King Arthur's Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  From the start, he had had no intention of going anywhere near Chepstow and now he went deeper into the forest to wait until dusk, when he would make his way across country back to Pandy. He had already arranged with Rhiannon for her to collect clothes and a hidden cache of money from his cottage. With a backpack of food, he would then slip away into the nearby Black Mountains and work his way northwards to Gwynedd.

  It was a pity he was unable to take Arthur’s bones, but at least they would soon be safe again and ready to await some future crisis that might afflict the true Britons.

  The old ox-cart once again creaked its way back to Abbey Dore without incident, the heap of straw concealing the stout oaken box in the back. Madoc and Arwyn were the Guardians this time and sought out the sexton without difficulty.

  Meredydd heard out their tale philosophically and readily agreed to resume care of the relic box and make sure that its position was safeguarded by being passed on to the next generation.

  ‘But I can’t put it back in that same grave again,’ he announced. ‘The soil was disturbed so much getting it out that it might be too obvious if I go digging the same spot up again so soon.’

  ‘Where can you put it, then?’ asked Arwyn. ‘We want the king’s relics to be in consecrated ground.’

  The sexton nodded. ‘They will be, never fear. There’s a convenient hole appeared at the base of the cemetery wall, there on the north side. Looks as if a vixen or a badger was trying to make herself a den.’

  They went to the abbey farm and discreetly shifted the chest from the ox-cart to a wheelbarrow, but this time helped to cover it with earth.

  ‘I’d have to fill in this pit anyway,’ said Meredydd. ‘So the bulk of the box will save me carrying at least one load of soil.’

  They watched him contentedly pushing his barrow towards the cemetery and as he vanished through an arch in the wall.

  Madoc crossed himself and murmured: ‘Pray God will keep Arthur safe until next he’s needed!’

  Historical note

  The extraordinary church at Garway is one of the few in Britain to reveal evidence of the round Templar naves, thought to represent the Temple in Jerusalem. It had a separate fortified tower, the ground floor of which is still known locally as ‘the prison’. Garway’s preceptory administered all the Templar properties in Wales and had three resident knights at the time of the suppression of the order in 1307.

  The Skirrid Inn is the oldest in Wales and a contender for the oldest and most haunted in Britain. It still has a hangman’s rope dangling in the stairwell, some hundred and eighty executions having been carried out there, the last in Cromwell’s time.

  The Scudamore family still lives in Kentchurch Court, after almost a thousand years’ residence.

  ACT THREE

  Thursday before the Feast of St Martin in Winter, Fifteenth Year of the Reign of King Edward II,2 Abbey Dore, Herefordshire

  Iestyn had learned his job well. No brother knew the tasks so well as he. He had made certain of it.

  He still felt that slight crawling of the flesh on his head as he passed by the little mounds in the lay brothers’ cemetery. Now, in the middle watches of the night, the ancient superstitions were hard to discard. When a man had grown here in the wild country, he may understand that the wisps of paleness were the normal mists, he may even know that the screeching from the tree at the farm over the wall was an owl, but that seemed to have little effect here, in the lee of the wall of the graveyard. Here all he could think of were the stories of ghouls and ghosts.

  Soon he was at the projection in the wall. Here his grandfather had set the stone, carefully tamping it into place, so that the precious box could be found. Back then he had thought his only task would be to pass on the location to someone else. Now Iestyn realized that it could not remain. It must be saved.

  It was the rocks that made movement essential.

  The abbey had taken delivery of a pile of rocks to build a suitable altar for the pilgrims who were certain to arrive to view the piece of the Holy Cross which had been given to the abbey by Sir William de Grandisson. The masons were swarming all over this area by day, and one had already found the little hole in the ground. A pile of rubble lay all over here, from the present reworkings, and one large rock had fallen on top of the relics in their box – Iestyn only prayed that the bones themselves weren’t damaged.

  He must shift some of the smaller rocks that still lay about before he could get to it. An inquisitive man might see the box otherwise – masons weren’t above digging where an interesting hole materialized, and most knew that old bones could easily be taken and sold. There were strange fools who would always want to buy such things. Necromancers, alchemists and even simple pardoners were keen to get their hands on bones.

  Scraping the soil away, he soon found the corner of the box, and he knelt, staring at it for a long moment before clearing the rest of the dirt about it and bringing it up into the dim light. He could feel a tingle running through his hands, up his wrists, along his arms, down his back, as he clasped it to his chest.

  Huw ap Madoc stood waiting in the shadow of the gateway.

  ‘Here, take it, friend, and protect it and the contents with your life,’ a voice hissed, and Huw found himself holding the final remains of the king.

  ‘I will protect you,’ he said, and felt a mixture of foolishness and pride. Foolishness for talking to a box of bones, pride for knowing that he held here in his arms the future hopes of his nation.

  When he was younger, he had sneered at the thought of the Guardians. The idea that he should be the last in the line of men who sought to protect the bones was laughable. Long dead now, his father: a good man, if somewhat fixated on the relics. He could still remember the way in which his father had drummed into him the story of their ancestors, the vital role they must play in the defence of their homeland. Old Madoc had been consumed by the thought of Arthur returning to their land, bringing fire and sword to evict the invaders. It was a delicious idea to Madoc. At the time it had seemed daft to Huw.

  Not now. Now that the land of his fathers had been so devastated by the English, it was much more attractive.

  ‘I won’t let you be harmed,’ he said.

  And for three years and one half, he was right.

  Wednesday before the Feast of St John the Baptist,3 Crediton, Devon

  On the day that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill first met the pair of them, he had already been involved in one altercation, and the sight of the pardoner and his friend was enough to make him want to turn about and hurry in the opposite direction.

  Earlier it had been a simple dispute about money due. The Church of the Holy Cross and the Mother of Him Who Died Thereon was a vital part of the town of Crediton, and the twelve canons were known to all the townspeople. But every so often there were little flares of resentment. Such as today.

  Such a small matter, but one that could have so easily come to blows. A canon riding along the street with his little cavalcade of servants managed to splash the green skirts and red cloak of a townswoman with muddy water. Yes, it was a small matter, and she would have been happy enough, probably, with a simple apology from any other man: any woman would have been. Except she was Agatha, the wife of Henry of Copplestone, and he already had a claim in the court against the dean of the church for damages. A small flock of the dean’s sheep had been left to roam by a lazy church shepherd, and they had consumed the better part of Henry’s pea crop. Which was why she shrieked at the canon like one demented.

  It was also why Canon Arthur wouldn’t apologize, and when Agatha’s servant began to berate the man, his ecclesiastical servants came to hold him back and ended up knocking him to the ground. Which was why some townspeople, who naturally supported their neighbour against Church arrogance, surged forward to protect him.

  When Baldwin arrived, the shouting had already become incoherent. As always, each resorted to his own tongue, and now Canon Arthur was sneering in Latin, while Agatha and her
friends replied in more earthy Saxon. The guards with Baldwin were demanding silence in Norman French, while the servant and his friends were cursing and swearing in fluent Celtic that reminded Baldwin of the Welsh foot soldiers he had met on his travels. It took all his powers of diplomacy to calm the affair, to force the canon to apologize gruffly, against the promise that Baldwin would tell the canon’s dean if he did not submit, and then threatened the gathering with a day in the stocks if they didn’t disperse and leave the clerical group to continue on their way.

  Eventually common sense had prevailed. The cold, aloof canon had doffed his hat to Baldwin, while the wife of Henry of Copplestone had sniffily turned her back on the crowds about. Not without attracting some admiring glances, though, because she was a lovely woman. High cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes, full lips, all added to an allure that was uncommon in Crediton generally.

  Yes, he had had enough of soothing troublesome citizens, and the sight of two men, who were to his mind little better than felons, was enough to make him want to fly up the road to the stable where his horse waited, leap on it and ride home at speed. But he was Keeper of the King’s Peace, and his sense of duty wouldn’t allow him – even though, as he strode forward, he was sure that he saw others bolting at the sight of the two walking towards him. One couple looked shifty and guilty, he thought, as though they themselves were running from the law, they fled off so swiftly, bolting up an alleyway. But no, he recognized the glimpse of a green skirt and a long scarlet cloak and took a quick breath of relief – it was Agatha again, he realized, and then he realized that the man with her was a churchman – he had the robes of a canon – but with that thought his own options for flight were gone. The two were upon him.

  ‘Godspeed,’ he said, baring his teeth in almost a smile.

  ‘Good Sir Knight.’ The first man hailed him with a bow and made a swift movement of his hand, roughly sketching a cross over his breast, although to Baldwin in his present sour mood it appeared to outline the Arabic numeral that denoted eight, a series of swoops that ended at his right shoulder. ‘I hope I see you well?’

  His slapdash gesture was irritating, almost an insult to God, Baldwin felt. Not that his ability to make the sign more effectively would have endeared him to Baldwin – nor helped Baldwin to trust him. ‘You have the permission of the bishop to sell your wares?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘I have the permission of the Pope himself,’ the fellow replied and bowed again.

  ‘The bishop takes a dim view of men like you,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘A humble pardoner? But all I do is ease the souls of those who need my aid.’

  ‘And by what right do you judge the extent of a man’s sin? Are you trained as a cleric?’

  ‘I am licensed, Sir Knight. The Pope has given me the power to offer remission of sins. Perhaps you would appreciate a little something? Remission of sins for thirty days after payment is not to be sniffed at. So long as you are truly penitent, of course. And I can give you a discount for . . .’

  ‘Yes, you would take my money. I know you and your sort, man. I will have nothing to do with you. Take your papers and find someone who’s more likely to be taken in. I am not.’

  ‘Oh.’ The man looked mournful for a moment, looking Baldwin up and down with the gaze of a man contemplating a poor victim of fate, a man whose soul must inevitably be damned.

  It was not the sort of expression that suited him. The pardoner was a stolidly built man, with more about his belly than a humble ecclesiastic should carry. Maybe of Baldwin’s height, he had a ruddy complexion, which Baldwin felt owed more to the amount of ale he consumed daily than to exposure to the elements, with a round face and heavy jowls. His hands were moderately clean, with long nails to show he had never been forced to work over-hard, no matter that he wore a threadbare old habit as though he was some kind of poverty-stricken cleric. At his side was a leather purse that had a long strap over his shoulder, and which appeared to weigh no small amount. His feet were booted with good red cordovan leather – better, Baldwin guessed, than his own.

  ‘Are you selling this rubbish too?’ Baldwin demanded of the second man.

  This second man did not appear so fat. His own business was less profitable, no doubt. He was thinner, with a face that was lined and marked with the weather of several winters. It was the temper of the man, though, which had scored his features. There were lines at the side of his mouth and deep wrinkles in his brow, which came from an ill nature, if Baldwin were to guess. He had seen many men like this in his time. The man was one who wore his suspicion of the world on his face. There was no mask of deceit there. It made Baldwin wonder how the man could make a living, with so grim an appearance.

  ‘You think I sell promises of eternal life? Nay, lord, I am a triacleur, a mere humble trader in potions for the ill and needy.’

  Baldwin looked him up and down. A Welshman, then, from his accent. One of those who was so effective in the king’s armies, with their long knives and bloodthirsty determination to be first at the rape and pillage, he thought. Except this one was different. A triacleur, he was one of those itinerant wanderers who sold treacle or some similar ineffective medicine to the gullible. At least they didn’t make promises about protecting a man’s soul. Giving sweet-flavoured draughts to those who sought comfort from their ailments was almost a kindly act, in his opinion.

  ‘Well, if I find either of you near my estates or villeins, I’ll have you flogged out of the vill,’ he grunted. ‘Be off with you!’

  ‘Hardly the welcome we hoped for, eh, Huw?’ the pardoner said.

  ‘It is common enough that great men will look askance at us, John,’ the triacleur said.

  ‘Well and good. I have enough to deal with without two such as you,’ Baldwin said, and stood aside, watching the two amble on towards the main street.

  He was glad to be rid of them. All he hoped now was that he may not see them again. Sadly, he felt sure his hopes would be dashed, but he had no idea how soon that would be.

  Further up the lanes, Agatha clutched Arthur’s hand and stared back down towards the town’s high street. ‘Do you think he saw us?’

  Canon Arthur looked down at her. Her eyes were glittering with anxiety and dread, her breast rising and falling deliciously. ‘No, Mistress. I am sure our secret’s safe.’

  Thursday before the Feast of St John the Baptist,4 Sandford

  John the Pardoner sat back against the wall in the little alehouse and rubbed his back contentedly against the stone and cob. It had started disastrously, but ended not a bad day, all in all. At least his purse was full.

  He wished he’d not had the row with Huw. Huw had remained in Crediton to sell what he could in the way of potions to a credulous audience, and John had left him there. They had not parted happily.

  It was a foolish altercation, but no less poisonous for that. Huw had been asking a little too much about things. He should have known that a man’s sources were sacrosanct. Otherwise they weren’t uniquely his own any more. Why on earth he should wish to know so much about where the bones had come from, John had no idea. They were just old bones, in God’s name. It left John wondering whether Huw was himself thinking about moving into the pardoning business.

  Ach! In his heart John had hoped Huw would have followed on after him, hopefully meeting him again at Sandford, but Huw hadn’t turned up. John would have to get used to walking about the country on his own in future. Well, he’d done it often enough before. Huw had suggested that they stay together because two men on the road were safer than one alone, but down here in the wild country west of Exeter, it was Huw who would be most in danger. At least the folk here were John’s countrymen, even if they did sound a little outlandish to his ear. It was a pity, though. Huw had been a good travelling companion.

  John had had a good afternoon. The parish priest, an older man with grey hair fringing his tonsure, had appeared to be glad to meet him when he had arrived at the tiny little hamlet of Sandford. He had know
n he was on to a good thing long before he met Father William, though, as soon as he saw the great church up ahead of him on the rise. A church like that was a guarantee of cash in a pardoner’s pocket.

  It was a good day for a walk. Made a nice change after some of the weather he’d endured in his time. Sweet Jesu, the march from Wales had been God-cursed. Lousy weather, rain in his face the whole way, his hat, the one he’d bought in Chartres, blowing away and snagging in a tree near a cliff so precipitous he’d not dared attempt a rescue, because all the while he was overwhelmed by the fear that his pursuers might catch him. That was petrifying.

  But they hadn’t. He had survived again, and reached this delightful little vill with the red-sandstone church. Such a prosperous-looking church it was, too. The sort of place where a man might find people in abundance with money to throw about.

  And from his reception, clearly there were more than the average number of sinners there.

  He had taken his position with some care, standing before the alehouse with his cross, once he had spoken to the priest. The man was utterly content to have him there, naturally. His eyes had lit up like candles when he heard the proposal. And from that moment, John knew his fortune was made, even if the priest wouldn’t let him preach from his own pulpit. The bishop was not eager to have pardoners make use of his churches, but this was only a chapel of ease. This was a fine distinction, John knew, but any distinction was better than none.

  Leaving the chapel, he saw an urchin standing with some friends. He was a scruffy, grubby little boy with the face of a demon and the manners of a stoat, but at the sight of a clipped penny the brat took John’s drum and began to beat a steady rhythm, following John down the little hill to his post outside the alehouse. Soon he had a small audience with him, and John could begin his sermon.