The First Murder

I

Oseney Abbey, Oxford, September 1199

It was a pretty day, although a nip in the air and the profusion of blackberries in the hedgerows told Canon Wilfred that a hard winter was coming. He settled more comfortably on the camomile bench and turned his face to the sun, breathing in deeply of the sweet scent of herbs, freshly cut corn and scythed grass. He sighed his contentment.

Life had been so much nicer once Prior Wigod had died. The old tyrant had kept Wilfred as ‘careful brother’ for the best part of fourteen years, a miserable existence for a man who liked his bed – getting up in the middle of the night to call the others to prayer was an onerous, thankless task, and Wilfred had hated it. Then Wigod had died suddenly in his sleep. At least, that was what had appeared to have happened.

That had been more than thirty years ago, and since then Wilfred had been careful not to earn the enmity of another Head of House. The current one was Hugh, a malleable, shy man, who had been only too pleased to accept fatherly advice from one of the foundation’s oldest members. Indeed, Hugh considered Wilfred a friend, one of the advantages of which was that Wilfred felt he had the right to lounge in the sun of an afternoon. The other canons resented Wilfred’s indolence, but he did not care. Surely, he had earned a little luxury in his evening years, especially after the suffering he had endured under the despotic Wigod.

Of course, Wigod had been a gentler, kinder man before Sylvanus – the canon he had exiled to Leven Sands in an act of poor judgement – had been killed by robbers on his journey north. Wigod had told everyone that he blamed himself for the death, but Wilfred knew it was a lie. Wigod held him responsible, which was unfair. It was not he who had ordered Sylvanus away. Wigod’s sour humour had not even improved when Oseney had been elevated from priory to abbey, with all the privileges that went with a more exalted status.

But three decades was a long time, and no one remembered Wigod now…

Wilfred closed his eyes and was just slipping into a pleasant doze when footsteps crunched on the path. It was Robert, the young canon Hugh had asked him to mind. Wilfred disliked the task for two reasons: firstly, it was unwelcome work for an indolent man, and secondly, Robert was shockingly impudent. To teach him his place, Wilfred used him like a servant, compelling him to bring wine and treats at specific times in the day – and as Robert considered himself destined for great things, it was proving to be a sore trial for him.

‘Two groups of visitors have just arrived,’ Robert reported excitedly as he handed his master a cup of wine. ‘A bishop elect from the See of St Davids and his retinue; and envoys from the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

‘Important men,’ mused Wilfred. ‘What do they want?’

‘Nothing, other than a bed for the night.’ Robert smirked. ‘They are old enemies, and started quarrelling the moment they set eyes on each other.’

‘Then I know how we shall keep them apart,’ said Wilfred, pleased. ‘With The Play of Adam. It is always popular with guests, and we have honed it to perfection over the last thirty years. Prior Wigod took against drama after… certain events, but I reinstated it after he died, and everyone loves our performances.’

‘Yes,’ said Robert without enthusiasm. He had been listening to Wilfred’s bragging conceit about this particular drama for longer than he could remember, and was heartily sick of it – especially as the old man could never be persuaded to reveal what the ‘certain events’ entailed. ‘I suppose you will play God, as usual?’

Wilfred glanced at him sharply. ‘Of course. Why?’

‘Because I should like to do it, for once. I am tired of being the serpent.’

Wilfred fixed him with an icy glare. ‘You will do as you are told, and be grateful you have a role at all. Now go and tell Abbot Hugh my suggestion.’

‘Will you include the bit about Cain and Abel this time?’ asked Robert chirpily, ignoring the order. ‘You always leave it out, but our brethren are bored to tears with the rest of the play after so many years, and a new section may revive their interest.’

‘How dare you!’ cried Wilfred, outraged. ‘They love The Play of Adam. Now go and do as you are told before I box your ears.’

Full of resentment, Robert slouched away, while Wilfred struggled to bring his irritation under control. Was the lad right? A number of canons had asked recently if he knew any other dramas, and their attendance was not what it had been. But that was too bad. Finding another one would mean work, and that was something Wilfred was unwilling to contemplate.

Still angry, he went to round up his actors.

As usual, The Play of Adam was scheduled to be performed after the office of nones, in the afternoon when the brethren had free time. Wilfred scowled when he saw how few of them were present. How could they prefer reading in their cells to his production? What was wrong with them?

The visitors were there, though, three standing in one group and four in another. Judging by the way they were glaring at each other, Robert had been right to say they were enemies. Abbot Hugh was between them, his face pale and strained: clearly, keeping them from each other’s throats was transpiring to be a trial.

Wilfred turned as someone came to stand next to him. It was Robert who, without being invited, began to tell him which visitors were which. Usually, Wilfred would have berated him for his audacity, but that day he was interested to hear what the boy had learned.

‘The tall, proud man is Gerald de Barri, Bishop Elect of St Davids. His companions are Pontius and Foliot, both canons from his cathedral, which voted unanimously to have him as their prelate. Unfortunately for Gerald, the Archbishop of Canterbury does not want him, and refuses to issue the necessary charters.’

Wilfred studied the trio. Gerald was a handsome man with thick grey hair and snapping black eyes; he was certainly elegant and haughty enough to be a bishop. His fellow priests were less imposing: Pontius had sharp, ratty features and wispy fair hair; Foliot was small and dark, but with a kind face and gentle eyes.

‘And the others?’ asked Wilfred, turning his attention to the four men on Hugh’s left.

‘Prior Dunstan from our sister house in Canterbury, and his secretary, Hurso. And the two knights who guard them are Roger Norrys and Robert Luci. Luci is the one who looks like a scholar, while the big, loutish brute is Norrys.’

The moment Wilfred saw Dunstan, he was put in mind of a goat. The Prior had a long, thin, white beard, and pale, widely spaced eyes. By contrast, Secretary Hurso possessed a comb of red hair and beady eyes that were redolent of a chicken.

The knights were Hospitallers, recognisable by their black surcoats with white crosses. Luci was cleaner than most warriors, with neatly cut hair and an air of quiet contemplation. Norrys, on the other hand, looked like most of the louts who had forged a bloody trail to the Holy Land a decade earlier: large, brutal, ruthless and stupid.

Time was passing, so Wilfred nodded that the play was to begin. An expectant hush fell over the little audience as the first actor stepped forward and began to tell the story of the Creation. Wilfred was gratified to see the visitors nodding approvingly. He felt vindicated. Guests always liked The Play of Adam, even if his brethren were uncouth ingrates. Indeed, he had sold many copies to admiring audiences over the years, keeping the modest profits for himself, of course. The vellum original, beautifully and painstakingly scribed by Wigod, had been purchased by no less a person than the Dean of Ely Cathedral, and put in the library there for posterity.

As usual, the play passed off without a hitch, and when it was over, Wilfred repaired to the kitchen for a cup of congratulatory wine, leaving his actors to dismantle the stage and store away the costumes and props. He had not been relaxing for long when Robert arrived.

‘Our visitors are arguing again,’ he reported gleefully. ‘Bishop Gerald said the Serpent reminded him of Prior Dunstan, and Prior Dunstan took offence. They are yelling loudly enough to be heard in Oxford!’

‘Why such vitriol?’ asked Wilfred curiously. ‘Such spats are hardly seemly.’

‘Because Dunstan is the Archbishop of Canterbury’s envoy, and he is travelling west to tell St Davids that they cannot have Gerald as their prelate. Meanwhile, Gerald is travelling east to tell the archbishop to mind his own business. It is the second journey for both of them, and they met on the first one, too. Their hatred is months old.’

‘Is that why Dunstan has two knights with him?’ asked Wilfred. ‘Lest St Davids objects to being told what to do?’

Robert nodded, his eyes gleaming, and Wilfred looked away in distaste. The lad really was disagreeably malevolent.

‘Gerald is popular in Wales, so Dunstan’s task will not be easy,’ Robert said. ‘He contrived to meet Gerald here, hoping to convince him to drop his claim and save him a journey, but Gerald refuses. Dunstan is furious, because he did not enjoy his first foray into Wales, and he thinks his second will be even more unpleasant.’

Abbot Hugh arrived at that point to congratulate his friend on the excellence of the performance. The guests, he said, had thoroughly enjoyed it – and so had he, because it had given him a respite from acting as peacemaker.

‘Do they really dislike each other so much?’ asked Wilfred, a little stiffly after the Abbot’s backhanded compliment.

‘I am sure they would kill each other, given the chance. For clerics, they are uncommonly vicious. Indeed, Dunstan’s servant is ill, and claims that Gerald has poisoned him.’

‘And has he?’ asked Wilfred uneasily.

‘No, the fellow is malingering because he does not want to go to Wales. It is unfortunate, because Dunstan has asked us for a novice to replace him.’

‘Not a novice,’ said Wilfred immediately. ‘Send Robert. I am sure he would love to go.’

‘I cannot leave Oseney!’ cried Robert, horrified. ‘I am cultivating friendships and contacts that will stand me in good stead for when I am abbot. A journey would ruin-’

‘A journey might teach you some humility,’ interrupted Hugh sharply, shocked to learn that his post was coveted by such youthful eyes. ‘Wilfred is right to suggest you go.’

Wilfred allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as the lad stamped away. That would teach him to make disparaging remarks about The Play of Adam!

That evening, Abbot Hugh was obliged to entertain the guests in his private hall, although he confessed his reluctance to do so to Wilfred. With the air of a martyr, Wilfred offered to help, waving away Hugh’s relieved gratitude. The truth was that Wilfred did not mind at all: fine wine and expensive sweetmeats would be on offer, which would be a lot nicer than a crust in the refectory and compline in the church.

Unfortunately, the guests were disagreeable company, and although Wilfred was not usually averse to being entertained by spats, even he found the constant sparring tedious. Moreover, Robert was there on the grounds that he was now a member of Dunstan’s party. The boy’s eyes shone with malicious glee as the arguments swayed back and forth.

‘You will never be bishop, Gerald,’ said Dunstan, for at least the fourth time. His pale goat-eyes were hard. ‘So you may as well save yourself a journey and go home to Wales. You are Archdeacon of Brecon, are you not? Why not be content with that?’

‘Because I was born to be Bishop of St Davids,’ replied Gerald coldly. ‘My father is Norman, but my mother hails from Welsh stock, so my dual heritage will unite an uneasy nation. Moreover, I am familiar with Court, I have three decades of experience in the Church, and I am a scholar of some repute. There is no man better qualified than me.’

‘None more modest, either,’ murmured Wilfred to himself. Unfortunately, wine made him speak more loudly than he had intended, and the three Welsh priests glowered at him when Dunstan roared with spiteful laughter. Wilfred gulped when he saw he had made enemies of the St Davids men, and was glad they would be leaving in the morning.

‘You tried to be bishop twenty years ago, Gerald,’ said Dunstan when he had his mirth under control, ‘and you were rejected then, too. You should have learned that you are not wanted – not by the Crown, not by Canterbury and not by Rome. You are even less popular with our new King than you were with his father, and should abandon your claims while you can. Only a fool irritates John.’

‘I am not afraid of John,’ said Gerald contemptuously. ‘And I despise anyone who is.’

‘Yet sometimes it is wise to be wary,’ said kind-eyed Foliot quietly. ‘John is not a man to cross, because he bears grudges.’

‘I will not sit at a table where treason is spoken,’ said Norrys the Hospitaller, standing abruptly. His loutish face was flushed with anger. ‘Calling the King vengeful is-’

‘Prior Dunstan tells me you were once Constable of Carmarthen, Norrys,’ interrupted Abbot Hugh, diplomatically changing the subject while the scholarly Luci grabbed Norrys’s arm and tugged him back down. ‘That must have been pleasant.’

‘It was pleasant,’ agreed Norrys, while his scowl suggested this was not a topic that pleased him either. ‘But I was ousted in favour of Symon Cole, a dull-witted youth who had distinguished himself in battle with acts of reckless bravado.’

‘It was not just his courage that impressed King Henry,’ said Luci quietly. ‘He married a Welsh princess, who provided an alliance with powerful native rulers.’

‘But the old King is dead,’ said Norrys sullenly. ‘And the new one has intimated that he would like Cole out of Carmarthen and me in his place. He does not care who is related to whom in Wales.’

‘That particular Welsh princess is my cousin,’ said Gerald icily. ‘On my mother’s side. So Cole is my kin, too. Did I hear you call him a dull-witted youth?’

‘He was a dull-witted youth when he took over Carmarthen,’ Norrys smirked, and his expression became challenging. ‘Now he is a dull-witted man.’

‘I take exception to-’ began Gerald angrily.

‘Enough, please!’ cried the abbot. In desperation, he turned to Wilfred. ‘Perhaps you will tell our guests about The Play of Adam. I am sure they will be interested.’

‘Well,’ began Wilfred, pleased to be the centre of attention. ‘It was-’

‘There is a section about Cain and Abel,’ interrupted Robert eagerly. ‘But it has never been performed at Oseney. It is a pity, because I would make an excellent Cain.’

Wilfred glared at him, glad he had persuaded Hugh to send the boy away. With any luck, he would never return.

‘I have a gift for you, Robert,’ he said, forcing himself to smile. ‘To remember me by when you trudge the long and dangerous road west.’

Robert snatched the proffered package in delight, but his happy expression faded when he saw what he had been given. ‘A copy of The Play of Adam,’ he said flatly. ‘How lovely.’

It was the one Wilfred had forced him to make himself, and by giving it back to him, Wilfred was effectively saying that he did not value his work. Abbot Hugh took it from him.

‘I see it includes the section about Cain and Abel,’ he mused. ‘It looks innocuous enough. Why do you always omit it, Wilfred?’

‘Because it is dull,’ replied Wilfred shortly. ‘And I decided long ago that it was not worth an audience’s time, although we have rehearsed it on occasion.’

‘You have?’ pounced Hugh with obvious relief. ‘Good! Then summon your actors and put it on for us now. And when it is finished, it should be time for bed.’

‘I would rather not,’ said Wilfred shortly. ‘There is some suggestion that this particular section may bring bad luck, and we-’

‘Bad luck?’ interrupted Gerald in lofty distaste. ‘I would remind you that we are men of God – we put our trust in the Lord, not in heathenish superstition.’

Wilfred opened his mouth to object, but a spitefully gleeful Robert was already moving tables while the abbot was hastily assuring the company that heresy had no place in Oseney. Wilfred grimaced when he saw he was to have no choice, and itched to wring Robert’s neck.

‘May I play God?’ asked Prior Dunstan, once the preparations were complete. ‘I do not know the words, of course, but I can read them, and I have always wanted to act.’

‘No,’ said Wilfred, more curtly than he had intended. ‘That role is mine.’

Dunstan said nothing, but Wilfred was taken aback by the venomous glare he received. Clearly furious, the prior spun round and marched away.

‘You should not have annoyed him,’ said Secretary Hurso, watching him go. ‘He may look harmless, but he is clever and determined, and will make for a dangerous enemy. Gerald should watch himself, too.’

There was no time to ponder the remarks, because the abbot was signalling to tell him to start. Wilfred shoved his first player onto the makeshift stage, and ‘The Story of Cain and Abel’ began.

‘You are pale,’ whispered Robert, appearing at Wilfred’s side and making him jump. He held a jug of wine. ‘Drink this. It will calm your nerves.’

‘My nerves are perfectly calm,’ snapped Wilfred, but it was a lie, because his heart thumped and his hands were sweaty. He could not stop himself from thinking about what had happened when this particular section had last been performed at Oseney. It was all very well for Gerald to sniff his disdain at the concept of luck, but Wilfred was less willing to dismiss things he could not begin to understand.

He drank two cups of Robert’s claret, but it only served to make him more agitated than ever, and he kept seeing the face of a long-dead canon named Paul in his mind’s eye – surprisingly vividly, given that Paul had been in his grave for almost half a century. Wilfred listened to the familiar words, and heartily wished the abbot had found another way to distract his querulous guests.

Beware the sins of envy and vainglory,

Else foul murder ends your story.

For some unaccountable reason, the final couplet struck a cold fear into Wilfred. Was it guilt, gnawing at him in a way that it had never done before? He shook himself impatiently. It was late, he was tired, and he had drunk too much. He would feel better in the morning.

But the room tipped, and he stumbled to his knees. What was happening? He grabbed the table for support, upsetting the wine jug as he did so. He felt terrible – there was a burning pain in his innards and he was struggling to breathe. Was he having a seizure? Or was it divine vengeance for his role in the untimely deaths of Paul, Sylvanus, Wigod and several others who had had the temerity to stand between him and his desire for an easy life?

Then another thought occurred to him, one that made his blood run cold. Had he been poisoned? Prior Dunstan’s servant claimed he had – by the priests from Wales – and Wilfred was sure the trio had not forgotten his incautious remark about modesty. Or had Dunstan made an end of him because he had wanted to be God? Or was this Robert’s parting gift to a master he disliked? Yet surely no one would kill for such petty reasons?

‘A seizure,’ declared Hugh sadly, when Wilfred had stopped shuddering and lay still. ‘He was past three score years and ten, so had reached his allotted time.’

But someone among the onlookers knew different.

II

Carmarthen, December 1199

Gwenllian awoke to a world transformed. There had been a few flurries of snow the previous day, but nothing to prepare her for the fall that had taken place during the night. She opened the window shutters to a blanket of pure white, broken only by the icy black snake of the River Towy meandering towards the sea.

She leaned her elbows on the sill and gazed out at the town that had been her home for the past thirteen years. She had hated it at first, frightened by its uneasy mix of Welsh, Norman and English residents, while the castle had been an unsavoury conglomeration of ugly palisades, muddy ditches and grubby tents. It was certainly no place for a Welsh princess, who had been raised in an atmosphere of cultured gentility, surrounded by poets and men of learning.

She had not been particularly enamoured of her new husband, either. Her father, Lord Rhys, had arranged the match because it had been politically expedient to ally himself to one of the King’s favourite knights, and Gwenllian had been horrified to find herself with a spouse whose mind was considerably less sharp than her own. But she had gradually grown to love Sir Symon Cole, and to love Carmarthen, with its bustling port, hectic market and prettily winding streets.

The castle was improving as well, now that Cole was rebuilding parts of it in stone. He had already raised a fine hall with comfortable living quarters for his household and guests, while his soldiers were housed in dry, clean wooden barracks. He was currently working on the bailey walls, although a spate of silly mishaps meant the project was taking longer than he thought it should.

Yet despite his grumbles, the walls were still ahead of schedule, mostly because he was content to let Gwenllian order supplies and haggle for the best prices, while he oversaw the physical side of the operation. He had no skill at administration, and it was widely thought that he would not have remained constable for as long as he had without his wife’s talent for organisation.

It was not long after dawn, and she could hear the usual sounds of early morning – the clank of the winch on the well as water was raised for cooking and cleaning, the chatter of servants laying fires and sweeping floors, and the shrill crow of cockerels. The sharp scent of burning wood was carried on the wind, along with the richer aroma of baking bread.

She could see the builders at the curtain wall already, despite the bitter weather. Cole was there too, shovelling snow off a pile of stones. She smiled. Not many constables would deign to wield a spade themselves, but the labourers liked the fact that Cole was willing to toil by their side. Of course, there was also the fact that he enjoyed it, being a large, strong man who excelled at physical activities.

She watched the mason – a sullen, avaricious man named Cethynoc – climb the wall and walk along the top, kicking off snow as he went. Clearly, he was going to decide if work would have to stop, or if it could continue. Suddenly, there was a yell and the workmen scattered in alarm. Something had fallen off the top of the wall. Gwenllian’s stomach lurched in horror – she could not see Cole among the milling labourers!

She turned and raced out of the bedchamber, almost falling in her haste to reach the bailey. Iefan, Cole’s faithful sergeant, was also running there, but he stopped and took her arm when he saw her. Gwenllian knew why: her second child would be born in May, and the entire castle had suddenly become solicitous, knowing exactly who was responsible for their regular pay, clean barracks and decent food.

Heart pounding, she approached the wall, then closed her eyes in relief when she saw Cole inspecting a piece of rope. His naturally cheerful face was sombre as he grabbed her hand and pulled her to one side so the workmen would not hear what he was saying.

‘You did not believe me when I told you someone was sabotaging our work.’ He held out the rope. ‘Do you believe me now? This has been deliberately cut, so that a bucket full of rubble would drop from the top of the wall.’

Gwenllian examined it, then shook her head. ‘It has frayed, Symon. If it had been cut, the edges would be sharp and…’

She faltered into silence when he scraped his dagger back and forth on another part of the rope, eventually producing a break that was identical to the one in her hand. She stared at it, but still could not bring herself to believe what he was suggesting.

‘It was an accident,’ she insisted. ‘Who would interfere with the castle walls? When they are finished, they will benefit everyone – the entire town will be able to take refuge here in times of trouble. There cannot be a saboteur.’

‘This is the fifth “accident” in two weeks. The others have been more nuisance than danger – spoiled mortar, lost nails, loosened knots on the scaffolding – but this one might have killed someone. I need to catch the culprit before he claims a life.’

‘No,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘It is just a spate of unfortunate coincidences. No one can have anything against your walls. Indeed, they are popular because they are providing employment for the poor at a time when other work is scarce.’

‘A stone castle is a symbol of Norman domination,’ Cole pointed out, ‘and some people are afraid that it might be used for subjugation as well as defence.’

‘They know you would never use it for such a purpose,’ objected Gwenllian.

‘Perhaps, but King John itches to dismiss me and appoint someone else. It is only a matter of time before he finds a way to do it. And people remember my predecessor.’

‘Roger Norrys – a vicious, mean-spirited tyrant,’ recalled Gwenllian. ‘Thank God my father did not force me to marry him, or I would have been hanged for murder years ago. Did that falling basket hit you? You are limping.’

‘No, the lace on my boot is broken. I will send it to William the corviser to be repaired.’

‘Not him,’ said Gwenllian quickly. ‘He has disliked you ever since you fined him for cheating his customers. I will find another shoemaker. And before you suggest it, William is not your saboteur – he is more likely to wound with words than actions.’

‘I will catch the culprit, Gwen,’ said Cole with quiet determination. ‘I must. None of my labourers will be safe until I do.’

Gwenllian did not bother to argue with him.

As they walked across the bailey, they were intercepted by the visitors who had arrived the previous afternoon. Gwenllian was kin to Gerald de Barri, a fact he had been quick to mention when requesting hospitality. He and his two companions had been to Canterbury, and were travelling home to St Davids. Carmarthen was in St Davids See, but the three priests still had several more days of travel before they reached their cathedral in the far west of the country.

‘I am afraid we shall have to impose on you for a while longer,’ said Gerald with an apologetic smile. ‘All the roads are closed by snow.’

‘Are they?’ Cole was openly dismayed. He did not enjoy the company of clerics, because they tended to know nothing about horses and warfare, two topics he considered important in a man. The St Davids priests were no exception, and one – Foliot – had compounded the deficiency by admitting to falling off his pony. Cole had been aghast that anyone should have lost his seat on so docile an animal.

Gwenllian felt differently, though. Gerald was witty and amusing, and she had been fascinated by his tales of journeys around Wales. She liked small, dark Foliot, too, with his kindly eyes and gentle manners. Pontius was sharper and more outspoken.

Gerald sighed. ‘We have been away for almost four months now, and we are eager to be home. This situation does not please us, I assure you.’

‘Nor me,’ said Cole bluntly. ‘How long do you think it will be before you can leave?’

‘A few days,’ replied Foliot quickly, when Gerald’s eyebrows shot up at the ungracious question. ‘No more, God willing.’

‘Let us hope not,’ said Pontius slyly. ‘Your sergeant claims there has been a spate of mishaps here, and we do not want to be crushed under plummeting baskets.’

‘Then we shall not put you to work on the castle walls,’ said Gwenllian, smiling at him. ‘Because that is where the accidents have occurred.’

Foliot winced at the notion, putting his hand to the shoulder that had been bruised by his tumble from the horse. ‘I shall use the opportunity to rest.’

‘So shall I,’ said Pontius. ‘I have a bad back – too much time in the saddle.’

Cole regarded him wonderingly. ‘Is there any such thing?’

Gerald laughed, although Cole had not meant to be amusing. ‘It is good to be back in my own See. I was unimpressed with Canterbury – the archbishop is as devious as his master the King. Incidentally, when I am enthroned as bishop, I shall be elevating St Davids to an archbishopric. I do not want to be under Canterbury’s sway.’

Cole looked alarmed. He had scant respect for John, whom he considered weak, vacillating and untrustworthy, but as a royally appointed official he was not in the habit of engaging in seditious discussions with strangers. Gwenllian was interested in something that would affect all of Wales, though.

‘An archbishopric would make this See the equal of Canterbury and York,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ nodded Gerald. ‘And quite rightly so. Why should we be under the authority of Canterbury, a place that knows nothing of us or our customs? And I shall certainly bring it about, because the Pope is a great admirer of mine, and can refuse me nothing. Well, I did recruit hundreds of warriors for his crusade. Did you go, Cole?’

‘Yes, I fought in several battles, including the-’

‘You are welcome to stay for as long as you like,’ interrupted Gwenllian quickly, before Cole could regale them with details. His war stories were not for the delicate ears of priests. ‘It will be our pleasure to entertain you.’

‘Entertain us,’ echoed Pontius, looking around with a smirk. ‘That promises to be interesting. How will you do it?’

‘We shall go hunting, if the snow is not too thick,’ replied Cole pleasantly. ‘We have plenty of wild boar, and stags too. Or there is hawking. It is too cold for fishing, but-’

‘How about an activity that does not involve killing something?’ asked Pontius archly.

‘My wife can take you shopping,’ retorted Cole, unimpressed by the question. ‘Or teach you how to embroider a-’

‘We shall have some music,’ said Gwenllian before he could insult them further. ‘Osbert, our archdeacon, plays the crwth, and Symon will sing.’

‘Battle songs?’ asked Gerald, humour glinting in his black eyes.

‘Welsh ballads,’ corrected Gwenllian with pride. ‘I taught him myself.’

‘We shall look forward to it,’ said Foliot graciously, although Pontius looked dubious.

‘And I may honour you by reading excerpts from one of my books,’ said Gerald. ‘I did it in Oxford last autumn, and it was very well received. It took three days, and my audience was spellbound the entire time.’

‘You read aloud for three days?’ Cole was horrified, evidently afraid the same might be attempted in Carmarthen. ‘Without stopping?’

‘Well, obviously, we went away to sleep,’ said Gerald. ‘But we started afresh the following dawn. Everyone said they were much edified.’

‘God’s teeth!’ breathed Cole. To Gwenllian’s relief, he was prevented from saying more by tripping over his broken lace.

‘You should mend that before you hurt yourself,’ advised Gerald. ‘Do you have a spare to give him, Foliot? Or a piece of twine?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied the priest. ‘I used it to mend my reins after the ambush.’

‘Ambush?’ asked Cole immediately. ‘Where? Not near here?’

‘Once in Brecon and once outside Trecastle,’ replied Gerald. ‘It was how Foliot came to bruise his shoulder. His pony reared and he slipped off. Do not worry, though: both were well outside your jurisdiction, so we shall not blame you for them.’

Gwenllian laughed at Cole’s obvious dismay as their guests walked away, and assured him that she would look after them. He nodded relieved thanks, and she saw he had been worried that playing host would keep him from his walls.

‘What did Cethynoc say when he made his inspection?’ she asked.

‘That we cannot build as long as the weather stays so cold, but there are other tasks that can be managed – preparing the rubble infill, cutting stones, moving supplies. The men are keen to continue.’

Gwenllian was sure they were: they would not be paid for idle days, and winter was a bad time to be without money. She followed Cole into the hall, where their baby son toddled towards them. Meurig squealed his delight when Cole scooped him up and tossed him high into the air, but Gwenllian closed her eyes in maternal horror: did he have to be so rough?

‘A person is responsible for these mishaps,’ Cole said after a while, handing Meurig to his nurse, and returning to the subject that so troubled him. ‘Five incidents is too many for coincidence.’

Gwenllian sighed. ‘Very well, let us assume you are right. Who are your suspects?’

He was silent for a long time before replying. ‘I do not have any. Who are yours? You are the one good at solving mysteries.’

‘Only if there is a mystery to solve.’

‘There is, Gwen, and I was hoping you would help me catch the villain.’ He grimaced resentfully. ‘But now Gerald and his priests will take up all your time, I suppose I shall have to unmask him by myself.’

They turned as Sergeant Iefan approached with two other men. They were Osbert, Archdeacon of Carmarthen, and a grizzled knight named Sir Robert Burchill. Osbert had a shiny bald head and was famous for never wearing a hat, even in the most inclement of weather. Burchill was much older than Cole, and believed that his age and experience gave him the right to be condescending. Gwenllian found him irksome and hypercritical.

‘Five visitors arrived at my house last night,’ Osbert began. ‘It was a tight squeeze, but we managed. However, now the snows keep them here, I must make other arrangements – there is simply not enough room for them in my home. Will you take them? They are important men – three Austin canons and two knights. I cannot send them to an inn.’

‘If they are Austins, they can stay at the priory,’ said Cole.

‘Apparently, they did that on their outward journey, and quarrelled so bitterly that the brothers say they are no longer welcome. They are envoys from Canterbury, and have been in St Davids, telling the Cathedral Chapter that it cannot have the prelate it elected, but must have a fellow of the archbishop’s choosing instead.’

‘Then I cannot help you,’ said Cole apologetically. ‘Your envoys will quarrel with Gerald, and we shall know no peace. They will have to stay in an inn.’

‘You cannot slight them, lad,’ warned Burchill. ‘Prior Dunstan has the ear of the King.’

‘So?’ shrugged Cole. ‘I do not care whether-’

‘John longs for an excuse to oust you,’ interrupted Burchill sharply. ‘Your marriage gives you powerful allies, so he cannot dismiss you without good reason. However, offending ecclesiastical envoys will certainly give him the pretext he needs.’

Gwenllian had been about to say the same thing, and was irritated that Burchill should have pre-empted her. Cole sighed.

‘John will have his way eventually, so perhaps we should go to live on my manor in Normandy – resign before he dismisses me.’

‘But I like it here,’ objected Gwenllian, dismayed. ‘Carmarthen is my home.’

‘I like it too, but I am a soldier, not a diplomat, and I do not know how to deal with John. Or with warring clerics, for that matter. And then there is the saboteur… ’

‘There is no saboteur, Sir Symon,’ said Iefan, a little irritably, and Gwenllian saw she was not the only one who had tried to disabuse the constable of this particular notion. ‘We have just suffered a series of minor mishaps.’

‘I will find the culprit – if there is one to be found,’ said Gwenllian soothingly. ‘And I will keep the peace between Gerald and the archbishop’s envoys, too. You can work on the walls. They will impress John and may encourage him to keep you.’

‘Rather you than me, my lady,’ said Archdeacon Osbert wryly. ‘Gerald and Dunstan met in Oxford three months ago, and there were ugly scenes, by all accounts. It will not be easy to keep them from each other’s throats.’

‘Osbert has not told you the worst news yet, Symon,’ said Burchill, a little smugly. ‘Dunstan has two Knights Hospitaller to protect him, and one is Roger Norrys.’

Cole smiled with genuine pleasure. ‘Norrys? It must be more than a decade since we last met. It will be good to see him again.’

‘Unfortunately he does not feel the same way about you,’ warned Osbert. ‘Last night he talked of nothing but how you snatched Carmarthen from him by sly means.’

‘But I did not ask to be constable,’ objected Cole, stung. ‘Indeed, I begged King Henry to let me remain in his household guard, but he would not listen. There was nothing sly about my appointment – not on my part, at least.’

‘I am sure of it, but Norrys is bitter and resentful anyway,’ said Osbert. ‘The first thing he did when he arrived last night was seek out his old cronies – William the corviser and Tancard the brewer-’

‘Troublemakers,’ said Gwenllian in disgust. ‘They would be friends!’

‘They drank vast quantities of ale and sat muttering together,’ said Osbert. ‘I tried to draw them into gentler conversation, and so did Prior Dunstan, but to no avail.’

‘You will have to watch Norrys, lad,’ said Burchill. ‘Or he may cause problems.’

‘I shall win him round,’ said Cole, ever the optimist. ‘Fetch these envoys now, Osbert. Gerald is in the chapel, and we might be able to install them without him noticing.’

‘He will notice eventually,’ said Burchill, startled. ‘Our castle is not that big!’

‘Do not worry.’ Cole gave a happy smile. ‘Gwen will keep them from sparring.’

It was not long before a commotion by the gate heralded the arrival of the Canterbury men. Iefan and Burchill glanced uneasily towards the chapel, but Gwenllian had ordered the chaplain to conduct a lengthy Mass, which she hoped would keep them busy while the newcomers settled. First in was Sir Roger Norrys, with his brother Hospitaller at his heels.

It had been thirteen years since Norrys had stormed out of Carmarthen after receiving the news that he had been replaced by a man barely half his age. Gwenllian watched him warily. He was thicker around the middle, and had lost a lot of hair, but he was still an imposing figure in his fine black surcoat. She did not like the way he stalked into the bailey and looked around appraisingly.

‘I hope he does not set us alight,’ she whispered to Cole, aware that the servants had recognised Norrys and many were looking fearful – they remembered his bullying ways. ‘Most of our buildings are wood.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Cole, startled by the remark.

Never thinking ill of anyone was another of Cole’s endearing but ill-advised habits, and Gwenllian winced when he strode forward to greet the older knight like a long-lost friend.

‘It is a pleasure to welcome you back,’ he said sincerely. ‘I doubt these Austins will be interested in hunting, but our woods are at your disposal. Yours and your companion’s.’

‘I am Robert de Luci,’ said the second knight, speaking before Norrys could tell Cole what to do with his offer. ‘And we shall be delighted to accept.’

Osbert introduced the three Austins: the goat-like Prior Dunstan, the hen-like Secretary Hurso and the youngster, Robert, whom Gwenllian distrusted on sight for his scheming eyes and spiteful smile. While Osbert spoke, Burchill and Iefan continued to cast uneasy glances towards the chapel, obviously worried about what would happen when Gerald emerged.

‘Did I hear you mention hunting?’ asked Dunstan keenly. ‘I have not enjoyed a decent chase since I went with the King in the New Forest.’

‘John hunts?’ asked Cole doubtfully. It did not go with his concept of the monarch as a debauched womaniser with no interest in manly pursuits.

‘I meant his father,’ explained Dunstan. ‘Henry. He knew his way around a bow. So do I, of course, and he once said I was the best archer in Kent.’

Gwenllian had no idea whether it was true, but Cole was impressed, and he and Dunstan were soon deep in discussion about weapons, while Secretary Hurso listened with an indulgent smile. Luci’s expression was more difficult to read, although Norrys’s was full of open hatred, furious that Cole should have won the prior around with so little effort.

‘Cole is a fool to build in stone,’ he said to Burchill, looking around in disdain. He ignored Iefan and Gwenllian as of no consequence. Gwenllian bristled, both at his manners and his remark; Cole had done wonders with what he had inherited, and the castle was now larger, stronger and infinitely cleaner than when Norrys had held it. ‘The Welsh will only burn it down, and he wastes the King’s money with his foolery. I shall tell John so when I see him.’

‘It was John who ordered us to do it,’ she said coldly. ‘And we are proud to report that we are far ahead of the schedule he set. I suggest you tell him that instead.’

‘Then it is not surprising that you have suffered so many accidents,’ Norrys spat back. Burchill shot Gwenllian a guilty glance, and she supposed the information had come from him. ‘You are rushing the work.’

‘No,’ snapped Iefan. He did not usually speak out of turn, and Gwenllian saw he was offended by the criticism on behalf of Cole and the workforce, many of whom were his friends, family and neighbours. ‘We are ahead because we are efficient.’

‘It is true,’ said Burchill proudly. ‘You will not find a better-run castle than this one.’

Norrys released a short bark of laughter. ‘That is not what John thinks. He does not trust Cole or his Welsh connections, and it is only a matter of time before he passes Carmarthen back to me. He has virtually promised as much.’

‘Perhaps you will show Sir Roger to his quarters,’ said Gwenllian to Burchill. She kept her voice level, although she was inwardly seething. Was the claim true, or just hubris?

‘I am sorry, my lady,’ said Luci when Norrys had gone. ‘I managed to avoid Carmarthen on our outward journey, but the weather conspired against me this time. I hope the snow does not last long, because it will be better for everyone when we can leave.’

‘Do you anticipate trouble, then?’ asked Gwenllian worriedly.

‘Yes,’ replied Luci simply. ‘Norrys hated losing this place, and returning has reopened old wounds. I shall try to keep him contained, but it will not be easy. Meanwhile, our three Austins will certainly quarrel with your three Welsh priests. You will have no peace until we go our separate ways.’

Unhappily, Gwenllian watched him trail after his companion to the hall. Then she became aware that someone was standing close behind her, and whipped around in alarm. It was Secretary Hurso, his birdlike eyes sharp and bright, and young Robert. She had thought they had gone with Burchill, and wondered how long they had been listening.

‘Norrys is a vile brute,’ said Hurso. ‘I cannot imagine why the archbishop chose him to guard us. And he is far worse now he is here, at the scene of an ancient humiliation.’

‘Then Luci and Burchill must keep him from brooding,’ said Gwenllian. ‘And you two must keep your prior away from Gerald. We cannot have our town thinking that the Church is full of men who cannot control their tempers.’

‘We shall do our best,’ promised the secretary. ‘Although we had scant success in Oxford. There, we almost came to blows, especially after that old monk died, and Gerald accused us of poisoning him. What was the fellow’s name, Robert?’

‘Wilfred,’ supplied the youngster with an inappropriately cheerful grin. ‘And Prior Dunstan accused Gerald in return. Abbot Hugh had to summon lay brothers to stop them from punching each other.’

‘This Wilfred was murdered?’ asked Gwenllian uneasily.

‘Yes, but he was not very nice, anyway,’ said Robert blithely. ‘He bullied me, and was incurably lazy. If anyone deserved to be dispatched, it was him.’

‘He was not “dispatched”,’ said Hurso irritably. ‘He died of a seizure, brought on by too little exercise and too much fine food.’

‘What about the poisoned wine?’ demanded Robert, eyes flashing challengingly.

‘What poisoned wine?’ asked Hurso dismissively. ‘Wilfred spilled it in his death throes, so it could not be tested – not that there would have been anything to find if we had. He died of natural causes, and I mentioned him only to warn Lady Gwenllian of the trouble that might arise if we fail to keep Dunstan and Gerald apart.’

‘No doubt you will provide two separate bedchambers, my lady,’ said Robert, declining to argue. ‘But unless you lock them in, they will meet several times a day, and they will certainly fight. However, I have something that will distract them.’

‘What?’ asked Gwenllian suspiciously.

‘The Play of Adam,’ replied Robert. ‘It is a dull thing, full of boring morality and scripture. But I have memorised the role of God, and I shall perform it for you, if you like.’

‘Perhaps we can all perform it,’ suggested Hurso, suddenly eager. ‘We saw it in Oseney Abbey and enjoyed it hugely. A series of rehearsals might serve to keep Gerald and Dunstan from sparring – and Norrys from attacking your husband into the bargain.’

‘We shall see,’ said Gwenllian, not liking the notion of an activity that would force everyone into such close proximity. ‘I will look at it tomorrow.’

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Cole took Prior Dunstan on an extensive tour of the stables, while Archdeacon Osbert showed the other two Austins his collection of religious manuscripts. Burchill escorted the Hospitallers to a tavern, and Gwenllian listened to Gerald talk about himself.

Meanwhile, Iefan commandeered Cethynoc the mason to help him show Gerald’s two priests around the castle. Neither was very interested, and Foliot asked several times to be excused, but Cole had charged Iefan to keep them busy, and the sergeant was not a man to flout orders. The hapless clerics were forced to inspect every last stone, with Cethynoc supplying a detailed technical commentary.

The evening was more problematic. As was the custom on winter nights, everyone gathered in the hall. The cook provided an excellent meal, but the trouble came when the guests left the table and settled around the hearth. One of Cole’s dogs was in the way, so Norrys kicked it. It yelped, more from shock than from pain.

‘There was no need for that,’ snapped Gerald. ‘Any man who vents his temper on animals is a brute himself.’

‘A brute, am I?’ asked Norrys dangerously. He had been drinking all day, and was unsteady on his feet. ‘Would you like me to show you just how much? It would be a pleasure to spill your guts.’

Gerald regarded him in disdain, then turned to Prior Dunstan. ‘The archbishop must hold you in very high esteem, to supply such a well-bred warrior for your protection.’

‘I agree,’ said Pontius, quick to support his bishop elect. ‘Of course, if Prior Dunstan was not engaged on such a wicked mission, he would not need guards in the first place. Norrys performs the devil’s work.’

‘I am not the devil, and neither is my archbishop,’ snapped Dunstan. ‘How dare you!’

‘I shall issue an edict removing you both from office when I am back in my See,’ declared Gerald haughtily. ‘You stain the good name of the Church with your presence.’

‘Osbert, fetch your harp,’ said Gwenllian quickly. ‘It is time for some music.’

‘I do not like music, and it will be banned from Carmarthen when I am constable,’ said Norrys sullenly. He regarded Cole with contempt. ‘It does not surprise me to learn that you encourage such nonsense, though. You always were soft in the head.’

‘There is nothing “soft” about appreciating culture,’ said Gwenllian, gripping Cole’s hand under the table to prevent him from responding.

‘Your bailey walls are very nice,’ said Foliot, in an obvious attempt to change the subject to one that was less contentious. Everyone looked at him, so he flailed around for a way to elaborate. ‘Smart stones and lovely mortar.’

‘Those defences are far in excess of what is needed,’ countered Norrys. ‘Who do you think will attack, Cole? Saracens? And you put your workforce at risk with this silly project. I heard you were almost crushed by a falling basket only this morning.’

Cole started to rise, but Burchill grabbed his shoulder. Norrys started to laugh, amused that the constable should let himself be constrained by an old man. Burchill had been right to warn Cole not to react, but Gwenllian wished he had done it more discreetly.

‘Do not let him provoke you, sir,’ whispered Iefan, who always stood behind Cole’s chair at mealtimes. ‘No one was in danger. Ignore him.’

‘Here is Osbert with his crwth,’ said Gwenllian, relieved when the bald archdeacon re-entered the hall. ‘It is the custom to listen in silence.’

‘Whose custom?’ asked Gerald curiously. ‘It is not a Welsh one.’

‘Carmarthen’s,’ said Gwenllian firmly, and gestured for Osbert to begin.

At her insistence, he played until the guests were yawning and the fire had burned low in the hearth. All bade their hosts a hasty good night when the archdeacon paused to massage his sore fingers, and escaped while they could. Cole sighed when they had gone.

‘Let us hope the snow melts tonight, because I do not think I can stand another evening like that one. They bickered like fractious children!’

They went to bed, and Gwenllian was not sure how long they had been asleep before she became aware that Cole was no longer lying next to her. By the embers of the fire she saw him buckling his sword around his waist.

‘What is the matter?’ she asked in alarm.

‘I heard something,’ he whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’

Gwenllian climbed out of bed and tugged her cloak around her. ‘What did you hear?’

‘I am not sure. A thump, as if something had fallen. It was-’

He stopped when a series of anguished howls tore through the silence of the night. He raced from the room, Gwenllian at his heels. The wails were coming from the chamber that had been allocated to the St Davids priests, and he flung open the door, drawing his sword as he did so. He stopped so abruptly that Gwenllian cannoned into the back of him. Pontius was lying on a mattress, his head obscured by a stone that had dropped from the wall and crushed him.

The horrified cries of Gerald and Foliot brought the other castle guests running. Prior Dunstan was clad comically in a long white nightshift, although Secretary Hurso and Robert wore their habits. The two knights were on their heels, both holding swords and looking so alert that Gwenllian suspected that neither had been asleep; she wondered what they had been doing.

Iefan and Burchill also arrived. Gwenllian was not surprised to see Iefan, because the sergeant never strayed far from Cole – he hated the idea of not being first to hand if there was trouble – but Burchill owned a house in the town, and never slept inside the castle. He saw Gwenllian looking at him and shrugged.

‘I do not trust Norrys,’ he whispered. ‘Symon is safer with me nearby.’

Cole did not need the protection of an old man, and Burchill knew it, leaving Gwenllian wondering why he had forgone the luxury of his own bed. She forced her attention back to the room. Gerald and Foliot were pressed against the far wall, as if they were afraid more stones might drop, while the Canterbury visitors were clustered in the doorway. Cole was crouching by Pontius, feeling for signs of life. Evidently, there was none, because he stood and addressed Iefan.

‘Fetch Cethynoc. Being a mason, he can tell us what happened.’

‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ sneered Norrys. ‘A great lump of rock has dropped out of the wall and landed on Pontius’s skull. You do not need a mason to tell-’

‘Stones do not fall for no reason,’ retorted Cole. ‘We need the opinion of a professional man if we are to understand what happened here.’

‘You mean someone might have caused it to fall deliberately?’ whispered Gerald, while Gwenllian wished Cole had kept his thoughts to himself. ‘That Pontius has been murdered?’

‘We cannot know yet,’ she said, stepping forward quickly. ‘Perhaps you will tell us what you did after you retired?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Foliot’s voice was unsteady, and his kindly face was white. ‘Pontius and Gerald came here directly, while I went to the kitchen for a poultice to put on my injured shoulder. When I returned, they had already doused the candle. I climbed on to my own pallet, and was almost asleep when there was a terrible crash… ’

‘I let Pontius have the best bed, because he has a bad back,’ explained Gerald. Anger replaced shock as he glared at the envoys from Canterbury. ‘But they would have expected me to take it, because I am bishop elect. They arranged for the rock to drop, because they want me dead. But their villainous plot failed, and poor Pontius is killed in my place.’

‘How dare you accuse us!’ shouted Dunstan. His goat-beard was stiff with outrage. ‘We had nothing to do with it.’

‘It is true,’ said Secretary Hurso, licking dry lips. ‘We did not.’

‘We would not sully our hands,’ stated Norrys, although there was a glint in his eye that Gwenllian did not like at all. Meanwhile, Luci said nothing, and his face was closed and difficult to read.

‘At least it was quick,’ said Robert, who had pushed his way into the room and was inspecting Pontius’s body with ghoulish relish. Cole inserted himself between them, forcing the young Austin to return to his companions.

‘Did you notice anything amiss before you retired?’ Cole asked. ‘Dust on the bedclothes, for example, which might have suggested the stones were unstable?’

‘It did not occur to us to look for such a thing,’ said Gerald, troubled.

‘Then did you hear anything before it fell?’ persisted Cole.

‘No, we were asleep,’ replied Foliot. He kept glancing uneasily at Gerald, as if he was considering his bishop elect as the culprit. ‘The crash woke us.’

‘It woke us too,’ said Prior Dunstan. ‘Along with the screeches that followed.’

‘We did not screech,’ snapped Gerald. ‘We raised the alarm. And I doubt you were asleep when this happened. I think you were waiting for it, because you arranged it to fall. As I said, you want me dead, because you see me as a threat.’

‘You are a nuisance,’ said Dunstan witheringly. ‘Not a threat.’

‘It is true, Gerald,’ said Secretary Hurso with an apologetic shrug. ‘You are not sufficiently important to warrant us staining our souls with the sin of murder.’

‘It is another example of shoddy workmanship in Carmarthen Castle,’ crowed Norrys. ‘Guests will not die under collapsing walls when I am constable.’

Gwenllian studied each of the guests in turn. Norrys had been very quick to blame Cole. Had he arranged for the stone to fall, to improve his chances of being made constable? She could not read Luci, so did not know whether he was the kind of man to help a brother knight commit murder.

Meanwhile, Gerald seemed more indignant than dismayed by Pontius’s fate. Tears gleamed in Foliot’s eyes, but she had seen other killers weep for their victims. Had Gerald or Foliot dropped the stone on the sleeping Pontius, just so they could accuse Dunstan of the act?

She glanced at the three Austins. Or had one of them tried to kill the man who was such a thorn in their side, so they would not have to return to Canterbury and admit failure, and Gerald was right to believe he would be dead if he had taken the best bed? With a sigh, she supposed she would have to find out.

Cole, Burchill and Iefan carried the body to the chapel, leaving Gwenllian to persuade the visitors back to bed. Not surprisingly, Gerald declined to sleep in the chamber where his friend had died, so she helped him and Foliot move into her own. Foliot accompanied Gerald very reluctantly, and once again Gwenllian wondered whether he suspected the bishop elect of foul play. When they were settled – Gerald to sleep, but Foliot announcing that he would spend the rest of the night awake in prayer – she went to the chapel. Cethynoc was there, making his report to Cole.

‘There were scratches that suggest the mortar was deliberately prised out,’ the mason was saying. ‘As you would have seen for yourself had you bothered to look. You did not need to drag me out of bed. Or will you pay me for the inconvenience?’

‘No,’ said Burchill, before Cole could reply, ‘but we will not set you in the stocks for your insolence. How does that sound?’

Cethynoc scowled, and Gwenllian was amazed that Cole was able to tolerate the mason’s unpleasantness day after day as they worked together on the walls. Or his greed. She regarded him with distaste, wondering whether he had arranged the petty ‘accidents’ as a way to earn himself more money. Iefan was also glowering, and she saw he itched to trounce Cethynoc for his disrespectful attitude.

‘What else can you tell us, Cethynoc?’ asked Cole patiently.

‘Nothing,’ snapped the mason. ‘Except that the bed was moved slightly. I imagine it was to ensure that the stone would land squarely on whoever was lying there.’

‘So it was definitely murder,’ said Cole unhappily when Cethynoc had gone. ‘But who would do such a terrible thing?’

‘The three Austins, of course,’ replied Burchill. ‘They expected Gerald to be in the best bed, and they want him dead. I imagine they have been charged by the archbishop to ensure that he is never consecrated.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Cole. Gwenllian understood his alarm: the King would not thank him for accusing a Canterbury prior of murder, or for suggesting that the archbishop was complicit in the deed.

‘Personally, I suspect Norrys,’ argued Iefan. ‘He wants the King to accuse you of negligence, so he can be constable in your stead.’

‘Or Gerald and Foliot, because they want the world to think Dunstan is responsible,’ said Gwenllian, although she spoke reluctantly. She liked both men – far more than she liked the prior and his retinue. ‘Why did Gerald let Pontius take the best bed? I doubt he is naturally generous. Moreover, I should have thought that Foliot is more deserving of such compassion. I saw the bruises on his shoulder from his fall, and they look painful.’

‘Of course, Cethynoc could be mistaken,’ proposed Iefan tentatively. ‘It might just be a mishap – like the accidents on the castle walls.’

‘Those were not accidents,’ said Cole firmly. ‘And neither was this. Someone tampered with the stone earlier in the day, intending for it to fall.’ He looked at his sergeant. ‘You were with Pontius all afternoon. Did he have a bad back?’

‘He certainly said so – a lot,’ replied Iefan.

‘So we have seven suspects,’ said Cole. ‘Can we eliminate any with alibis? I am afraid I left Prior Dunstan to his own devices for an hour while I dealt with a problem on the scaffolding; and Archdeacon Osbert was obliged to abandon Hurso and Robert when it was time to hear his parishioners’ confessions.’

‘I had business of my own to attend for some of the afternoon,’ said Burchill, a little defensively, ‘so I left Norrys and Luci in the tavern, but they were sitting at the same table when I got back. I do not believe they left… but they might have done.’

‘Foliot went to the kitchen for wine to dull the ache in his shoulder while I helped Sir Symon with the scaffolding,’ said Iefan. ‘But I suspect he would have been in too much pain to climb walls and chip out stones. I have no idea where Pontius went.’

‘And I left Gerald unattended to spend time with Meurig,’ admitted Gwenllian.

Cole sighed. ‘So we can eliminate none of them. Damn!’

‘Perhaps they are all innocent and our wretched saboteur is responsible,’ suggested Burchill. ‘He is bored of petty mishaps, so decided to opt for something more dramatic.’

‘There is no saboteur,’ said Iefan tiredly, ‘just a run of bad luck. However, Pontius was not an accident, and I hope Lady Gwenllian catches the culprit before he kills anyone else.’

‘Me?’ asked Gwenllian in alarm. ‘But I-’

‘She will,’ predicted Cole with touching confidence.

Cole was unrealistically disappointed when dawn broke the following day, and he discovered that there was still too much snow for their guests to leave. Gwenllian’s feelings were ambiguous. On the one hand, she was glad there would be time to unmask the killer before her suspects left for good; on the other, she did not relish the thought of a killer in her home, or the prospect of keeping the two factions apart for a second day.

The morning was taken up with burying Pontius. Cole attended the gloomy ceremonies with Gerald and Foliot, while Gwenllian entertained the Austins in the castle. Burchill was allocated the unenviable task of minding the two knights.

The afternoon turned to wind and sleet, forcing the visitors indoors, although Cole and his labourers persisted with their work on the walls. He sent them home when Iefan arrived to report some trouble in the town – the merchants had raised the price of bread on the grounds that their customers could not leave town to find better deals elsewhere. Food was now prohibitively expensive, and the poor objected.

Left to manage the guests with only Archdeacon Osbert to help her – Burchill had sent a message saying that he was unavailable – Gwenllian asked Robert for The Play of Adam. A sly expression crossed the young Austin’s face.

‘You may have it only if you agree to let me play God.’

‘I shall decide who plays what,’ she retorted with an icy hauteur that reminded him she was a princess of Wales. ‘Now fetch the script at once.’

Chastened, Robert slunk away, but not before she had seen the vicious resentment on his face. She recalled what had been said about the monk who had died at Oseney – that he might have been killed with poisoned wine, and that Gerald and Dunstan had accused each other of the crime. Yet Robert had mentioned being bullied by him, so perhaps he was the guilty party. And then, flushed with success, he had decided to make an attempt on Gerald, with Pontius paying the price.

‘I am not in the mood for drama,’ said Secretary Hurso apologetically. ‘I slept badly last night, and I would rather sit in our room and read. Do you mind?’

Gwenllian could hardly refuse. The others clustered around Robert eagerly, though, snatching at the scroll as they decided which roles best suited their talents. Gwenllian was not surprised when Gerald and Dunstan were rivals to Robert for the role of God, and there was considerable ill feeling until she had negotiated a series of compromises.

They began by sitting around the fire to read the script aloud, and she was astonished when calm descended. She was a little uncomfortable with Gerald and Dunstan as Cain and Abel, but the scene passed off without incident.

Gerald, Foliot and Dunstan quickly revealed themselves to be competent performers, because they were used to public speaking. Robert was adequate, Luci enthusiastic and Norrys wooden. Unfortunately, there were few sections where all participants were needed at once, so they tended to wander off, and she was unable to monitor them all. Archdeacon Osbert helped, although Gwenllian noticed that he paid particular attention to Gerald, indicating who was his prime suspect for Pontius’s murder.

Eventually, the light began to fade, so the clerics went to the chapel for evening prayers, while Norrys and Luci disappeared to check their horses. Cole arrived shortly after dark, cold, wet and anxious.

‘I have no authority to dictate prices, but I wish I did,’ he said, pulling off his sodden clothes and reaching for dry ones. ‘What the merchants are doing is shameful – profiteering, no less – and I do not blame the poor for objecting.’

‘How did you resolve it?’ Gwenllian asked. They were in the chamber where Pontius had died, because Gerald and Foliot still occupied the one they usually used. Little Meurig was fretful in the unfamiliar surroundings, and she was trying to rock him to sleep.

‘I have not resolved it – sleet drove them home. Trouble may break out again later, though, so Burchill will patrol for the first half of the night, and I shall take the second.’

‘Oh, Symon! Burchill has been out in the cold with you all afternoon, and he is no longer as young as he was. You cannot expect him to work half the night too.’

‘He has not been with me,’ said Cole, startled. ‘I sent him to help you.’

Gwenllian experienced a surge of unease, although she was careful to conceal it. What had the old knight been doing? Shirking, because neither quelling riots nor minding querulous guests was his idea of fun? It was not the first time he had sloped off on business of his own of late, and although there was no reason to suspect anything untoward, it bothered her none the less.

‘I do not suppose you have learned the identity of our saboteur, have you?’ asked Cole hopefully. ‘I know you have been busy, but it is important.’

‘Not as important as preventing influential churchmen from killing each other,’ she replied tartly. ‘And discovering who murdered Pontius.’

‘You have identified the culprit, then?’ asked Cole, eagerly. ‘Who is it?’

She scowled. ‘Of course not! I am not a miracle worker, Symon.’

‘You are to me,’ he said with a beatific smile.

Hurso did not appear for the meal that night, and when Gwenllian enquired after his wellbeing, she was surprised and then concerned to learn that he had not been seen for some time. Robert was sent to check their room, but returned to say the secretary was not there.

‘I saw him in the bailey late afternoon,’ the lad said. ‘He was yawning and stretching, as though he had been asleep, but had woken and was walking to clear his wits.’

‘I saw him then too,’ said Luci. ‘When I was returning from the latrines. It was sleeting hard, and I suggested he did not linger outside.’

‘I am afraid I did not notice much once we started reading,’ said Foliot apologetically. ‘I left the hall for a while – in search of peace, so I could memorise my part in the story of “Jonah and the Whale”. You came with me, Osbert, and we found a quiet room by the kitchens. Did you see Hurso?’

‘No,’ replied Osbert. He regarded the bishop elect with open suspicion. ‘But I saw Gerald, pacing around in the wet.’

‘I was learning my lines,’ declared Gerald haughtily. ‘It was damp, but free of babble.’

‘I will look for Hurso,’ said Cole, standing and obviously relieved to pass the duty of entertaining back to Gwenllian again.

When he had gone, the conversation became acerbic, thanks to Norrys, who intimated that Gerald had harmed the secretary in revenge for what had happened to Pontius.

‘In revenge?’ pounced Gerald. ‘That suggests you murdered Pontius, and so expect Hurso to be dispatched in return.’

‘No one has “dispatched” Hurso,’ stated Foliot, shocked. ‘What a terrible thing to say! He will have found some warm corner to read, and has fallen asleep.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Dunstan, his pale goat-eyes curiously devoid of emotion. He rounded on Gerald. ‘However, no one in my party murdered your Pontius.’

‘I shall complain to the Pope about you,’ threatened Gerald viciously. ‘I shall have you and your archbishop expelled from the Church. And good riddance!’

‘You will never be in a position to excommunicate us,’ snarled Dunstan. ‘And-’

‘I have arranged something special for you this evening,’ interrupted Gwenllian loudly. ‘Cethynoc the mason has agreed to come and talk to you about castle-building.’

‘Castle-building,’ echoed Robert in astonishment. ‘But I do not know anything about it.’

‘Even more reason to listen, then,’ said Gwenllian tartly. ‘You may learn something.’

Before the young man could argue, she ushered the visitors towards the hearth and began to pour wine, at the same time embarking on a detailed description of a recent journey to Bath. [1] She spoke in a rapid gabble to ensure there were no interruptions, certain there would be a quarrel if she permitted conversation.

Just when she was running out of things to say, Cethynoc slouched in, furious at being ordered to spend his evening ‘working’, and began a dreary monologue on pulleys and scaffolding that would not hold anyone’s attention for long. Gerald was the first to roll his eyes, although Foliot listened with polite attention. Dunstan pretended to be asleep, and Norrys produced a pair of dice. Gwenllian was about to order him to put them away – Cole did not permit gambling in the castle, because it led to fights – when rescue came in the form of Robert, albeit unwittingly.

‘I suppose raising fortresses is a lucrative business?’ he asked with a bored sigh.

Cethynoc smiled for the first time since Gwenllian had known him, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘Oh, yes. I am a rich man.’

That secured everyone’s attention. ‘How rich?’ asked Gerald keenly.

Cethynoc’s grin was smug. ‘Very rich. Of course, I have other business interests too. Would you like to hear about them? You may learn something to make you wealthy.’

The entire party leaned forward eagerly, and Gwenllian suspected he was about to spin some tale that would allow him to laugh at their gullibility in the tavern later. She did not care, and was just happy for them to be occupied. Then she saw Cole gesturing to her urgently from the door, and excused herself.

‘I have found Hurso,’ he whispered. ‘He is dead.’

‘What?’ Gwenllian pulled him into the corridor so they could speak without being seen or heard. ‘Are you sure?’

Cole nodded. ‘He was hanging from a rope on the wall’s scaffolding. I cut him down and carried him to the chapel. It was not suicide – he was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ echoed Gwenllian, shocked. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because his fingernails are torn, and there is a cut on the back of his head. Clearly, he was knocked insensible during a fight, after which his opponent tied a rope around his neck and tipped him off the scaffolding.’

Gwenllian was appalled. ‘I cannot believe it! The King will not overlook two suspicious deaths. He will use them to oust you.’

‘Not if we can prove they were none of my doing.’

Gwenllian thought he was being naïve, but said nothing. She considered what they had been told about Hurso’s last hours. ‘Robert and Luci saw him alive late in the afternoon, and everyone was in the hall eating by dark. That means he must have been killed roughly between four and six o’clock. Unfortunately, all our guests slipped away at some point during that time, when they were not needed for reading.’

‘You cannot narrow our suspects down at all?’ asked Cole, dismayed.

Gwenllian considered carefully. ‘Luci – he was not gone long enough to have reached the walls, killed someone and come back. And Foliot has an alibi in Archdeacon Osbert. But that still leaves Gerald, Prior Dunstan, young Robert and the Hospitallers. I am sorry, Symon! I was so intent on keeping the peace that I did not pay attention to their comings and goings. I should have done.’

‘It does not matter.’ Cole was thoughtful. ‘The sleet turned to rain at roughly four o’clock, which means that anyone out for any length of time would still be wet. Look at me – I am drenched from being out for just a few moments.’

‘They all came in sodden at some point, and I made a joke about it, but they said they were glad, because rain melts snow.’ Gwenllian felt a surge of panic. ‘Then they will leave, and we will never have answers!’

‘What about motives?’ asked Cole calmly. ‘I understand why Gerald would kill Hurso – it is revenge for Pontius. But why would the two Austins or the two knights harm one of their own party?’

‘Perhaps it was a sacrifice, to ensure that Gerald or Foliot did not murder them. Or maybe there was a quarrel, which led to murderous rage. I shall speak to our servants. Someone must have seen something – the scaffolding is in full view of the castle.’

‘Not the part where I found Hurso. I would have missed him were it not for the creak of the rope as he swung in the wind. I investigated the sound, because I thought it might be another “accident” in the offing.’

‘This is dreadful!’ Gwenllian felt weak with horror for the evil that was unfolding around them. ‘We will lose Carmarthen for certain!’

‘Then we shall live in Normandy. It is not so terrible.’

‘How can you even think of leaving our friends at the mercy of one of John’s creatures?’ cried Gwenllian, distressed. ‘Besides, who is to say that he will let you leave the country? He might consider you a traitor and order your execution.’

Cole blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘He might, I suppose. He certainly prefers his enemies dead to living, and he does not like me. So ask your questions in the servants’ quarters, while I try to make sure no one else dies before you have exposed the culprit.’

Unfortunately, Gwenllian learned nothing useful. The foul weather had kept their retainers indoors, while Cole had sent the labourers home long before Hurso had taken his final, fatal stroll. She persisted with the castle’s residents regardless, hoping one would remember Hurso walking – and someone watching or following him.

‘You cannot have stayed in the entire time.’ She felt near to tears, terrified of what would happen if she failed to unmask the killer. ‘Some of you must have gone to the latrines, or to fetch water from the well.’

‘None of us did,’ explained the cook, ‘because of Norrys. We remember when he was constable here, see, and when he left… well, suffice to say there was great rejoicing and he is a man for grudges. We kept out of the bailey on purpose, in case we met him.’

She returned to the hall to find Gerald and Foliot on one side of the hearth, and the Canterbury men on the other. Cole, Archdeacon Osbert and Burchill were standing between them, to keep them apart. Norrys’s hand twitched over his sword, and Luci’s face was pale and drawn. Foliot was gripping Gerald’s arm, as if he thought his bishop elect was on the verge of leaping up and launching an attack on their adversaries.

‘You murdered Hurso,’ Robert was snarling to Gerald. ‘Because you believe – without cause – that one of us hurt Pontius. But you will pay. I liked Hurso. He was kind to me.’

‘I cannot imagine why,’ said Gerald disdainfully. ‘You are a vile little worm.’

Red with rage, Robert lunged at him. Cole shoved him back. Dunstan objected to an Austin being manhandled, Gerald applauded it, and then a nasty altercation was underway. Gwenllian took the opportunity to study her suspects. The only dry one among them was Osbert – and the bald archdeacon was not on her list of suspects! She caught his eye and made a desperate sign that he should say something to quell the spat before it turned violent.

‘I am going to the chapel to pray for Hurso’s soul,’ Osbert obliged. It was a clever ploy: Dunstan and Gerald could hardly continue to bicker after such a pious suggestion.

‘So will I,’ said the prior. ‘He was my secretary, after all. Robert, come with me.’

‘I would rather do it here,’ said the lad, not moving. ‘It is still raining, and I do not want to get wet.’

Even Dunstan seemed taken aback at such selfishness, while Gerald and Luci shook their heads in disgust. Norrys only smirked.

‘I still cannot believe it,’ said Foliot shakily. He looked at Cole. ‘Are you sure Hurso is dead? You cannot be mistaken?’

‘No,’ replied Cole gently. ‘I am sorry.’

‘You will be,’ said Norrys coldly. ‘It will mean the end of you. King John will certainly not overlook two murders in as many days.’

There was nothing Cole could say to such a remark, so he turned and led the way to the chapel, where he had set Hurso on a bier and covered him with a blanket. Unceremoniously, Prior Dunstan hauled off the blanket, and did not seem particularly dismayed as he looked at the man who had been his secretary.

Meanwhile, Gwenllian noticed Foliot watching his bishop elect intently. Then Foliot looked at Osbert, who shook his bald head, a stricken expression on his face. She could only assume that Foliot had shared his suspicions with a fellow priest. She clenched her hands to prevent them from shaking. She did not want the culprit to be Gerald – a Welsh candidate for the See of St Davids, and a man – a kinsman – she liked.

She studied the others. Norrys’s eyes flashed with vengeful satisfaction, and it occurred to her that he was certainly the kind of man to kill a member of his own party in order to harm Symon. Luci was quiet and shocked, and she thought she saw the glitter of tears.

‘We should establish who was where between four and six o’clock,’ said Cole. ‘It is-’

‘Then let us start with you,’ interrupted Norrys. ‘Did Gerald pay you to kill Hurso? Or did Hurso find out that you dispatched Pontius, so had to be silenced? Perhaps that was what Hurso was doing all afternoon – not reading, but investigating murder.’

‘I hardly think that Sir Symon-’ began Archdeacon Osbert angrily.

‘It is Cole’s castle.’ Norrys rounded on him. ‘He will know where to lure a victim, so there will be no witnesses to the foul deed.’

‘Symon has an alibi in half the town,’ said Gwenllian sharply. ‘He was quelling riots when Hurso was killed, and dozens of people can testify to that fact.’

‘You are familiar with the castle too, Norrys,’ said Gerald when the Hospitaller had nothing to say. ‘You were once its constable. And personally, I think it is suspicious that you are so eager for Cole to be blamed. So tell us where you were when Hurso died.’

Norrys scowled. ‘Learning the role of King Nebuchadnezzar – on my own. I could not concentrate with all that jabbering in the hall, so I came to the chapel.’

‘Can anyone vouch for you?’ asked Cole.

Norrys regarded him with open hatred. ‘No, but I have no reason to kill Hurso. The archbishop hired me to protect him.’

‘Which you failed to do,’ Gerald pointed out. ‘Luci? Do you have a better story?’

Luci nodded. ‘I went out briefly – a moment, no more – when I saw Hurso in the bailey. But it was cold and wet, so I hurried back inside and did not leave again. Lady Gwenllian will confirm that I am telling the truth.’

Gwenllian nodded, and Cole turned questioning eyebrows on Dunstan.

‘I was in many places,’ replied the prior unhelpfully. ‘I am an active man, and I dislike being pent up indoors. I walked around both baileys, to stretch my legs.’

Gwenllian was dissatisfied with this explanation, and so was Gerald because his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

‘I went out, but Archdeacon Osbert was with me,’ said Foliot before Gerald could speak. ‘We practised our roles for “Jonah and the Whale” in a room near the kitchens. God help us, but we laughed together while a man was being…’ He trailed off, unable to continue.

‘When we finished, I walked with Foliot to the hall, then came to the chapel to say my offices,’ added Osbert. ‘I did not see Norrys here, though.’

‘You must have missed me in the dark,’ said Norrys. Then he realised the chapel was far too small for that, so added, ‘Or I left a few moments before you arrived. Regardless, I am not the culprit.’

‘I also spent time alone,’ said Gerald. ‘In my room. I was praying, so my alibi is God. However, no one can possibly suspect me of this crime. I am bishop elect.’

It was some time before Gwenllian and Cole were able to steer their guests from the hall to their quarters, because neither party wanted to sleep. Prior Dunstan, Gerald and young Robert were the most vocal, while Norrys watched the efforts of Foliot, Luci and Gwenllian to calm them with spiteful satisfaction.

‘It is late,’ said Cole, loudly and with finality. ‘And time for us all to rest.’

‘I agree,’ said Dunstan, standing. ‘I shall pray for Hurso in the chapel, then retire.’

‘I would not walk across that dark bailey if I were you,’ said Norrys slyly. ‘Not alone.’

‘Then come with me,’ snapped Dunstan. ‘It is what you are being paid for – to protect me from danger.’

‘And me,’ added Robert. ‘Although I hope you do a better job than you did with Hurso.’

‘I will go with you, Father Prior,’ said Luci quickly. ‘Unless you prefer to say your prayers in your room instead. God will not mind, and it will be much more comfortable.’

‘Very well,’ said Dunstan, capitulating quickly. ‘Robert can go in my place.’

‘I most certainly shall not,’ cried Robert. ‘It might be dangerous.’

Dunstan regarded him witheringly. ‘Canon Wilfred lied when he told me you were a selfish brat with no sense of propriety. He was being far too charitable.’

Gerald roared with laughter, and Dunstan strode away with his head held high. Robert scurried after him, his face dark with fury, and Luci was hot on their heels, apparently afraid of what might happen once they were alone. Norrys watched expressionlessly, then poured himself more claret. Gerald’s amusement faded as he studied Norrys’s wine-flushed face and belligerent eyes.

‘Who will guard me tonight?’ he asked Cole in a low voice. ‘I shall be slaughtered in my bed, and Wales will lose the best bishop that God has ever provided.’

‘Do not worry,’ said Foliot. ‘I shall sit by our door, and prevent anyone from entering.’

As Gwenllian had just finished treating Foliot’s injured shoulder with a hot poultice, she doubted he would be much use in a scuffle. Then it occurred to her that he might be just as concerned to keep Gerald in, as keeping others out.

‘Both of you will sleep,’ stated Cole. ‘I shall stand guard the first half of the night, and Iefan will take over when I relieve Burchill. No one will harm you, I promise.’

Gerald nodded acquiescence, and Cole accompanied him and Foliot to their chamber. Gwenllian followed, and when the two priests had closed the door, she put her ear to the wood to listen, eager to learn whether Foliot would confront Gerald with his suspicions. But neither man spoke, and after a while the light went out under the door.

‘Go to bed, Gwen,’ said Cole. ‘One of us should be alert tomorrow.’

She nodded, but made no effort to leave. ‘Do not forget that Gerald may be the killer, cariad,’ she whispered. ‘He is one of our five suspects. Be careful.’

‘If he did kill Hurso, then his motive will have been to avenge Pontius. But if that is the case, then who dispatched Pontius? Or do we have two killers on the loose? We might, I suppose. Both groups hate each other, and emotions are running high.’

‘No,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘Murder is a terrible thing, and I do not believe there are two deranged monsters in our castle. There is one, and we must catch him before he leaves, or King John will hold you responsible. And I am not ready to be a widow just yet.’

Cole was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘At the risk of sounding petty, I think Norrys is the culprit. Murders in my castle suit him very well, and as a knight, he is no stranger to violent death.’

‘No,’ agreed Gwenllian. ‘And he claims to be close to the King, who is keen to see you ousted. For all we know, John ordered him to make trouble here, with the promise that Norrys will be constable when you are no longer in office.’

‘You think John would order priests murdered?’ Cole was shocked.

Gwenllian shrugged. ‘Not openly – he is far too clever for that. Indeed, he may not have mentioned murder at all, but left Norrys free to do whatever he deemed necessary.’

‘Should I arrest Norrys, then?’ asked Cole worriedly. ‘Lord! John will not like that!’

‘Not yet. Norrys is a strong suspect, but not the only one.’

‘True. We have eliminated Foliot and Luci, so we are left with him, Gerald, Dunstan and Robert. I suppose Robert is next on my list – he is a horrible lad. No wonder Oseney Abbey lent him to Dunstan: they were desperate to be rid of him.’

‘Oseney,’ mused Gwenllian. ‘We must not forget that other suspicious death, either -Wilfred. There was talk of poison, and Robert freely admits that Wilfred was a bully.’

‘So Robert may have dispatched him? Then realised that murder is an easy way to dispense with people he does not like, so he tried to kill Gerald but got Pontius instead? And he dispatched Hurso when the secretary guessed what had happened?’

‘It is certainly possible.’

‘Or perhaps the culprit is the same man who has arranged our series of “accidents”. A falling stone, a hanging from scaffolding – both are incidents he might have organised.’

‘If that were true, then our guests cannot be responsible, because none of them were here when those mishaps first started. It would mean that the murderer is from Carmarthen – a soldier, servant or labourer.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Cole uncomfortably. ‘You are right.’

Gwenllian took a deep breath, knowing what she was about to say would be greeted with anger and disbelief. ‘Burchill sent me a note to say he was “unavailable” this afternoon, even though he knew I needed his help – and so, I imagine, did you. He also plied Norrys with enough drink to make him aggressive yesterday, and he has been indiscreet with gossip. It was he who told Norrys about the accidents on the wall.’

Cole stared at her. ‘You think Burchill is the murderer? No! How could you even think such a thing? He is not a killer!’

‘He is a knight, Symon – of course he is a killer! And he has been on crusade, one of the bloodiest and most disreputable acts ever committed by one group of men against another.’

‘No,’ said Cole stubbornly. ‘Now go to bed. We shall not discuss this again.’

Gwenllian slept poorly that night, wishing she had kept her suspicions about Burchill to herself. Cole was recklessly loyal to his friends, but many did not deserve it. And she knew it must gall Burchill to take orders from a man three decades younger than he.

The hour candle showed it was one o’clock when she heard Iefan arrive and Cole leave to relieve the elderly knight from his patrols in the town. Little Meurig shifted in his sleep, and she wondered whether her discomfiture was transferring itself to him. She rocked the crib gently, then returned to bed, thinking about the murders and the suspects.

She slept deeply shortly before dawn, and was heavy-eyed and sluggish when the maid came to wake her. She washed and dressed quickly, hurrying to reach the hall before her guests. She arrived just in time to prevent Norrys from upsetting a vat of porridge over Gerald, and silenced Robert with a glare when the boy began a speech outlining why the Pope would never raise St Davids to an archbishopric.

The others were in a sombre mood, and she suspected they had slept as badly as she had. When the door clanked open, they all jumped in alarm. It was Burchill, who looked very well rested, and she wondered whether he had worked as hard at peace-keeping the previous night as he should have done.

‘The weather is much milder this morning,’ he smiled, rubbing his hands together briskly. ‘And the snow is melting fast. It will not be long before you can leave.’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Dunstan, crossing himself. ‘When? Today?’

Burchill shook his head. ‘Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after, if the thaw continues.’

Gwenllian was torn between wishing them gone before anyone else died, and needing them to stay so she could catch the culprit. She experienced a surge of helplessness. But how was she to find answers when every waking moment was spent trying to prevent quarrels? She fought down her rising panic, and filled her mind with resolve instead. No sly killer was going to give the King an excuse to blame Symon! If the guests argued, then so be it, but that day, she was going to concentrate on asking questions.

‘I shall be glad to be home,’ Gerald was saying. ‘Although I wish Pontius was coming with me. He was my most loyal supporter – and a friend, too.’

‘Was he?’ asked Prior Dunstan smoothly. ‘You cannot be Bishop of St Davids without your most loyal supporter, so perhaps you had better do the decent thing and withdraw.’

‘Never!’ declared Gerald. ‘I have been called by God, and it is not for me to refuse Him. And not for you to thwart Him, either.’

‘It will not be pleasant to break the sad news about Pontius to our Cathedral colleagues,’ said Foliot quietly. ‘He was popular.’

‘Not as popular as Hurso,’ countered Robert, purely to argue. ‘His death is a terrible blow to our Order, because…’ He struggled to think of a valid reason. ‘… because he had lovely writing.’

Gerald released a bray of derisive laughter, which had Prior Dunstan leaping furiously to his feet and Robert ducking behind him. Luci closed his eyes, as if in despair, while Foliot appeared to be praying under his breath.

‘I am sorry you will all leave with a negative impression of Carmarthen,’ said Norrys, although there was no sincerity in his voice. He poured himself more breakfast ale. ‘So I invite you all to return here when I am constable. I guarantee that no one will be murdered under my governorship. Cole is a-’

‘Stop,’ ordered Luci sharply. ‘It is not polite to denigrate one’s hosts, and I want no part in it. Ah, here is Archdeacon Osbert.’

Osbert had come to inform them of the arrangements he had made for burying Hurso, having persuaded the Carmarthen Austins to spare a plot in their cemetery. Gerald decided to accompany the cortège, because he said the priory was in his See, and Foliot offered to go too. Gwenllian was under the distinct impression that he was reluctant to let the bishop elect out of his sight – and not because he felt Gerald needed protection, either.

The little party set out, slithering on the rapidly melting ice. There was still a good deal of white on the surrounding hills, but it was melting quickly and Gwenllian thought Burchill was right to say the visitors would soon be able to leave. She turned to tell him so, but he had vanished. She was alarmed to note that Norrys was nowhere to be seen either.

‘Where has Norrys gone?’ she asked of Luci, who seemed quiet and preoccupied.

Luci shrugged. ‘He has friends here. He has probably gone visiting.’

Gwenllian was distinctly uneasy, but she put Norrys from her mind as they reached the market, and she saw the crowds that had gathered there, mostly people from the poorer part of the settlement. The mood was ugly, and the houses of several wealthy merchants had been pelted with dung. Cole was in the middle with his soldiers, struggling to keep the mob at bay. Gwenllian walked towards him, confident in the knowledge that not even the most reckless rioter would dare harm her.

‘Order them home,’ she whispered. ‘They cannot cause trouble if they are indoors.’

‘They all have legitimate reasons for being out,’ he replied tiredly. ‘Clearing the streets would be tantamount to declaring martial law.’

She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze before hurrying after their guests, glad he was prepared to be tolerant. Carmarthen folk were not naturally rebellious, and an iron fist was likely to be counterproductive. He was wise to be patient.

It did not take long to bury Hurso at the Austin Priory. Osbert raced through the ceremonies at a furious lick, unwilling to linger lest there was another outbreak of hostilities. It started to rain as they walked back to the castle, a drenching that went some way to emptying the streets of resentful paupers too. Gwenllian was glad to reach the warmth of the hall, and was also glad when Osbert offered to stay and help her with the guests.

‘Shall we rehearse The Play of Adam?’ she asked quickly, as Dunstan and Gerald began to fight over a fireside chair. ‘Or would it be unseemly after a funeral?’

‘It is a religious work,’ stated Gerald loftily, ‘so I declare it a suitable pastime. Besides, what else can we do? I am not going out again in this weather.’

‘He means he is too frightened to wander lest someone repays him for murdering Hurso,’ said Robert slyly. ‘I suspect the corbel fell on Pontius by accident, but he killed Hurso in revenge, and now he is afraid of being a victim himself.’

‘I think we are all afraid,’ said Archdeacon Osbert softly before Gerald could reply. ‘But I do not believe any of us are killers. I think the culprit is a stranger who-’

‘You are right,’ nodded Norrys. ‘Carmarthen is a pit of insurrection, so of course killers, robbers and other villains stalk its streets. Cole should keep better control.’

‘Speaking of riots, I had better relieve Symon,’ said Burchill. ‘He will be anxious to return here and hunt the murderer.’

‘Where were you all day yesterday?’ asked Gwenllian, unease and fear prompting her to speak more bluntly than she had intended.

Burchill regarded her thoughtfully. ‘About my own business. Why?’

‘Because Symon needed your help to quell the trouble in the town, and I would have liked you here, but you were not available for either of us.’

Burchill sighed. ‘Yes, but it could not be helped.’

‘So where were you?’ pressed Gwenllian.

Burchill stared at her for a moment before replying. ‘If you do not identify the killer, Norrys will tell the King, and Symon will lose Carmarthen – or worse. I suggest you concentrate on that.’

Seething, Gwenllian watched him go. The pompous ass! How dare he remind her of her duties! And what was he hiding that he felt the need to conceal behind such strictures?

There was a buzz of excitement in the hall: the servants had scraped together an array of costumes and the players were eager to try them on. Their bubbling enthusiasm seemed inappropriate after a burial, and Gwenllian wondered whether they were ruthless or just putting brave faces on matters. Archdeacon Osbert was disinclined for frivolity, though, and asked if he might be excused the dressing-up.

‘I am surprised they are so excited over a drama,’ he confided. ‘To be frank, I would have thought such antics beneath their dignity.’

Foliot overheard and smiled wanly. ‘Why? Clerics are used to dressing up in elaborate garments and holding forth. The stage is their natural home.’

‘But not yours?’ asked Gwenllian.

Foliot shook his head. ‘I have never liked a lot of attention.’

‘How is your shoulder?’ asked Gwenllian, seeing him raise his hand to it. ‘Better?’

‘A little.’ Foliot smiled ruefully. ‘I do not usually tumble off ponies, but it was during an ambush.’

‘Which ambush?’ asked Osbert politely. ‘Gerald told me you were attacked twice.

Foliot nodded. ‘Once in Brecon and once in Trecastle. I fell in Trecastle, and would have been embarrassed had I not landed so terribly painfully.’

Gwenllian decided it was a good time to speak to Foliot without the others listening. Osbert started to leave, but she gestured for him to stay. There was nothing wrong with having the Archdeacon of Carmarthen as a witness to her interviews.

‘Who do you think killed Pontius?’ she asked of Foliot.

The priest shook his head slowly. ‘I believe it was an accident, and your bad-tempered mason gave a false report to make trouble. As Norrys says, the castle is unstable, and there have been similar incidents on the walls.’

‘Hurso’s death was not an accident, though,’ pressed Gwenllian. ‘Who killed him?’

Foliot swallowed hard. ‘I do not know.’

‘Gerald?’ asked Gwenllian baldly.

‘No,’ replied Foliot, but he would not meet her eyes. He glanced at Osbert, though, and the archdeacon looked away quickly. ‘Gerald is proud and haughty, but I do not believe… murder is a terrible sin… He is bishop elect!’ He all but wailed the last words.

‘The culprit must be Robert,’ said Osbert, although he did not sound convinced. ‘He is a spiteful lad. Or perhaps it is Norrys, because he wants Cole disgraced.’

‘You believe Dunstan and Luci innocent, then?’

Osbert shrugged, and another glance was exchanged. Gwenllian lost patience.

‘What do you two know that you are not telling me?’ she demanded. ‘It is no time for games, because we shall all suffer if Norrys tells the King that it is Symon’s fault.’

‘We know nothing,’ objected Foliot in a strangled voice. ‘We just have suspicions and… I cannot say more. However, I promise I will tell you the moment we have solid proof.’

‘Solid proof of what?’ snapped Gwenllian, but Foliot would not be budged. He raced away in relief when Gerald shouted for him.

‘He is a good man,’ said Osbert, rubbing a hand absently over his bald head. ‘I have known him for years. It is a pity he is so shy, because the Church needs men of integrity in its upper ranks. Do not press him to speak before he is ready, my lady. He is not a man to besmirch the name of another without incontrovertible evidence.’

Frustrated and angry, Gwenllian hoped it would not be too late.

Although Luci had also been exonerated – from killing Hurso, at least – Gwenllian cornered him next. The scholarly knight seemed observant, and she was hopeful that he might have some intelligent observations to make.

‘I have been making enquiries,’ he confided. ‘Although with scant success. I hope the matter is resolved before we leave, because I dislike the prospect of travelling all the way to Canterbury with three men who suspect each other of a double murder.’

‘So you believe the killer is Dunstan, Robert or Norrys?’ pounced Gwenllian.

‘Or Gerald, but they will forget about him once we are on our way.’

He had no more to add, so she let him go, warning him to be on his guard if he planned to ask questions. He grinned at her, amused that she should think he might not know how to look after himself.

‘Luci has changed since we were at Oseney,’ said Gerald, coming to stand next to her. ‘He was much more light-hearted then. Perhaps being with Dunstan has worn him down. Or Norrys, who is a beast. I pity Carmarthen if he ever rules it again.’

‘I do not intend to let that happen.’

‘You may have no choice. However, I shall write to King John and say that these deaths are not your husband’s fault. Dunstan is the guilty party – he murdered Pontius out of spite, and then he killed Hurso to disguise the fact.’

‘Why would he do such a thing?’

‘To harm me, of course. He hates the notion of returning to Canterbury and confessing that he has failed to convince St Davids to choose another candidate. He hopes that these murders will horrify me into withdrawing from the contest.’

‘Then he does not know you very well,’ said Gwenllian wryly.

‘No,’ agreed Gerald. ‘He tried to bully me in Oseney too – he engineered a meeting for that express purpose, but I soon put him in his place. He is a vile man, and it would not surprise me to learn that he killed that old man – Canon Wilfred – too.’

‘I heard about that. Was Wilfred dispatched with poisoned wine?’

‘He had been guzzling from a jug of his own, but he knocked it over in his death throes, which meant we could not test it. Dunstan must have been relieved.’

‘But why would Dunstan want to kill Wilfred?’

‘To blame the murder on me, of course. It did not work, because I left Oseney before accusations could be levelled.’

Gwenllian watched him walk away. It sounded as though Gerald had beat a very hasty retreat from Oseney Abbey. Had he been fleeing the scene of the crime?

Cole returned at noon, cold, wet and tired. He reported that the streets were quiet, but bread was still expensive and the poor were still outraged by the merchants’ profiteering. The trouble was far from over.

‘Would you like me to tell these greedy tradesmen that they will go to Hell unless they adopt a more reasonable position?’ offered Prior Dunstan.

‘Osbert has already tried that,’ said Cole. ‘It did not work.’

‘They said they would repent at the next confession, and then all would be well,’ explained the archdeacon unhappily, ‘because we have a forgiving God.’

‘I can disavow them of that notion,’ said Dunstan keenly. ‘I have had many a congregation quailing in its boots at my descriptions of Satan’s Palace.’

‘No,’ said Cole firmly. ‘They do not deserve that.’

‘As you wish,’ said Dunstan huffily. ‘Incidentally, I hope you have not forgotten these vicious murders in all the excitement of the riots. I do not want another of my party to die.’

Cole glanced hopefully at Gwenllian, and she hated having to shake her head to say she was still no further forward. She took the opportunity to question the prior.

‘I have been hearing tales about Canon Wilfred this morning,’ she began. ‘How he was fed poisoned wine.’

‘Who has been gossiping?’ demanded Dunstan. ‘Gerald, I suppose! Well, it is all lies. Wilfred died of natural causes. Robert did not conspire to avenge himself on a demanding, critical and harsh master.’

‘I see,’ she said, thinking it was a curious denial – one that made it sound as though there might be good reason to see young Robert as the culprit. Or was it a sly ruse to detract attention from Dunstan himself? ‘So Wilfred was not drinking wine when he died?’

‘He was – a large jug of expensive claret intended for the abbot’s guests.’ Dunstan’s frown was thoughtful. ‘Yet perhaps I am wrong to say he died a natural death. Perhaps God struck him down for depriving me of a delicious treat.’

‘And the Carmarthen murders?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘Who are your suspects for those?’

‘I only have one: Gerald. He killed Pontius because they never really saw eye to eye, no matter what he claims now. And he killed Hurso, because he knew I would be distraught to lose my secretary.’

The prior had not seemed distraught to Gwenllian. She studied him closely, but could read nothing in his face. Uneasy under scrutiny, Dunstan bowed and moved away.

‘Is he the culprit?’ asked Cole, staring after him. ‘He was suspiciously determined to blame someone else.’

‘They have all been doing that,’ sighed Gwenllian. Then she spoke more urgently. ‘Go and do something outside, Symon. Quickly! Norrys is coming, and he has been drinking all morning. He looks set for a fight.’

‘Then he shall have one, because I am not running away from him in my own castle.’

Before Gwenllian could explain the difference between running away and a prudent retreat, Norrys was there. His pugilistic face was twisted into a sneer, which looked odd with the stately robes he had donned to play Nebuchadnezzar. Cole regarded him askance, and Norrys’s realisation that he looked absurd did nothing to improve his temper.

‘So, you have riots in your town, murders in your castle and accidents on your walls,’ he began jeeringly. ‘Is there anything else wrong with your domain?’

‘The presence of surly guests with no manners,’ retorted Cole. He was usually slow to anger, and Gwenllian suspected that strain and tiredness had led him to snap.

‘We shall soon be gone,’ said Norrys. ‘And then the King will hear of the chaos here.’

‘Hardly chaos,’ said Cole coldly. ‘And there was no murder before you arrived.’

The blood drained out of Norrys’s face. ‘Are you accusing me?’

‘Why not? You hate the St Davids priests, and you do not seem especially enamoured of your own companions either. Moreover, I have been regaled with tales all day about your excesses when you were constable. Murder is no stranger to you.’

Gwenllian fell back with a cry of alarm when Norrys hauled his sword from his belt. Cole did likewise, and there was a sudden hush in the rest of the hall.

‘Put up your weapon,’ said Cole in disdain. ‘You are no match for me.’

It was hardly the most diplomatic of remarks, and with a yell of fury Norrys attacked. There was a brief clash of steel, and Gwenllian saw Symon was right: Norrys was a poor swordsman, and the fact that he was drunk did not help him. Cole defended himself almost lazily, then began an offensive of his own. Within moments, Norrys was disarmed and pinned against the wall. The Hospitaller showed no fear, only rage.

‘Will you skewer him?’ asked Gerald carelessly. ‘I probably would, in your position, because he has a poisonous tongue. However, it will make a terrible mess, and these are clean rushes. You had better let him go.’

‘Yes, do,’ agreed Prior Dunstan, although there was unease in his eyes, and Gwenllian suspected that he was less than impressed with the performance of the man who was supposed to be protecting him. She glanced around for Luci, lest he decided to help his fellow Hospitaller, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Cole stepped back and sheathed his sword. Norrys lunged again, but Cole had anticipated the move, and a punch sent him sprawling. Norrys’s face burned with hatred and humiliation. He drew a dagger and lobbed it, but it went well wide of its target.

‘Enough!’ snapped Cole, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and hauling him outside, where he deposited him cursing and struggling in a water trough. ‘Perhaps that will wash the wine from your wits.’

He strode away. There was a loud cheer from watching servants and soldiers, and Gwenllian closed her eyes in despair. Shame would make Norrys more dangerous than ever! She became aware of sniggering next to her, and saw Robert.

‘It is high time someone taught that bastard a lesson. He is a pig, and I bet he poisoned Canon Wilfred. He probably killed Pontius and Hurso too.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Gwenllian coolly.

‘Because he is a bitter man who hates everyone. Your husband should watch himself from now on, because Norrys will have his revenge.’

The remainder of the rehearsal passed without incident, although Gerald heckled Dunstan’s performance, and Dunstan heckled Gerald’s. The remarks grew steadily more acerbic as the afternoon wore on, and Gwenllian was relieved when the servants arrived to light lamps and prepare the hall for the evening meal. All smirked at Norrys, who had spent most of the time since his dunking sitting in a corner, seething silently.

‘We shall all go to the chapel,’ Gwenllian announced, because it was not somewhere Gerald and Dunstan could continue to score points off each other with their witticisms.

Archdeacon Osbert hurried away to prepare, while the guests divested themselves of their costumes and donned normal clothes. The service was quiet and peaceful, and went some way to soothing Gwenllian’s ragged nerves. She put murder from her mind, hoping answers would come when it was not so cluttered with questions and worries.

When the service was over, everyone trailed into the bailey, which was lit with pitch torches. Cole was just riding through the gate, Iefan at his heels. He dismounted, saw Burchill and began to brief him. Gwenllian wondered where the older man had been all day – not with Symon, if he needed a report of what had been happening. Iefan began to walk to the kitchens, an uncharacteristic heaviness in his tread. Gwenllian intercepted him.

‘What is wrong? The trouble in the town?’

The sergeant nodded, his face unhappier than she had ever seen it. ‘People cannot afford bread as it is, and Cethynoc decided this afternoon to stop all work on the walls because of the weather. It is all very well for him – he gets paid whether he works or not – but others have families.’

‘Most of the labourers are your kin,’ said Gwenllian, understanding his concern. She smiled encouragingly. ‘But the snow is melting. Building will start again soon, and folk will be able to leave the town in search of cheaper bread too.’

‘Unfortunately, all the merchants in the area have united in greed,’ said Iefan bitterly. ‘They realise they are a powerful force when they stand together, and I doubt they can be broken. Sir Symon says he does not have the authority to force them, but I think he should.’

‘I will speak to him,’ promised Gwenllian. ‘And the merchants too, if necessary. Do not worry. The wages of Carmarthen’s poor will not line the pockets of the rich.’

Iefan smiled at last, and grasped her hand in thanks. Then Gerald and Dunstan began to quarrel in response to something Norrys had said. The Hospitaller’s face was vindictive as he watched the results of his handiwork.

‘You preside over dinner,’ said Cole to Burchill, promptly reaching for the reins of his horse again. ‘Quelling insurrection is infinitely preferable to listening to that all evening.’

Burchill opened his mouth to object, but Cole was in the saddle and riding away before he could speak. Gwenllian beamed sweetly at him. He eyed her warily.

‘Have you had a busy day?’ she asked innocently.

‘Yes,’ replied Burchill shortly. He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we? Perhaps food will render these querulous clerics more benign.’

Gwenllian was not sure how long she had been asleep before Cole returned that night. He groped his way to the bed and sat next to her.

‘I thought I had better come to make sure no one else has been murdered,’ he said.

‘If they had, I would have sent for you. I am afraid I am no further forward with catching the killer, Symon.’ She sat up, worried. ‘Our guests might leave tomorrow, and they will have a terrible tale to take to the King.’

‘Not tomorrow – the roads are still too icy. But the day after is a strong possibility.’

‘You are exhausted,’ said Gwenllian, hearing the strain in his voice. ‘Sleep a little. Iefan and Burchill can manage without you for an hour.’

‘And let Norrys tell the King that I dozed while my town needed me? Still, at least I know who is responsible for the merchants’ cabal. It is William the corviser.’

‘He has always been a troublemaker, and he has disliked you ever since you fined him for cheating his customers. He will leap at any opportunity to cause you problems.’

‘Burchill and I eavesdropped on a speech he made in the Coracle tonight. He told his fellow merchants to raise their prices as high as they liked, saying that as long as they stand united, the townsfolk will have no choice but to pay.’

‘I assume you brought him to the castle? The others will crumble without his oily tongue to lead them astray, and I am sure I can persuade him to see the error of his ways.’

‘It was what I intended, but he escaped. Burchill was guarding the back door, but William managed to slip past him. I have no idea where William might have gone – he is not in his house. Still, I imagine he will reappear tomorrow.’

‘Burchill lost him?’ asked Gwenllian sharply.

‘There was nothing suspicious about it, Gwen.’ Cole sounded too tired to be angry. ‘Burchill is not as quick-footed as he was, and I should have taken that into account. It was my fault, not his.’

Gwenllian did not argue. ‘If you plan to lay hold of William tomorrow, be discreet. The other merchants will be outraged if you do it in front of them, and technically he has done nothing wrong. Profiteering is unethical, but not illegal.’

Cole was silent for a moment. ‘I do not suppose you have had time to investigate the saboteur, have you?’

‘No, I considered the murders more pressing,’ she replied rather shortly.

‘Quarrelsome clerics are not more important than my workmen,’ he said firmly. ‘But I shall catch the villain tonight. Obviously, he does not tamper with the walls during the day, when someone might see him, so logic dictates that he must work after dark. I plan to keep watch until dawn.’

‘You will be wasting your time,’ predicted Gwenllian. ‘First, because you cannot know he will strike tonight. And second, even if he does, you may already have missed him.’

‘It is a chance I am willing to take.’

‘Then I shall come with you,’ she determined, climbing off the bed and reaching for her outdoor clothes. ‘It will give me a chance to review all I know, and talking is good for clarifying confusion. Besides, it will help you to stay awake.’

‘It is too cold, and in your condition-’

‘I have a beautifully warm cloak, and my condition is irrelevant. Besides, I am sure you can find me a sheltered spot.’

Cole grumbled all the time she dressed, but fell silent as they left the hall, walking as stealthily and sure-footed as a cat while Gwenllian stumbled along behind him. He found a place where he could watch the entire wall, and arranged a tarpaulin so it would shelter her from the rain. It was a miserable night, but milder than it had been, and she was sure most of the snow would be washed away by dawn.

‘We have five suspects,’ she began, once they were settled. ‘None has an alibi for either death, and all have reasons to want Pontius and Hurso dead. Obviously, Norrys is at the top of the list, for the simple reason that their deaths will harm you. Next is that horrid Robert.’

‘Who may have killed Canon Wilfred too,’ added Cole. ‘A bully whom he hated.’

‘Prior Dunstan says it was a natural death, but the more I think about it, the more I believe that Wilfred was murdered, and that he is part of whatever is unfolding. Our next suspects are Dunstan and Gerald, both of whom are ruthless, and may well view two deaths as a necessary sacrifice to their ambitions. Although I like Gerald, and he is kin… ’

‘Who is the last suspect? I thought you had eliminated Foliot and Luci.’

‘Yes,’ said Gwenllian, reluctant to mention Burchill. ‘Luci has an alibi in me for Hurso’s death, while Foliot has Osbert. And there is the shoulder Foliot injured in his fall; he would have been in too much pain to clamber up a wall and start hacking at the mortar.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Cole, surprised. ‘Those bruises would not slow me down.’

‘But Foliot is a priest, not a warrior trained to make light of such matters. You cannot compare him to yourself.’

Frustrated, she realised that talking had clarified nothing. When she said no more Cole began to tell her his ideas regarding the saboteur. He refused to believe that one of his soldiers or labourers was responsible, so his suspicions revolved around a stranger breaking in.

‘And what does this mysterious outsider gain from his tampering?’ asked Gwenllian.

‘We shall ask when we catch him,’ replied Cole, thus indicating that his theory had not taken the question of motive into account.

‘Then tell me how he gets in?’ pressed Gwenllian. ‘You run a tight ship, and strangers are not permitted inside the castle after dark.’

Cole could not answer that either, and fell silent. Time passed slowly. He kept himself awake by standing up, but Gwenllian drowsed, despite the creeping chill. Eventually, the sky began to lighten in the east, and she heaved a sigh of relief that their futile vigil was at an end. She was about to suggest they repair to the kitchens for hot ale when Cole stiffened, and his hand dropped to his sword.

‘What?’ she whispered softly, straining her eyes in the gloom. Then she saw it: a shadow moving among the supplies.

Cole motioned for her to stay put, and crept towards it. She watched, heart thumping. He was perfectly capable of looking after himself, but she grabbed a piece of wood anyway, ready to race forward and defend him if the skirmish did not go according to plan.

Unfortunately, the wood was tied to something else, which clattered as she picked it up. The shadow whipped round, then made a run for it. Cole followed with a battle cry learned on the crusade, before launching himself forward in a flying tackle. It looked painful, and she was not surprised that his victim made no attempt to escape once pinned to the ground.

Cole peered at his captive in the gloom, then sat back in astonishment. ‘Iefan?’

‘Sir Symon!’ gasped the sergeant. ‘You scared the life out of me!’

‘What are you doing here?’ Cole climbed off him and hauled him to his feet.

‘I came to see whether you are right about the saboteur,’ Iefan replied. ‘If he does exist – and I am not saying he does – he will operate about now, when there is light enough to see by, but before the workmen arrive.’

‘He does exist,’ said Cole firmly. ‘And when I saw you moving through the supplies I thought you were him.’

‘And I thought you were a Saracen after my blood.’ Iefan scowled. ‘Did you have to wrestle me so roughly? If I had been a weaker man, you might have broken my neck.’

‘If you had been the saboteur, I would not have cared,’ retorted Cole.

Iefan started to say something else, but footsteps made them turn. It was Cethynoc. The mason stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Cole and Iefan, and had taken several steps away before realising that he had already been seen. He advanced reluctantly, his blunt face sullen and unsmiling.

‘You are here early,’ said Gwenllian, immediately suspicious. ‘Why?’

‘Because it will be a fine day, and I wanted to make an inspection of the site before the labourers arrive in the hope that we can resume building,’ Cethynoc replied, regarding her with an expression that was difficult to read in the dim light. She had no idea if he was telling the truth. ‘And you?’

He smirked when Cole told him about the misunderstanding with Iefan, and then began to prowl. It was not long before he pointed at a pile of stones.

‘You both wasted your time,’ he growled. ‘Look at that.’

‘What is wrong with it?’ asked Gwenllian, nonplussed.

Cethynoc touched the top one. It teetered ominously. ‘I did not stack it like that, and it was stable when I went home last night. Your saboteur was here sure enough.’

‘One stone moved hardly constitutes a-’ began Gwenllian.

‘You would think it was dangerous if you brushed against it and it fell on you,’ snapped Cethynoc. ‘It would not kill, but it might break toes – and it would delay us yet again, because Sir Symon would insist on yet another safety inspection before work resumed.’

‘You see?’ said Cole, looking at Gwen and Iefan in vindication. ‘There is your evidence. A saboteur is at work, and I will find him if it is the last thing I do. No one puts my men at risk and gets away with it.’

When Cole went to track down the greedy merchant William, Gwenllian had breakfast with the guests. Then, as Osbert was there, she suggested morning prayers in the chapel, charging the hapless archdeacon to make the ceremony as lengthy as possible. As soon as it was underway, she slipped out and hurried to the hall. Iefan was there, warming himself by the fire, so she commandeered his help, and together they explored the guests’ chambers and searched their baggage. Unfortunately, their illicit operation brought forth nothing in the way of clues.

‘The Mass has finished,’ said Iefan, glancing out of the window. He looked around quickly, to ensure all had been left as they had found it. ‘We should go.’

She followed him down the stairs. ‘I hope Symon did not hurt you with his energetic tackle this morning.’

Iefan shot her a rueful glance. ‘There is no saboteur. If there were, he would do something a lot more damaging than arranging a stone so it wobbled, or loosening a few knots. Besides, these things would not happen if he did not insist on working so fast.’

‘You think his eagerness to finish is making people careless?’

Iefan shook his head. ‘If a labourer is injured in an accident and cannot work, he and his family will starve. They know better than to take needless risks by rushing.’

‘Who then?’ pressed Gwenllian. ‘Cethynoc? Symon?’

‘Not Sir Symon.’ Iefan sighed. ‘And probably not Cethynoc, either, although I cannot bring myself to like the man. He cares for nothing except making money and telling tales to glorify himself in the taverns of an evening.’

He slipped away when they reached the bailey, to avoid the guests who were there, all glancing up at the sky and remarking to each other that the sun was already warm. It would soon melt what was left of the snow, and open the roads again.

Norrys was uncharacteristically silent, though. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes, suggesting he had dozed through the service, and Gwenllian strongly suspected that she and Cole had not been the only ones who had abandoned their bed the previous night. She wondered what Norrys had been doing.

‘Your archdeacon needs to learn the art of brevity,’ said Prior Dunstan sourly. ‘I have never heard such a rambling and inconsequential homily.’

‘I was not expecting to give one,’ objected Osbert. ‘I shall be better tomorrow.’

‘Do not bother on my account,’ said Gerald haughtily. ‘I shall leave this afternoon. The snow is disappearing rapidly, and it is time the bishop elect was home in his cathedral.’

‘St Davids is not your cathedral, and never will be,’ said Robert, his young face full of defiance. ‘The archbishop says so. You are dreaming.’

‘How dare you!’ cried Gerald. He rounded on Dunstan. ‘Keep your whelp in order, or I shall box his ears. He is not fit to wear an Austin habit.’

‘It is difficult to tell the condition of the roads from here,’ said Foliot, speaking quickly to prevent another spat. ‘So I suggest we inspect them for ourselves.’

There was a general move towards the gate, leaving Gwenllian uncertain as to whether she should go with them. The St Davids men turned right and began to walk towards the market, while the two Austins took the opposite direction. As his appointed guardian, Norrys should have gone with Prior Dunstan, but he followed Gerald instead.

‘I think I know the identity of the killer,’ said Luci, speaking urgently in her ear and making her jump. ‘I need the answer to one more question, and then I shall be sure.’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Gwenllian in relief. ‘Who is it?’

But Luci shook his head. ‘I cannot say until I am absolutely certain, lest I have made a mistake. But I will have my answer by tonight. Tell Cole to meet me by the castle walls at dusk – alone. I do not want our conversation overheard.’

He had gone before Gwenllian could offer to help him find his last answer.

Uneasy that Norrys was trailing Gerald, Gwenllian set off after them, Iefan walking solicitously at her side. She noted with alarm that there was far less snow than there had been the previous day, so that the killer might well leave in a matter of hours.

Carmarthen’s streets were oddly deserted, and there was none of the usual morning bustle. She saw why when she arrived at the market. A mass of ordinary folk thronged the middle, while a number of merchants had assembled outside the guildhall, resplendent in robes that flaunted their wealth. They were separated by a very thin line of soldiers.

‘Go home,’ Cole was shouting. ‘All of you. Fighting will solve nothing.’

‘We have no intention of fighting,’ came the arrogant tones of William the corviser, safely ensconced behind his fellow merchants. ‘You will do it for us. It is why we pay taxes, after all.’

‘Let me take you home, my lady,’ begged Iefan, tugging on Gwenllian’s cloak. With alarm, she saw that a number of the townsfolk held cudgels, knives and stones. ‘Sir Symon will never forgive me if anything happens to you.’

‘We are not going anywhere until we can buy bread at a decent price,’ shouted a brewer named Tancard, a man noted for his loud opinions. Gwenllian was not surprised that he was the spokesman for what might soon become a mob.

‘William and I will discuss it,’ said Cole shortly. ‘But not until you leave.’

‘Yes, leave,’ jeered William. ‘Scurry back to your hovels. And tomorrow, you will find that bread costs what we decide – not you, and certainly not Cole.’

‘One more remark like that, and I am going back to the castle,’ said Cole shortly. ‘You can defend yourselves against the people you are trying to cheat.’

‘Don’t you dare side with them!’ snarled William. ‘We are the ones who count in this town – the ones with power and money, who make things work. The poor are nothing.’

Unfortunately, it was true, although the merchants had never flexed their muscles in so disagreeable a manner before. Then Gwenllian happened to glance to one side, and saw Norrys watching from a doorway. He was smirking maliciously.

With sudden clarity, she recalled Archdeacon Osbert saying that William and Tancard had been Norrys’s friends when he was constable. And then she understood exactly why the knight had been so sleepy that morning, and why William had not been at home the previous night. They had spent the time plotting together.

She could see Luci watching too, his scholar’s face creased into a frown. Had he identified Norrys as the killer, committing murder as part of his plan to reinstate himself as constable? It seemed likely. She felt anger burn inside her at the enormity of what Norrys had done, and was about to stalk towards him and demand an explanation when there was a commotion nearby. It was Gerald, striding confidently through the crowd with an uneasy Foliot at his heels. The bishop elect looked every inch a prince of the Church with his haughty bearing and elegant robes. People instinctively parted to let him through.

‘If the King hears about your ridiculous antics, he will arrange for Norrys to replace Cole as constable,’ he said loudly, looking imperiously at merchants and paupers alike. ‘Do you want Norrys?’

‘Yes!’ shouted William immediately. ‘He will protect honest merchants from mobs.’

‘He will protect the poor too,’ added Tancard. ‘So bring back Norrys!’

‘Actually, I would rather have Cole,’ countered a merchant named Jung, while his fellows nodded agreement. ‘Norrys levied illegal taxes to line his own pockets when he was in power, and threatened to burn down my warehouse if I did not pay.’

‘Norrys taxed everyone, even the very poor,’ added a ditcher called Kedi. ‘He took bread from the mouths of children, and was a brutal tyrant. We do not want him back, thank you.’

There was a growl of agreement from the crowd, and Gwenllian saw Norrys’s face turn white with anger and indignation.

‘Think about what you wish for,’ said William to his fellow merchants. ‘Norrys will not side with paupers when we feel compelled to raise our prices. He will take our part.’

‘No, he will take ours,’ said Tancard to the crowd. ‘Because he is fair and decent.’

A lot of people laughed at this claim, rich and poor alike, and Norrys’s hands clenched into fists of rage at his side. He started to step forward, but then decided against it.

‘How much did Norrys pay you to cause trouble, William?’ asked Gerald. He swivelled round to include Tancard in his icy glare. ‘And you? I know for a fact that you spent an evening drinking together. Luci told me.’

William blanched and Tancard swallowed hard. Both began to deny the charges, but their guilt was so obvious that no one believed them. Meanwhile, Norrys was glowering furiously, and Luci had made himself scarce.

‘Norrys told William to persuade the merchants to raise their prices, and Tancard to make sure the poor were vocal in their objections,’ Gerald explained to the startled populace. ‘And you all reacted exactly as he hoped.’

‘No!’ cried William. ‘He is lying. Norrys never paid us to-’

‘But you did tell us to increase the cost of bread,’ interrupted Jung. ‘You said everyone would have to pay, because they would have no choice, and we could all make a quick profit. We knew it was wrong, but you were very persuasive, and we all like money…’

‘Put the prices back to where they were,’ said Cole tiredly. ‘William and Tancard, you are coming with me.’

‘You cannot arrest me!’ yelled William, outraged. ‘I am too important to-’

‘Do what you like with him, Sir Symon,’ said Jung, eyeing the corviser in distaste. ‘He no longer has our support.’

The mob surged forward, and it was not easy for Cole to extricate William and Tancard from the resulting mêlée. Both were bloody and bruised by the time he managed, and were glad to be incarcerated in a place where they would be safe from vengeful fists. Norrys was nowhere to be seen.

‘Thank you,’ said Gwenllian gratefully to Gerald. ‘You averted a crisis.’

‘All in a day’s work for the bishop elect of St Davids,’ said Gerald loftily. ‘Besides, I do not want Norrys as constable in my See – not a creature who is in the pay of Canterbury. And Cole will return the favour some day. Please make sure he does not forget it.’

Gwenllian was sure Gerald was quite capable of reminding Symon himself.

It was noon by the time the guests returned from inspecting the roads, and all agreed that it would be unwise to leave that day. However, the sunshine was warm, and more rain was expected that night, so they planned to leave Carmarthen first thing the following morning. It meant that Gwenllian had one afternoon and one evening to prevent more murders – and hope that Luci would be willing to share his conclusions. Or perhaps Foliot would have answers, given that he had intimated that he was exploring the matter too.

‘I am surprised you dare show your face here,’ she said coldly to Norrys, when the Hospitaller strutted boldly into the hall for the midday meal. ‘After what you did.’

Norrys shrugged. ‘You cannot prove Gerald’s accusations, and the King will not believe them. He will make me constable, and force Cole to answer for failing to keep the peace.’

Gwenllian was so taken aback by his audacity that she could think of nothing to say as he strode to where the food was waiting. She was about to follow him when Foliot approached, the other guests at his heels. Cole was with them after a morning working on the castle walls.

‘We must do something to repay you for your hospitality,’ he said, smiling shyly. ‘Shall we perform The Play of Adam for the town? We have been practising, after all.’

‘Yes,’ said Robert quickly. ‘But I shall agree to lending you my manuscript only on condition that I can play God.’

‘You play God?’ Gerald gave a short bark of laughter that made the youth glower. ‘I hardly think you possess the necessary gravitas to depict the Almighty.’

‘No, you do not,’ said Dunstan, agreeing with him for the first time since they had arrived. ‘But why should we not oblige the town with a performance? We have nothing else to do for the rest of the day. We shall stage it in the late afternoon, so that darkness will fall as we finish the final scene. It will be very atmospheric.’

‘I suppose the townsfolk will enjoy it,’ acknowledged Gerald. ‘And it may heal the rifts that Norrys has created with his selfish obsessions. It will also give them an opportunity to see that their bishop elect is a man of the people.’

Norrys regarded him with dislike. ‘Do not blame me for Cole’s inability to rule. And I do not think we should perform that play. We owe Carmarthen nothing, except to report its constable’s ineptitude to the King.’

‘I shall be making a report, too,’ said Gerald coldly. ‘One that will inform His Majesty that not only did you plot to see one of his towns in flames, but that you murdered Pontius and Hurso into the bargain.’

‘My knights have murdered no one,’ snapped Dunstan. ‘You did it, so that we-’

‘Enough!’ roared Cole, and Gwenllian saw their carping had finally penetrated even his genial equanimity. ‘What is wrong with you? Do you want me to lock you in your rooms like errant children? Because I will, if you persist with your squabbling.’

There was silence, and Gwenllian wondered whether he had gone too far. It was hardly politic to threaten senior churchmen. Norrys was smirking, evidently anticipating anger from Dunstan and Gerald, but Foliot came to the rescue.

‘Shall we don our costumes? We have much to do if we are to perform today.’

Once the decision was made, the castle erupted into frenzied activity. The players disappeared to learn their lines; Cethynoc and his labourers were conscripted to build a stage; the servants set about preparing refreshments; and Cole and his soldiers went to announce the event in the town.

The task of overseeing everything fell to Gwenllian, and it was not easy to direct helpers and monitor guests at the same time. Gerald was a nuisance, because he was full of hubris from his victory in the market. His remarks aimed to enrage Norrys and the Austins, and they succeeded. Osbert was helpful in keeping the peace, though, and so was Foliot. She would have liked Burchill’s assistance too, but he had gone out, although not with Cole.

During a lull in the preparations, she cornered Luci, and begged him to share what he had learned.

‘Not yet,’ he said stubbornly. ‘What if I am wrong? I would never forgive myself.’

‘But time is running out,’ she said desperately. ‘A t least tell me what you still need to know. I may be able to help you find the proof you require.’

‘But that would entail me telling you my suspect. Do not worry – I am almost there. I shall speak to Cole when the play is finished. Did you tell him to meet me by the walls?’

Terrified that Luci might continue to be difficult if answers still eluded him, she mulled over the killer’s identity in her mind. The germ of a solution glimmered, and she cornered Cethynoc, learning several details that she thought might be important, including the fact that he had known one of the stones in Gerald’s room was unstable.

‘Then why did you not report it?’ she demanded. ‘Pontius might be alive if you had.’

The mason shrugged. ‘I am paid to build walls, not act as a safety inspector.’

He slouched away, and Gwenllian watched him with dislike. No wonder Cole was keen for the project to be finished as quickly as possible – he wanted to minimise the time he was obliged to spend with his obnoxious master-mason!

The townsfolk began to arrive early, obliging her to oversee the provision of food and ale from the kitchens to keep some semblance of order. Then the play began, heralded by a blare from a trumpet. The ‘musician’ was Iefan, who was greeted by an enthusiastic cheer from the audience, many of whom were his family and friends. Gwenllian happened to glance at Cethynoc, and saw him scowling jealously, envious of Iefan’s popularity.

‘The Creation of the World’ passed off uneventfully, although Gerald and Dunstan confused their fellow actors when they deviated from the script to give themselves grander roles. Then Norrys stepped onto the stage, but was heckled so violently that he could not make himself heard. Fuming, he flung off his hat and stalked away.

Next was the section about Cain and Abel, and Gwenllian’s fears that Gerald and Dunstan might use the opportunity to do each other physical harm were fanned by Robert’s whispered suggestion that this particular scene tended to bring bad luck.

‘What do you mean?’ she demanded uneasily.

‘I mean that it has only ever been performed twice, and someone has died afterwards both times,’ replied the lad with sly glee. ‘Perhaps there will be another murder in Carmarthen Castle before the night is out.’

In alarm, Gwenllian watched him slither away, but her attention quickly returned to the stage, where the first murder was being so valiantly resisted that she wondered whether the people of Carmarthen might go away believing that Cain had been foiled. But Abel fell eventually, although not without giving his killer a sly kick in his death throes that had the audience roaring its appreciation.

The performance finished with the Ordo Prophetarum – a series of scenes containing prophecies about Christ. Gerald inserted a long monologue of his own devising and, not to be outshone, Dunstan did likewise. Robert chanced his hand too, although with considerably less panache, and he was hissed off the stage when the audience grew bored.

It was over eventually, and more refreshments were distributed. Having thoroughly enjoyed themselves, the audience lingered, chatting and laughing. Gwenllian felt the tension rise inside her, and longed to throw them all out so that Cole could speak to Luci – and if the Hospitaller had no answers for them, be about investigating herself. But that would be ungracious in a woman brought up in the tradition of Welsh hospitality, so she forced herself to smile and nod at friends and acquaintances.

Fortunately, the weather came to her rescue. Clouds had rolled in with dusk, and the promised rain arrived. A sharp shower encouraged people home, although it was pitch-black by the time the last of them had trailed away.

‘Find Luci,’ she instructed Symon, acutely aware of how much faith she was putting in the Hospitaller’s skills at detection. ‘He should know the killer’s identity by now.’

Cole nodded. ‘He said I should go alone. Return to the hall and watch our other guests.’

‘No,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘I like Luci, but I do not trust him. He is a brother knight to Norrys, for a start. I am coming with you.’

Cole laughed. ‘You think you can stop a fight? Go inside, Gwen. You will be safer.’

He should have known better than to issue her with an order she did not like and expect her to follow it. She waited until he was some distance ahead, then trailed him towards the walls, taking care to stay in the shadows.

Suddenly, Cole gave a shout and darted forward. Two shadows emerged from the scaffolding, and Gwenllian’s stomach lurched. Had Luci been lying about investigating the murders, and his real plan was to get Cole alone so that he and Norrys could kill him?

She snatched up a spade and ran towards them, but then ducked back into the shadows quickly. It was not the Hospitallers who were there, but Cethynoc and Burchill, both swearing at the fright Cole had given them with his yell. Gwenllian eased forward, aiming to hear what they were saying without being seen herself.

‘… need a drink,’ said Cethynoc sullenly. ‘You two can waste your time lurking out here in the rain if you like, but I am off to a dry tavern.’

‘And are you sure he is not the saboteur?’ asked Cole of Burchill, when the mason had gone. ‘It would be a tidy answer, and no one would mind us accusing him. His sullen manners have not made him popular.’

‘True,’ agreed Burchill. ‘But I have watched him very carefully since the first mishap, and I can tell you without the shadow of a doubt that he is innocent.’

‘Watched him carefully?’ echoed Cole. ‘Is that what you have been doing these last few days, so that you were never available when you were needed? I wanted you in the town, and Gwen would have appreciated your help with the guests.’

‘These last few weeks,’ corrected Burchill. ‘I have invested a lot of time trying to catch your saboteur, lad. Besides, you did not need me, and neither did she – she is more than capable of managing awkward visitors. Come further into the shadows – I believe the saboteur will strike tonight, but not if he sees us.’

‘I am supposed to meet Luci here,’ said Cole. ‘He knows the identity of the killer.’

‘Good,’ said Burchill. ‘We can watch for him and our saboteur at the same time – two birds with one stone.’

Cole stepped back obligingly, while Gwenllian gripped her spade, ready to race forward and brain Burchill if he showed even the slightest hint of treachery. Both knights were silent, and as still as statues. Gwenllian shivered, more from tension than cold, and the spade grew heavy in her hands. Then she saw Cole stiffen and point. Someone was creeping along the wall, swathed in a cloak.

The person reached a pile of ropes, and there was a flare of light. He was burning them! Cole waited until they were well alight, and there could be no doubt of the culprit’s guilt, then surged forward and grabbed him by the hood, spinning him round so he could see his face in the light from the fire.

‘Iefan,’ he said heavily. ‘Damn! I had my suspicions, but I hoped I was wrong.’

‘Iefan?’ echoed Burchill in shock. ‘No! He is your most trusted officer.’

Iefan hung his head, and when he spoke his voice was an agonised whisper. ‘I had to do it. You are working too fast. We are months ahead of where we should be, thanks to Lady Gwenllian’s organisation of supplies and Sir Symon’s close supervision.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Burchill. ‘Why should you object to the walls being finished early? Wooden ones burn, and we shall be much safer inside a ring of stone.’

‘Yes,’ said Iefan wretchedly. ‘But the labourers are my kin… ’

‘So you arranged “accidents” to slow us down,’ said Cole flatly. ‘Purely so they will be paid for a longer period of time. But you might have killed someone, man!’

‘No! I was always careful.’ Iefan winced. ‘The frayed rope did not go according to plan – it was meant to break the moment it took the weight of the stones, not when the basket reached the top of the wall. I shouted a warning, and you managed to jump away…’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Cole ruefully. ‘But only just.’

‘I knew you were worried,’ said Iefan miserably. ‘But our people will starve if you finish too soon. All I wanted was for the work to last until it is time to sow the new crops.’

‘Did you tamper with the stone that killed Pontius?’ asked Cole.

‘No!’ cried Iefan. ‘Of course not! That had nothing to do with me.’

Cole waved his hand to say he could go, although Burchill regarded him sharply, evidently thinking there should be some reckoning for what Iefan had done. Head hanging in misery, the sergeant slunk away into the rain-swept night.

‘You can come out now,’ said Cole, turning to look at the place where Gwenllian was hiding. ‘Burchill and I are quite safe, and there is no need for your spade.’

Somewhat sheepishly, Gwenllian emerged.

‘You were not surprised when you recognised Iefan,’ said Burchill, ignoring her to study Cole intently in the fading light of the flames. ‘You knew he was the culprit. How?’

‘His dogged insistence that there was no saboteur, when we all knew there was,’ replied Cole. ‘His assertion that the mishaps were minor, representing no danger to the workmen. His constant objections that the work was proceeding too fast. And I almost caught him in the act yesterday, when he spun a tale about looking for the culprit himself.’

‘You did not tell me any of this,’ said Burchill reproachfully.

‘Or me,’ added Gwenllian, sorry for it. If he had confided, she would have found a way to make Iefan desist without the humiliation of being caught red-handed. He had done wrong, but he had been a faithful retainer for years, and she could not find it in her heart to condemn him. Neither would Cole.

Cole shrugged. ‘I hoped I was mistaken.’

‘Well, I am sorry he transpired to be the villain,’ said Burchill. ‘You trusted him, and he betrayed you. Thank God we thwarted him, though: he was growing more reckless, and his tricks would have hurt someone eventually. You must dismiss him from your service.’

‘No,’ said Cole. ‘It is over now, and we shall say no more about it.’ He turned to Gwenllian. ‘We had better find Luci before he has second thoughts about confiding in us. He is not out here – our scuffle must have put him off – so we had better look in the hall.’

The bailey was dark and quiet as they walked across it, although lights gleamed here and there as soldiers and servants settled down for an evening of storytelling around the fire, or perhaps an illicit game of dice. Gwenllian opened the hall door and stepped inside, Cole and Burchill at her heels. Then she stopped in confusion.

Gerald, Foliot, Prior Dunstan, Robert and Archdeacon Osbert stood in a silent semicircle around someone who lay on the floor, leaking blood. It was Luci.

Gwenllian started to move forward, to see whether Luci might be helped, but Burchill jerked her back roughly. Cole started to object, but spun round quickly at the distinctive sound of a sword scything through the air.

It was Norrys, his face twisted with vengeful malice. Cole ducked away, and while he staggered off balance, Norrys struck at Gwenllian. He would have killed her had Burchill not thrown himself in front of her, raising one arm to deflect the blow. The old knight cried out as the blade bit, and fell to his knees. Blood oozed between his fingers.

Cole drew his own weapon, but Norrys snatched up a crossbow. It was wound ready, and he grinned his satisfaction as he pointed it at Cole. Cole faltered. A sword was no match for such a device.

‘No!’ screamed Gwenllian. She started to step forward, to place herself between them, but Burchill reached up and grabbed her arm with his good hand, yanking her back again.

‘Wait,’ he murmured softly. ‘Assess the situation before acting.’

Gwenllian felt like pushing him away, but she knew he was right. She tore a piece of cloth from her sleeve and tied it around his arm, although almost all her attention was on Norrys. He had indicated that Cole was to drop his sword and stand against the wall. With no choice but to obey, Cole did as he was told.

‘Here is our killer,’ said Norrys coldly. ‘He stabbed Luci, then went to collect his henchman, to help him dispatch the rest of you. I have just saved your lives.’

‘We know everything, Cole,’ said Robert gleefully. ‘Luci has been conducting his own inquiry into the murders, and was on the verge of exposing you. So you killed him before he could speak. And you intended to slaughter the rest of us so that this miserable tale will never reach the ears of the King.’

‘If you believe Norrys’s claims, you are a fool,’ said Gwenllian coldly. ‘You know he wants Symon discredited because he longs to be constable.’

‘It can be resolved easily enough,’ said Gerald. He turned to Cole. ‘Just tell us where you have been since the end of the play. And put that weapon down, Norrys, before it goes off and hurts someone.’

‘You will be safer if I keep it trained on Cole,’ said Norrys. ‘He is ruthless and cunning, and will seize any opportunity to escape.’

Gwenllian felt sick with fear, knowing Norrys was going to kill Symon anyway. She would have run towards him, but there was no strength in her legs.

‘I have been with Gwenllian and Burchill,’ replied Cole. ‘And Iefan.’

‘His wife and two henchmen,’ sneered Norrys. ‘Hardly independent witnesses. He murdered Luci, and has spent the time since washing the blood from his hands and clothes.’

‘He is wearing the same tunic as earlier,’ said Gerald. ‘And it is unstained and certainly not wet. Moreover, your dogged determination to blame him makes me wonder whether you are the culprit.’

‘I have been with Prior Dunstan from immediately after the play until we came down to the hall together,’ said Norrys. ‘We were packing, ready for tomorrow. I could not have stabbed Luci – and that means I am innocent of harming Hurso and Pontius too, given that there can only be one murderer. The same is true for Dunstan.’

Dunstan nodded slowly. ‘We were together when Norrys says.’

‘I have an alibi too,’ said Robert gloatingly. ‘I was talking to the townsfolk – hearing their accounts of what happened in the market this morning.’

Norrys shot him a look of pure hatred, and Gwenllian suspected that the foolish Robert had just put himself in considerable danger. Norrys would certainly not want those tales repeated in Canterbury.

‘Well, I went to visit William and Tancard in the castle cells,’ said Gerald. ‘And the guards will testify to that fact, if you ask them. I, too, am innocent.’

‘Why would you do such a thing?’ demanded Dunstan. ‘Or am I to report to the archbishop that you consort with rabble-rousers?’

‘You may tell him that I care for the sinners in my See,’ said Gerald loftily. ‘They are stupid men, but not wicked ones. I went to hear their confessions, and they told me quite a tale. You have a lot to answer for, Norrys.’

‘That means Foliot is the culprit,’ said Gwenllian quietly, knowing that Burchill would not have taken the blow intended to kill her if he had been the guilty party; his act of heroism had exonerated him, too. ‘There are no other suspects left.’

There was silence in the hall after Gwenllian had made her announcement, and she saw Norrys’s crossbow waver slightly. Her claim had planted a seed of doubt in his mind. Meanwhile, the two Austins nodded to say they had known it all along, Gerald and Osbert gaped, and Foliot himself went white with shock.

‘How can you say such a terrible thing?’ he asked, once he had found his voice. ‘I have an alibi too. I was with Osbert.’

‘It is true,’ said the archdeacon. ‘He was.’

‘There is blood on your arm,’ said Gwenllian, pointing. ‘You washed your hands, but it is messy stuff, and I can see a smear of it on your wrist. There are also spots on your habit.’

‘I cut myself,’ said Foliot, pulling down the offending sleeve. ‘On a nail.’

‘Then show us,’ she said simply. ‘Where is the cut?’

‘It is personal,’ said Foliot, licking dry lips. ‘I will show Osbert, but no one else.’

Gwenllian struggled to tie facts together, easier now she knew the identity of the culprit. She addressed the others. ‘Foliot murdered Pontius too. It is obvious now I think about it. Do you remember how he spent his first day here?’

‘Being shown around the castle by Iefan and Cethynoc,’ supplied Cole promptly. ‘Cethynoc is a mason, and knows all about stones and mortar.’

‘Precisely!’ said Gwenllian. ‘Cethynoc told me today that he knew there was an unstable stone in that particular bedchamber, and that he had mentioned it on his tour, as Pontius would have been able to attest, had he still been alive.’

‘But stones do not drop out of walls to order,’ said Cole. They had everyone’s attention now, although Foliot was shaking his head. ‘So it stands to reason that Pontius was killed by someone in the same room as him. And I know how Foliot did it.’

‘You do?’ asked Gwenllian uneasily, hoping he was not about to destroy their case by claiming something ridiculous.

‘He chipped the stone loose, and wedged it in place with a pebble. The pebble was tied to a piece of twine. One jerk caused it to fall. The culprit could only be Gerald or Foliot, because they were the only two in that chamber when it fell.’

‘But I am injured,’ said Foliot, one hand to his shoulder. ‘I cannot climb walls!’

‘Of course you can,’ said Cole scathingly. ‘You are long past the stage where your bruises will incapacitate you. Your intended victim was Gerald, of course.’

‘No,’ cried Foliot. He appealed to the bishop elect, who was regarding him uncertainly. ‘This is all a lie – I would never harm you. He wants me blamed so Norrys will let him go.’

‘Open your scrip,’ suggested Cole. ‘I wager anything you like that it will contain twine.’

‘Of course it will,’ said Foliot, backing away when Robert, his youthful face alight with spiteful glee, tried to take it from him. ‘I always carry twine when I travel.’

‘But you did not have any when you arrived here,’ said Cole. ‘You had used it all up by mending broken reins after the ambush in Trecastle. Gerald asked you for some when I broke the lace on my boot, if you recall.’

‘I bought some more,’ said Foliot desperately. ‘It proves nothing.’

‘From which merchant?’ pressed Cole. ‘We shall send for him immediately.’

Foliot looked sick. ‘I cannot recall,’ he whispered. ‘And he may not remember me…’

Robert made a lunge for him, and there was a brief tussle, which the youngster won. He took the purse to a table and upended it. Among the items that tumbled out was a length of thin twine that had a loop tied in one end.

‘This may well have been knotted around a pebble,’ reported Dunstan, inspecting it closely. ‘There is grit caught in it that says it has certainly been somewhere dusty, such as hanging from a wall that has had mortar scraped from it.’

‘It is not mine,’ shouted Foliot, panicky now. ‘Someone put it there to see me accused.’

‘But you never leave your scrip unattended,’ said Gerald, his face full of hurt confusion. ‘because it contains money. No one would have had the chance to plant evidence there.’

‘And all to ensure that Gerald is not made bishop,’ Gwenllian went on. She glanced at Cole, sensing he was readying himself to attack. She shook her head slightly, to tell him to wait. There was doubt in Norrys’s face, and she began to hope that the situation could be resolved without Cole risking his life in a wild lunge. ‘It was your second attempt, the first being in Oseney, with a jug of poisoned wine.’

‘The stuff that killed Canon Wilfred?’ asked Robert, wide-eyed. ‘Lord! I saw Foliot hovering over it, but then he left, so I filched it for my master. Thank God I did not drink any myself!’

‘I did not!’ cried Foliot. ‘Poison indeed! Is that what you think of me?’

Gerald’s hurt had turned to contempt, and he regarded Foliot with such iciness that even Gwenllian winced. ‘You were late coming to our room the night Pontius died, and I had doused the candle, so it was dark. You expected me to be in the better bed, but I had given it to Pontius, because he had complained of backache.’

‘I would never-’ began Foliot.

‘It is all clear now,’ Gerald went on, cutting across him. ‘The stone was the fourth time you tried to kill me, not the second. You arranged ambushes in Brecon and Trecastle, too – although they misfired and you were the one who was injured. But God protected me.’

‘Is that what you thought, Foliot?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘That God was with Gerald? So when the ploy with the stone failed, you opted for other tactics – namely to have him accused of murdering Hurso?’

‘You certainly made us willing to believe it,’ said Dunstan. ‘None of us missed the suspicious glances you kept shooting in Gerald’s direction. How very clever!’

‘This is all nonsense,’ cried Foliot. ‘Tell them, Osbert!’

‘He is right.’ Sweat beaded on the archdeacon’s hairless pate. ‘Because there is only one killer, and if it was Foliot, then it means he killed Hurso, too. But he did not: he has an alibi for Hurso’s death, and for Luci’s, too, he was with me both times.’

‘Yes,’ said Gwenllian softly. ‘Because you are his accomplice.’

‘Osbert plotted against me too?’ asked Gerald, shocked. ‘But I barely know him!’

‘Of course not!’ cried Osbert hoarsely. He fixed Gwenllian with reproachful eyes. ‘I have been your archdeacon for years. How can you say such wicked things about me?’

‘Because I have proof. Hurso fought his attacker hard enough to break his fingernails. You refused to don your costume for the play yesterday because to undress would have revealed the scratches on your arms.’

Robert made a lunge for Osbert’s hand and pushed up the sleeve to reveal marks.

‘It was easy for you,’ said Gwenllian, disgusted. ‘You live here, so you knew exactly where to kill Hurso without being seen. Foliot gave you an alibi-’

‘But Osbert was not wet,’ said Foliot triumphantly. ‘Hurso was killed in the rain, and you said yourself that his killer would have been soaked. I was damp, because I had been to the latrines, but Osbert was dry. And if he is innocent of killing Hurso, then so am I.’

‘Osbert is bald,’ explained Gwenllian. ‘His head is easy to wipe dry, unlike one with hair. He divested himself of his sodden cloak and pretended he had been indoors all afternoon. And you stabbed Luci, because he was on the verge of exposing you both.’

‘No.’ Osbert swallowed hard, and his denial was unconvincing. ‘I never did.’

‘You planned it from the moment you and Foliot met,’ said Gwenllian in disgust. ‘Prior Dunstan asked to stay in your house, but you ensured they all came here, knowing trouble would follow. You have been friends for years, and you conspired together like-’

‘We did what we thought was right!’ cried Osbert suddenly. Foliot closed his eyes, disgusted by the capitulation. ‘Gerald should not be Bishop of St Davids. He will try to make it an archbishopric, which will earn the wrath of the King, Canterbury and Rome. He will be a disaster, inflicting misery and hardship on thousands of people…’

‘Yes, but murder,’ said Dunstan in distaste. ‘It-’

Suddenly, Foliot snatched a knife from the table and ran towards Norrys. The knight tensed, but the crossbow bolt trained on Cole did not waver.

‘You cannot shoot Cole and leave witnesses, Norrys,’ said Foliot urgently. ‘Yet you are eager to see him dead. So you, Osbert and I will set this hall alight and lock everyone else inside. We three will be the only survivors.’

Norrys stared at him for a moment, and then his face broke into a slow, savage grin. ‘An excellent solution. However, Cole has an uncanny ability to slither out of dangerous situations unharmed, and I should not like him to escape. I need to be certain he is dead.’

He aimed the crossbow and loosed the mechanism. There was a sharp click and Cole slumped to the floor.

Gwenllian stared at Cole in mute horror, and took an unsteady step towards him, but Burchill grabbed her hand, and held her fast.

‘The baby,’ he whispered. ‘Think of the baby.’

But Gwenllian could only think of Cole. She could see he was breathing, but for how long? Norrys had grabbed a second crossbow, already wound, and was toting it in a way that said he would be delighted to claim another victim, so that although Dunstan and Gerald had taken several steps towards the door, both faltered. Young Robert was rooted to the spot in terror.

‘I shall set the rushes alight,’ said Foliot. ‘They are dry and will burn well. Osbert, get ready to open the door – not too soon or servants might see the flames.’

‘And I will shoot anyone who tries to escape,’ Norrys warned his prisoners. ‘So move at your peril.’

‘Osbert!’ cried Burchill. ‘You are not a bad man – you cannot do this evil thing! You know Lady Gwenllian is with child. Do not let Foliot lead you down a dark path.’

‘It is good advice,’ said Gerald sternly. ‘Your immortal soul is in grave danger, because if I die, I shall ensure you never join me in heaven. And that is a promise.’

Osbert’s expression was agonised, and for a moment, Gwenllian’s hopes flared. But Norrys brought the hilt of his dagger down on the archdeacon’s head, and he crumpled. Foliot touched a torch to the floor, and there was a crackle as the rushes caught.

Norrys laughed wildly as flames licked towards his victims, but then stopped and stared at his chest in surprise. A knife was embedded in it, and Cole was racing towards him. Cole knocked the astonished Hospitaller from his feet, felled Foliot with a well-aimed punch, and yelled for servants to bring water.

As he held regular fire drills, no one needed instructions to form a line and pass buckets from hand to hand. It was an efficient operation, and the flames were out before any real damage was done. Shutters were thrown open to dispel the smoke, and the singed rushes were hauled out into the bailey. It was not long before the crisis was over.

Iefan, who had worked as hard as anyone, carried Luci to the chapel, but dumped Norrys’s body next to the spoiled flooring. Then he escorted Foliot and Osbert, the latter nursing a very sore head, to the castle cells. Gerald, Dunstan and Robert agreed a truce and repaired to the chapel together to give thanks for their deliverance.

‘I thought you were dead,’ said Gwenllian unsteadily, burying her face in Cole’s shoulder. ‘Norrys shot you without hesitation.’

‘He missed by a mile,’ said Cole dismissively. ‘He was a wretched warrior. Burchill knew I was unharmed, of course. It was why he warned you to think of the baby.’

‘To prevent me from risking myself needlessly,’ said Gwenllian in understanding. ‘He almost lost his sword arm defending me too. I was wrong to suspect him: he is a good friend – to both of us.’

‘The best,’ said Cole with a smile.

III

Life soon settled back to normal in Carmarthen. Gerald rode west towards St Davids and Dunstan rode east towards Canterbury. The merchants set their prices at a more reasonable level, and the citizens continued to complain about them anyway. Luci and Norrys were buried in the churchyard, and Cole escorted Osbert and Foliot to the Austin priory, to be incarcerated there until their fates could be decided.

‘I do not care what happens to them,’ Cole said to Gwenllian when he returned. ‘Just as long as they leave my town.’

‘They caused all manner of trouble,’ agreed Gwenllian. ‘They thought their actions were justified, and perhaps they were – Gerald will be trouble if he is bishop – but to commit murder to achieve them…’

‘None of it would have happened if Robert had not filched that poisoned wine for Wilfred,’ said Cole with a sigh. ‘Gerald would have swallowed it, and that would have been the end of him. Foliot and Pontius would have brought the sad news to St Davids, Dunstan would have gone home to Canterbury, and the entire business would have been over.’

‘I disagree,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Gerald is popular, and his supporters would have asked questions. Besides, I like Gerald. He defended you against Norrys.’

‘Yes, he did.’ Cole smiled. ‘He insisted on reading me some of his book before he left. I tried to dissuade him – I am not a man for sitting idle – but it was actually rather good. Perhaps he should confine himself to writing, and leave the Church to gentler men.’

‘Perhaps he should,’ said Gwenllian, thinking it must have been compelling indeed if it had secured Cole’s approval. He detested literary pursuits.

‘Do you think John will use the incident to oust us?’ Cole regarded her with a troubled expression. ‘There is no Norrys to twist the truth, but four men were murdered in my castle, there was a saboteur, and the poor did stage a riot. A reliable constable would not have let all that happen.’

‘I think we can trust Gerald to speak in our favour,’ said Gwenllian.

‘But that is what worries me. He is not popular with Canterbury or the King, and his support might do more harm than good.’

Gwenllian supposed it might, and there was no answer to his concerns. ‘Do you think Robert was right when he said that staging the Cain and Abel section of The Play of Adam brings bad luck?’ she asked uneasily. ‘I know it is wrong to be superstitious, but I cannot shake the conviction that something terrible is going to happen.’

‘Nothing will,’ said Cole, ever the optimist. Then he reconsidered. ‘Well, not unless Gerald is made bishop. His barbed tongue will alienate the King, and there will be trouble. He will claim our support as kinsfolk, and we shall be dragged into murky waters.’

Gwenllian regarded him unhappily. He was right, of course. ‘Perhaps the archbishop and the King will prevent his consecration.’

‘Perhaps. But I hope they find a kinder way to do it than Osbert and Foliot.’

Robert was pleased to be away from Carmarthen, and even more pleased to be away from Gerald. The man was arrogant and brash, and would do immeasurable harm to the Church if he was allowed to become one of its bishops. Robert had thought so from the moment he had first met him in Oseney Abbey, and he had no regrets about what he had done.

It had been easy to leave documents for Foliot to find outlining Gerald’s plans for the future – ones far more outrageous than even Gerald’s burning ambition could accommodate. Shocked by what Robert had penned in Gerald’s handwriting, Foliot had done his best to ensure that Gerald never reached home, but his failure meant that Robert had had to take matters into his own hands, just as he had done with Canon Wilfred.

Poor Foliot was innocent of poisoning the wine, of course, although no one would ever believe him. That had been Robert’s parting gift to Wilfred, payment for the months of misery he had suffered under that lazy, selfish old tyrant. He had intended Gerald to swallow some too, but Wilfred had spilled it in his death throes.

Of course, Wilfred was a killer himself. He talked in his sleep, and as the indolent old rogue had had a penchant for naps, Robert had heard him converse many times with his hapless victims. Robert knew for a fact that he had smothered a saintly abbot named Wigod, and there had also been others, although their names had meant nothing to him. The villain had deserved to die, and Robert felt he had done Oseney a great service by relieving it of his malevolent presence.

Robert was not sure why he cared so passionately that Gerald should not succeed in his ecclesiastical ambitions. Perhaps it was because such a man would make enemies for the Church – which Robert intended to rise high within – and he disliked anyone having the power to make it weak. Or perhaps it was the man’s objectionable character. He fingered the worn pages of The Play of Adam in his saddlebag. And then there was the fact that Gerald had prevented him from playing God, just as Wilfred had.

He scowled at Prior Dunstan riding beside him. Wilfred and Gerald were not the only ones who had interfered with his dreams. Dunstan had too. Would the prior reach Canterbury alive? Or would he die on this return journey? Of an accident, of course.

Historical Note

Robert of Oseney succeeded Dunstan to become prior of the Austin house of St Gregory’s, Canterbury in 1213; he remained for only two years, and resigned to become a simple monk at Clairvaux, although no reason is given. Hurso was another Canterbury Austin from the late twelfth century, and Robert de Luci was a Kentish knight active in 1199. Prior (later Abbot) Wigod ruled Oseney near Oxford for thirty years until his death in 1168; Hugh was elected Abbot in 1184 and died in 1205.

Roger Norrys was constable of Carmarthen in the 1170s, and Symon Cole was constable in the 1190s. Osbert was Archdeacon of Carmarthen at this time, while Cethynoc, Tancard, William the corviser, Kedi, Jung and Sir Robert de Burchill are all listed as witnesses to deeds in the diocese in the late 1100s.

Today, Gerald de Barri (Gerald of Wales) is best known for his travels. He was not popular with his contemporaries, who saw him as arrogant, vain and abrasive – and he really did read his books at Oxford over several consecutive days. To them, he was the man desperate to be Bishop of St Davids, and he was elected to the post twice (in 1176 and 1198) by the cathedral’s canons. He also wanted to establish the See as an archbishopric, thus placing it on a par with Canterbury. Needless to say, this did not meet with approval in England.

His second attempt to gain the See was blocked by both Canterbury and the King, and the dispute dragged on for four years. He made three journeys to Rome to put his case to the Pope, all with the support of archdeacons Pontius, Osbert and Reginald Foliot. Eventually, though, his followers were persuaded to change their minds, and the See went to another contender.

Furious at what he saw as a betrayal, Gerald wrote about them in his book De Jure, noting how they had been rewarded for their treachery: ‘Faithless Foliot’ was given the church at Llanstephan, while the ‘Goitre of Carmarthen’ (Osbert) got a manor on the Gower. Gerald remained angry and bitter about his defeat for the rest of his life.