‘It is a depiction of Judgement Day,’ explained Wilfred. ‘And to make it more terrifying for my flock, I have included local features. You can see Rhydygors at the top, being burned by a fire-breathing dragon, and the abbey is at the bottom, inviting the Devil in.’
‘Mabon is inviting the Devil in,’ corrected Geoffrey.
Wilfred rubbed his chin. ‘So he is. I had better wash him off and insert Ywain instead. It is one thing attacking the living, but it is unfair to tackle the dead, who are not in a position to appreciate it. Do you recognize any familiar faces among the souls burning in Hell at the bottom?’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Geoffrey, as several jumped out at him. ‘Is that legal?’
Wilfred sniggered. ‘What are they going to do about it? Besides, I am doing them a favour. They should be thinking of their immortal souls, and I am reminding them of what will be in store if they do not do what the Church – me, in other words – demands.’
‘Is that William?’ asked Geoffrey, pointing to a bright figure that was winging its way upwards, away from the rest of Kermerdyn’s hapless residents.
Wilfred nodded. ‘He was a holy man, and it was a pity he died young. Still, we have Hywel now, who is just as valiant and honourable. I have been blessed with those at Rhydygors.’
‘I understand William had a vision,’ probed Geoffrey.
Wilfred nodded. ‘He was always rather cagey about it, although I did inform him he should tell me about the experience, because I am a bishop.’
‘And did he oblige?’ asked Geoffrey.
Wilfred grimaced. ‘Only on his deathbed, when he was not in control of his wits – and then I was obliged to listen for days before I had the full story from him. He claimed it happened when he was bathing in the river, and that it entailed the Blessed Virgin.’
‘He told Abbot Mabon much the same.’
Wilfred’s expression hardened. ‘Did he? Well, he went further with me. He claimed she said some very nice things about Wales, and that she was carrying a sword – although I may have misheard the last bit. She also advised him to eat wisely and stay away from mandrake juice, which has a tendency to make men see things that are not there.’
Geoffrey stared at him. Wilfred’s testimony contained elements of all the theories that had been repeated to him on the journey from England. He could only suppose that the Bishop had been more assiduous at listening to a dying man’s ravings than the others and had come away with a more complete picture.
‘Did he ever mention a statue?’ he asked.
‘Not to me, although he did have a penchant for them. He donated every one of the carvings you can see in this church.’
Clever William, thought Geoffrey, looking around in awe. The man had known that concealing his secret might mean it could be lost for ever, so he had hidden it in plain sight – among the scores of other icons he had bought to keep it company.
‘I do not suppose he had a favourite, did he?’
Wilfred seemed startled by the question. ‘Well, yes, he did, as a matter of fact, although no one has ever asked me about it before. Would you like me to show you?’
Geoffrey nodded, and the Bishop led him to the Lady Chapel. It was a small, intimate place, and the worn stones on the floor suggested it was also a popular one. Geoffrey understood why. It exuded an aura of tranquillity and felt sacred, even to a man normally immune to such sensations.
‘That one, in the niche above the sedilla,’ whispered Wilfred, pointing upwards. ‘He was always in here praying to it. Well, it is of the Virgin, so I suppose it was not surprising.’
Geoffrey stared at one of the most beautiful carvings he had ever seen. It showed a woman in flowing robes of purest alabaster; the only colour was the sapphires of her eyes.
Geoffrey gazed at the statue for a long time before he spoke. In his imagination, he could almost see William kneeling by the altar, lifting his eyes towards it.
‘William’s secret,’ he whispered.
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Wilfred irritably. ‘Have you been listening to local gossip? There was a tale that William had acquired a secret that made him turn his back on his sinful ways to live a godly life, but it was nonsense. It was his vision that changed him.’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘I am sure! A vision is religion, but a secret is superstition. Surely, you see the difference?’
‘Not really.’
‘Of course,’ Wilfred went on, not interested in his reply, ‘this was one of the first statues he brought to us, and he insisted on carrying it here himself, despite the fact that it is heavy. The others were delivered by his soldiers.’
‘Did this happen soon after his vision?’
‘Very soon.’ Wilfred gaped at him. ‘Are you saying those tales were right? That the Blessed Virgin did give him something to remember her by, and it was this statue? But it is a worldly thing, and when I came to clean it, there were bits of river weed behind her eyes.’
‘I suspect what happened was that William went swimming and he saw this statue in the water,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘We will never know whether it really spoke to him, but he certainly believed it did, and it changed him. He brought it here, of course; what better place for something he believed to be holy?’
‘But if you are right, then why did he not tell everyone his secret was this statue? Why stay silent and let all those silly rumours take hold?’
Geoffrey shrugged. ‘I cannot answer that.’
‘But I can,’ said Wilfred thoughtfully. ‘People gave him a lot of cloying attention once they thought he was holy, and he hated it. If this carving really is the essence of his vision, then he may well have wanted to protect her from self-serving petitioning.’
It seemed as reasonable an explanation as any.
‘This statue has never performed any miracles, though,’ Wilfred went on. ‘And she has been in here for nigh on ten years.’
‘Well, there is a good reason for that,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Namely that it is not the Blessed Virgin.’
Wilfred gaped at him a second time. ‘How do you know?’
‘My liege lord, Tancred, hails from Italy, and I lived there for several years. I know the carvings of the ancient Romans. This is Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Wilfred dubiously. ‘She looks like the Blessed Virgin to me.’
‘Quite sure. There are several just like it in Rome. Moreover, I think you will find that blessed virgins do not smile in quite such an alluring manner.’ Geoffrey produced the little statue he had found in Lanothni. ‘Here is another.’
‘You carry them around with you?’ breathed Wilfred, shocked. ‘What are you – a heathen?’
‘I found it two days ago,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘Kermerdyn was a thriving Roman settlement once – they would not have invested in such enormous walls had it been small and insignificant – so it is not surprising that their treasures appear from time to time.’
Wilfred took it from him. ‘They are identical! It is a pity you were not here seven years ago. You could have confounded all these silly tales and prevented needless speculation. You might even have saved a good man’s life, because I am sure William was murdered.’
‘I do not suppose you know by whom?’ asked Geoffrey hopefully.
‘No, although I have plenty of suspects. Top of the list is Sear, the man whose dearest friend I laid in the earth today. He did not shed a single tear.’
‘That does not mean he did not care,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But why do you think he killed William?’
‘Because I do not like him,’ replied Wilfred, as if that was all that needed to be said. ‘And his clerks made an error when calculating the taxes owed by his Pembroc subjects – but he still insisted on claiming the higher amount, even when the mistake was exposed. It makes him a thief.’
‘Doubtless the King did not mind,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Oh, he was very happy. But Sear could not keep col
lecting it, because it was turning Pembroc destitute. That was why he went to La Batailge – to explain in person why the King would be getting less in future. I did not envy him that task, because His Majesty is partial to revenue and would not have been pleased by the news.’
Geoffrey wondered whether Sear had decided not to do it at the last minute; he had detected no cooling in the relationship between monarch and subject. And Wilfred was right: Henry would not have been pleased to learn he was losing a source of income.
‘Who else is on your list of suspects for killing William?’ he asked.
‘Anyone who was jealous of William’s success,’ replied Wilfred. ‘And that includes all of Kermerdyn and half the surrounding villages. Why? Do you intend to solve that mystery, too? If so, I wager it will take you a good deal longer than it did to identify his secret.’
Thirteen
Geoffrey left the church pleased with his progress. He had identified William’s secret and delivered all the King’s letters, except Sear’s. He also knew what he was going to write in his report about the warring churchmen. Moreover, the germ of a solution had begun to grow regarding William’s murder: he was fairly sure he knew who had committed the crime. The answer to one question would tell him for certain, and he intended to ask it immediately.
There was an apothecary’s shop near the church, but it was closed. Geoffrey waited outside, thinking that it was mid-morning, late for merchants to open. He was about to give up when the owner arrived, rubbing his hands together in greedy anticipation when he saw a customer waiting.
‘I am unusually late, because of the news,’ he explained as he unlocked the door. ‘So please forgive my tardiness.’
‘What news?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Richard fitz Baldwin’s home was attacked last night. He escaped harm, but fled the town, saying he is not going to wait here for another attempt on his life. At first, folk said it was his own soldiers who staged the assault – he is not popular – but two of them were killed in the incident.’
‘Killed by Richard?’
‘Killed by whoever broke into his home with knives and crossbows. From what I gather, it was fortunate more were not slaughtered, although word is that they were aiming for Richard, not his minions.’
‘Was Leah harmed?’ asked Geoffrey, concerned.
The apothecary lowered his voice confidentially. ‘It pains me to say something nice about such a rank villain, but Richard does love his wife. He protected her bravely last night, then gave her to Abbot Ywain this morning, hoping she will be safe inside a holy place.’
‘Where has Richard gone?’
The apothecary waved his hand. ‘The forests that surround us will keep a man hidden for as long as he pleases, and the marshes are lonely and abandoned. He might have gone anywhere. Personally I hope he stays away, because he is not good for Kermerdyn with his brutality and pent-up fury. It is a pity he is not like his brother.’
Geoffrey asked the apothecary his question. When he had the answer, he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, what had happened to William. He thanked the man and retraced his steps to the abbey. The monks were in their chapel, praying for Mabon, but Leah was sitting on the wall where Geoffrey and Ywain had talked earlier. Her eyes were red, and she was pale and wan.
‘You heard what happened?’ she whispered when Geoffrey approached. Tears began to fall. ‘Men broke into our home, and would have killed us if Richard had not fought like the Devil. Now he has fled, and I am left here in the hope that Abbot Ywain can protect me.’
‘I doubt anyone will harm you,’ said Geoffrey gently.
‘I was worried about our travelling companions, too,’ sobbed Leah. Geoffrey perched next to her. ‘So I sent our apprentices to find out whether they were attacked. Gwgan was ambushed as he walked home last night, but everyone else is safe, thank God.’
‘Gwgan fought them off?’
‘He had just dispatched a unit of men to hunt for the outlaws, but, luckily, they heard the clash of arms and galloped back. The villains escaped, though; Gwgan said they knew the area.’
Geoffrey was thoughtful. He had delivered royal letters to Gwgan and Richard. Could it be that the ambushes since Brechene were aimed at them? He wondered whether Sear would become a target when given his letter. But such ponderings would have to wait. He turned to Leah.
‘I did not come here to talk about ambushes,’ he said. ‘I came to ask why you killed William.’
There was silence, and Geoffrey was aware of chaffinches twittering as they squabbled for the crumbs that had been brushed outside the kitchen door. He could hear the river, too, a soft gurgle as it flowed towards the sea. It was peaceful and idyllic, and it was difficult to believe he was sitting next to a poisoner.
Leah gaped at him. ‘But I am one of few people who could not have killed William: I was ill in bed when he died. Anyone will confirm my tale and tell you that my ailment was genuine, because I have never fully recovered my health.’
‘No,’ agreed Geoffrey. ‘But that is because you were either careless with what is a very potent substance or unsure how to use it. You put it in the butter that your husband brought for his brother from Pulchria, but you did not need to be present when your victim ate it.’
‘What are you saying?’ cried Leah in horror. ‘These are terrible accusations!’
‘I am saying that I allowed myself to be misled by your alibi. Your whereabouts when William became ill and died are irrelevant – the poison could have been sent ages before he actually consumed it. But I imagine you did select Cornald’s butter as the way to get rid of him. And it was a perfect choice – a lot of people had access to it.’
‘Yes, they did,’ said Leah, white with shock. ‘It was a gift from Pulchria, and she is a much more likely candidate for murder than me – she was terribly bitter when William rejected her. And you know for a fact that she dislikes being repelled, because she threatened you, too.’
‘She did, but it was all hot air. Besides, she thought Joan kept wolf-tooth for killing rats, but it is never used for that purpose. Her knowledge of poisons is deficient. I know she did not kill Mabon for the same reason.’
‘But Cornald’s knowledge is not deficient,’ said Leah. ‘And he made the butter.’
‘Cornald has an aversion to wolf-tooth and would not have used it. I know he is telling the truth, because of the rash he developed after touching the phial that killed Mabon. Besides, he has been Joan’s friend for years, and I trust her judgement.’
‘Then what about Delwyn?’ asked Leah desperately. ‘Or Bishop Wilfred? Both were lurking in the kitchen where the butter was stored.’
‘Neither would have risked meddling with poisons while the other was there – abbey and Bishop hate each other, and any suspicious behaviour would have been exposed with glee.’
‘But there are others,’ insisted Leah. ‘Sear—’
‘Sear’s grief was genuine. He did not kill his friend. The same goes for Richard.’
‘Hywel and Gwgan had access to Rhydygors, too. And Hywel inherited the castle . . .’
‘Hywel could not have known seven years ago that he would be awarded Rhydygors for fighting Bellême on the Marches. And Gwgan has learned enough about poisons from Isabella not to inflict a lingering death on his victim. If he had been the killer, he would have used something quicker. He was appalled by William’s suffering.’
‘But there were servants . . .’
‘Yes, the list of suspects is enormous,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘And you must have been delighted by the way events unfolded, with everyone accusing everyone else. The only problem was that you were affected by the poison, too, and almost lost your life over it. Of course, it did mean you were the last person anyone would ever suspect.’
‘That is because I am innocent,’ protested Leah.
‘William told Delwyn that he had been killed by a dear friend. I imagine he considered you – the wife of his beloved brother – a dear friend.’
&
nbsp; ‘Well, yes, he did, but why would I kill a man everyone loved? Besides, Richard was heartbroken when William died.’
‘Yes, he did love his brother. Perhaps more than you realized, because I doubt you intended to cause him so much pain. You killed William because you knew that, as long as he lived, Richard would never have anything. William was the better man in all respects—’
‘No!’ cried Leah. ‘William was never the better man! His sickly saintliness was ridiculous, and I hated the way everyone kept comparing the two and finding Richard lacking. It was unfair.’
She flushed in horror when she saw her outburst was effectively an admission of guilt. Then she closed her eyes and slumped in defeat. ‘All right. How did you guess?’
‘The apothecary has just told me that you regularly buy herbs to make remedies for the headaches that plague you. About the time William died, you started using wolf-tooth. It is beneficial in small quantities, and you have no doubt learned to use it properly since. But seven years ago, you shoved some in William’s butter and subjected him to a terrible death.’
‘You cannot prove it,’ said Leah, with a spark of defiance. ‘So what if I buy wolf-tooth? You cannot prove it was my supply that killed him – or even that he was poisoned at all. If you dig him up, he will be nothing but bones and dust. And people will never believe what you are saying. They all think I am too feeble.’
‘You are not feeble,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You are kin to Robert de Bellême, the great tyrant. I guessed the first time we met that there was more to you than you let anyone see, and I was right. Did you poison Mabon, too?’
‘No,’ said Leah firmly. ‘You will probably accuse me of it, because some of my wolf-tooth did go missing at Goodrich, but I swear to you, on Richard’s life, that I did not kill Mabon.’
Geoffrey recalled Father Adrian’s testimony – that Leah, Richard and Edward had sought absolution the morning Mabon had died, and murder had not been among the sins they had confessed. Moreover, Leah would not risk the life of the man she loved by swearing lies on it. Reluctantly, he accepted that she was not the culprit, although he was not about to say so.
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