‘I am sorry,’ he said in a choked voice. His face was white, and she knew his distress was genuine – he and Cole were friends. ‘I have done all I can.’
Gwenllian dropped to her knees next to her husband. ‘What happened?’ she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. Symon was barely breathing, and the light from Daniel’s candle illuminated an unnatural pallor.
It was Iefan who answered. ‘He and I were rounding up the men, ordering them into the forest lest they felt like fighting again, but we became separated. Then I heard Daniel yelling for help.’
‘I had found Symon lying on the ground,’ explained Daniel in a whisper. ‘I think I saw someone running away, but I cannot be sure.’
‘Kyng accused us of picking off Lord Rhys’s best archers under cover of darkness. But we were not – it never occurred to us.’ Iefan reflected for a moment. ‘It might have occurred to Boleton though – he was livid when we surrendered, because he thought we could still win.’
‘Then he was wrong,’ said Daniel harshly. ‘Symon did his best, but we never had a chance. Lord Rhys’s men were simply too strong and too well organized.’
But Iefan was still thinking about Boleton. ‘Maybe he was picking off the enemy, and the prince’s men mistook the two of them in the dark – both are knights, of roughly the same size. Or maybe Boleton convinced Sir Symon to join him, although if he did they were not doing it for long – Sir Symon was gone from me for only a few moments.’
A decade of marriage to a soldier told Gwenllian that a dagger was responsible for her husband’s injury, but she was shocked to note its position: he had been stabbed in the back. What had he been doing to sustain such a wound? Had he and Boleton been waging a small war of their own? It did not seem likely, given Symon’s low opinion of truce-breakers. But Boleton had a sly tongue, and it would not be the first time he had used mangled logic to bring his slower-witted friend around to his way of thinking.
But it was no time to ponder. The cut was deep and had bled profusely, but it was also clean, and she thought she could repair the damage – with care and warmth, Symon might yet survive. She stood, feeling the horror and helplessness recede as grim resolve took over. She had lost a brother that day, but she was damned if she was going to lose a husband too.
‘We are taking him to Kyng’s house,’ she announced. ‘It is the nearest safe place.’
‘It is safe here,’ objected Daniel. ‘No one will attack a house of God.’
Gwenllian was not so sure about that, especially once the invaders got at Carmarthen’s copious supplies of ale and wine. And the church was a large building – too large for Iefan and his men to defend effectively. But no good would come of alarming them with grim predictions. ‘It is too cold,’ she said instead. ‘And Symon needs a fire. Lift him gently, and follow me.’
Kyng’s door was barricaded when they arrived, but she hammered and yelled until the cheese-maker had no choice but to answer – the rumpus was attracting attention. He was furious.
‘You cannot bring him in here!’ he hissed. ‘He broke the prince’s ceasefire, and that is why he was stabbed. I do not want my property incinerated as punishment for sheltering the enemy.’
‘I do not care what you want,’ snapped Gwenllian. ‘Stand aside.’
Kyng opened his mouth to argue, but there was something in her regal glare that warned him against it. Muttering venomously, he did as he was told. Iefan and his men carried Cole inside, and Gwenllian followed, heartened to note that there was a good fire burning in the hearth.
‘It is not as if Kyng has a family to consider – he is unmarried,’ muttered Iefan resentfully. Then he glanced around uneasily. ‘Where has he gone? It had better not be to bleat to the enemy that the constable lies here – the constable who was injured after the fighting was supposed to have stopped. Perhaps we had better move—’
‘We are not going anywhere,’ said Gwenllian firmly, acutely aware that Symon would not survive any more jostling. ‘We shall set a guard on the door – you can take it in turns.’
‘I cannot,’ said Daniel apologetically. ‘Others are dying too, and they also need my prayers. But you have Iefan, and Boleton will be about somewhere. When I see him, I shall send him to you – he will help.’
‘Assuming he is not fighting,’ muttered Iefan under his breath.
For everyone’s sake, including Boleton’s own, Gwenllian sincerely hoped he was not.
The night was one of the longest Gwenllian could remember. There was an orange glow in the sky where the castle still burned, and the street outside was full of noise – the raiders were drunk and growing increasingly wild. Skirmishes broke out as they squabbled over spoils, and the sound of clashing arms and screams made her want to put her hands over her ears. But no one attacked Kyng’s home. Iefan thought the thick door and shuttered windows were responsible, but Gwenllian knew the truth – that Lord Rhys had somehow learned his daughter was within and had ordered the place to be left alone.
Cole failed to improve as the hours dragged by, and she began to think Daniel might be right – he was going to die, and her determination to save him was not enough.
‘He keeps asking for Boleton,’ she whispered to Iefan, distressed by the patient’s agitated entreaties. ‘He would rest easier if Boleton were here, so where is he? Why does he not come?’
‘He must be with the men in the forest,’ replied Iefan. ‘He cannot know what has happened, or wild horses would not stop him from being here. He and Sir Symon are closer than brothers.’
During a quiet spell, Gwenllian went to the door for some fresh air. The priory had been set alight, illuminating Merlin’s oak in a stark silhouette. It was oddly lopsided, and she recalled Meurig’s fear that it was no longer capable of protecting the bones.
It occurred to her that she should send some of Cole’s men to guard them – it was not a good idea to leave them unattended when the town was full of men who were of a mind to steal. Obviously she could not tell them what they were minding, but she was perfectly capable of fabricating a tale they would believe. Unfortunately she knew they would refuse to leave their master. And she could not go herself – not only would she not abandon Symon either, but she could hardly excavate a heavy chest and spirit it away by herself.
Then her eye lit on a familiar, lanky figure. Gilbert the Thief was not the first man she would have turned to for help, but she was hardly overwhelmed with choices.
‘Gilbert,’ she called softly. ‘Come over here.’
The thief looked around uneasily, as if he imagined there might be another Gilbert in the area. By rights, he should have been hanged years before, but Cole disliked executions and preferred to incarcerate him in the castle prison instead. And Gilbert was not very good at his trade anyway – what he stole was invariably recovered – and people tended to regard him more as a lovable rogue than a criminal.
‘Will you do something for me?’ she asked when he was close enough to hear. ‘Will you stand by Merlin’s oak until I send someone to relieve you? I will pay you for your trouble.’
Gilbert’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Why?’
‘Because of the legend,’ she lied. ‘The one that says Carmarthen will cease to exist if the tree should fall. I thought you might like the honour of making sure that does not happen.’
Pride filled Gilbert’s face but then faded away. ‘I am sorry, lady, but I cannot. I have things to do, and it is more than my life is worth to ignore them.’
‘What things?’ she demanded indignantly. ‘What is more important than saving your town?’
Gilbert became flustered. ‘Just things, lady. It is best you do not ask – what you do not know cannot harm you. Just go back inside and pretend you never saw me.’
He left abruptly when shouts indicated the revellers were coming back. Gwenllian put her face in her hands and wished the night was over.
It was almost a week before Lord Rhys adjudged his warriors to be sufficiently sober to march t
o the next Norman castle he wanted destroyed. During that time the townsfolk – Norman, English and Welsh alike – were ordered to remain either in their homes or the priory. Cole hovered at the brink of death for four days, but then his fever broke and he slipped into a more natural sleep. When he woke, he asked for Boleton again.
‘He is in the forest, keeping our men in order until the prince leaves,’ replied Iefan with more confidence than Gwenllian felt was warranted.
Cole accepted the explanation though, and it was one time when she was grateful for his ingenuous habit of believing everything he was told. Then, before she could stop him – it was hardly a suitable subject for a sickroom – Iefan began to recite the names of everyone who had died in the raid, and she felt tears scald her eyes when Meurig’s was among them.
‘Meurig?’ echoed Cole, shocked. He groped for her hand. ‘Oh, Gwen! I am so sorry.’
She took a deep breath to compose herself. Symon hated to see her cry, and she did not want him upset. ‘Never mind that – we should talk about you. Do you recall what happened?’
‘Kyng said you were picking off the enemy’s best archers,’ promted Iefan. ‘Were you?’
‘No!’ exclaimed Cole, appalled. ‘I had surrendered, and the prince had accepted my pledge of good behaviour. Of course I was not fighting!’
‘Then tell us who attacked you,’ urged Iefan grimly. ‘I will see he answers for his crime.’
‘It was dark – I could not see.’ But Cole was a poor liar, especially to anyone who knew him.
‘Who was it?’ demanded Gwenllian, thinking she would strangle the culprit with her bare hands; the murderous attack had come far too close to succeeding.
‘All men look alike in winter cloaks,’ Cole murmured, closing his eyes so he would not have to meet hers. ‘It might have been anyone.’
His face was ashen, so she did not press him. He fell into a doze and was still asleep when the prince rode away the next day, taking with him a hefty chunk of Carmarthen’s portable wealth.
The moment the dust settled, the townsfolk began to emerge from their hiding places. Gwilym Kyng was among the first to arrive, anxious to see whether his house was still standing, although he refused to acknowledge that it was Gwenllian’s presence that had saved it from the torch. Spilmon and his insipid wife, whose name Gwenllian could never remember, had accompanied him.
‘Where have you been?’ demanded Iefan coolly. ‘You slipped away like a snake in a—’
‘Of course I fled!’ snapped Kyng. ‘What did you expect? For me to die with you, when Lord Rhys set fire to the place where his enemy lay? But Rhys has gone thank God, and now I want you gone too. Your clerk has arranged you accommodation near the castle, so please leave.’
‘We cannot move Symon yet,’ said Gwenllian, aghast. ‘He is too weak.’
‘I do not care. It is his fault the town lies in ruins – he should have protected us.’
‘Easy, friend,’ whispered Spilmon, embarrassed. ‘He did his best – and almost died for it.’
‘Well, his best was not good enough,’ said Kyng angrily. ‘It will take years for the town to recover from this disaster – if ever. Moreover, the raiders have not only stolen all my cheeses, but they burned my dairy into the bargain. I am ruined! And I want him out of my home. Now!’
‘We are not moving him until he is strong enough,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘So I suggest you lodge elsewhere, if you find his presence so objectionable.’
‘You can stay with me, Gwilym,’ offered Spilmon generously. ‘I am missing a roof, but my downstairs rooms are relatively unscathed.’
‘We cannot accept guests,’ whispered Spilmon’s wife. ‘We have only one bed left.’ Spilmon shot her a pained smile. ‘Then you can lodge with your sister while Gwilym and I stay here in Priory Street. These are trying times, and we must all make sacrifices.’
Mistress Spilmon grimaced, as if she thought her sacrifice was rather greater than her husband’s, but she bowed her head and accepted his decision. Gwenllian raised her eyebrows, thinking she would have strong words to say to Symon if he ever treated her with such rank disregard. She watched the two merchants march away arm in arm, while Mistress Spilmon trailed along behind them.
Daniel was the next to seek them out. He looked exhausted and said he had spent much of the week either burying the dead or absolving the dying. Atrocities had been committed by both sides, and he estimated that more had died during the pillaging than in the initial attack.
‘But at least Symon is not among them,’ he said with a tired smile. ‘I thought he was lost when I saw his wound, but God saw fit to spare him.’
Eventually Boleton arrived, breathless and dishevelled, claiming he had spent the entire time of the occupation rallying Carmarthen’s garrison in the woods, ready to drive the invaders out.
‘I was about to spring into action when I saw them riding away,’ he declared. ‘So I decided to let them go. Why risk the lives of our men when the enemy was leaving anyway?’
‘I am glad you stayed your hand,’ said Cole. The relentless stream of visitors was taking its toll, and his voice was weak. ‘We had surrendered – promised we would not fight again.’
Boleton waved a dismissive hand. ‘That was before Lord Rhys started looting. It would have been he who broke the terms of the truce, not us, and I am sorry I did not get the chance to tackle him.’
‘Boleton’s tale is true,’ said Iefan in a low voice to Gwenllian, seeing the doubt in her face. ‘He did move troops about in the forest – the men told me.’
‘I am sure he did. But moving and intending to attack are two different things.’
She studied Boleton carefully. He was a handsome man in his thirties, who might have done well for himself had he not been so unashamedly lazy. Cole liked having his friend to hand and had created a post for him at the castle, thoughtfully ensuring it was one that did not entail too much work – Boleton’s duties revolved around investigating crime, but as Carmarthen was relatively law-abiding, the effort required to fulfil them was negligible.
Was Boleton telling the truth about what he had been doing for the past week? He did not look as if he had been sleeping rough, and Gwenllian was sceptical of his next tale too – that he had fought off a large band of vicious forest-dwelling robbers single-handed.
John the clerk arrived halfway through it, bursting with administrative matters that required urgent attention. Unfortunately for him, Gwenllian decided Symon had had enough at that point, and ushered everyone out.
‘I cannot leave until I know what to do about the supplies that were stolen,’ objected John in dismay. ‘And there is a missive from the Sheriff of Hereford that requires an immediate answer.’
‘It will have to wait,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘My husband needs to rest now.’
‘It is not him I want – it is you. You make all the important decisions anyway.’ John raised his hands defensively when she started to object. ‘I mean no disrespect, My Lady. It is an arrangement that works very well – your brains and his authority.’
Gwenllian knew it was true, but it sounded disloyal coming from John. Knowing nothing would be gained by sending the man away with a flea in his ear, she dealt with his questions, then walked to Merlin’s oak, grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs at last.
Like the town, the tree bore the ravages of battle. There was a gash of pale wood where a branch had been hacked off, and some of its leaves had been singed. But even so, it stood tall and strong. She ran gentle fingers over the crusty bark and thought her brother had been right to entrust his secret to its care. It exuded an air of comforting permanence, and she had the strange sense that Merlin’s power still coursed through it. She started to walk in a slow circle around its trunk, then stopped in horror when she reached the other side.
There was a gaping pit in the ground. The roots had grown to form a protective cocoon around whatever had been placed there, and someone had used an axe to hack through them.
She stared into the empty hole as she thought about Meurig’s last words. She had tried to stop him from speaking, partly because she had not wanted him to die before Daniel could absolve him, but also because she was sure someone else had been listening – someone who had slipped into Meurig’s house and lurked behind his door. But who?
She racked her brains, trying to think who might have spotted her kneeling next to her brother and come to see whether he was confiding details of hidden money. Everyone with sense had buried what they could when the attack had started, so it was not inconceivable that someone had surmised that he was telling her the whereabouts of hastily concealed wealth.
She closed her eyes, recalling the people she had seen – Kyng and Spilmon; John the clerk; Boleton, before he had escaped to the forest; Gilbert the Thief. Meanwhile, Hywel had gone to fetch Daniel but had taken longer than he should have done – perhaps he had returned to listen to what his father had to say. Or was the villain one of Lord Rhys’s men, and the precious relics were even now being toted east?
But would anyone have the audacity to lay thieving hands on King Arthur’s bones? Of course they would, she thought grimly, because such items were worth a king’s ransom – no religious foundation would pass up the opportunity to buy such a prize. And there was Glastonbury to consider – its abbot would no doubt be delighted to receive back what had been taken from him.
Trying to track them down after so many days would be impossible, and she dropped to her knees and wept when she saw she had let Meurig down – she had lost what he had given his life to protect.
II
Summer 1198
It was more than two years since Lord Rhys had attacked Carmarthen. Buoyed up by the ease of his victory, he had gone on to sack Colwyn and Radnor, and the Normans had been hard-pressed to contain the grizzled old warrior. Then he had died suddenly, and his heirs were more interested in sparring with each other than harrying Marcher lords. Peace reigned, albeit an uneasy one, giving Carmarthen a chance to recover.
King Arthur's Bones Page 5
