To reach Merlin’s oak from the castle entailed heading towards St Peter’s Church, then continuing on past it into Priory Street. The tree stood at the far end of the road. When they arrived at the tree, Cole and Boleton began to poke about in the long grass with sticks, although not very systematically, while Gwenllian stared up at the shady green canopy.
‘What have you seen?’ she asked it softly. ‘Who killed Daniel? Who stole the bones Meurig hid – and almost murdered my husband into the bargain?’
A summer breeze whispered through the branches. Then a leaf fell and spiralled slowly to the ground. Gwenllian followed it with her eyes, watching it come to rest on a patch of grass. She bent to inspect it. It was healthy, shiny and green, and she wondered why it should have dropped. She started to pick it up, but her fingers closed around some blades of grass as well as its stem, and when she lifted the leaf the grass rose with it.
‘Symon!’ she shouted, excited. ‘Come and look!’
‘Weeds,’ drawled Boleton, when the two knights had darted around the tree to find the constable’s wife brandishing a fistful of vegetation. ‘How very fascinating!’
‘Turf,’ explained Gwenllian curtly, not liking his tone. ‘Grass excavated carefully, so it could be replaced and no one would know a hole had been dug.’
Cole was on his knees, hauling up clumps of sod. He tossed them to one side, until he had cleared a neat square that was roughly the length of his arm. The soil below was damp and hard and had clearly been stamped into place. Before Gwenllian could stop him, Boleton had stepped into the hole.
‘The digger had average-sized feet,’ he announced authoritatively. ‘Smaller than mine. Do you see the print he left?’
‘Not really,’ replied Gwenllian acidly. ‘Your trampling has just obliterated it – along with any clue it might have yielded.’
Boleton sighed. ‘How foolish of me! It was a very clear impression too.’
Gwenllian studied him hard but could not decide whether he was mocking her or was genuinely contrite. She opened her mouth to say something sharp, but Cole spoke first.
‘It does not matter, brother. I saw the mark before you trod on it, and it was unremarkable. I doubt it could have told us anything useful.’
Gwenllian scowled at them both and heartily wished they had stayed in the castle. Cole she could control, but Boleton was obviously going to be a nuisance. She fought down her irritation and knelt, hoping to find some other clue. Unfortunately there was nothing to see but recently excavated earth.
Cole borrowed a spade from Spilmon the grocer, whose house was nearby, and began to dig, relishing the opportunity to indulge in the kind of physical exercise that was generally frowned on for royally appointed officials. Boleton offered to take a turn, but not with much conviction, and was more than happy to lie in the shade while his friend did the work. He tossed a boy a penny to fetch him a jug of ale and settled back with an indolent sigh.
The sight of the constable wielding a shovel was enough to attract attention, and it was not long before a crowd had gathered. Hywel was among them, so Gwenllian went to greet her nephew, pleased by the chance to abandon Norman French and speak her native tongue. But Hywel was not of a mind to exchange pleasantries. He scowled towards Cole.
‘What is he doing?’
‘Investigating Daniel’s murder.’
‘By digging holes?’ Hywel asked incredulously. ‘I know he is stupid, but I did not think he had lost his wits completely.’
Gwenllian fixed him with a glare that had him stepping back in alarm. ‘He is not stupid.’
‘He was stupid two years ago,’ muttered Hywel. He was drunk, as usual, and did not know when it was more prudent to stay quiet. ‘If he had done his duty, my father would still be alive.’
‘I am tired of hearing this,’ said Gwenllian. Hywel started to raise a wineskin to his lips, but she slapped it down. ‘I miss him too, but it is time you pulled yourself together. Do you think he would be proud, seeing what you have become? A drunkard, wallowing in events of the past?’
Hywel regarded her through bloodshot eyes, then turned abruptly and shouldered his way through the crowd. She closed her eyes, temper subsiding as quickly as it had risen. She had not meant to be cruel, but she was weary of his recriminations, and someone needed to tell him the truth about himself. She dragged her thoughts away from Hywel when Cole cleared away the last of the loose soil, and his spade chopped towards the harder earth around the tree’s roots.
‘Stop!’ she cried. Was it was her imagination, or were the leaves shivering in agitation above her head? ‘The hole is empty. You have proved someone came a-digging, but whoever it was has left nothing behind.’
Cole leaned on his shovel and wiped sweat from his eyes with his sleeve. Then he frowned, leaned down to pluck something from the grass and handed it to Gwenllian.
‘A phial,’ she mused. ‘Oval – and identical to the one we found in Daniel’s purse.’
‘Not identical – this one is empty,’ he said. ‘What do you think it means?’
Gwenllian considered. ‘I think you were right to assume the contents of Daniel’s little bottle were special. Perhaps someone believes the tree under which Arthur lay is sacred, and has been filling phials with rainwater that has dripped from its leaves.’
Cole’s expression was dubious. ‘But why should such a thing be in Daniel’s purse? I cannot see him falling for such foolery. He was a monk, not some superstitious bumpkin.’
Gwenllian did not know what to think. ‘If you are sure there is nothing else to find, we should refill the hole. I do not think the tree will appreciate being left with its roots exposed.’
It took Cole considerably less time to fill the hole than it had to dig it. When he had finished, Gwenllian replaced the turf and stamped it down. Despite their care, the grass still stood proud of the surrounding vegetation, and it told her that whoever had excavated the original pit had gone to considerable trouble to ensure his handiwork remained hidden. She wondered why.
Cole wiped his hands on his shirt, then accepted a drink from Boleton’s jug. ‘I am not sure that was worth the effort. We still do not know how the hole is connected to Daniel.’
‘It is not connected,’ said Boleton scornfully. ‘Obviously. He did not dig it – unless someone waited until he had patted it all back in its rightful place before killing him, which seems unlikely. Perhaps he just had the bad luck to spot the digger at work and was murdered for his silence.’
Gwenllian drew Cole away from him. ‘This hole is dug on the town side of the tree,’ she whispered, ‘but Meurig buried Arthur on the far side. Two different pits, two different places.’
He regarded her uncertainly. ‘What are you saying? That whoever tried to steal the bones two years ago dug in the wrong location? That Arthur has been here all along?’
‘No, I could tell by looking at Meurig’s pit that it had held a chest – the tree had wrapped its roots around it like a cradle. I have no idea why anyone should have been digging on the opposite side now. Perhaps it is nothing to do with Arthur, although . . .’
‘Although it is an odd coincidence. Poor Daniel. I wonder what he stumbled across.’
Gwenllian frowned. ‘I cannot believe the culprit did not make some kind of noise. So it is time to ask the people of Priory Street what they heard or saw.’
Gwenllian did not want Cole or Boleton with her when she spoke to potential witnesses, because no one was going to be free with information when a pair of Norman knights were looming behind her. Unfortunately she could not think of a way to be rid of them, and when she suggested they separate to ask questions, Boleton made a casual remark about an official investigation sending the murderer into a panic. It was cleverly done, because once the seed was planted in Cole’s mind there was no way he was going to let his wife conduct an enquiry on her own. And where Cole went, so went Boleton.
Trying to look on the bright side, telling herself that people would be less inclined
to lie when two warriors with sharp swords were at her back, she knocked on the door of the first house.
It was owned by a cobbler, who was visibly alarmed by a visit from the constable and his henchman, and would certainly have been forthcoming had he had information to share. Unfortunately he had none, other than that Daniel had died on the eve of the Feast of St Peter. It was an important festival – a patronal one – and there had been a vigil in St Peter’s Church. The cobbler had remained all night, devoutly on his knees, and so had many other Priory Street folk.
‘But not Kyng and the Spilmons,’ mused Gwenllian as they left. ‘We will talk to them next.’
‘Hywel was not there either,’ said Boleton challengingly. ‘Or are we overlooking kin?’
‘We are not,’ replied Gwenllian frostily. ‘We shall speak to anyone who was home on the night of the crime.’
‘Then let us start with Hywel,’ suggested Boleton. ‘He has a military past, and he was all but unhinged by the death of his father. It would not surprise me to learn he killed a monk.’
‘He has a point, Gwen,’ said Cole in a low voice, when Boleton stopped to exchange greetings with one of the town’s prostitutes – the most expensive one, Gwenllian noticed; his recent inheritance was allowing him to enjoy all manner of costly treats. ‘Hywel is a ruffian.’
‘He is,’ agreed Gwenllian with a sigh. ‘But I had better speak to him alone. He is unlikely to be very forthcoming if you are there – you know he does not like you. So stay here and—’
‘No,’ said Cole immediately.
Gwenllian touched his arm. ‘He is family, Symon. He would never harm me.’
It was rare that Gwenllian lost a battle of wills with her husband, but Cole’s distrust of Hywel ran deep, so it was three people who knocked on her nephew’s door. Gwenllian noticed how the house, like its occupant, had turned shabby since Meurig had died.
‘What do you want?’ demanded Hywel. He seemed less drunk than he had been shortly before, as if his aunt’s hard words had sobered him. They had done nothing to improve his temper, though. ‘If it is ale you’re after digging that hole, you can go to hell. Norman curs do not deserve my piss.’
He spoke Welsh, sufficiently rapidly that Cole could not follow, although it was obvious from his hate-filled expression that he had not said anything polite. Boleton inspected his fingernails, feigning boredom, although his eyes were alert, and his right hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
‘We only want to talk,’ replied Gwenllian quietly in Norman French. ‘I need to know if you heard or saw anything that might help us catch Daniel’s killer.’
Hywel continued to scowl. ‘I was in the tavern that night.’ He spoke Norman French in a way that said he did so unwillingly. ‘I came home when it was dark, and heard and saw nothing.’
‘But Daniel left the castle after dark,’ said Cole hopefully. ‘Are you sure you—’
‘Yes, I am sure,’ snarled Hywel. ‘Of course, Daniel would not be dead if you had escorted him home. You know there has been trouble with thieves in the town, and you should not have let him wander around alone. His death is your fault – like so many others.’
Cole flinched, and Gwenllian did not like the flash of spiteful triumph in her nephew’s eyes when he saw the barb had gone home. She put out a restraining hand when Boleton took an angry step forward.
‘What trouble with thieves?’ she asked.
‘The spate of petty larceny,’ explained Boleton. His voice was tight, suggesting his temper was only just under control. ‘Cole believes outlaws from the forest are responsible.’
‘It is not petty larceny,’ argued Cole. ‘Spilmon lost a box of coins, while the priory was relieved of valuable altar dressings. The culprits know exactly which places to target, and when. It is uncanny.’
Gwenllian looked from one to the other. ‘Then surely it is possible that Daniel was attacked by these felons? Perhaps he saw them hiding their ill-gotten gains under the tree, and they killed him to ensure he could never identify them.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Boleton. ‘Personally I believe the culprit to be a local man – I am sure you are wrong about the thefts being the work of outsiders, brother. You and I have spent days scouring the forest, but we have found no trace of outlaw camps.’
Cole frowned. ‘But I have spoken to witnesses who have seen strangers—’
‘Drunkards and beggars who will say anything for a penny,’ interrupted Boleton. ‘We have no credible witnesses – and you will waste your time if you follow their testimony. But we are wasting time now – we want to know what happened to Daniel, and this discussion can wait.’
Cole turned back to Hywel. ‘Please think carefully. Are you sure you did not see anything—’
‘If I did, I would not tell you,’ said Hywel tauntingly. ‘Daniel got what he deserved anyway.’
‘Hywel!’ exclaimed Gwenllian, shocked. ‘What a terrible thing to say! Daniel was a gentle man who took his vows seriously.’
‘Only the ones that suited him,’ said Hywel, oozing malice. ‘Just ask your husband.’
And with that he turned on his heel and marched back inside his house, slamming the door behind him. It made a crack like a thunderclap, and echoed along the otherwise peaceful street. Gwenllian looked at Cole and raised her eyebrows to indicate that an explanation was in order.
‘I did not want to tell you,’ he said sheepishly.
‘Tell me what?’ demanded Gwenllian, hands on hips. She was aware of Boleton looking equally bemused – Symon had not confided in him either.
‘Daniel had a lady,’ Cole mumbled uncomfortably. ‘I learned about it the night you and I were married, but it was their secret, not mine.’ The last part was spoken defensively, as if he imagined his wife might think less of him for keeping silent for so many years.
Gwenllian regarded him in exasperation. ‘But the identity of this lover might have a bearing on his death. You should have told me about her last night.’
‘You should,’ agreed Boleton. ‘So you had better tell us now. Do not look troubled, brother! Hywel knows about her, so it will not be long before Daniel’s secret is out.’
‘Meurig knew,’ hedged Cole. ‘He was an observant man, and noticed comings and goings. We discussed it once, then agreed to forget about it. It was not our business.’
‘Who is she, Symon?’ asked Gwenllian, although facts were coming together in her mind and she thought she had the answer. ‘Is it Mistress Spilmon?’
Cole gaped at her. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because she offered to tend Daniel’s body, and because you were considerate enough to wash it for her, to spare her the sight of his blood.’
‘Well, then,’ said Boleton, looking towards the grocer’s house. ‘Perhaps there is your culprit for Daniel’s murder. No man likes to be a cuckold.’
Gwenllian did not need to knock on Spilmon’s door, because the grocer was already hurrying towards them, Kyng at his heels. Cole saw the scowl Gwenllian directed towards the cheese-maker and the malevolent expression she received in return, and he shook his head in incomprehension.
‘Lord Rhys attacked Carmarthen more than two years ago,’ he whispered to her. ‘Do you not think it is time to forget what happened?’
Gwenllian raised her eyebrows. ‘I do not – especially not today. My brother confided his secret to me on that fateful night, and someone stabbed you in order to steal Arthur’s chest from Merlin’s oak. And now Daniel is brained under that very same tree with a large bone in his purse. It is a time for remembering, not forgetting.’
‘Not if Boleton is right, and Spilmon has just learned his wife has had a lover for the last ten years. That would make Arthur’s bones irrelevant, while the relics in Daniel’s purse might be a coincidence.’
‘Of course they might,’ said Gwenllian flatly, wondering how he could even suggest such a thing. ‘But Boleton might be wrong, and Spilmon may still be in blissful ignorance. In which case I suggest that nothi
ng can be gained from incautious words. You had better leave this to me.’
‘All right,’ said Cole, not bothering to hide his relief. He was not very good at the kind of subtle probing necessary to elicit answers without revealing what he knew. ‘I will just listen.’
‘I hope you are not planning to chop down Merlin’s oak,’ said Spilmon when he was close enough to speak. ‘You know the legend, do you not – that the town will fall if it is destroyed?’
‘A branch was lopped off two years ago, and look what happened then,’ added Kyng. ‘Lord Rhys stormed in and almost killed us all. We are lucky we survived – no thanks to some.’
‘The cheese-maker thinks to blame us,’ said Boleton to Cole, hand resting threateningly on the hilt of his sword. ‘But the raid was carried out by his countrymen, not ours.’
‘Actually the branch came off during the raid,’ said Cole to Kyng, although Gwenllian was sure the man knew it – he had just twisted the facts to make accusatory remarks. ‘It did not come down in advance, to warn of pending disaster. It was an accident.’
‘The tree does not allow accidents to befall it,’ said Spilmon. He sounded indignant on its behalf. ‘Everything that happens around it happens for a reason. Take Daniel, for example. His death was not a random act of violence, but will have a greater meaning.’
‘Really?’ asked Gwenllian, putting on her most winning smile. ‘What sort of meaning?’
Spilmon leaned towards her conspiratorially. ‘I heard odd sounds the night he died, and I am sure he was scrabbling about by its roots. Merlin’s oak does not appreciate tampering.’
Gwenllian glanced at Boleton. Cole had given the impression that the knight had already interviewed the residents of Priory Street about Daniel’s death, so why had Boleton not mentioned Spilmon’s testimony? It represented an important clue, after all.
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