King Arthur's Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Sire.’

  ‘Do you tell me that none of you would slip into a tavern at night to take a swig?’ the coroner asked with a grin lifting one side of his beard. There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. ‘You’d be the only men-at-arms ever to be sober, if so.’

  ‘Perhaps some did take some ale or wine when they may.’

  ‘Sometimes I’ve known men take more than just a little ale too,’ the coroner reminisced. He looked over at Baldwin. ‘Once one of me own boys took a set of plates from a wealthy merchant’s town house. That was a goodly haul! Too good for that damned churl. Took it meself. Gave him a little coin for it, of course. Damned fool spent it inside an hour at a tavern, I expect.’

  ‘Aye,’ the reeve agreed, stony-faced. ‘There were some made themselves rich out there. Happy days, for them.’

  ‘So you admit Englishmen were capable of the same thievery, then, and that you have experience of it. So, then, Reeve, am I to think you did this thing? You wandered in there last night, killed the man and slipped out again, putting into practice all the expertise you built up during your war career? No? Then don’t be so damned keen to blame another man, eh? Now, then.’ He sat upright, glaring about the gathered men with an expression that could have turned ale to vinegar. ‘Did anyone see this man about the vill yesterday or yestere’en? Come, now! All you are happy to accuse the man, but has any man a shadow of evidence? Will any man say they saw him?’

  There was no response to that challenge, and Baldwin felt an unaccountable sense of relief. He had no cause to think that the man was innocent, after all, and by his own admission he had argued with his companion. But Baldwin was a renegade Knight Templar. He had seen the punishment meted out to so many of his comrades on the basis of evidence they never saw. It was the foundation of his own loathing of injustice.

  The Templars had been arrested and accused of crimes, but not allowed to know what the offences were, when they were committed, how they were committed, nor even who accused them – nothing – and yet were tortured until they ‘confessed’. They were burned, broken and cut without understanding why. Some had their feet roasted until the flesh fell away, and they still did not know why. The experience had taught Baldwin that in the absence of a lawyer there was no justice.

  ‘Right, then,’ the coroner continued. ‘Who was last to see the man alive?’

  This elicited the response that Ulric, Hob, Father William and two or three others had remained in the pardoner’s company. He had grown sleepy some hours after dark, and had gone to his palliasse in the brewhouse before the others had left. Hob had taken the pardoner at his word and continued selling beer on his account, assuming that he would be reimbursed the following morning. Soon his snores could be heard, and then gradually the men had parted. First to go was the priest, then Ulric, and Hob was forced to stay up with the others until he grew bored of their company – and singing – and threw them out in the middle of the night. He had tidied the room, doused his fire and then went to make sure his guest was all right. A scratching noise had made him wonder whether there was a rat in the chamber. As soon as he found the corpse, he raised the hue and cry.

  There was more evidence to hear from the men who had been drinking, but little more could be learned. All pronounced themselves moderately drunk and had gone home to their beds.

  Baldwin nodded and glanced at the coroner. But there was something in the tavern-keeper’s tone which made him a little suspicious. He felt the man was concealing something. But who in these days of violence and hardship had nothing to hide?

  ‘In that case,’ Coroner Richard declared, ‘this matter is unsolved. I find that this pardoner has been murdered by a man or men unknown, and that he is not of this parish. The murdrum fine will be imposed, and the weapon used to kill him must have been a knife or dagger. I will say the weapon was worth at least a shilling, and that much is deodand. And now my inquest is closed.’

  Father William left the coroner’s court with a feeling of sour disbelief.

  There were not many men in this vill whom he would trust, but Reeve Ulric was one. He was an astute man, with the clear sight that most others lacked. He was standing up near the entrance to Hob’s tavern now, and the priest crossed to him with a determined expression on his face. ‘I am sorry that they didn’t listen to you. You were right, I believe, in God’s name.’

  ‘Well, the coroner didn’t seem so sure,’ Ulric said, still smarting. ‘But I know these Welshies. You can’t trust them. Not that he’d listen.’

  ‘I’ve known enough knights who couldn’t find their ballocks with both hands,’ Father William said shortly. ‘These two are no different. You going to the fields?’

  The reeve nodded, and Father William fetched his own hoe from the shed at the bottom of his chapel before the two men walked to the fields together. ‘You saw how the man broke into the back room?’

  ‘The hole under the eaves. Must have been easy.’ Ulric shook his head. ‘If that wasn’t a clear proof of the Welshman’s guilt, nothing was. The fellow must have woken and seen his mate climbing in, and thought he was there to make up.’

  ‘You think so? I’d have thought the pardoner didn’t wake at all. No, if he’d come to and seen the Welshman slipping in, he’d have raised Cain. They separated angrily, didn’t they?’

  Ulric nodded. They had both heard the pardoner tell of his fight with his companion, and how he believed that the man could have meant his threat. ‘But I don’t think that mother-swyving—’

  William shook his head. ‘Enough. I won’t listen to such language.’

  ‘Apologies, Father. I forgot I was talking to you. It just makes me angry to think of one of those Welshmen making fools of good Englishmen.’

  ‘You were out in Wales for a while, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I saw my own son killed. Some Welsh ambushed us on the way to join the king. He was slain before he had even time to draw a knife.’

  ‘I am sorry – may he rest in peace . . . Of course. I had heard – but that was before I came here myself,’ the priest murmured.

  The two stood at the edge of the strips, gazing down the lines of vegetables. Mud lay thick and bright, and the rainwater was puddled like blood on the paths between.

  Ulric shook his head. ‘Look at all this. It’s wonderful land, this. Perfect. Any man could make a living with it. Rich, fertile land. And what good is it?’

  ‘You mustn’t upset yourself, Ulric.’

  ‘Why not? This kind of land is perfect for a man to pass on to his son. Here am I, a freeman, and yet I have no son to inherit my land. No one. What is the point of life when there’s no one to take over, no one to carry on?’

  ‘You have suffered much, Ulric.’

  ‘Aye. And for what? It is the saddest thing, to lose your child, to see him die before you.’

  ‘At least you know his suffering’s over.’

  ‘Perhaps. I knew there was no good to come of a pardoner’s visit.’

  The priest gave him a long, measuring look. ‘I didn’t hear you complain while he was here.’

  The reeve wouldn’t meet his eye, but kept his gaze fixed on the weeds. ‘Aye, well, there are some folks you shouldn’t argue against. He might have been an honest pardoner, after all. One of them may be.’ He shrugged and began to trudge to his own strip. ‘I just haven’t met that one yet.’

  Baldwin and the coroner demanded some food, and a girl soon brought them a little meat pottage with a loaf of rough maslin, a cheap peasant bread made from wheat and rye.

  Coroner Richard eyed the fare sourly. ‘This the best you can do? I am a king’s coroner,’ he grumbled, but set to with gusto nonetheless. ‘What of him?’

  ‘Him?’ she said, and glanced at Huw. ‘He’s no money to pay for food.’

  ‘Then put it on my slate,’ Coroner Richard said with a low malevolence. His spoon stopped, hovering near his mouth as he stared at the girl with a fixed determination. ‘Now!’

  Reluctantly she
went to fetch food for the prisoner. She had been about to get only dry bread, but catching sight of the coroner’s glower she amended it to the same as the two knights themselves were eating.

  ‘I am thankful, Sir Coroner,’ Huw said hesitantly as the girl disappeared inside again.

  Coroner Richard snorted. ‘I’ll still hang you, man, if they find you guilty.’

  A little later Baldwin walked back inside the tavern to ask for more ale, and saw Hob in the corner, near the great window that overlooked the village green.

  ‘Was he successful here, this pardoner?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Did he make much money?’

  ‘He took many pennies from the people around here. Some women even threw him their rings and bracelets. I saw a gorgeous enamelled—’

  ‘His purse is still full. What of you? Was it a good evening for you too?’

  ‘He paid me a little, which I have here—’

  ‘Show me,’ Baldwin said.

  Hob opened his purse and withdrew six silver pennies and a ring. ‘I liked it, and he threw it to me for his food last night and this morning. The coin was payment for ales last night. He bought drinks for others.’

  There was a strip of vellum in his purse too. Baldwin nodded at it. ‘A pardon?’

  ‘I gave him his own ales last night in exchange for this,’ Hob said defensively.

  ‘You did well,’ Baldwin said with a low whistle.

  ‘He was a generous man,’ Hob said. He shot a look through the window at Huw. ‘Which is why I want his killer to pay.’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ Huw exclaimed indignantly, his mouth full of maslin.

  ‘Someone shaved his throat for him,’ the coroner said unperturbably.

  Baldwin had returned and shared Hob’s words with them. Now he jerked his head back towards the tavern. ‘The pardoner’s purse is still full, so it does not look as though anything was missing. It’s unlikely he was murdered for money. Perhaps someone gave him a trinket for an indulgence, which he later regretted, and he came here to take it back?’

  ‘Possibly. What of you, fellow? Did you see anything else he could have had that may have been stolen?’ Sir Richard said to Huw.

  Huw stared at him, then his eyes went to Baldwin, before they dropped to stare into his bowl. He said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘What of the bones?’

  Agatha, wife of Henry of Copplestone, was in an indignant mood that day.

  She had told her husband to go and demand an apology for the atrocious insult offered to her, but the feeble old devil wouldn’t think of it. Not even when she had lifted her hem to show how her skirts had been ruined. He just sneered and told her to get the maid to clean it, so instead she had gone to Crediton to purchase more cloth for a new tunic. Let her useless husband see if he preferred that.

  If only she had listened to her mother; then she would have wed Cedric instead of Henry. Cedric was already far wealthier than her husband. He had made something of himself, first being apprenticed to a spicer, and now living in Exeter as a professional man himself. With his money, she could have enjoyed a vastly better lifestyle. But no, she’d taken the fool instead. Henry had been there, and she had, to be fair, been quite overturned by his clear adoration. If only she’d been more sensible . . .

  Life was there to be lived though. She wouldn’t spend her life dreaming of what might have been. No. She must seek all the pleasure she might, for life was fleeting.

  Riding back homewards, to her hall at West Sandford, she saw a stranger riding on the same road. ‘Do you know him?’ she said to her servant.

  Edward, a thin-faced man of some two-and-twenty years, peered over his shoulder, his squint making his face as sharp as a ferret’s. ‘Him? Nah! Never seen him.’

  She was not seriously alarmed, for the man appeared to be riding gently enough. Tall, square-shouldered, but with a paunch that implied his wealth, she had been aware of him ever since they had left Crediton.

  ‘Godspeed, Lady,’ the stranger said as he drew near, doffing his hood. ‘Simon Puttock at your service.’

  ‘God you keep,’ she responded, bending her head carefully so her wimple wouldn’t fall. It was always a struggle to keep the cursed thing on.

  He was a good-looking fellow, this. Grey eyes, set in a sun-browned face which looked as though he was ever ready to smile. Yet there was a certain sharpness to him too, as though he was a man who might be slightly dangerous. Yes, he was a man to watch, she thought.

  ‘You live near here?’ she asked.

  ‘I have been some years away. Ten years ago God saw fit to make me bailiff on Dartmoor, and I’ve been living there ever since. But I am returning to live here now. Do you live near?’

  ‘My husband is Henry of Copplestone. We live at West Sandford.’

  ‘A good barton,’ Simon commented.

  ‘Usually. The church has ruined our crop this year. A lazy shepherd allowed the dean’s flock to roam and they got into our peas and ate them all.’

  ‘I am sure the dean would be pleased to compensate you.’

  ‘Dean Peter? You don’t know him, then?’

  ‘He has been a friend for many years.’

  She snorted. ‘He has been a torment to me, sire. He has caused me much misery. Our crops gone, and he all but laughed in my face. Then a canon splashed my skirts. Look! Here! And he made no offer to “compensate” me. Nothing!’

  Simon gave a sympathetic grunt. ‘But I am surprised. I always found Peter Clifford to be a generous-hearted, good and kindly man. This is a sorry tale, Lady.’

  ‘Aye. And little benefit will I gain from the telling. There seems nothing a woman might do to win recompense for the harm done to her.’

  ‘Did you meet your husband here?’ Simon asked, keen to change the subject. He did not like to hear people talking about his friend in such a bitter manner.

  ‘No, I was born at Morchard Bishop. My husband came from Copplestone, and we rented West Sandford when we were wed.’

  ‘It was Saul who used to live there,’ Simon recalled. ‘He was a good old fellow.’

  ‘He lived to a good age. He was almost two-and-forty when he died.’

  Simon said nothing. Being almost forty himself, he was always aware of old age looming. ‘Oh.’

  They had reached the narrow way that led to the marketplace at Sandford as he spoke, and Simon saw before him the familiar shape of his friend Baldwin. Then he saw the other figure and winced.

  Glancing at Agatha, he was about to speak when he saw her frown. ‘Lady?’

  ‘That man again!’ she spat as she looked at the trio.

  Baldwin was soon back with them. ‘No, there are no bones in there.’

  ‘Come, fellow. Tell us,’ the coroner rumbled. ‘What do you know of these bones?’

  Huw licked dry lips. ‘This is a long tale. I am the last of my line. We serve to protect some objects which we venerate most highly. Relics of a man we revere.’

  ‘Saintly relics all over the place,’ Coroner Richard said.

  ‘Yes, Sir Richard, but these are different. They are the genuine bones of . . . a man respected throughout Wales. But a man took some of them. It was him, John the Pardoner.’

  ‘The dead man?’ the coroner said.

  ‘Yes. It was some few years ago that Sir William de Grandisson gave our abbey a piece of the True Cross, in the fourteenth year of our lord King Edward’s reign.6 As soon as it was given, the abbot, Richard Stradell, decided to make a suitable environment for it, and ordered that a special space should be created for this wonderful relic. Stone was delivered, and it unhappily was stored over the top of the corpse of him whom we serve. The masons began their work, and we must remove the box to another safe place. It was taken to a little chapel where it would be safe. Or so we thought.’

  ‘They didn’t realize it was the bones of this man you revere, eh? Wasn’t the box obvious?’

  ‘No. To maintain the secret, the box was only a small one. Just large enough to hold the bones within. And a tress of
hair. Apart from that there was nothing to declare the sanctity of what it held. Only scratches and gouges from a shovel, they were the only decoration. And it was taken away before it was seen.’

  ‘Except the pardoner saw it?’ Sir Richard said. ‘And like any other pardoner, he saw a chance for some bones to work with, eh, and grabbed ’em?’

  ‘I fear so. He visited the chapel and the chaplain saw him praying, but later, when the pardoner had gone, the box had been moved. Some of the bones had been taken. The bones of a hand.’

  ‘So you took off in pursuit,’ Baldwin said. ‘And followed him all the way down here?’

  ‘I had no proof it was him who had taken them. I could not simply accuse him of theft without proof. And then, when I was sure at last, and asked him how he came by the bones, he refused to tell me. That was why we separated in such a manner.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t learn about these bones until you came here to Crediton?’ Baldwin said sceptically.

  ‘He had the bones, I knew, but he kept them about his person. I didn’t reach him until I arrived in Exeter, and since then I only saw them at Crediton. I had to stay with him until I could be sure that they were the bones I sought. And then, at last he took them from his wallet and showed them, and I was sure that they were indeed the ones that had been stolen. He had the bones of a hand.’

  ‘So you followed him here and killed him in order to recover them?’ Coroner Richard grated.

  ‘No, sire. If I wanted to kill him, I could have done at any time between Exeter and here. Why wait until we came here? I admit, he and I parted on no good terms. He denied that he had stolen them, but declared that they were legally recovered by him. At least, he did at first. It was only later that he sneered at me, saying that I should be glad that he was at least showing the bones to some of the world. It made me angry to hear him joke about the bones, but I didn’t kill him. I held my tongue and walked away. You see, I meant to return to his side at Sandford and then to persuade him to give them up.’

  ‘Or to wait until you and he were on the road in a quiet place, and take ’em, eh? Well,—’ the coroner shrugged— ‘can’t blame you. Would’ve done the same meself. Blasted pardoners are a menace.’