King Arthur's Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  Lord Rhys had attacked Carmarthen in the darkest part of the night, when most of the garrison was asleep and the sentries were handicapped by a bank of clouds that blotted out the moonlight. His small but efficient force had swept into the town before the Normans realized what was happening. By the time the alarm was raised, Rhys’s men had gained control of the castle bailey. The ensuing fighting was ferocious and had lasted all morning. Meurig had not joined in – his sole objective was to protect the ancient oak under which he had buried Arthur.

  Hours had passed, and he began to hope that the worst was over. But then the invaders had swarmed into his part of the town, and they had seen not a Welshman standing sentinel by a tree, but a stranger with a sword. Before he could open his mouth to say he was a son of Lord Rhys, he had been cut down by archers.

  Afraid they might return to see what he had thought worth protecting, he had dragged himself the short distance to his house, where he had hidden among the ivy that grew around his door. He wished he could go inside, because night was approaching and it was bitterly cold. But his strength was spent: he would now die where he lay.

  He closed his eyes and wished with all his heart that his father had chosen another Norman-held settlement to harry. After hiding the bones in Carmarthen, Meurig had settled there, and he was fond of its winding streets, busy riverside dock, stalwart castle and handsome buildings. His pretty little cottage had a Welsh cheese-maker on one side and an English grocer on the other. He liked them both, and hoped they would survive the raid.

  Of course, there was another reason why Carmarthen was attractive to him: his favourite sister, Gwenllian, lived there. Ten years before, Lord Rhys had forced her to marry the town’s constable – Sir Symon Cole was one of King Henry II’s favourite soldiers, and it had suited Rhys to forge an alliance with his Norman neighbours at the time.

  Unfortunately the alliance had died along with old King Henry, and Rhys had either forgotten or did not care that the castle he was now attacking was held by his son-in-law. Meurig could hear Cole in the distance, yelling to his scattered troops. Was he preparing a counter-offensive? Meurig hoped not. The battle was lost, and futile heroics were likely to get him killed – and then Gwenllian would be inconsolable, because although she had objected to the match at first, she had grown to love her brave, if not overly intelligent, spouse.

  Meurig opened his eyes and looked towards the end of the street, where the old oak stood. Legend said the tree had been planted by Merlin himself, and although most people dismissed it as a fairy tale, Meurig felt it was true. Whenever he touched its ancient bark, he could almost feel the magic coursing through it.

  So, shortly after he had arrived in Carmarthen, he had taken Arthur’s chest and gone out alone one night, to dig between the tree’s gnarled roots. It had been an evening when the town’s richest merchant had invited everyone to celebrate a daughter’s marriage, so Meurig knew he would be safe from prying eyes. The box had fitted into the hole as snugly as a babe in a cradle, and putting it there had felt so innately right that Meurig had the peculiar sense that the tree had been waiting for it. Even the memory was enough to make him smile, in pain though he was.

  But he did not smile for long. Through the swirling smoke, he could see that the tree had been damaged – a branch had fallen. He experienced a great lurching fear in the pit of his stomach. Was this the beginning of its end? Was it no longer able to provide a haven for his secret? Gradually it dawned on him that the bones would have to be moved – taken somewhere they would be safe.

  But how? He did not have the strength to stand, let alone excavate a chest. He felt sick with self-recrimination. He had told no one where he had hidden Arthur, not even his sons, because it had seemed an unfair burden to foist on young men – and the prospect of his own premature death had never occurred to him. He had not even sent word to the Guardians, although he had always intended to; somehow, he had never managed to get around to it. He berated himself as he lay there. How could he have been so negligent?

  He thought about his two surviving sons. Young Meurig was away in Gwynedd, learning to be a warrior. And Hywel? Where was he? Meurig had not seen him since the fighting had started, and hoped he had not been harmed. Had he taken part in the battle? Meurig was sure he had. Hywel was cold and brutal, and would have relished the opportunity to wage war against Normans. Or rather, against Cole. For reasons Meurig had never fully understood, Hywel hated Gwenllian’s constable husband with a cold and deadly passion.

  As he lay in his doorway, Meurig wished Dewi had not died and Young Meurig was to hand. Could Hywel be trusted with the secret, even if he did come home? Meurig had to pass it to someone, so word could be sent to the Guardians. But what if Hywel did not come? Who else was there? There were people around – the street, just beyond his veil of ivy, was full of them, racing this way and that, howling at the top of their voices, some in triumph and some in fear.

  Now most of the skirmishing was over, the prince’s men had turned to looting. Priory Street, where Meurig lived, was home to several wealthy men, and the invaders were beginning to congregate there, like flies around meat. He could see his neighbours, Spilmon the grocer and Kyng the cheese-maker, barricading their homes. Kyng’s was like a small fortress already, with a great, thick door and sturdy window-shutters, but Spilmon was offering increasingly wild sums of money to any local man willing to help him repel thieves. Could they be trusted with the secret? Gwilym Kyng was Welsh, so he should welcome the chance to serve his country. Regrettably, though, Meurig knew Kyng would be more interested in defending his own possessions than in rescuing ancient relics.

  Next he saw the constable’s clerk, a timid, diffident Englishman named John. But John was far too feeble to be of use – he was trembling so violently he could barely walk, and Daniel, the castle chaplain, was almost carrying him towards the sanctuary of the priory. What about Daniel, then? He was said to be a decent man. But he would not do either – his first loyalty would be to the Church, and Meurig was afraid he would hand the bones to his Norman prior, in a monkish act of obedience.

  Behind them was another Carmarthen resident, generally known as Gilbert the Thief. Obviously he was not a suitable candidate, but what about the fellow with him, Sir Renald de Boleton? The Norman knight was acid-tongued and lazy, but he was a competent warrior and unquestionably intelligent. Would he accede to a dying man’s last wish and carry a message to the Guardians? Meurig supposed he would and opened his mouth to call out. But suddenly someone was pushing his way through the ivy. It was Hywel.

  ‘Father!’ Hywel gasped, dropping to his knees and seizing Meurig’s hand. ‘I have been looking for you all day – I did not see you among these leaves when I was here earlier. I thought . . .’

  ‘Not dead yet,’ Meurig said with a wan smile, indicating his wound. ‘But it will not be long now. No! Do not carry me inside – it will only hasten my end, and there are matters to discuss.’

  Hywel glanced around quickly, to ensure that no one else was close enough to hear. ‘You refer to Arthur’s bones? You appointed me a Guardian, but never told me where they are hidden. You had better tell me now, because they may not be safe here much longer. They must be moved.’

  ‘But moved where?’ Meurig’s voice was full of anguish. ‘Wales is full of tiny kingdoms, all unstable and constantly at war. How can we know which ones will prevail?’

  ‘Then give them to Lord Rhys.’ It was not the first time Hywel had suggested this solution, and hearing it again made Meurig uneasy. ‘My grandfather is a good man and a great leader.’

  ‘He is old and has too many enemies – putting Arthur’s bones in his care runs the risk of them falling into the wrong hands. And that must never happen.’

  Hywel was about to argue, but there was a movement behind him. ‘Your sister is here,’ he said with a resentful scowl – he had always been jealous of his father’s affection for Gwenllian. ‘We joined forces when we realized you were missing and have been sea
rching together.’

  Meurig felt a great surge of relief. His shrewd, beautiful kinswoman would know what to do, and there was no one in the world he trusted more. He smiled when she knelt next to him. There were cinders in her black hair, and her face was smudged with soot, but she was still the loveliest woman in Carmarthen. She turned to Hywel.

  ‘Fetch Brother Daniel from the priory,’ she said urgently. ‘Hurry!’

  ‘Fetch him yourself,’ retorted Hywel indignantly. ‘I am not leaving. I need to hear—’

  ‘This is no time to be thinking of yourself,’ she interrupted sharply. She fixed him with an imperious glare, looking every inch a princess of Wales. ‘Go!’

  Lesser men than Hywel had been cowed by that expression, and he began to back away. Gwenllian watched him go, then turned her attention to Meurig, smoothing the flint-sharp widow’s peak from his forehead with gentle hands.

  ‘There is something I must tell you,’ he whispered. ‘It is a terrible secret, and I am sorry to burden you with it, but there is no one else.’

  Gwenllian tried to stop him from talking, to save his breath for his confessor, but he would not be silenced.

  ‘You remember the stories of Arthur?’ he asked, his words coming in an urgent rush. ‘How he will lead our people out of oppression and into an age of peace and prosperity? How he represents all our future hopes? For the proud nation we shall be when we are free?’

  Gwenllian thought he was rambling. ‘Of course,’ she said soothingly. ‘You told me these tales when I was a child on your knee, and I will never forget them. But rest now, because—’

  ‘It means Arthur did not die,’ Meurig pressed on, eyes boring into hers, trying to make her understand. ‘If he had, he could not be sleeping in a cave, ready to wake and lead us to victory.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Gwenllian, bemused. She wondered if he was delirious, and tried to quieten him a second time.

  ‘But what if his bones were found?’ whispered Meurig, riding across her concerns. There was nothing he would have liked more than to close his eyes, content in the knowledge that she was with him, but it was a luxury he could not afford. ‘What would that mean for Wales?’

  Gwenllian shrugged, the puzzled expression on her face telling him she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I do not know – that we have no hope, I suppose.’

  ‘Quite. So they—’ Meurig faltered when there was a faint sound behind his front door. Was someone there, listening? But there was no time to ask Gwenllian to investigate. He pressed on. ‘So they must never be discovered. Or, if they are, then they must be delivered into the hands of people who will know what to do with them – for the good of Wales.’

  ‘Then if ever I hear of them excavated, I shall—’ Gwenllian began reassuringly.

  ‘But they have been excavated,’ Meurig whispered. ‘Arthur’s body was exhumed at the abbey in Glastonbury five years ago.’

  Gwenllian gaped at him. ‘How do you know? And how can you be sure it is Arthur’s—’

  ‘One of the monks is Welsh,’ interrupted Meurig, speaking even more urgently, because he could feel the darkness of death approaching. ‘He told me what had happened, and together we managed to spirit the bones away. I brought them here, to Carmarthen. Because of Merlin.’

  ‘Arthur’s protector,’ said Gwenllian, understanding immediately. Meurig gave a brief smile – she always was quick-witted. Then her face clouded. ‘Is that when poor Dewi . . .’

  Meurig winced, then nodded. ‘Yes, Dewi was killed bringing him here.’

  There was another sound behind the door, and this time Gwenllian heard it too. She started to move towards it, but Meurig grabbed her hand and held it tightly. There was simply no time.

  ‘Listen to me, carefully, Gwenllian. The future of Wales depends on it.’

  He described the bones from the abbey, the hank of hair discovered with them, and listed the men he had chosen to act as Guardians. She nodded her approval at his choices, although he could tell from her expression that she thought they should have been closer to hand.

  ‘I buried Arthur under Merlin’s oak,’ he concluded, lying back exhausted. ‘On the far side of the tree. But it has been damaged, and he is no longer safe. So you must retrieve him and put him somewhere secure. You are a Guardian now.’

  ‘And take him where?’ Gwenllian was appalled by the responsibility being imposed on her.

  But Meurig did not reply. Her voice seemed a long way away, and when his head lolled to one side he was unable to stop it. With his vision fading, the last thing he saw was a pair of feet – someone was hiding behind the door by which he was lying, and that person had heard every word he had said. He tried to speak again, but his strength was spent. He closed his eyes and died without another word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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