King Arthur's Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  His father lived a mile up the road at Pandy, a cluster of cottages around the fulling mill, whose wheel was driven by the Honddu stream. He was looked after by his daughter Rhiannon, whose husband also worked at the mill, which treated all woollen cloth woven in the surrounding area.

  Owain was a self-employed carter who carried much of the mill’s produce around the neighbourhood and often further afield. His two patient oxen were tethered out of the wind in the lee of the tavern and, huddling against the cold on the driving board, he drove the plodding beasts and his empty cart up to Pandy, where he left them in the shelter of the mill yard.

  His sister’s bwthyn was a hundred paces further, on the banks of the millstream. It was a two-roomed cottage built of cob, a mixture of clay, straw and dung plastered on wattle panels between oak frames, the walls capped by a steep thatched roof.

  Rhiannon was expecting him, late as it was, but her husband was asleep in the inner room, snoring in the box-bed with their two small children cuddled under blankets on the wide shelf above him. There were glowing logs in the fire-pit in the centre of the main room, the wispy smoke being lost beneath the high ceiling of plaited hazel twigs that supported the thatch.

  ‘How is he tonight?’ murmured Owain, as his sister opened the door for him.

  ‘Weaker than ever, poor man. He can hardly catch his breath.’

  Propped against the far wall, slumped on a hessian mattress stuffed with raw wool and goose feathers, was their father, Hywel ap Gruffydd. At seventy, he looked a score of years older, a gaunt skeleton of a man, unable to lie down because of shortness of breath. His old chest wound had collapsed one lung and now the other was giving up as well. His sparse white hair overhung a cadaveric face, the same deep eye sockets that his son possessed being like dark pits above sunken cheeks and blue-tinged lips.

  Owain went across and knelt on the floor rushes alongside the pallet. He took his father’s hand in his, feeling the coldness of the claw-like fingers, in spite of the profusion of blankets that lay on the bed and around his shoulders.

  ‘I’ve no more than a day or two left, my son,’ he whispered between heaving breaths that drew air into what little remained of his lungs. ‘But there’s nothing to live for now that our last prince has gone.’

  His son gently stroked the bony fingers. ‘Don’t strain your voice, Tâd,’ he said. ‘We’ll all come to see you in turn, the whole family.’

  Briefly the old man’s eyes flashed. ‘Idwal’s sons are most welcome,’ he hissed between gasps. ‘But is it likely that Ralph and his brood care much if I live or die?’

  Rhiannon, standing on the other side of the bed, clucked in disapproval. ‘Now, Tâd, that’s not true. They’ll be here tomorrow, no doubt.’

  Hywel had had three sons, as well as a daughter. The eldest, Idwal, had been killed many years before, during Llewelyn’s attack on Caerphilly in ’68. Idwal left two sons and when, later, their mother had died, Owain had looked after them until they were old enough to fend for themselves.

  Hywel’s remaining elder son was Ralph, though he had been baptised Rhodri. Now a prosperous man in his forties, he had ‘gone over to the English’, as his father put it bitterly. He had abandoned his patronymic of ‘ap Hywel’ and become ‘Ralph Merrick’, a common anglicization of one of his forebears, ‘Meurig! As a youth, he had entered the service of the Scudamores, a notable Norman family, and had risen to be their bailiff at nearby Kentchurch Court, one of the Scudamores’ main estates. Ralph had married an Englishwoman from Hereford town and their three children were John, William and Rosamund, all thoroughly English names.

  Relations between the two parts of the family were cool and, though there had never been any outright enmity, Ralph and his family looked down on the others as rude yokels who had failed to make the best of their lives by siding with the invincible invaders who were inexorably pushing the Welsh border further westwards.

  Owain and his sister crouched for a while on the floor alongside their father’s bed, soothing him and talking quietly about old times. None of them made any attempt to avoid the fact that the old man had not long to live, for death in those rural communities was commonplace and accepted. Hywel had already lived much longer than most men, though it was hard that he must go now, knowing that his revered prince had been killed – and along with him the last hope of maintaining Welsh independence.

  Rhiannon fed him some warm bread in milk, and their father seemed to gain a little strength, struggling to sit up further on his deathbed. ‘Go to bed now, good girl,’ he commanded. ‘I will talk to Owain for a while.’

  Reluctantly, but accustomed to doing what she was told, the middle-aged woman left them, putting a few more oak logs on the fire as she went. As soon as the heavy leather flap that served as a door to the bedroom fell back into place, Hywel seized his son’s hand in a surprisingly strong grasp.

  ‘I cannot die before telling you something, Owain bach,’ he wheezed. ‘Our family carries a secret which must be passed on from generation to generation.’

  His son frowned, wondering if the old man’s mind was failing along with his body, but he felt he must humour him. ‘Why me, Tâd, for Ralph is the older one?’

  Hywel scowled and gripped his son’s hand even harder. ‘I cannot trust him with this; he panders too much to our enemies.’ He paused to cough, white spittle appearing at the corners of his mouth, then continued, though it was an effort to do so.

  ‘Listen, you know the legend that in times of great crisis Arthur of Caerleon, ancient king of the Britons and Hammer of the Saxons, will come again to save the country in its hour of need?’

  Bemused, Owain nodded in the firelight, wondering what this had to do with some family secret. ‘The bards say he never died,’ he conceded, recalling the fairy tales his mother had told him as a child. ‘He is supposed to be sleeping in a cavern with his men, awaiting the call to arms.’

  His father slowly shook his head. ‘Wishful thinking, my son. Our bards liked to make a romance out of everything,’ he murmured cynically. ‘Arthur died on the Isle of Avalon and was buried there, long ago in Glastonbury. But the damned English monks dug him up almost a century ago, to prove that the champion of the Britons was really dead and gone, so could no longer be looked to as a future saviour.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this now, Tâd?’ muttered Owain, becoming a little impatient when there were far more immediate troubles to be considered.

  ‘Because the bones of Arthur are no longer in Glastonbury, to be mocked by those who want him proven dead. They were stolen by us and are hidden very near here.’

  Owain’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean, stolen by us? Who are “us”?’

  Hywel struggled to sit up even straighter, the effort causing him to gasp for breath. When he had recovered, he explained. ‘A band of brave men took them from Glastonbury – a band led by Meurig ap Rhys, your great-grandfather. He swore that the secret of their hiding place must be handed down through each succeeding generation, and so it came to me from my father, Gruffydd ap Meurig.’

  ‘And you are loath to pass this on to Ralph?’ asked Owain.

  ‘He is not to be trusted with such a secret,’ wheezed Hywel contemptuously. ‘Being a creature of the Scudamores and even known to Edmund Crouchback of Grosmont, he might tell them in order to curry more favour. No, it is you, Owain, a true patriot and a fighter who must carry this trust onwards.’

  ‘But I have no sons. You well know that my wife died barren years ago.’

  ‘Then pass it to Idwal’s sons! That would be fitting, as he was my eldest boy.’

  Owain was dubious. He felt that this must be some romantic fantasy, perhaps with a basis of truth, but exaggerated by the dying mind of his father. Yet the old man was speaking clearly and rationally, with no sign of mental confusion. ‘But what use is this knowledge to us – or anyone else?’ he asked.

  Hywel’s dark eyes flashed briefly in the light from the flickeri
ng logs and briefly he became almost animated. ‘This may be the time, Owain!’ he hissed. ‘God knows that if ever there was a moment when Wales was in mortal danger, this must be it! With Llewelyn slain, we need Arthur’s return as the only hope of salvation.’

  ‘But you said that he was dead – he must be, if you have his bones! This old story about him sleeping in a cave is just a fairy tale!’

  The old man became agitated, grasping at the blankets with an emaciated hand. ‘Of course it is, boy! But think what a rallying point it would be for Prince Dafydd’s army up north, if it were known that the relics of King Arthur were carried before their host when they marched to battle! Even these Norman-English bastards are fascinated by Arthur, which is why they revered the remains in Glastonbury. It was even old King Henry, curse his black soul, who told the abbot where they were to be found.’

  The effort of this long speech exhausted him, and he slumped back against the pillow behind his head.

  Suddenly Owain could see what his father was driving at, and a wave of love and admiration swept over him at the clear-sightedness and cunning of the dying old warrior. ‘You think I should take them up north, then, Tâd?’ he asked, anxious to get a firm direction from the head of the family.

  ‘I know you meet the local patriots in the Skirrid and other places,’ gasped Hywel. ‘Discuss it with them, but hurry! Every day makes Dafydd more hard pressed in Gwynedd. Take the great king’s remains to him at his castle of Dolwyddelan and trumpet their magic to every minor lord, archer and foot soldier in the country, for them to rally to the aid of our dear land!’

  His desperate enthusiasm was infective, and Owain bent closer to the frail figure on the pallet.

  ‘So where are the bones hidden, Tâd?’ he whispered.

  In the flickering light of the fire-pit, father and son bent their heads together as the secret was passed on.

  ‘They’ll have you dangling from that, if this becomes known!’ warned Dewi. He pointed at the wooden staircase that wound its way to the upper floor of the tavern, where a rope with a noose on the end hung ominously in the stairwell from a beam above. The large upper chamber was used for the monthly court of the nearby Hundred of Ewyas Harold. Summary justice was carried out on the premises for a whole variety of offences, including hanging for the theft of anything worth more than twelve pence.

  ‘Supporting Prince Dafydd is now treason, from what we hear,’ confirmed Eifion, the inn-keeper. ‘That sod King Edward has decreed that any Welshman found in arms will be hanged.’

  It was now the eve of Christ’s Mass, and a few of those who had assembled two nights earlier were back to meet Owain. Dewi from the Pandy mill was there, with his twenty-year-old son, Caradoc, who was trying to court Owain’s niece, Rosamund Merrick, against the violent objections of her father Ralph.

  The dejected patriots huddled together in a corner this time, as there were some other villagers from Llanfihangel crouched around the hearth, also rather despondently celebrating the birth of the Saviour with a few jars of ale.

  Owain had patiently explained to his fellow conspirators the substance of his father’s disclosure, eventually overcoming their incredulity. In a low voice he finally asked their opinion on what should be done. ‘I already had half a mind to go up to Gwynedd to join Dafydd’s forces. Now this seems a formidable gift to take him, if it puts more mettle into his men,’ he argued.

  As Eifion collected the empty ale-pots, he gave his opinion before going back to his line of kegs at the back of the taproom.

  ‘I’d say leave well alone, Owain. Keep your head down and it may remain on your shoulders,’ he muttered.

  Dewi lifted his cow-pox-raddled face to follow Eifion with his eyes as the inn-keeper walked away. ‘I’d be careful what we say in front of that man,’ he advised. ‘I’ve got my doubts about how true he is to our cause.’

  ‘He is beholden to the Sergeant of the Hundred who rents his room upstairs for their court,’ added the old man with the rheumy eyes. His reddened lids leaked tears, as the cold was still intense, though the wind had dropped.

  As no one had answered his question, Owain repeated it impatiently. ‘So what are we to do? Are we to retrieve these relics and try to get them up to Dolwyddelan?’

  The half-dozen looked at each other uneasily.

  ‘So where are they now?’ ventured Caradoc.

  Owain shook his head. ‘That secret has been guarded for over ninety years. I’m not going to divulge it in a public alehouse, especially when we’ve not yet decided what to do about them.’

  After some further muttered discussion, Dewi’s son Caradoc and two of the younger men agreed that they would support Owain if he really did intend trying to smuggle the relics up to North Wales to join the prince’s depleted army. The others decided that their lives and their families outweighed the slim chance of success for such a hazardous journey – and the even more doubtful outcome of trying to defeat the massive forces of Edward Plantagenet that now formed an iron ring around Snowdonia.

  ‘Come with me a moment, while your wives sit and gossip in the church,’ Owain commanded, beckoning his two nephews into Garway’s sloping churchyard. It was after morning Mass on this special day of Christ’s birth, and their feet crunched through a thin layer of frozen snow that lay on the grass outside the strangely shaped building. The Knights Templar, who had a preceptory in the tiny village, had recently built a circular nave on to the old chancel in imitation of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, with a separate fortified tower a few yards away.

  ‘Where are you taking us? It’s damned cold today,’ grumbled Madoc, at twenty-five a couple of years older than his brother, Arwyn. He was a big-boned young man with abundant brown hair and the family’s deep-set eyes.

  ‘Let’s walk down to the Holy Well, out of earshot of those nosy folk,’ growled Owain, looking at the trickle of parishioners coming out of the south door.

  As they trudged the hundred paces down to the bottom of the churchyard, Arwyn pulled his heavy woollen cloak more tightly around him and shivered. ‘Don’t be too long, Uncle, for Bronwen has a goose to cook for us all.’ He felt the cold most, as unlike his brother, he was thin and wiry, with darker hair.

  ‘This is more important than a damned goose, even for dinner on the day of Christ!’ retorted Owain, and the two younger men fell silent. He had been virtually their father since they were children, and his word was not to be questioned.

  In the corner, against the boundary wall, a small stone-lined well normally provided water that was claimed to cure eye ailments, but today it was frozen solid. A couple of raised slabs formed benches, but today they were too cold to sit on, so the three men stood by the well, the two nephews waiting expectantly for Owain to speak.

  Gravely he explained the whole history of Arthur’s bones and their removal from Glastonbury by their great-great-grandfather, as well as the solemn vow of the Guardians to pass on the secret of their hiding place through the generations. At first incredulous, the two younger men were by no means lacking in intelligence and quickly grasped the significance of the relics.

  ‘But that swinish king, Edward Longshanks, caused them to be moved to a new shrine near the High Altar in Glastonbury only four years ago,’ protested Madoc. ‘He went with all pomp and ceremony to the abbey there and made sure that everyone knew that Arthur was really dead and unable to rise again to save the true Britons.’

  Madoc was more aware of current news than most people, as he was the reeve to the Templars’ farm at Garway and often had conversations with the three monkish knights who lived in the nearby preceptory.

  Owain grinned, the first time he had smiled since the news of Llewelyn’s fatal ambush. ‘Then they are fakes, substituted by the Benedictines there. We have the real bones of Arthur.’

  He went on to tell them that as he had no sons himself to whom to pass on the secret, he was going to impart it to them. ‘It is fitting, as your father, Idwal, was the eldest son and he would have told you,
had he lived.’

  ‘Why are you telling us this now, Uncle?’ asked Arwyn. ‘You are not all that many years older than us, and you have a long time before you need contemplate death.’

  Owain began to explain the present crisis and his intention to take the relics north to Prince Dafydd. ‘I may never return, either because I will be killed before I reach Gwynedd – or die in the battles that must come. In that case the bones will be lost and your duty will never be called on.’

  ‘So why are you telling us?’ persisted Arwyn.

  ‘The relics are still in the hiding place where they have rested for almost a century. There are many people in this area I do not trust, and it may be that I will be prevented from retrieving them – possibly prevented by death!’

  He banged his hands together to get some warmth into them.

  ‘In that case someone must still keep the knowledge of where they are, for some future occasion. You are the only ones I can trust, as Ralph and his brood cannot be relied on not to go running to their English masters.’

  Madoc frowned. ‘My masters are the Templars and they are Normans. Why do you trust me?’

  ‘Because you are the son of Idwal, and grandson of Hywel, who, thank God, still survives, though he cannot last for long.’

  He turned to Arwyn. ‘And that goes for you too. You are both true Welshmen, and if I can’t trust you both I may as well lie down and die this minute.’