‘Well, there was hair,’ recalled Gwenllian. ‘Meurig said it belonged to Arthur’s queen. Apparently some of it fell to dust when it was grabbed.’
Cole looked dubious. ‘I saw ancient hair in France, but that did not disintegrate when I touched it. And it does not prove anything one way or the other anyway.’
She did not ask how he came to be handling old corpses – not all his soldiering stories were very salubrious. ‘Well, Meurig said the bones were Arthur’s, and that is enough for me,’ she said firmly. She nodded to the bone in his hand. ‘Can we be sure that it is human?’
‘Who knows? But may I make an observation about the phial in Daniel’s purse? I assumed it was filled with holy water – he was a monk and usually had some to hand – but I have just remembered that the priory uses round pots for that purpose. His is oval.’
Gwenllian was bemused. ‘What are you saying?’
‘That if his bottle does contain something holy, then it is not water blessed at the priory.’
Gwenllian narrowed her eyes. ‘So his purse held two relics, not one? This phial might contain something else from Meurig’s chest? Is that what you are suggesting?’
‘I am not suggesting anything; I am stating a fact. Interpreting it is for you to do.’
It was still dark when they left the chapel. Cole was regaling Gwenllian with descriptions of grisly relics he had seen on his various travels, but she was not listening. Her mind was full of what they had learned. Had Daniel overheard Meurig, then stabbed Cole in order to prevent her from claiming the bones? And was he really callous enough to have pursued a friendship with Symon afterwards, spending hours in his company and enjoying his generous, openhearted hospitality?
She frowned, trying to recall precisely what had happened when. She had ascertained at the time that Symon had been knifed not long after Meurig had died. And who had found him? Daniel! The monk had summoned Iefan, and together they had carried Cole to St Peter’s Church, where he had ordered Spilmon, Kyng and John to find her. She recalled how his habit had been torn and bloody, and how she had wondered whether he had ignored his vocation and joined in the fighting. But now it occurred to her that he might have been stabbing his friend instead. Or was she maligning the man? He had, after all, been ministering to those hurt in the fighting, so some stains were going to be inevitable.
She spotted Sergeant Iefan in the bailey, and beckoned him over. ‘You were with Symon very quickly after he was attacked two years ago. Will you tell me what you remember?’
‘Not this again, Gwen!’ groaned Cole. ‘Do you not think it is time to forget about it?’
‘Willingly,’ said Iefan, ignoring him and addressing Gwenllian. She was not the only one for whom the incident still rankled, even if the victim had put it from his mind. ‘It occurred not far from the castle, and there were a number of people milling about – Lord Rhys’s men as well as townsfolk. But no one saw it happen – and, believe me, I asked around afterwards. Daniel found Sir Symon – it was he who told us to take him to the church, because it was the safest place.’
‘Do you recall seeing blood on Daniel’s habit?’ she asked.
Iefan nodded. ‘And it was not his own either. But I turned a blind eye – if he was seized by the urge to knock a few raiders’ heads together, then good luck to him, I say.’
‘He joined in the fighting?’ Cole was startled. ‘But he told me he spent the whole time on his knees, praying. I remember thinking that it had been a waste of a strong pair of arms.’
‘Then he lied,’ said Iefan bluntly. ‘Not that I am accusing him of anything untoward, you understand. He was probably just embarrassed to admit there was a warrior beneath his habit.’
‘He did not linger long once we had arrived at Kyng’s home,’ mused Gwenllian. ‘He left with almost indecent haste.’
‘To minister to the dying,’ said Cole. ‘Not to excavate bones while you were otherwise engaged. He was a good man, and he was my friend. I refuse to believe anything bad about him.’
Gwenllian inclined her head. He was entitled to his opinion, as she was to hers. However, Cole was too trusting for his own good, because any number of people had seen the monk wandering around when he claimed to have been at his devotions. And if Daniel had lied about that, then what other untruths had he told? And why?
It was time to speak to John, the clerk who had discovered Daniel’s body. Cole sent a boy to wake him, unwilling to waste a single moment now the investigation was under way. John arrived yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked tired, as though he had spent a disturbed night, and Gwenllian wondered why – his duties at the castle were hardly onerous, so his fatigue was unlikely to be due to overwork.
‘I will finish the stores inventory today,’ he bleated in alarm when he saw Gwenllian. He was far more intimidated by the constable’s wife than the constable. ‘I have been busy of late.’
‘Doing what?’ asked Gwenllian evenly.
John became flustered. ‘Going through old documents – there is no point in keeping records of ancient transactions, as I am sure you will agree, sir.’ He gazed at Cole, hoping to elicit his support – the constable was well known for having scant patience with administration.
‘Really,’ said Gwenllian sweetly, before Cole could respond. ‘Perhaps later, you will show me what you have done, and we can admire the fruits of your labours together.’
John’s consternation intensified. ‘It is tedious stuff, My Lady,’ he babbled. ‘Normally I would delegate it to one of my underlings, but it seemed unfair to foist such a dull task on them.’
‘I see,’ said Gwenllian, not sure what to make of the tale. She decided to investigate, but not that morning. Daniel’s murder was a far more pressing matter. ‘But my husband did not summon you here to talk about your work. He has questions about what happened yesterday.’
‘You mean when I found Daniel?’ John gulped uneasily. ‘But I already told him about that.’
‘He would like you to tell him again. To iron out one or two inconsistencies.’
‘Inconsistencies?’ John was now seriously discomfited, and Gwenllian could see Cole frowning; clearly this had not happened when the clerk had been interviewed the previous day.
‘Well?’ she asked, when John did no more than stare in alarm.
‘I discovered Daniel just before dawn,’ John replied shakily. ‘He was lying face down under Merlin’s oak. When I saw the blood on his head, I guessed he had been unlawfully slain, so I ran to the priory to raise the alarm. Then you and Boleton arrived, sir, and I told you my tale.’
Gwenllian mulled the information over. ‘The wound was on the back of Daniel’s head, and he was lying on his front. That suggests he did not see his assailant coming – or he trusted the fellow enough to turn his back on him. He stumbled forward and died where he lay.’
‘Yes.’ John was nodding. ‘There was nothing to say he moved after he was hit.’
Of course, Gwenllian had already surmised how Daniel had fallen from the marks on his habit – the two muddy smears at knee height, where he had been knocked from his feet, and the dust on his chest where he had pitched to the ground. Then she frowned. Something was amiss. The answer clicked into her mind: the weather. She filed it away, to discuss with Cole when John was not there.
‘What do you think happened to Daniel?’ she asked of the clerk.
John swallowed. ‘That is not for me to say, My Lady. Sir Symon pointed out that his purse was not stolen, so it cannot have been robbery. Perhaps he was assaulted by someone who does not like foreigners – Daniel was Norman. Or it was a case of mistaken identity.’
Gwenllian raised her eyebrows. ‘You do not think his bulky figure in its monastic habit made him distinctive?’
‘Not if it was dark,’ John flashed back. ‘And there are several taverns near Merlin’s oak. Perhaps his killer was drunk – his judgement impaired.’
‘Why were you out at such an hour?’ demanded Gwenllian. ‘To w
alk there before anyone else means you must have risen very early – far earlier than you woke today. And it is common knowledge that you start work late.’
‘Yes, but I finish late too,’ John objected defensively. ‘I am still at my books long after everyone else has gone home.’
‘Even more reason to answer my question, then.’
John spread his hands in a shrug. ‘I could not sleep, so I went for a stroll to clear my mind. It is something I do not infrequently.’
Gwenllian nodded to the writing equipment the clerk had brought with him, having assumed, not unreasonably, that he had been summoned because his clerical skills were needed. He carried a sheaf of parchment, an inkwell, some pens and a portable desk.
‘You tote this wherever you go, do you not?’ she asked, taking the desk from him and turning it over in her hands. It was a heavy, well-made piece, built to last a lifetime.
The clerk stiffened, as if he had been accused of something. ‘Of course. I am a scribe. I cannot work without the tools of my trade. It is—’
‘Why were you listening to the discussion between my husband and Daniel two nights ago?’ interrupted Gwenllian, aiming to disconcert him. There was something about the diffident Englishman she had always found unappealing, and she had never really trusted him.
John regarded her in horror. ‘I was not—’
‘You were. I saw you,’ she said harshly. ‘Now answer my question.’
John’s cheeks burned. ‘They were talking about horses,’ he mumbled. ‘I am interested in horses, and could not help myself.’
Gwenllian asked one or two more questions, but it was clear the clerk had no more to add – or no more he was prepared to share, which, as she remarked to Symon when John had gone, was not necessarily the same thing.
‘Do you think he killed Daniel?’ asked Cole worriedly. ‘You certainly treated him as though he were a suspect.’
‘Only because he behaved like one.’ Gwenllian tapped her chin thoughtfully. ‘And I am unconvinced by his tale of early-morning walks. But despite his reluctance to cooperate, I still garnered a few interesting snippets from his answers.’
‘You did? The only thing I learned was that he likes horses – which surprises me, because he has never expressed an interest in them before. And he rides with all the grace of a sack of corn.’
She regarded him askance, amazed he should have believed the tale. ‘I think you will find that was a lie, cariad – he was listening for some other reason. Did you notice his portable writing desk, by the way? Its base is formed by two strips of wood that meet in the middle.’
Cole raised his eyebrows. ‘A heavy implement with a cross. Do you think it is the murder weapon?’
‘If so, then he cleaned it well, because there was no blood. And something else occurred to me as he spoke, although it is not something that points to his guilt – or lack thereof, come to that. It was fine yesterday – we have not had rain in days.’
‘For more than a week. What of it?’
‘The marks at knee level on Daniel’s habit were muddy. Muddy, Symon, not dusty. The surface of the ground is dry, although it will be damp deeper down. The stains on his chest were powdery, consistent with him falling face forward on to the hard ground. But what of his knees?’
He regarded her blankly. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘Then think! He was not on his knees because he stumbled on to them when he was hit, as I first thought – he was already on them.’
‘Praying?’ suggested Cole tentatively.
‘Digging!’ Gwenllian failed to understand why he could not see what was so obvious. ‘His knees came into contact with soil from deep within the ground – muddy soil – but his chest was only dusty. Moreover, he died at Merlin’s oak. And what was buried at Merlin’s oak?’
‘Arthur’s bones. But they are no longer there. Or are you saying you were careless and did not look as closely for the wretched things as you might have done? You overlooked them?’
‘I was careful – they had certainly gone. But that was two years ago, and now we find Daniel in possession of a relic that almost certainly came from Arthur’s chest.’ Gwenllian began to stride towards the gate. ‘So I suggest our first port of call this morning should be the place where Daniel was murdered.’
Bewildered and hopelessly out of his depth, Cole turned to follow her.
The questioning of a clerk at an hour when he was usually abed did not go unnoticed. The castle was a small community, and very little happened in it that was not soon common knowledge, so they had not reached the gate before Renald de Boleton intercepted them. Cole beamed a welcome at the knight he regarded as a brother, although Gwenllian’s greeting was rather more restrained.
‘What has poor John done that you felt compelled to haul him from his slumbers at such an ungodly hour?’ Boleton asked. He was wearing a fine new tunic that Gwenllian had not seen before. ‘The poor man is still shaking.’
‘Gwen asked him some questions,’ replied Cole, giving his friend the kind of look that said that should be explanation enough. It was not unknown for the princess to home in on some aspect of castle management that did not meet her approval and interrogate someone about it.
‘Questions about what?’ pressed Boleton. ‘The fact that he spends more time on personal matters than on his duties?’
‘Does he? I had not noticed.’ Cole’s shrug suggested he did not care either.
Gwenllian did. ‘What personal matters?’ she demanded.
‘He talks of taking the cowl,’ explained Boleton. ‘But decent clerks are hard to come by these days, so we should all try to dissuade him – for the good of the castle.’
‘John a monk?’ asked Cole, startled. ‘Will anyone accept him? He is such a quiet mouse.’
Boleton laughed. ‘He wants to join a monastery, not an army, brother! Quiet mice are no doubt highly prized in abbeys, especially ones who can write so prettily.’
Cole pondered the notion of anyone yearning for a monastic existence for a moment, then dismissed it as incomprehensible. ‘We were asking him about finding Daniel’s body.’
Boleton’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Investigating crime is my job. Are you telling me I am relieved of my responsibilities?’
‘Just Daniel’s death,’ replied Cole. ‘Gwen is going to solve that. But it is good news for you – it will leave you more time to deal with the burglaries that have the town in such an uproar.’
‘True,’ agreed Boleton. He frowned. ‘But surely you do not suspect John of killing Daniel? The monk was a large man, and an unfit scribbler like John could never have bested him.’
‘It takes no great strength to hit someone from behind. Especially if he is kneeling.’
Gwenllian winced, and wished Cole had not shared this particular piece of information, although she could not have said why.
‘Kneeling?’ pounced Boleton. ‘You mean he was killed while he was at prayer? But he was struck down under the tree in Priory Street. What are you suggesting? That he was dabbling in some pagan rite that had him on his knees under Merlin’s oak in high summer?’
‘Of course not,’ said Cole, before Gwenllian could stop him. ‘He may have been digging for something. In fact we are going to see what can be learned from the scene of the crime now.’
‘Intriguing,’ mused Boleton, rubbing his chin. ‘May I come with you? I am bored with looking into these dull thefts, and this sounds like an amusing diversion.’
‘Hardly a diversion,’ said Cole reproachfully. ‘Or amusing either. My friend is dead.’
Boleton, unrepentant, snorted his disdain. ‘A man who liked you for fine wine and chatter about horses, brother. I would hardly call him a friend.’
Gwenllian knew Boleton had resented the easy companionship between Cole and Daniel, but the knight’s words made her consider the fact anew. Was he jealous enough to take steps to put an end to it? He had gone out on the night in question – to hire a prostitute, he had
said – and she had not heard him return. So he would have had the opportunity, while his fine hilt would almost certainly match Daniel’s injury. She wondered how she could question him without Symon realizing what she was doing – Cole would never entertain the possibility of one friend harming another and would try to stop her.
‘I should have walked home with him,’ Cole was saying quietly. ‘He would not be dead if I had done my duty.’
‘I am not so sure,’ said Boleton. ‘Have you considered the possibility that you have had a narrow escape? That you might have suffered a blow to the head, too, had you accompanied him?’
Cole regarded him in horror. Clearly the possibility had not occurred to him.
‘Are you saying Daniel had enemies?’ asked Gwenllian, not sure what to make of the remark.
‘Well, he was unlikely to have been killed by someone who wished him well,’ drawled Boleton, regarding her steadily. She found his expression impossible to interpret.
‘But who would mean him harm?’ asked Cole. His face was pale, and Gwenllian could tell the notion of the monk having enemies disturbed him deeply – in his code of honour, friends were supposed to protect each other from those.
Boleton shook his head slowly. ‘I do not know. No one relieved him of his purse, so he was not the victim of a robbery. And do not tell me the thief was disturbed before he could complete his grim business, because the body lay under a tree all night. When no alarm was raised, any self-respecting villain would have returned to finish what he had started.’
It was a good point, although Gwenllian declined to acknowledge it. ‘Then what would you say was the motive?’
Boleton held her gaze. ‘I really do not have the faintest idea. But I am sure that if anyone can find out, it will be you.’
Wondering why she felt as though she had been insulted, rather than complimented, Gwenllian followed the two knights towards the gate. She found herself staring at the hilt of Boleton’s elegant sword. Was it wishful thinking, or was it a better match for the imprint on Daniel’s skull than Cole’s more robust one? She edged closer, but a thread of cloth suggested it had enjoyed a recent cleaning. Was that significant? Boleton was usually lax about weapon maintenance, and Cole was always berating him about it. She was not sure what to think, but Boleton was firmly at the top of her list of suspects.
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