was of the opinion that most crusaders were violent brutes who should not have been allowed back into the country. Even her beloved Symon had done some terrible things in the name of the so-called holy war.

‘He died because he gorged on your marchpanes, Father Bishop,’ said Dafydd bluntly, and with a good deal of rancour.

Geoffrey blinked. ‘He choked on them?’

‘They probably brought about an apoplexy,’ explained Cadifor. ‘But you have some experience with medicine, Your Grace. Examine him, and give us your opinion.’

The bishop was famous for his skills as a healer, an unusual talent for a prelate, but one for which hundreds had been grateful. He knelt by the body, and Gwenllian was impressed by his calm, competent manner, although he eventually stood and raised his hands in a shrug.

‘I see nothing to tell me you are wrong, Prior Cadifor. An apoplexy is the most likely explanation for what happened. Poor, poor man.’

Gwenllian had always liked the Austins’ chapel. It was a pretty, silent place with large windows that made it light and airy, even on the darkest of days. It was stone-built, with a grey tiled roof, and boasted some of the finest carvings in the country. Cadifor led the way inside, where he arranged seats for Gwenllian, Cole, the bishop and the scribes. Londres and the Hempsted faction were left to fend for themselves. Walter snapped imperious fingers, and his canons brought him a chair that was far grander than anyone else’s. Geoffrey pursed his lips disapprovingly, and Gwenllian saw he was unimpressed with the petty point-scoring.

‘Send your scribe home, Cole,’ ordered Prior Walter. ‘You, too, Bishop. There is not enough room at the table, and there is no need for us all to record what is said. My man, Cadifor’s clerk and Henry are more than enough.’

‘It would be remiss not to keep our own account,’ said Gwenllian, sweetly, aware that Henry and Walter’s versions were likely to match, thus casting doubt on Cadifor’s. ‘Our scribe will stay.’

‘So will mine,’ added Geoffrey genially. ‘He is not doing anything else today.’

‘Then it will be the best documented hearing in the history of Carmarthen,’ drawled Stacpol, as Londres, Belat and Henry exchanged irritable glances. ‘Five separate reports! And I am sure they will all be accurate reflections of what happens here.’

‘He has just lost a friend,’ whispered Gwenllian to Cole. ‘Yet he here he is making snide remarks. Perhaps he is glad Asser is no more, because now no one can tell me what transpired between him and those clerks.’

‘You spout nonsense, Gwen,’ replied Cole shortly. A facet of her husband’s character that annoyed her intensely was an unquestioning allegiance to those he considered to be friends. Few deserved it, and he was invariably surprised to learn that his loyalty was misplaced, or that the ‘friends’ were nothing of the kind. ‘He is grieving deeply, as am I.’

When everyone was settled, Geoffrey asked for God’s blessing on the proceedings, then declared them open. Cadifor and Walter drew breath to speak, but Prior Roger was there first.

‘It has been a long time since we met, Cadifor,’ he said. ‘And I know why you came to this desolate backwater – you could not bear to remain at Llanthony when I was in charge.’

‘Carmarthen is not a desolate backwater,’ objected Cole, offended. He turned to Walter. ‘And you must agree, or you would not be here trying to steal it.’

‘I steal nothing,’ said Walter, tight-lipped. ‘I only claim what is lawfully mine.’

‘Why did you come, Prior Roger?’ asked Gwenllian quickly, before Cole could argue. Londres was grinning at her husband’s incautious words, and she had no doubt that Henry was gleefully recording them for the King’s edification. ‘Are Llanthony’s affairs still entwined with those of Hempsted?’

‘They are,’ replied Walter, before Roger could answer for himself. ‘Our foundations are very close, and we support each other in all things.’

‘If you say so,’ muttered Roger. ‘Although Llanthony will not benefit from this particular jaunt, and I would rather have stayed home. It may not be very comfortable without the income from Hempsted, but it is better than the open road in January.’

‘I imagine he is a hostage,’ Gwenllian murmured in Cole’s ear. ‘Walter brought him to prevent Llanthony from doing anything to harm Hempsted while he is away. Clever Walter! He has left nothing to chance.’

‘If I were a canon of Llanthony, I would not be too concerned about putting Roger in danger,’ Cole muttered back. ‘He is not a very nice man, and I imagine his monks are delighted to be rid of him for a while.’

They stopped whispering when Walter stood, towering over them all. He was a formidable presence, and Gwenllian was not surprised that so many churches and manors had fallen under the force of his personality.

‘I, Walter of Hempsted, hereby lay claim to Carmarthen Priory,’ he intoned in a powerful voice that rang through the ancient arches. ‘My claim is based on history – this place was founded by a Hempsted monk, and was always intended to be a cell. King John agrees, and has furnished us with a writ giving his approval.’

Belat produced a document, a luxurious thing of velum with a large red seal. ‘Anyone may look, but no one may touch,’ he said. ‘We cannot have it “accidentally” torn, and thus rendered null and void.’

Gwenllian immediately suspected that he did not want it examined too closely lest it was revealed as fraudulent, so she went at once to inspect it. Cadifor and Geoffrey did likewise, although Cole did not bother, knowing he could look all he liked, but was unlikely to spot anything amiss – he was a warrior, not a clerk, and was happy to leave such matters to Gwenllian. Unfortunately, she could detect nothing wrong either.

‘Perhaps a Hempsted monk did found Carmarthen,’ said Cadifor, when everyone was seated again. He made no remark on the document, but his expression was strained: Gwenllian was not the only one who thought it was probably genuine. ‘However, I cannot imagine that he intended you to come along a century later and claim it for yourself.’

‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Roger. Anticipating a lengthy hearing, he had brought some food with him, and the front of his habit was covered in crumbs. ‘Now can we go home?’

Gwenllian addressed him. ‘Hempsted was still a daughter house of Llanthony when this monk was founding cells. Ergo, it should be Llanthony making this claim, not Hempsted.’

Roger waved a careless hand. ‘I suppose so, but that would entail a great deal of work, and such details have never been my forte.’

‘No,’ said Cadifor acidly. ‘Details such as ensuring that Prior Martin wrote to the Pope to contest Hempsted’s bid for independence. Carmarthen would not be in this situation now if you had done your duty.’

‘It was Martin’s responsibility, not mine,’ objected Roger. ‘And he paid the price for his indolence. He will be in Hell as I speak, in a snake pit, which is the fate for those of a slothful disposition.’

‘Are you not concerned that you might join him there?’ asked Cadifor archly. ‘I know that you have done nothing to improve Llanthony’s lot since you were appointed, and its situation has gone from bad to worse.’

‘I am not slothful!’ declared Roger. ‘I just have a pragmatic approach to life, which entails not striving after impossible goals. You should learn from me, Cadifor. The King’s writ means you are already defeated.’

‘The King can issue writs all he likes,’ Cadifor shot back angrily, ‘but we are an independent house, and the only man who can decide otherwise is our Prior General. The King’s opinion is irrelevant in this matter.’

‘Watch your tongue, monk,’ hissed Henry menacingly. ‘There are many who would consider that remark treason.’

‘And there are many more who would consider it the truth,’ flashed Cadifor. ‘Walter’s claim is a contrived nonsense.’

As the argument raged back and forth, Geoffrey appealed for calm. It took him some time to regain control, after which he kept a tighter rein on the proceedings. First, he allowed Walter to state Hempsted’s case, and then he indicated that Cadifor should outline Carmarthen’s. When each had finished, Belat was permitted to speak; the clerk embarked on an intricate monologue explaining the King’s position. Londres and Henry nodded sagely, even applauding on occasion, although everyone else was bored and Cole did not follow it at all.

Roger was eating again, and Cole nudged Gwenllian when he saw that the portly prior had acquired some of the marchpanes intended for the bishop.

‘He has eaten at least ten,’ he whispered. ‘I doubt there are any left for Geoffrey. Dafydd will be livid.’

Belat droned on, while the scribes’ pens scratched steadily, although Gwenllian noted with dismay that the man from the castle wrote far more slowly than the others. Londres smirked when he saw she had noticed, making her wonder whether the fellow had been bribed to be inefficient.

Belat finished eventually, and although Roger continued to slumber, everyone else shuffled and stretched as Geoffrey summarised what had been said. Then the bishop declared the meeting over.

‘Reports will now be sent to our Prior General,’ he said. ‘And the King. Until we receive replies, I recommend that Walter’s retinue returns to Hempsted.’

Walter was outraged. ‘No! We attended this foolish hearing to be polite, but Belat has made the legal position abundantly clear: the King wants Hempsted to have Carmarthen, so that is the end of the matter.’

‘Nothing will be final until our Prior General had passed judgement,’ argued Cadifor. ‘Until then, you can go home. Sir Symon? See our “guests” off the premises, if you please.’

‘I do not envy you, Cole,’ whispered Londres gloatingly. ‘Your standing orders are to defend the town, but the King’s writ demands that you support Walter. His commands are contradictory, and I am glad I do not have to choose between them.’

‘I am glad you do not, too,’ said Gwenllian coolly. ‘You would be incapable of doing so sensibly, and would be an embarrassment to the Crown.’

She turned her back on him, although not before she had seen his cheeks colour with anger.

‘Londres is right, Cole,’ said Belat smugly. ‘You are in a difficult position, and I am sure the King will be interested in how you handle it.’

‘It is not the first diplomatic crisis we have managed,’ said Gwenllian, nettled by the presumption that Symon would be unequal to the task. ‘We have gained considerable experience during the last twenty years.’

‘Twenty years,’ mused Henry. He was carrying his account of the meeting, and she was amazed by how much he had written. ‘Perhaps it is time to retire. A man becomes stale if left in one place for too long.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Londres sourly, scowling at Gwenllian. ‘And if not, there are many other ways to oust complacent officials.’

‘Did they just threaten us?’ asked Cole, as the trio walked away together.

‘I believe they did,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘So we must be on our guard.’

Cadifor invited Gwenllian and Cole to eat in the refectory when he emerged from the church, although he scowled irritably when the bishop informed him that good manners dictated that the Hempsted men must be included in the meal, too. His canons served their rivals with ill grace, and Cole and Gwenllian exchanged a wry glance when they saw one spitting in Prior Walter’s ale. She and Cole sat with the Carmarthen men, while the bishop trotted from one side of the room to the other in a determined effort to be impartial.

‘I am afraid there are no marchpanes, Your Grace,’ said Dafydd, pale with suppressed fury. ‘Asser took four, but then someone came along and stole the rest.’

‘Roger,’ said Cadifor immediately. ‘I saw him scoff them all while Belat was pontificating.’

‘Where is Roger?’ asked Geoffrey, looking around genially. ‘It is unlike him to miss a meal. I have never met anyone who enjoys his victuals so.’

‘He does not need to eat now,’ said Cadifor sourly, ‘because he devoured enough for ten men while we were in the chapel. Doubtless he has gone for a postprandial nap. He always was a lazy man. Indeed, Walter’s ambitions would have been thwarted years ago if he and Martin had stayed awake more.’

Geoffrey smiled. ‘And you would still be Llanthony’s almoner – we all know you only accepted a post in Carmarthen because you could not bear to serve under Roger. However, you have performed wonders here, so much good has come from your promotion.’

‘But it will all be for nothing if Walter wins,’ said Cadifor bitterly. ‘Carmarthen will not thrive under him. He will bleed us dry to keep Hempsted in riches, and all I have built will be lost. Damn him! And damn Roger, too!’

The bishop intoned a tactful final grace at that point. Gwenllian and Cole stood, and were about to return to the castle when Walter and Gilbert came to speak to Cadifor. Cole stopped, unwilling to leave if there was about to be another spat.

‘An adequate feast, Cadifor,’ said Walter coolly. ‘But not of a standard that will be tolerated now we are in charge.’

‘No,’ agreed Gilbert. ‘There was sawdust in my bread and a nail in my broth.’

‘We are a poor foundation,’ said Cadifor innocently. ‘Once we have paid our dues to the King and dispensed alms to the poor, there is very little left for luxurious living.’

‘Then the poor will have to tighten their belts,’ said Walter. He turned to Geoffrey, who was listening with a troubled expression on his kindly features. ‘Will you give me medicine to ease the pain in my innards? Your elixirs are far more effective than the ones Gilbert makes me.’

‘Your innards would fare better if you did not work so hard,’ advised Geoffrey, while Sacrist Gilbert shot his superior a disagreeable glance for his ingratitude. ‘Rest and regular meals will cure your affliction, but you refuse to heed my advice.’

‘A remedy, please,’ said Walter coldly, holding out his hand.

‘I do not have one with me,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘I did not imagine that my medical skills would be needed today, so I left my bag in the castle.’

‘I will make you something,’ offered Gwenllian, thinking that a tincture of chalk and poppy juice would ease Walter’s discomfort. And when he was not in pain, perhaps he would be more willing to listen to reason.

‘No, thank you,’ said Walter coldly. ‘I would rather suffer than accept help from a woman, especially one who hails from this godforsaken hole.’

‘As you wish,’ said Gwenllian, equally icy. ‘Enjoy your night.’

‘He is a disagreeable fellow,’ said Geoffrey, once Walter and Gilbert had retired to the guesthouse. ‘But I did not know you were a healer, Lady Gwenllian. I have always been interested in medicine. Indeed, had my family not given me to the Church, I would have become a physician.’

They exchanged remedies for acid stomachs while Cole arranged for soldiers from the castle to stand guard outside the guesthouse, to prevent anyone from entering or leaving – if the two factions did not meet, then there could be no further trouble that night.

When Cole had finished, he and the bishop went to fetch their horses while Gwenllian waited in the yard. Darkness had fallen, but light spilled from the guesthouse windows, all of which had ill-fitting shutters. She could not help but notice that one was the room allocated to the two clerks. She glanced around quickly, but no one was looking and the shadows were thick. She put her eye to the biggest crack and peered inside. Belat was dictating and Henry writing.

‘Slow down,’ Henry hissed, stopping to wring his hand. ‘My fingers hurt.’

‘We cannot,’ said Belat urgently. ‘The bishop may ask to see our transcript, and we must have it ready.’

‘I wrote a perfectly good account the first time,’ snapped Henry. ‘It exposed Cole as a blundering buffoon, as per our agreement with Londres, and showed Walter to be the rightful ruler of this house. We do not need to copy it out all over again.’

‘But I do not want to be part of Londres’ plot to topple Cole,’ said Belat. ‘I think the King has forgotten whatever petty squabble prompted him to send Londres here to spy five years ago, and now His Majesty does not care who rules Carmarthen, as long as its taxes are paid on time. Indeed, ousting an efficient governor may even turn John against us.’

‘But we made a financial arrangement with Londres,’ argued Henry.

‘So?’ asked Belat archly. ‘What can he do? Complain that we failed to write lies about a royally appointed official? Forget Londres! He can rot here for the rest of his life for all I care. We have bigger fish to fry – namely seeing Walter installed in this priory. The King will not be pleased if his writ is contested.’

‘No,’ agreed Henry. ‘His barons challenge his authority at every turn, and he will not want monasteries doing it, too. But what shall we do about the accounts written by the others? Walter’s will match ours, but Cole’s, Cadifor’s and the bishop’s will not.’

‘Londres paid the castle scribe to write what we tell him, while the bishop’s secretarius is a friend of mine. Four accounts will tally, so Cadifor’s will be disregarded. Now write.’

They returned to their work, leaving Gwenllian thoughtful. Then she became aware of a shadow at her side, and was unsettled to see that it was Stacpol, tall and menacing in the gloom.

‘They have not changed,’ he said softly. ‘One day, they will be caught, and then all the lies in the world will not save them.’

He strode away before she could ask about his own dealings with the pair. Then, Cole shouted that he was ready, and led the way through the burned gates with the bishop’s retinue following. Stacpol and Elidor brought up the rear with the cart that carried Asser’s body.

‘Did you see that?’ Cole asked suddenly, reining in and staring into the bushes that lined the side of the road. ‘That flicker of movement?’

‘That is the second time you claim to have seen someone watching us today,’ called Stacpol. ‘Are you sure you are not imagining it?’

‘Yes,’ replied Cole shortly. ‘Quite sure.’

In the small hours of the morning, Cadifor slipped out of the dormitory and aimed for the gate. The guards Cole had set at the guesthouse pretended not to notice him: they had been told what Walter had come to do, and their sympathies lay firmly with the local monks. Once through the gate, Cadifor hurried to the castle, aiming to put his case to Bishop Geoffrey alone.

He was conducted to the solar. The fire had gone out hours before, so it was cold and dark. It was elegantly decorated, though, and he recognised Gwenllian’s hand in the tapestries that hung on the wall and the cushions that were strewn about the benches. It smelled of lavender and sage, and of the fresh rushes that had been scattered on the floor.

The bishop entered rubbing sleep from his eyes, but Cadifor’s arrival had also woken others. Cole, Stacpol and Elidor were fully dressed, unwilling to remove their armour while there was trouble in their town; Gwenllian wore a thick woollen cloak over her nightclothes.

‘I know this is an odd time for an audience, Your Grace,’ Cadifor began apologetically. ‘But I could not sleep for worry. I felt I was not sufficiently eloquent earlier – not like Walter.’

‘You were eloquent enough for me.’ Geoffrey smiled. ‘I do not believe Hempsted has a right to Carmarthen. I am on your side, Cadifor.’

Cadifor sighed his relief. ‘Thank God! Will you help me to challenge Walter?’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘And we shall begin by contesting that deed. I studied it carefully, and I am far from sure that it is genuine.’

‘I wish I could agree,’ said Cadifor unhappily. ‘But it came from the King sure enough. Belat and Henry are disagreeable characters, but they are not fools – it would be reckless to forge that sort of thing when it is likely to be inspected by the head of our Order.’

‘Cadifor is right,’ said Gwenllian. ‘I know the King’s seal, and I suspect His Majesty has given his support to Walter. Probably for a price.’

‘Why is Walter so keen to have Carmarthen?’ asked Elidor curiously. ‘It is not a wealthy house.’

‘Because of our wool,’ explained Cadifor. ‘Walter’s empire has now expanded to include several hundred monks, lay brothers and servants, all of whom need clothes and blankets. That is why he set greedy eyes on us.’

‘But how did he know about the wool?’ asked Cole. ‘You only sell it locally.’

‘I imagine Londres told him,’ surmised Gwenllian. ‘He must have heard that Hempsted was expanding, and wrote to inform Walter that Carmarthen is a plum ripe for the picking.’

‘Why would he do such a spiteful thing?’ asked Cole doubtfully.

‘His remit was to catch you doing something wrong, so you could be dismissed,’ she reminded him. ‘But he has failed. He is angry and resentful, and knows he will only escape from Carmarthen – which he has grown to hate – by discrediting you.’

‘Which this will,’ said Geoffrey soberly. ‘He will either report you for failing to protect the priory from hostile invaders, or for challenging the King’s writ. Either will see you in trouble, and allow him to return to Westminster.’

‘Politics,’ said Cole in distaste. ‘Prior Walter is a fool for letting Londres use him in his machinations. He should have just bought Carmarthen’s wool instead.’

‘Why, when this writ will let him get it for free?’ asked Cadifor bitterly. ‘Wool is currently fetching very high prices, so seizing our assets will save him a fortune.’

‘It is a pity that John allows his favour to be bought,’ sighed Geoffrey. ‘He is God’s anointed, and should set a better example. No wonder his barons oppose him.’

‘The greater pity is that Prior Roger is such a lazy scoundrel,’ said Stacpol. ‘He should keep his former daughter house in order, but instead, he trails along in Walter’s wake, moaning about the misery of winter travel.’

‘He is the epitome of sloth,’ said Cadifor. ‘Like his predecessor, Martin. Did I ever tell you about him? He was murdered on the very day that Walter came to declare Hempsted independent. Later, a message warning against the sin of sloth was etched on his coffin.’

‘Murdered by whom?’ asked Gwenllian, intrigued.

‘The killer was never caught, although I expect the culprit was one of Walter’s men, smarting over insults that were issued during a spat in Martin’s solar.’

‘Walter is slothful, too,’ remarked Geoffrey.

Cole blinked. ‘No! He is the opposite of sloth – willing to do anything to get what he wants.’

‘You think sloth means lazy,’ lectured Geoffrey. ‘But it is more insidious than that. It is a sluggishness of the mind that neglects to do good – an evil that oppresses man’s spirit, and draws him away from good deeds.’

‘The bishop is right,’ agreed Cadifor. ‘Walter is bored with himself and his life, and boredom represents an emptiness of the soul and a lack of passion. It-’

‘Walter has an abundance of passion,’ interrupted Cole, although he should have known better than to tackle two senior clerics about the nature of sin. ‘Especially for other people’s property. Unlike Roger. He is the one who lacks passion.’

‘He does,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘But Walter is so obsessed by enlarging his domain that he fails to appreciate the beauty around him. Overwork is a form of sloth.’

‘Quite,’ nodded Cadifor. ‘It is easier to dedicate one’s life to obvious goals, like manipulating monarchs to grant you priories, than to sit back and appreciate God’s wondrous gifts. In my opinion, sloth is the deadliest of sins and-’

‘We need a plan,’ interrupted Gwenllian, suspecting the discussion might last all night if it was allowed to continue. ‘One that will see our priory keep its independence without bringing the King down on us in a fury.’

‘Oh, I know how to do that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We simply find out how much Walter paid His Majesty for the writ, then offer to double it if he agrees to a retraction.’

Cole laughed. ‘And this is advice dispensed by a bishop?’

But Cadifor was dismayed. ‘Why should we resort to underhand tactics? Walter is in the wrong, and any decent person will see it.’

Geoffrey patted his arm. ‘In an ideal world you would be right, but this is one ruled by King John. If you want Carmarthen to remain independent, it will cost you in money.’

Cadifor closed his eyes in despair. ‘But we do not have that sort of capital.’

‘Then I shall lend you some,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Not from the diocesan coffers, as my treasurer will not approve, but from my personal finances. I am not a wealthy man, and the loan will beggar me until you repay it, but it will be worth the inconvenience.’

Cadifor sighed his relief. ‘Thank you! Although I fail to see what you will gain.’

‘I will gain not having Walter in my See,’ explained the bishop. ‘Four of my brother prelates have him in theirs, and they say he is nothing but trouble. Moreover, I admire what you have done here, and I should hate it to be undone.’

Cadifor gripped his hand. ‘You are a good man. I shall pay you back within ten years.’

Geoffrey gulped. ‘I hope it will be sooner than that – six months at the most! You will have to drive harder bargains with that fine wool you mentioned.’

‘Then all we need do is find out how much Walter paid the King,’ said Cole. He frowned. ‘I cannot imagine he will be very forthcoming when we ask, though.’

‘No,’ agreed Gwenllian. ‘We shall have to be subtle. Leave it to me.’

Suddenly, there was shouting in the bailey below. Cole opened the window and leaned out, letting in a chill blast of air that had everyone drawing their cloaks more closely around their shoulders. Iefan shouted up.

‘You are asked to go to the priory as soon as possible. There has been a death.’

‘Who?’ asked Cole.

‘Prior Roger. Apparently, he fell asleep in the chapel during yesterday’s hearing and failed to wake up.’

Cole took Stacpol and Elidor with him to the priory, partly to show the Austins a suitable degree of respect for a deceased member of their Order – three knights made for a better display than one – but mostly because he did not believe that Roger had ‘fallen asleep’, and he would need help if there were signs of foul play.

‘No,’ he said, when Gwenllian emerged fully clothed from the bedchamber to accompany him. ‘Not this time. You were right to be anxious: Roger’s death is unlikely to be natural, given all the antagonism that raged yesterday.’

‘Quite,’ she said, equally resolute as she pushed past him. ‘You will need me if you hope to uncover the truth. You cannot do it alone.’

She was right and he knew it, although he was not happy. ‘Very well, but only if you promise not to wander off alone.’

She inclined her head to accept the condition, and they set off. Bishop Geoffrey also insisted on going, to pray over the remains of the colleague he had known for years.

‘I neither liked nor respected him as a man,’ he said. ‘But as a youth, he was a charming, entertaining companion. It is a pity he learned bad habits from Martin. Had he moulded himself on Cadifor, he would have been an asset to Llanthony.’

Cadifor inclined his head at the compliment. ‘Yet I do not remember Roger being charming or entertaining, and as far as I am concerned, he had no redeeming qualities at all. But I am sorry he is dead, because now he will never have the chance to mend his slothful ways.’

Cole set a rapid pace through the town. Geoffrey did his best to keep up, but soon fell behind, while Gwenllian and Cadifor panted hard. The knights were not breathless at all, kept fit by their duties. Their vigour made Gwenllian wonder how Asser had managed to deceive them about the precarious state of his health.

They passed the houses by St Peter’s church, then the woods that separated the town from the priory, after which Cole stopped, so abruptly that Cadifor cannoned into the back of him.

‘Did you see that?’ he demanded. ‘Someone is moving through the trees.’

‘Not this again,’ groaned Stacpol. ‘There is no one here, Cole. If you saw movement, it was the wind among the leaves.’

‘Actually, I thought I saw someone, too,’ said Gwenllian, not liking Stacpol’s discourteous tone. ‘Besides, there is no wind. It is calm and the leaves are still.’

Stacpol regarded her with cold eyes. ‘Then you were mistaken as well. It is still not fully light, so it is easy to imagine things.’

She opened her mouth to argue, but Cole was already moving away, so she did no more than favour Stacpol with a glare before following.

They reached the monastery and were admitted by the soldiers on duty. However, they were then made to wait in the yard until Walter and Gilbert deigned to emerge from the guesthouse, an insult that had even the tolerant Geoffrey grumbling. The Llanthony monks were wiping their lips on pieces of linen, suggesting that they had finished their breakfast before attending the officials they themselves had summoned.

Londres, Belat and Henry were with them. The bailiff’s face was flushed, and Gwenllian suspected he had spent the night drinking. She regarded him in distaste. He was smug, delighted to be the author of a situation that had seen the King win a handsome bribe from Walter, that had resulted in Hempsted obtaining another foundation, and that had put Cole in a difficult situation. He did not care that it would be the monks of Carmarthen who would suffer for his poisonous schemes.

‘Prior Roger is dead,’ Walter announced. ‘He fell asleep during the hearing yesterday, and Cadifor gave orders that he was not to be disturbed. However, when I went to say matins and saw he had not moved, I poked him. It was then that I discovered that he had passed away.’

‘I did suggest we let him be,’ said Cadifor, a little defensively as everyone looked at him. ‘He seemed tired, and I thought he might need the rest.’

‘Liar!’ hissed Gilbert. ‘You ordered him left because you wanted everyone to see how lazy he was – that he could sleep for hours when he should have been reciting his offices.’

‘He did not need me to reveal him as a slothful man,’ Cadifor shot back, although the guilty flash in his eyes suggested there was truth in Gilbert’s accusation. ‘He did that himself, by his own words and actions.’

‘Are you sure he was there all night?’ asked Cole. ‘He did not leave and then go back?’

‘How would we know?’ asked Gilbert archly. ‘We were confined to the guesthouse, allowed out only to pray. However, Roger was in the same position each time we passed him, so he probably died hours ago.’

‘So we have a second odd death just as you happen to be visiting a sister house, Walter,’ said Cadifor coldly. ‘The same thing happened at Llanthony, when Martin died. Do you have an explanation?’

‘I do not need to provide one,’ replied Walter haughtily. ‘The incident has nothing to do with me.’ He addressed Cole. ‘Do you want to see the corpse? We have left it as it was found.’

‘Have you?’ gulped Geoffrey, crossing himself. ‘How very unpleasant! Why did you not move it somewhere more appropriate?’

‘Like the refectory or the dormitory,’ muttered Cadifor acidly. ‘Eating and sleeping were Roger’s favourite activities, so where more appropriate than those?’

In the chapel, Roger was on the same bench he had occupied during the meeting. It looked as though he was asleep, but when Cole stepped forward to feel for a life-beat, the skin was cold to the touch. He then examined the body more closely, but found no suspicious lumps or marks, and it appeared as though the Prior of Llanthony had simply passed away peacefully in his sleep.

‘He probably ate so much during the hearing that he overloaded himself,’ said Walter in distaste. ‘Gluttony killed him.’

‘And sloth,’ whispered Bishop Geoffrey. ‘If he had been a more vigorous man, he would not have grown so fat. The great Greek physician Galen warns against the perils of too much food combined with too little exercise.’

He began to recite prayers for the dead, which obliged the other Austins to do the same, although they did so reluctantly. Roger had not been popular, and it was clear that few would mourn his passing. Londres, Belat and Henry stood nearby, muttering together. It looked as though they were arguing, and Gwenllian wondered whether Roger’s death aided or hindered their plans. Or perhaps Londres had learned that his accomplices planned to cheat him.

When the monks had finished their devotions, six burly lay brothers carried Roger to a storeroom, where he would be prepared for the journey back to his own foundation. There was silence after the body had gone, although it did not last long.

‘I repeat what I said earlier,’ declared Cadifor. ‘It is odd that there should be another death at a priory which Walter has wronged.’

Walter sniffed, and did not grace the remark with a reply.

Elidor was thoughtful, though. ‘Cadifor makes an interesting point. There were no marks on Prior Martin either, but we all knew he was unlawfully slain.’ He looked at Cole. ‘Do you think it possible that both were poisoned?’

‘If so, then it was with a substance that cannot be detected,’ replied Cole. ‘There are no burns or redness in Roger’s mouth or on his hands. However, I can tell you that he was cold and stiff, which means he probably died hours ago – perhaps even during the hearing. We all saw him sitting here with his eyes closed, and he did not move as we walked out past him…’

Gwenllian had been making her own assessment of the situation, staring down at the place where the body had been. ‘Roger ate stolen marchpanes, but there is no trace of them now.’

‘Of course not,’ said Cadifor, bemused. ‘He scoffed the lot.’

Gwenllian nodded. ‘Yes, and I saw crumbs all over his habit. However, there are no crumbs now – his robe is clean. And do not say he shook them off himself, because the floor would be littered with them and it is not. It seems to me that someone has swept them up.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’ asked Cole, puzzled. Then the answer came. ‘You mean that someone has removed the evidence? That the food was poisoned, so the killer cleared away any remaining fragments to prevent us from proving it?’

‘Specifically, the marchpanes,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Asser also ate some, and within moments, he collapsed in a stupor. You woke him, but with difficulty. I suspect Roger also slipped into a stupor, but no one shook him awake, and he passed quietly into death.’

Geoffrey’s hand shot to his throat. ‘Are you saying that someone put poison in the sweetmeats intended for me?’ But then he shook his head. ‘No! Asser had an apoplexy. Stacpol mentioned similar attacks in the past.’

‘And I stand by my claim,’ said Stacpol. ‘Asser died of natural causes, and so did Roger. These theories about poisonous marchpanes are ridiculous.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Elidor, so that Stacpol’s angry glare passed from Gwenllian to him. ‘Cole is right: many poisons are undetectable, and I think it strange that Asser and Roger should die so soon after eating marchpanes. Moreover, their deaths remind me of Prior Martin’s, and we all knew that he did not perish naturally.’

‘Fetch the remaining marchpanes,’ ordered Cole, seeing Dafydd the cook among the watching Austins. ‘We shall feed one to a rat and have our answer.’

‘They have all gone,’ said Dafydd, frightened. ‘So has the plate. I assumed Roger took them, but now it occurs to me that the killer must have been in my kitchen, removing the evidence of his crimes…’

‘Clearly,’ said Walter, fixing him with an icy stare. ‘And if the sweetmeats were poisoned, it stands to reason that the toxin was added where they were made: in your domain.’

‘No!’ cried Dafydd, then relief flooded his chubby face. ‘Hah! You cannot accuse me, because I was not in Llanthony when Martin was killed – and if Martin, Roger and Asser died from the same cause, then I can be eliminated as a suspect.’

It was a good point, and Gwenllian watched annoyance flit across Walter’s face. Had he wanted a Carmarthen man blamed so that his own party could be exonerated? Or because a killer among Cadifor’s flock might convince the Prior General that the present incumbent was unfit to rule, and thus strengthen Walter’s justification for seizing the place himself?

‘I wonder if messages about sloth will be scratched onto Roger’s coffin,’ mused Henry. ‘Or Asser’s. I suppose we shall have to wait and see.’

‘My soldiers will be guarding them,’ said Cole, although Gwenllian wished he had held his tongue: if the killer was the kind of person to deface caskets, then a trap might have been laid to catch him. He glowered at those who had gathered around. ‘But if someone did murder my knight, I will catch him. You can be sure of that.’

‘I imagine his death was accidental,’ said Walter. ‘The intended victim was Bishop Geoffrey, and it is unfortunate that Asser and Roger stole his marchpanes.’ He grinned nastily. ‘So Carmarthen is home to people who murder prelates! The King will certainly support me now – to oust this evil.’

‘Let us not allow our imaginations to run away with us,’ cautioned Geoffrey, making an obvious effort to pull himself together. ‘No one wanted to kill me.’ He addressed Gwenllian. ‘And you cannot prove that the marchpanes were poisoned. Not now there are none left.’

‘You are right: these theories are nonsense,’ said Sacrist Gilbert. ‘I admit that it is unusual for two men to die so close together, but it happens. Neither was unlawfully slain.’

‘Oh, Roger was murdered sure enough,’ said Londres, while the two clerks shot him alarmed glances. ‘The killer aims to weaken Walter’s case by slaughtering one of his retinue – clearly, he hopes that Roger’s replacement will side with Carmarthen.’

‘Do not think of accusing Cole,’ said Cadifor, when he saw where the bailiff’s accusing glare had settled. ‘I doubt he cares enough about our priory to kill for it. And do not think of blaming my canons either. None of them was in Llanthony when Martin was killed, which means none of them harmed Roger.’

‘No, but you were,’ flashed Walter. ‘And you could not account for your whereabouts at the time, as I recall.’

‘Nor could you,’ Cadifor barked back. He turned to the two clerks. ‘Nor you.’

A spat followed. Geoffrey stepped amid the furiously wagging fingers, and clapped his hands for silence, but no one took any notice, and his increasingly agitated demands for order only added to the clamour. It was an angry roar from Cole that eventually stilled the racket.

‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘Such hollering is unseemly in a House of God.’

‘So is murder,’ said Cadifor sullenly, not appreciating the reprimand. ‘My chapel has been defiled.’

‘Your chapel?’ asked Walter. ‘The King does not think so.’

‘It is mine until the Prior General tells me otherwise,’ said Cadifor angrily. ‘However, even if he does find against me, it will not be anyone from your entourage who takes my place. It is obvious that one of you killed Roger in the hope of bringing disgrace on me. Well, it will not work – I shall tell the whole world what kind of men you are.’

‘Sir Symon is right,’ said Bishop Geoffrey, as Walter girded himself up to reply in kind. ‘We should take this discussion away from the chapel.’

‘Actually, I meant you should stop screeching altogether,’ said Cole shortly. ‘I did not mean that you should just go and find somewhere else to quarrel.’

But his words went unheard as everyone aimed for the door. They went quickly, eager to resume their haranguing, and it was not long before he and Gwenllian were alone.

‘The more I think about it, the more I suspect the marchpanes were poisoned,’ she said. Then she recalled the dying knight murmuring in Cole’s ear. ‘Asser whispered something to you before he stopped breathing. Did you hear what it was?’

‘Yes, but it made no sense. First, he said, “Sloth is the most deadly of sins,” which are the words that were scratched on Martin’s coffin in Llanthony, apparently. Then, he told me that I needed to look for an incongruously sharp knife.’

She regarded him blankly. ‘What does that mean?’

Cole shrugged. ‘I told you it did not make sense. Perhaps I will ask Stacpol. He is good with riddles.’

Gwenllian did not want to tell him that Stacpol was at the top of her list of suspects – that he might have poisoned the marchpanes so that Asser would be unable to reveal his past dealings with Belat and Henry, and that Roger had merely been unlucky in his choice of filched food. Cole would refuse to listen.

Her thoughts churned. What did Asser’s last words mean? Were they the incoherent ramblings of a dying man? Or had he been trying to convey a vital clue? But if Asser knew the identity of the killer, why had he not just told Symon straight out? She sighed. Her husband was right: it made no sense.

The warring clerics took their quarrel to the refectory, where they sat on benches around one of the long tables. They began by interrogating Dafydd.

‘You cannot blame my marchpanes,’ the cook was declaring, half frightened and half defiant, as Gwenllian and Cole walked in. ‘They were made from the finest ingredients, and the bishop ate more than half of them with no ill effects.’

‘I did,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘They were delicious. You are right, Dafydd: no one poisoned the marchpanes. He smiled his relief. ‘Which means that no one wants me dead.’

But Gwenllian shook her head. ‘After your first meal, the remainder were left in the kitchen, ready for your next visit. But the kitchen is not secure – anyone could have slipped in and dosed the rest with poison. Is that not true, Dafydd?’

The cook blanched. ‘Well, yes, the kitchen is left unattended on occasion, such as when I go to the chapel for my offices, and it is open all night…’

‘You see, Your Grace?’ said Gwenllian. ‘It would have been easy for the killer to strike.’

There was a brief silence, then a flurry of accusations. The Carmarthen men blamed the visitors, and vice versa, while Londres took the opportunity to accuse Cole, saying that he had let Prior Roger eat the last of the marchpanes to conceal the fact that the real victim had been Asser. Startled, Cole asserted that Asser had been a good friend. Stacpol agreed, but fell silent when Belat and Henry shot him sly glances. Again, Gwenllian wondered what dealings the two slippery clerks had had with Stacpol in the past.

She ignored the angry voices as she tried to decide who had been the intended victim – Asser, Roger or Geoffrey. She had eight suspects. All but one had been in Llanthony when Martin had died, and all were ruthless, dangerous men who would not hesitate to kill if they thought it would be to their advantage.

Heading the list was Stacpol, because Asser’s death meant his dealings with Belat and Henry would remain secret. He was a knight, used to killing, and did not seem particularly distressed by the loss of his friend – and she was not convinced by Cole’s explanation that crusaders did not weep. Then, once Asser was dead, Stacpol had neglected to destroy the remaining marchpanes, and Roger had paid the price.

Next were the Hempsted men, Walter and Gilbert, and their intended victim would have been Geoffrey, because they were afraid he would side with Carmarthen – which was exactly what he had done. And Roger? Perhaps they had decided that he had outlived his usefulness, or they had not cared who died, and simply thought that any murder in Car mar then would discredit Cadifor. Yet Gilbert had been eager for everyone to think that no one had been killed, and that the two deaths were natural. Did he really believe it, or was he just losing his nerve?

Then there were the clerks Belat and Henry, who would be keen to tell the King that all had gone well in Carmarthen, and that the royal writ had been implemented without any problems. They would not want the Bishop of St David’s issuing counterclaims. Or had they just tired of Roger’s unpleasant character, and decided they could not face the return journey in his company? It was a paltry reason to kill, but Gwenllian had known murder committed for less.

Cadifor was next, although she disliked including him. Yet he had despised Roger, and blamed him for losing Llanthony’s daughter house – to the point where he had left rather than live in a foundation where Roger was prior. He had also remarked on Roger’s indolence and greed, and would have been in a position to ensure the deadly marchpanes were in a place where Roger would see then. Perhaps the notion that Roger was part of a deputation that aimed to oust him had been too much for Cadifor to bear.

Although Bishop Geoffrey had also been in Llanthony when the first murder had taken place, Gwenllian could see no reason for him wanting Roger dead. Or Asser. Moreover, it had been his marchpanes that had been poisoned, and had Asser and Roger not raided the kitchen, it would be him lying in his coffin. She crossed him off her list.

Her last suspect was Londres. He had lived in Carmarthen long enough to know where to buy toxins, and he had had ample opportunity to sneak into the monastery kitchen. He had thrown in his lot with Hempsted, so he would not want Geoffrey damaging Walter’s chances of winning. Or perhaps he did not care whom he killed, and just wanted to create an awkward situation for Cole. He had not been in Llanthony when Martin had died, but he was perfectly capable of mimicking the original crime.

Gwenllian watched her suspects carefully as they argued, but the killer was far too clever to give himself away with a careless word or gesture, and it was not long before she realised she was wasting her time. Afterwards, she and Cole went to the kitchen, and asked Dafydd to show them where the marchpanes had been.

‘I did not think it was necessary to hide them,’ the cook said. ‘Nothing has ever been stolen before. I can forgive Asser, who snagged a few before I told him they were ear-marked for the bishop. But not Roger, who knew and took them anyway.’

Gwenllian stared at the table that Dafydd indicated. Like all the others in the room, it had been scrubbed so often that the wood was white. There were scratches on the surface, forming a series of rough triangles. Dafydd grimaced his irritation.

‘Those wicked scullions! I have told them hundreds of times to use a board when they slice vegetables, but they are too lazy to fetch one.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘They look more purposeful than marks made from chopping – there is a distinct pattern here.’

Dafydd peered at them. ‘You are right! The rogues did it deliberately, knowing that I shall never prove which of them did it. They are a sore trial to a busy man.’

Cole dropped to his hands and knees and began to peer underneath. It was not long before he released a triumphant exclamation and scrambled to his feet. He held a dead mouse in one hand, while in the other was a slightly gnawed sweetmeat.

‘A marchpane must have dropped off the plate and rolled out of sight,’ he said. ‘However, this poor creature proves for certain that Roger and Asser were poisoned.’

‘It does,’ agreed Gwenllian. ‘Not much of the sweetmeat is missing, which means the mouse was overcome very fast.’

She and Cole remained at the priory for the rest of the day, asking questions of residents and invaders alike, but learned nothing more. They walked home as the daylight began to fade, disheartened because they were no further forward.

‘Martin’s murder was never solved,’ said Cole with uncharacteristic gloom. ‘Perhaps Roger and Asser’s will not be either.’

‘Then those two clerks or Londres will tell the King that you are incompetent,’ said Gwenllian. ‘And John will dismiss you. I do not intend to give them that satisfaction.’

‘Damn it, there is that shadow again!’ Cole darted into the undergrowth and was gone so long that Gwenllian began to worry that something had happened to him. She was on the verge of following when he emerged, covered in dead leaves.

‘No one was there?’ she asked.

‘Someone was,’ he replied. ‘I just could not catch him.’

That night, Gwenllian’s mind raced with questions, and she lay staring at the ceiling until the small hours of the morning, when exhaustion finally claimed her. She started awake not long after, when little Alys came to complain about bad dreams. It was a ploy to gain attention, but Cole doted on his only daughter, and obediently went to calm her.

‘Eight years old and already your master,’ remarked Gwenllian when he returned. ‘What will she be like at eighteen?’

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured drowsily, closing his eyes. ‘Just like her mother.’

‘I cannot stop thinking about the murders,’ said Gwenllian, resenting his intention to go back to sleep while she only tossed and turned. ‘I find myself hoping that Londres is responsible, simply because exposing him would see him gone from our town.’

‘I suppose it would,’ he mumbled. ‘But you will solve the case, Gwen. You always do.’

His faith was simultaneously touching and annoying. She liked the fact that he appreciated her intelligence, but there was something lazy about his willingness to abrogate the responsibility to her. He was constable of Carmarthen, and it should be him fretting for solutions, not her. She prodded him awake. Perhaps discussing it would help her see sense in the muddle of facts they had accumulated.

‘The poison killed the mouse after a few nibbles,’ she began. ‘Asser also succumbed quickly, and so probably did Roger. That means the toxin was very strong. How could the killer have laid hold of such a deadly substance?’

‘Not from an apothecary.’ Cole sat up to prevent himself from nodding off. ‘They know better than to sell that sort of thing. However, I can tell you that it was a soporific, because both closed their eyes and drifted gently into death. In the Holy Land, surgeons dispensed soporifics to dying crusaders.’

She blinked. ‘What are you saying? That a medicus poisoned the marchpanes?’

‘Or someone with access to or knowledge of such potions.’

‘Who?’ She peered at him in the gloom. ‘Not Bishop Geoffrey! I know he said he would have been a physician if he had not entered the Church, but he is more interested in healing than killing. He is no murderer.’

‘Then perhaps someone raided his supplies. If he was the intended victim, using his own medicines to dispatch him would have a certain ironic appeal to the culprit.’

‘Yes, but he does not have any with him, which is why he was unable to furnish Walter with a remedy for his bad stomach.’

‘No, he did not have any at the priory,’ Cole corrected, ‘because he had left his bag in the castle. So someone could have stolen it from here, although it would have been a daring move.’

She nodded agreement, then began to list her suspects, although she received short shrift when she reached Stacpol. She did not press her case, knowing they would quarrel if she did.

‘So of your original eight we can eliminate Stacpol, the bishop, Cadifor, Walter and Gilbert,’ he said when she had finished. ‘Stacpol is no poisoner, while the others are monks, and would be too concerned for their immortal souls to kill.’

She gaped at him. ‘We have encountered plenty of murderous clerics in the past! Besides, Walter and Gilbert are not very devout men.’

‘No, but Walter is clearly unwell, and I doubt he would commit a mortal sin so close to death, while Gilbert will do nothing on his own initiative. We have already discounted Geoffrey, and I like Cadifor. So your list now comprises three: Belat, Henry and Londres.’

She wished it were that simple. ‘It is not-’

But her words were lost as he bounded off the bed, suddenly full of energy. ‘That was time well spent, Gwen. The murders will be easy to solve now.’

It was another pretty winter day, with a pale sun shining in a light blue sky, and hoarfrost sparkling on the rooftops. Gwenllian spent an hour with the children while Cole dealt with urgent castle business, after which they spoke to the scribe who had taken notes at the hearing. The man began to cry the moment he was summoned, and quickly confessed that Londres had paid him to write an account that would favour Hempsted.

His confession allowed Gwenllian to summon Londres for questioning – it would have been awkward to use the discussion she had overheard between Belat and Henry. The bailiff refused to come, but Iefan was more than happy to use force. The delighted grins of the townsfolk who witnessed him frogmarched to the castle did nothing to soothe his furious indignation, and he was seething by the time he was shoved into Cole’s office.

‘You have no right,’ Londres snarled. ‘I am a royally appointed official, and I answer to no one but the King.’

‘Symon is also a royally appointed official,’ Gwenllian reminded him. ‘One with the power to arrest and execute those he considers dangerous to Carmarthen’s security.’

Cole chose that moment to draw his sword and inspect the blade. Gwenllian knew there was no deliberate intention to intimidate – he was just tired of being indoors, and itched to be about more manly pursuits – but she said nothing as Londres eyed him uneasily. The bailiff grew more nervous still when Cole took a whetstone and began to hone the edge.

‘You cannot execute me,’ he declared in an unsteady voice. ‘The King will-’

‘The King will hear that you conspired to do Carmarthen harm,’ snapped Gwenllian. ‘And he will be grateful to us for ridding him of a traitor.’

‘I am not a traitor!’ cried Londres. His face grew hard with spite. ‘That honour belongs to Cole, who will either ignore a royal writ or let hostile troops invade his domain. He is the one who will have to answer for his decisions, not me.’

Gwenllian smiled coldly. ‘The scribe you corrupted has made a full confession, so do not lie.’ She treated him to a dose of his own medicine by adding an untruth of her own. ‘He also said that Belat and Henry plan to renege on the sly agreement you made – they will keep what you paid them, but will fail to do what they promised. You are in very deep trouble, Londres.’

The bailiff’s defiant resolve began to crumble. ‘Everything I did was for the King.’ He gulped. ‘No one can condemn me for that. If you execute me, you will have to explain yourself to an angry monarch.’

‘Perhaps, but it will not matter to you, because you will be dead,’ Gwenllian pointed out. ‘It is a crime to falsify official documents, and you have been caught red-handed.’

Cole began swishing the sword through the air, to test its balance. Again, it was innocent, but she did not blame the bailiff for thinking that Symon was preparing to hack off his head then and there.

‘No,’ gulped Londres. ‘You cannot-’

‘You have chosen the wrong confederates,’ she continued relentlessly. ‘Belat and Henry will deny all knowledge of this deception, and you will bear the blame alone. You could have carved a nice niche for yourself here, but instead you plotted, connived and bled our people dry with illegal fines.’

‘What choice did I have?’ bleated Londres. ‘The King stopped paying me after a few weeks, so how else was I to live? And as for the Hempsted business – I had to do something to regain John’s affection, or he would have left me here for the rest of my life.’

‘So you hatched a plot to see Symon discredited, using Walter’s greed to facilitate it. You do not care that the priory will suffer as a result.’

‘I hate Cadifor,’ said Londres sullenly. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that he killed Roger. After all, Cadifor left Llanthony in protest when Roger became prior. He probably murdered Martin, too, then left that message about sloth. It is a vice he deplores.’

Cadifor had said as much himself, Gwenllian recalled, calling it the ‘deadliest of sins’, which were the exact words that had been scratched into Martin’s coffin. But it was no time to ponder Cadifor, and she turned her attention back to the bailiff.

‘You accuse Cadifor, but I think you killed Roger. What better way to disgrace Symon than have a high-ranking cleric murdered in his town?’

Londres shook his head vehemently. ‘No! I was too busy making sure that my plan was going smoothly. And Roger’s death is a nuisance, to be frank. It means that people will look more closely at what happened here.’

It had a nasty ring of truth, and Gwenllian found she believed it, although she was sorry to lose Londres as a suspect. All the fight had drained out of him. His shoulders were slumped, his face was grey, and he looked worn and tired.

‘I heard that Walter was looking to expand his domain,’ he whispered, ‘so I told him about our priory’s fine wool. And suddenly, there was a letter demanding to know when Cole might be away.’

Gwenllian recalled how she had been suspicious when she had seen Londres and Walter muttering together after the Hempsted party had arrived. She thought they had been oddly familiar with each other, and she had been right. Moreover, Londres’ antics explained why he had been challenging Cole’s authority and levying more fines over the last few weeks – he had believed his days in Carmarthen were numbered, and was busily making the most of them.

‘So you told him about Symon’s hunt?’ she asked.

Londres nodded. ‘And I wrote to Bishop Geoffrey, so he would be here to witness Cole’s disgrace. But that is all I did of my own volition. Everything else has been on the orders of Belat and Henry. I am not a traitor. Ask Stacpol. He knows what that pair are like. They are sly and wicked, and I was powerless against them.’

‘You accuse Stacpol?’ asked Cole dangerously, gripping the hilt of his sword so that the blade hovered very near to Londres’ neck.

‘No! I merely suggest that you ask him about Belat and Henry. He knows all about them, although I have no idea what form their previous encounter took.’ A tear ran down his cheek. ‘What will happen to me now?’

‘You are unscrupulous, corrupt and sly,’ said Gwenllian icily. ‘And you have admitted that the King no longer cares for you, so he will not object if you hang. However, there is a ship leaving for the Low Countries this morning. We will look the other way if you board it and agree never to show your face here again.’

‘I will,’ gushed Londres in relief. ‘I will leave and never return.’

‘But there is a condition. I want to know how much Walter paid for the King’s writ.’

‘Five marks,’ replied Londres promptly. ‘Belat and Henry arranged it. May I go now?’

Gwenllian and Cole escorted Londres to the ship. It was ready to cast off, and was soon sailing down the river to the sea. The bailiff did not once look back, giving the impression that he was glad his sojourn in Carmarthen was at an end. Or perhaps it was because a small crowd had gathered on the quay, yelling taunts about his spectacular fall from grace.

‘Are you sure you are right to let him go?’ asked Cole unhappily. ‘He might sail straight to John and tell all manner of lies about us.’

‘Unlikely. John is not kind to those who let him down, and Londres has failed in what he was charged to do. He will be far too frightened to show his face at Court.’

They returned to the castle to find Elidor waiting. Stacpol had not slept in his bed the previous night, and no one had seen him that morning. Elidor was worried.

‘Perhaps he has fled,’ suggested Gwenllian. ‘He refused to reveal the nature of his past association with Belat and Henry, and he knows we will solve Asser’s murder…’

‘Then he would have taken his belongings with him,’ said Elidor stiffly, not liking the implications of her remark; Cole simply ignored it. ‘He has not gone anywhere willingly, My Lady, and I only hope he is safe.’

‘I am sure he can look after himself,’ said Gwenllian.

‘In an honest fight, yes,’ agreed Cole. ‘But not against sly knives in the back.’

While Cole went to inspect Stacpol’s lair to see if he could ascertain why the knight had disappeared, Gwenllian went to the solar, where she found Bishop Geoffrey with the children. He was playing a word game them, to test their Latin. Alys sat on his lap, while the boys clustered around his feet. Gwenllian watched, amazed that the prelate could entertain such an unruly horde with so little effort. When the game was over, they clamoured for another. Geoffrey obliged, and they were so intent on besting him that they barely noticed Cole arrive.

‘Do not worry.’ Gwenllian smiled at their father’s crest-fallen face; Alys in particular always ran to him when he appeared. ‘Geoffrey is new and interesting, and has sweet-meats to dispense. They will still be clamouring for a bedtime story from you tonight.’

Cole sniffed. ‘I think he should go back on your list of potential killers.’

Gwenllian laughed, and went with him to the priory, to interview the monks and lay brothers again. But it was a fruitless morning. Walter claimed he was too busy to be bothered with such nonsense, but ordered Gilbert to ensure that his people were not browbeaten. Gwenllian disliked the dark presence at her elbow, and tried various ploys to make Gilbert leave. None worked, and the sub-prior stuck with them like a leech. She was relieved when the last Hempsted man had been questioned, and they were able to escape.

They met Cadifor in the yard. He was uncharacteristically subdued, which he confessed was due to concern about how to repay the bishop’s loan of ten marks – double the five that Walter had paid the King. His wool fetched good prices, but that year’s money had already been earmarked for other things, and it would not be easy to raise such an enormous sum.

‘And what if John takes the money, but refuses to honour the arrangement?’ he asked worriedly. ‘Walter has powerful supporters, and his demands will carry more weight than mine. Moreover, John will not want to annoy a wealthy place like Hempsted, knowing that it is far more likely to make him generous gifts than poor Carmarthen.’

Gwenllian had no answer, because Cadifor was right. She left Cole to interrogate Walter’s soldiers, and wandered away, watching Belat and Henry sitting together in the winter sunlight. They returned her gaze with smug arrogance, but declined to be drawn into conversation, even when she informed them that Londres had revealed all before fleeing.

Belat shrugged. ‘If he is no longer here, he cannot speak against us. And what value is the word of a corrupt official, anyway? Your bailiff is a scoundrel, and there is not a man, woman or child in Carmarthen who will say otherwise.’

Visiting the priory had been a waste of time, and Cole was disheartened as he and Gwenllian began to walk back to the castle. He stopped when he reached the woods that separated the priory from the town.

‘I know you are there,’ he called. ‘And you are eager to talk to me, or you would not be dogging my footsteps. Well, I am ready to listen, so show yourself.’

Nothing happened, and he was about to walk on when the leaves parted and a youth stepped out. He was an Austin, but his robes were torn, his face was smeared with mud and his hair was matted. He was shivering, and looked miserable.

‘Come,’ said Cole kindly. ‘There is hot soup, dry clothes and a fire at the castle.’

‘I will be seen,’ whispered the boy, glancing both ways along the track with frightened eyes. ‘I cannot go with you.’

‘Seen by whom?’ asked Cole, but the lad only stared at the ground and would not reply. ‘Here is my cloak. Wrap it around you, and cover your face with the hood. You will be safe with me, I promise.’

The youth hesitated, but the prospect of warmth and food was too tempting to resist. He drew the cloak around him, then trotted obediently after them to the castle. They took him to the office, where Cole grimaced when he heard Alys and the bishop singing together. It was a song he had taught her, but it sounded better with Geoffrey’s tenor than his toneless bass. The Austin ate three bowls of stew, and when he had finished, Gwenllian indicated that he was to start talking.

‘I am Oswin,’ the lad obliged. ‘From Llanthony. I was a novice when Martin was killed, but I have taken my vows since, so I am now a canon. I overheard the argument in Martin’s solar when Walter declared Hempsted’s independence. And I know a secret, which I have only ever revealed to one other person…’

‘Who?’ asked Cole suspiciously.

‘I would rather not say. But I can tell you that I shared it for the first time last night.’

‘Why not before?’

‘Because I was frightened. However, when I heard that Walter intended to steal Carmarthen, I tried to arrive first, to warn Cadifor. But Walter had horses while I was obliged to travel on foot, and I arrived to find that Walter had beaten me by an hour. It was all for nothing.’

‘Yet you believe that something might still be salvaged, or you would have gone home,’ surmised Cole. ‘I have seen you several times, lurking in the bushes.’

Oswin smiled wanly. ‘My adventures on the way here have taught me how to hide myself, although you almost caught me.’

‘You say you came to warn Cadifor.’ Gwenllian spoke quickly, lest Cole should distract him by offering practical tips on evading pursuers. ‘About what? Walter’s plans?’

‘No – about the fact that a murderer is at large.’

‘You know who killed Asser and Roger?’ demanded Cole eagerly. ‘Who?’

‘The same man who poisoned Martin. And I was right to be concerned, given that Roger and your knight died in suspicious circumstances.’

‘How do you know Martin was poisoned?’ asked Gwenllian sceptically. ‘We have been told that there was no proof.’

‘Because I was with him when he died.’ Oswin’s voice was unsteady. ‘It was my turn to act as his servant, you see, and I was in his solar, dousing candles and closing the shutters. He was sitting at his table, grumbling about Walter’s high-handed tactics while he scoffed marchpanes. Then he stopped talking…’

‘And?’ prompted Gwenllian.

‘I went to see if he was unwell. His eyes were closed, so I shook his arm. He woke, but it was an effort, and it was then that he told me the marchpanes had been dosed with a powerful soporific. I did not believe him at first, but he was insistent… I wanted to fetch help, but he would not let me – he knew he would be dead before I came back.’

‘What else did he say?’ asked Gwenllian urgently.

‘That the sin of sloth had caused Llanthony to lose Hempsted, which was true – if he had written to the Pope, we would still have a daughter house. Then he told me that a visitor had killed him. It was no one from Llanthony, because we had no almonds. The gift of poisoned march-panes had come from a guest.’

‘Then why did you not report all this to your superiors?’ asked Cole. ‘Straight away?’

‘Would you accuse high-ranking Austins and two royal clerks?’ asked Oswin archly. He looked Cole up and down. ‘Well, perhaps you might, but I was little more than a boy.’

‘A high-ranking Austin?’ pounced Gwenllian. ‘Not one of the ordinary canons who accompanied him?’

‘Martin specifically said that his killer was high ranking,’ replied Oswin firmly. ‘Which means Walter, Gilbert, Belat or Henry. All four of them wanted him dead, so that Roger could be appointed instead – Martin could be stubborn, but Roger is weak and malleable.’ He looked miserably at his shoes. ‘Martin’s death has gnawed at my conscience ever since.’

‘It has not gnawed too hard, or you would have done something about it sooner,’ remarked Cole.

Oswin winced. ‘I told you – I was afraid. But I have done something now: I came all the way here on my own, hoping to prevent another death. I failed, but not for want of trying.’

‘What made you think someone else would die?’ asked Gwenllian.

Oswin shivered, despite the warmth of the fire. ‘The fact that those four “high-ranking” men went to Llanthony on their way here, and ordered Roger to accompany them. Why do that? It made no sense. I could tell they were planning something untoward, because they kept talking in low voices, scheming and plotting…’

‘They brought him as a hostage, to ensure Llanthony did nothing against Hempsted while its two most powerful monks were away,’ explained Gwenllian. ‘And of course they were scheming and plotting – they aimed to invade a sister house and claim it for themselves.’

‘Then why did they not say so?’ demanded Oswin.

Gwenllian smiled at his innocence. ‘It is hardly something they could announce, and I am sure your older brethren understood exactly what was happening. Did you talk to any of them before you left?’

‘No, because they would have stopped me – or asked me what I knew about Martin’s death, which I dare not share with them now. They would never trust me again!’

Gwenllian stood. ‘I had better rescue the bishop before Alys drives him to distraction. That must be the twentieth time they have sung that song.’

She ushered Oswin out, and told Iefan to find him somewhere to sleep.

‘Damn,’ muttered Cole when sergeant and Austin had gone. ‘I had eliminated Walter and Gilbert from your list, but now they are suspects again.’

‘Only if you believe Oswin’s tale,’ said Gwenllian.

Cole blinked. ‘You do not?’

‘I am not sure, Symon. He has kept his guilty secret for three years, and it is odd that he should break his silence now – not once, but twice in as many days. And why does he refuse to tell us who else he has confided in?’

‘So what shall we do about his confession – such as it is?’

‘There is only one thing we can do: speak again to Walter, Gilbert, Belat and Henry, to see if we can catch them out in an inconsistency. But do not be too hopeful. They have sharp minds, and will not be easy to trip up.’

‘You are more than their equal,’ said Cole confidently.

Gwenllian asked Bishop Geoffrey to accompany them to the priory, feeling his presence would be a calming influence. They arrived to find Walter with his hand to his stomach, but the lines of pain around his mouth lessened once Geoffrey had requisitioned ingredients from the kitchen to make a soothing tincture, and it was not long before the colour returned to his cheeks.

‘You should rest more,’ said the prelate admonishingly. ‘Take some time to appreciate what God has given you, instead of racing around trying to acquire more.’

Walter shot him an unpleasant look, then refused to answer any of the questions Gwenllian or Cole put. Gilbert followed his example, and they sat side by side with their arms folded and their lips sealed shut. Eventually, Cole threw up his hands in exasperation.

‘Perhaps I should arrest you both, and keep you incarcerated until your Prior General tells me who is guilty of killing Roger and Asser.’

‘And Martin.’ Geoffrey regarded the two canons sternly. ‘Symon and Gwenllian are trying to help, and if you have nothing to hide, you need not fear their investigation.’

‘We do not fear it,’ said Walter coldly. ‘We just do not accept their authority to interrogate senior members of the Church. And now, if there is nothing else, we have business to attend.’

He stalked out, Gilbert loping at his heels, and their unwillingness to co-operate served to put them firmly at the top of Gwenllian’s list of suspects. After all, why would they be obstructive if they had nothing to hide?

‘Let us hope we have more success with Belat and Henry,’ said Cole.

He asked a passing lay brother to fetch them, but it was not long before the man returned to report that the two clerks were nowhere to be found. A search of the priory revealed that they had gone, taking all their possessions with them.

‘First, Stacpol, now, them,’ murmured Gwenllian.

‘Stacpol did not take his belongings,’ Cole pointed out. He turned to address the monks who had gathered to find out what was happening. ‘Who saw them last?’

‘Probably me,’ replied Cadifor. ‘They were in the stables at dawn, but it did not occur to me that they planned to disappear. I assumed they were just checking their horses.’

‘I overheard them whispering together shortly before that,’ added Dafydd, ‘when I went to start up the bread ovens. I am fairly sure they had been outside the priory, and had just come back in – which was odd, given the hour. I heard Belat mention “an Austin in the bushes”, although I have no idea what he meant.’

‘Oswin,’ surmised Gwenllian. ‘They must have spotted him, and realised that he would not have made such a journey without good reason. Their guilty consciences led them to flee before there was trouble. So there are our killers, Symon. Will you go after them?’

Cole returned to the castle, and quickly organised patrols to hunt along each of the main roads. He thought it most likely that the pair were aiming for Brecon, so decided to search that track himself. He was just taking his leave of Gwenllian when Oswin approached.

‘So it was Belat and Henry who killed Prior Martin?’ the lad asked softly.

‘We believe so,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘It seems they spotted you hiding in the undergrowth, and knew the game was up. They fled before they were caught.’

Oswin frowned. ‘They did see me, but they thought I was one of Cadifor’s canons, sent to spy on them. They were furious, and gave chase. They would have trounced me if that knight had not come to my rescue and…’ Oswin trailed off, his expression one of dismay.

‘What knight?’ asked Cole. Oswin did not reply, so he stepped forward threateningly.

‘Stacpol,’ blurted Oswin. He rubbed his eyes miserably. ‘He was kind to me, and I promised myself that I would keep his name out of this vile business. I do not know who to trust here, and I did not want to repay his goodness by putting his life in danger.’

‘So he was the other person you told about Martin’s death?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘The one whose identity you declined to reveal earlier?’

Tears brimmed in Oswin’s eyes. ‘I found myself confiding in him after he saved me from Belat and Henry. He told me to tell you – he said that Lady Gwenllian would know what to do. But I was afraid for his safety…’

So that was what the lad had been concealing, thought Gwenllian. It was nothing more than a desire to protect a man who had been kind to him.

‘So where is he now?’ demanded Cole.

‘I do not know. He saw me safely hidden, then went about his business. However, I think he may have gone after those two clerks…’

Cole’s face was anxious as he strode towards the stables, but there was a clatter of hoofs, and a horseman rode through the gate. It was Stacpol, and behind him staggered Belat and Henry, their hands bound and fastened to his saddle with long pieces of rope. They were bedraggled and exhausted, but still able to blare an indignant tirade.

‘We cannot be treated this way!’ Belat was howling. ‘The King will hear of this.’

‘Yes,’ said Stacpol grimly, dismounting. ‘He will. I have stayed silent long enough about you and your vile misdeeds.’

‘Be careful what you say, Stacpol,’ hissed Henry. ‘The King does not deal gently with those who break their oath of allegiance to him.’

Stacpol addressed Cole and Gwenllian. ‘This pair have been defrauding religious houses for years. My oath to King John – who ordered me to turn a blind eye to their activities – prevented me from exposing them in Llanthony, but when I saw them here, I appealed to Bishop Geoffrey. He has released me from my vow, so now I am free to speak.’

The blood drained from Belat’s face, while Henry glanced at the gate, as if wondering whether he could dart through it and escape.

Cole frowned. ‘Are you saying that the King knows what they do and condones it?’

‘I doubt he knows the details,’ replied Stacpol. ‘But coins are deposited in his coffers every so often, and he asks no questions. However, when the antics of this pair are made public, he will hasten to deny all knowledge of them. He is not a fool.’

‘What have they done?’ asked Cole. ‘Exactly?’

Stacpol began to relate a long list of sly, devious crimes that had deprived monasteries and convents of money. The bishop’s secretarius wrote everything down, and the two clerks, snivelling and frightened, were taken into Geoffrey’s custody, to stand trial in the ecclesiastical courts. Other secular officials might have argued about jurisdiction, but Cole was glad the matter was to be taken out of his hands.

‘I wronged you,’ said Gwenllian to Stacpol, when everyone else had gone. ‘I thought you were working with them.’

‘You had good cause,’ replied Stacpol sombrely. ‘Unfortunately, I pledged myself to do John’s bidding before I realised what kind of man he was – which is why I accepted a post in the westernmost reaches of his kingdom. He never comes here, and I am away from his malign demands. But all has been put right now.’

‘Not quite. We still do not know who poisoned the march-panes. Was it them?’

‘No,’ replied Stacpol. ‘They wanted Roger alive, because he represented easy prey. I wish they were the killers – Asser was my friend, and I want vengeance.’

Gwenllian was about to suggest to Cole that they sit quietly and review what they had learned that day, when Dafydd waddled through the gate.

‘You must come to the priory, quickly,’ he gasped. ‘Prior Walter is dying.’

Gwenllian did not think Walter was dying, although he lay in a bed in the guesthouse, surrounded by canons and clerks, busily issuing instructions as to what should be done with his worldly goods when he was in his grave. Geoffrey started to step forward with more of his remedy, but Gwenllian rested her hand on his arm to stop him.

‘Wait,’ she whispered. ‘Let us see what he will disclose if he believes his end is near.’

The bishop gazed at her. ‘That would be ruthless – and unworthy of a healer.’

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But I believe he is a killer, and I would like a confession for Stacpol’s sake. Asser was his friend.’

Geoffrey’s amiable face was deeply unhappy, but he stood aside and indicated that she was to approach the bed. Cole went, too.

‘Good,’ breathed Walter weakly. He snapped his fingers at his retinue. ‘Leave us. You, too, Gilbert. What I have to say is for the constable, his wife and Bishop Geoffrey only.’

Gilbert’s expression was dangerous, and there was a moment when Gwenllian thought he would refuse to go, but he bowed curtly, and followed the others outside.

‘Well?’ she asked of Walter. ‘What do you want to tell us?’

Walter addressed the bishop. ‘I made a mistake by demanding Hempsted’s independence. When I am dead, I want you to get the decision repealed. And do not let Gilbert succeed me – he is unfit to rule.’

‘I shall do as you request,’ promised Geoffrey. ‘Is that all?’

‘No. I resign as Prior of Hempsted. As of now, I am just a simple canon, which should work in my favour when my soul is weighed. I should not like the saints to consider me vain.’

‘Your resignation is accepted,’ said Geoffrey gravely. ‘I shall inform the Prior General immediately. Do you renounce your claim on Carmarthen, too?’

‘I cannot – not now the King has issued that writ. I am afraid it will have to become a cell of Hempsted. But it should fare well enough if you keep Gilbert away from it.’

‘Why did you summon me?’ asked Cole. ‘What crimes do you want to confess?’

Walter eyed him coolly. ‘I may not have lived a blameless life, but I have done nothing to interest a constable. The reason I called you here is to witness a few deeds for me, ones I do not want the other canons to know about. They are private, you see.’

Cole gaped at him. ‘You dragged us here to help with your personal affairs? I thought you were going to tell us who killed Martin, Roger and Asser!’

Walter grimaced irritably. ‘I will – after you have helped me with these deeds.’

Cole turned sharply on his heel. ‘Good day, Prior Walter. You are-’

‘Wait!’ Walter sighed gustily. ‘Very well. We shall discuss murder first, if we must. I am not the culprit – I am dying, and I am not so foolish as to stain my soul now. And despite what I might have said before, Cadifor is innocent, too. I ordered him watched, as I considered him a danger to my plans. He did not poison the marchpanes.’

‘So we have eliminated Londres, Belat, Henry, Walter, Cadifor, Stacpol and the bishop,’ said Cole, oblivious to Geoffrey’s surprise that he should have been on such a list. ‘There is only one suspect left: Gilbert. No wonder you do not want him to succeed you!’

‘That is not the reason,’ said Walter. ‘It is because I just caught him tampering with my medicine. I have been ailing for years, and he is the reason why. He confessed it all just now – he has been poisoning me, because he likes being my right-hand man. He thinks I would not need him if I was hale and hearty.’

‘So Oswin was wrong,’ mused Gwenllian. ‘He thought you, Gilbert and the clerks were plotting murder when you huddled together. Instead, you were merely planning your assault on Carmarthen.’

‘Oswin?’ asked Walter. ‘Who is he?’

Gwenllian supposed she should be glad that Gilbert was under lock and key, but the whole affair had been distasteful, and she was in a sombre mood as she sat in the solar that night. Gilbert had screeched, fought and spat when he was arrested, and everyone had been relieved when the cell door had been closed on his curses. Walter had been equally abusive when he had learned he was not dying after all, and that he would make a complete recovery once he stopped taking whatever Gilbert had been feeding him – especially now that he no longer needed to bear the strain of running Hempsted.

‘He was livid,’ mused Cole. ‘I thought he was going to explode.’

He spoke absently, because he was watching Geoffrey teach Alys a game that involved a long piece of twine and a knife. Her brothers were in bed, but she had claimed more bad dreams in a brazen attempt to secure extra time with the adults. Her ploy had worked, because first Cole and then Geoffrey had fussed over her.

Gwenllian smiled. ‘It serves him right for including Carmarthen on his list of conquests. All I hope is that the King will accept the bribe of ten marks from Cadifor.’

‘He will,’ predicted Geoffrey wryly. ‘But the money must be presented to him directly. Cadifor will need a lot more if he recruits corrupt clerks to help him – men like Belat and Henry, who will demand a sizeable commission for themselves.’

Alys began to drowse on his knee. The bishop stared at the fire, rubbing the table with the knife, an unconscious gesture akin to the random scribbles Gwenllian made with ink when she was pondering the castle accounts. But Geoffrey’s scraping made a faint pattern in the wax coating, and it was one that Gwenllian had seen before. Her stomach lurched in horror.

‘Oh, no!’ she breathed. ‘The killer made marks like that when the marchpanes were poisoned. We saw them etched on the table in the priory kitchen.’

Geoffrey glanced at the scratches as if seeing them for the first time. ‘What?’

‘It was you,’ said Gwenllian, standing slowly, and acutely aware that the prelate was holding her daughter. Cole was frozen in mute horror. ‘You poisoned the marchpanes. You know all about soporifics, because you are interested in medicine.’

‘I am,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘But I use my knowledge to heal, not to harm. Besides, I did not reach the priory until after Asser was dead. I had no opportunity to tamper with them.’

‘Yes, you did – when Dafydd first gave them to you,’ said Gwenllian. ‘You ate half and poisoned the rest.’

‘But that was before Walter arrived,’ objected Geoffrey. ‘How could I know that he and his entourage would appear the following day?’

‘Because Londres wrote to tell you,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘He admitted it before he left. I should have guessed that there was a reason for your visit: you never usually travel in January, when the roads are poor – you come at Easter. But you made an exception this year, because you wanted to be here when Walter arrived.’

‘But why would I-’

‘You knew no one at the monastery would touch the sweetmeats, as they would not want to incur Dafydd’s wrath. But Roger was a greedy man, and you guessed he would visit the kitchen and take what he fancied. Unfortunately, you reckoned without Asser.’

Cole found his voice at last, but it was unsteady. ‘Asser knew what you had done. With his dying breath, he whispered the words that you had etched on Martin’s coffin, and he told me to look for the “incongruously sharp knife”. Alys, come here.’

‘Everyone has sharp knives,’ said Geoffrey, tightening his grip on the sleeping child. ‘Including you.’

‘Yes, and that was Asser’s point,’ said Cole. ‘He told us to look for the incongruously sharp one – no churchman should need a blade with as keen an edge as the one you are holding now. Please be careful it. My daughter is only-’

‘It is for slicing bandages,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘A blunt one is no good.’

‘It does not matter why you have it,’ said Gwenllian. ‘The point is that you are a monk, and Asser thought it was a peculiar thing for you to have. He must have seen the scratches when he stole the marchpane, and he, unlike us, realised their significance when he fell ill.’

‘If Asser thought I was a killer, why did he not just say so?’ asked Geoffrey with quiet reason. ‘These riddles make no sense.’

Cole’s eyes were fixed on Alys and the knife; Gwenllian had never seen him so white. ‘He knew you were nearby, and that you would deny it,’ Cole said, his voice unsteady. ‘He spoke in code, certain that Gwenllian would work it out. Please release my daughter.’

‘Stay away!’ Geoffrey brought the knife to rest on the pale, soft skin of the girl’s neck. Alys shifted in her sleep but did not wake. Cole retreated until his back was against the wall, holding his hands in front of him in a gesture of surrender.

‘Asser was an accident, but Roger was not,’ said Gwenllian, aiming to distract the bishop for the split second it would take Cole to leap forward. ‘When Roger was dead, you removed the plate from the kitchen, and brushed the crumbs from his habit and the floor. You expected his demise to be deemed natural.’

‘It might have been,’ snapped Geoffrey, breaking at last, ‘if your greedy friend had not eaten the damned things, too.’

His angry voice woke Alys, and confusion filled her face as she tried to sit up and found she could not move. She did not struggle, but only looked at Cole in mute appeal.

‘And I know why you did it,’ said Gwenllian. ‘You killed Martin for losing Hempsted, and you dispatched Roger for failing to ensure that Walter did his duty. They were-’

‘Sloth,’ said Geoffrey bitterly. ‘The deadliest of sins. I hoped the words I etched on Martin’s coffin would warn others, but Roger ignored them and so did Walter. And as I said last night, sloth is not laziness, but a sluggishness of the mind that neglects to do good, oppressing the soul and drawing it away from noble deeds. Martin and Roger were indolent men, and thus unsuitable for running priories.’

‘Martin was right,’ said Cole, taking a tiny step forward. ‘He confided to Oswin that his killer was a high-ranking Austin or a clerk. Oswin thought he meant Walter or Gilbert, but you are also an Austin.’

Gwenllian began to gabble to distract the bishop when Cole inched forward again. ‘You told us that you had no remedies with you, but what healer travels without the tools of his trade? Of course you had them – and you poisoned the marchpanes. Your claim to have no medicines was a ruse, so that you would not be a suspect.’

‘Please,’ begged Cole, as Geoffrey stood abruptly and began to move towards the door. ‘She is a child. If you want a hostage, take me.’

Geoffrey laughed without humour. ‘I think Alys will be rather easier to control. Now, I am going to lock you in, collect my people and ride away. Your daughter will come with us, but no harm will come to her as long as you stay here and do not raise the alarm.’

‘How do we know?’ asked Cole in a strangled voice. ‘You are a killer.’

‘Because I give you my word,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘Give me yours that you will not follow, and she will be returned to you unharmed. Refuse, and I will slit her throat.’

Cole and Gwenllian could see he meant it, and there was nothing they could do as Geoffrey walked out, taking their daughter with him.

The uncertainty of the next few days was dreadful, but Geoffrey kept his promise. Alys appeared one morning in the arms of a bemused cleric, who had been instructed to take her to the castle. She was tired, dirty and bewildered, but none the worse for her experiences. Cadifor and Stacpol were there to witness the family reunion.

‘He let me ride in front of him,’ Alys said, as Cole snatched her up and hugged her so tightly that Gwenllian feared he might hurt her. ‘All the way to Llansteffan. It was fun, but I would rather ride with you. You do not bounce around so much.’

Cole called for his horse, aiming to hunt the bishop down, but Gwenllian laid her hand on his arm. ‘This is a battle we cannot win, Symon. Leave it to Gilbert. He has offered to take the tale to the King, and the less we are involved, the better.’

‘Gilbert!’ spat Cole. ‘A man who dosed his friend with “remedies” that made him think he was dying – for years. I hardly think he is someone we can trust to tell the truth.’

‘But we can trust him to keep our names from this affair,’ argued Stacpol. ‘Which is ultimately more important. I learned from Belat that Gilbert cheated the King of some of his taxes while he was Sacrist of Hempsted, so he will want us as far away from Westminster as possible, lest the secret slips out.’

‘Yes, let the matter go, Symon,’ begged Cadifor. ‘We do not want to become entangled in these webs of deceit.’

‘On one condition,’ said Cole. ‘That you do not repay the ten marks Geoffrey lent you to bribe the King. It will be retribution of a sort, because he did mention that not having it would be inconvenient.’

Cadifor grinned. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

‘Even so,’ said Cole unhappily, ‘it will be difficult to live with the knowledge that Geoffrey wanders around freely and merrily while Asser lies dead.’

‘He has bad dreams, just like me,’ piped up Alys. ‘He wakes up in the night and howls that the Devil is coming for him. And then he cries himself back to sleep.’

‘So he might wander freely,’ said Stacpol softly. ‘But not merrily. His conscience will see to that. Thank you, Alys.’

‘Moreover, he is unpopular with the people,’ added Gwenllian. ‘His inability to speak Welsh has turned many against him, so his pontificate will not be an easy one. And he will always be wondering whether he will be accused of murder. That is punishment enough.’

‘If you say so.’ Cole watched Alys scamper away to join her brothers. ‘Yet he did teach me something – that it is a sin not to appreciate the good things we have been given. Shall we all go riding? It is a glorious day, and I feel like being outside.’

‘What, now?’ asked Gwenllian, startled. ‘What about the castle accounts, and the plans for the new gatehouse?’

‘What about them?’ Cole laughed suddenly. ‘We have a family, good friends and we live in paradise. Let us enjoy it while we can.’

He strode towards the stable to saddle up his horse, and as he went he began to sing.

Historical Note

Symon Cole was constable of Carmarthen in the early 1200s, and Lord Rhys of Deheubarth had several daughters named Gwenllian. Richard Belat and Henry de Rolveston were royal clerks, who went to Carmarthen to conduct John’s business in 1203. Other ‘locals’ mentioned in the Welsh Episcopal Acts in the early 1200s are Elidor, Asser and Philipp de Stacpol.

Llanthony Priory was a dangerous place to be during the Anarchy of the mid-twelfth century, so the Austin canons fled to Hempsted, Gloucestershire, to wait the troubles out. However, when it came time to return, some elected to stay behind to form a cell known as Llanthony Secunda (called Hempsted in the story, for simplicity’s sake). By the early 1200s, it was as strong and rich as its parent, so it was decided to separate them.

Geoffrey de Henlaw had been prior of both, and oversaw some of the preliminary arrangements for the partition, before he was elevated to the Bishopric of St David’s in 1203. He was noted for his medical skills, but Gerald of Wales wrote that he was greedy, violent and corrupt. Geoffrey’s successor was Martin, who was replaced by Roger in 1205. The first independent prior of Llanthony Secunda was Walter, who ruled for two years before Gilbert took over.

In 1208, Hempsted decided to expand by laying claim to Carmarthen Priory. The King’s blessing was obtained, after which William de Londres, the town’s bailiff, led a takeover bid. Carmarthen was naturally indignant, and Prior Cadifor offered John a bribe of ten marks if he changed his allegiance. John seized the money with alacrity, and wrote to Bishop Geoffrey, ordering him to restore Carmarthen’s independence.