ACT ONE
I
Bath Abbey, September 1199
Something rotten was unfolding in Bath. Two good men were dead, and Prior Hugh suspected murder. The first had happened eight years ago, when the saintly Bishop Reginald had died en route to Canterbury, where he was to have been invested as archbishop; his body had been returned to Bath, and over the last few weeks, miracles had been occurring at his tomb. And second, there was Adam.
Adam had not wanted to be Master of St John’s Hospital, but Reginald’s successor, Bishop Savaric, had been insistent. And no one refused the ruthless, uncompromising Savaric. Adam had been a talented healer, but he had not enjoyed running a large and busy foundation, and it had probably been a desire for peace that had led him up Solsbury Hill a month before.
No one knew exactly what had happened, but Adam’s torn body had been found at the foot of the hill the following morning. Opinions in the abbey were divided: some monks thought a wolf was at large, while others believed Adam had fallen to his death. Fallen! Savaric had been the one to propose that ridiculous notion, determined – suspiciously, as far as Hugh was concerned – that the matter should be dismissed as a tragic accident.
Hugh stood with difficulty. He had been sitting in the cloister all afternoon, thinking, and his legs were stiff. A walk would ease them, though, and he brightened at the prospect. It was a pretty evening for a stroll. He stifled a sigh when his sacrist stepped to intercept him. Robert was a portly, smiling man who always gave the impression of great piety; Hugh had yet to be convinced that it was sincere.
‘You seem troubled, Father Prior,’ Robert said, all kindly concern. ‘May I help?’
Hugh itched to tell him to mind his own business, but several other monks were listening, and Robert was popular – unlike Hugh himself, who was resented for the strict way he ran his abbey. Rebuking the sacrist would be more trouble than it was worth.
‘Adam,’ he explained, forcing a patient smile. ‘I am sure he died unlawfully, no matter what our bishop says.’
Robert shrugged. ‘Then go to Solsbury Hill, and look for clues.’
Hugh regarded him askance. ‘It will be dark soon. Besides, I must prepare for vespers.’
‘I will lead vespers,’ offered Robert eagerly.
He was always trying to preside over sacred offices, a habit Hugh found intensely annoying. The prior forced another smile.
‘Thank you, Robert. However, I cannot visit Solsbury so near dusk. Adam did, and look what happened to him.’
‘Adam went considerably later,’ argued Robert. ‘I am sure you will be quite safe. And if you do believe he was murdered, you have a moral obligation to prove it.’
Hugh felt his jaw drop that the sacrist should dare lecture him, and was about to put him in his place when he became aware that the other monks were waiting with interest for his answer. He knew why, of course: recently, a rumour had started about Solsbury Hill – one that said only the pure in heart could survive a night there when the moon was full. There was a full moon that night, so declining to accept Robert’s challenge was tantamount to admitting to some serious personal flaws.
Normally, Hugh would not have cared what the eavesdroppers thought, but Bishop Savaric was eager to dismiss him and appoint a more malleable prior – and Hugh’s strict rule meant the monks were on Savaric’s side. Any hint of impropriety might be used against him, even gossip that said he was too steeped in sin to brave Solsbury Hill.
‘Then I shall go,’ he said, thinking that if he walked fast, he could be back before nightfall. While not superstitious, he had no wish to loiter in a place where a man had died. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘No,’ replied Robert with a smile that Hugh thought sly. ‘I shall pray for Adam’s soul.’
One of the abbey’s many sources of income was the tolls paid by those wishing to sell their goods in the market. These were collected at the town gates by lay-brothers, and the one on duty that day was named Eldred. As Hugh strode through the gate, he recalled that it had been Eldred who had found Adam’s body. He was surprised to note that Eldred was with Brother Walter, though. Walter was well known for being Savaric’s spy, which meant most of the abbey’s staff gave him a wide berth.
‘What are you doing here, Walter?’ The question emerged more sharply than Hugh had intended, and he saw resentment flash in Walter’s eyes.
‘Just talking,’ Walter replied coolly. ‘About Adam and Reginald.’
‘We were saying how much we miss them,’ elaborated Eldred. ‘Especially Adam. I still have not recovered from the shock of finding his poor, torn body.’
So Walter had gone to gossip, thought Hugh disapprovingly. Yet Walter’s unseemly penchant for chatter had its advantages. In this case, it provided an opportunity to solicit a few opinions, and Hugh desperately needed new information if he were to unmask a killer.
‘How do you think Adam died?’ he asked, looking at each man in turn.
‘A wolf,’ replied Eldred promptly.
‘There are no wolves in Bath,’ countered Walter scornfully. ‘I believe the bishop’s theory: that Adam lost his footing and fell.’
He smiled insincerely, and the expression sent a shiver down Hugh’s spine. Did Walter know more than he was telling about Adam’s fate?
Unhappy and agitated, Hugh resumed his walk. Eventually, he reached Solsbury Hill, and the path that wound steeply towards its summit. When he arrived, he sat to catch his breath, then automatically began reviewing his suspects again.
At the top of the list for involvement in the two deaths was Bishop Savaric, first for being so determined that Adam’s demise should be seen as accidental, and second because he had inherited a lot of money from Reginald – the two had been cousins. Hugh found Savaric’s brazen ambition distasteful, particularly in his actions regarding Glastonbury: Savaric had contrived to have its abbot promoted, then declared himself its new head, styling himself ‘Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury’. As a Glastonbury man himself, Hugh thought closer relations between the two foundations was a good thing, but Savaric had gone about it far too aggressively.
The bishop would not have soiled his own hands with murder, of course. His henchmen, Sir Osmun and Sir Fevil, would have done it for him. These two loutish knights had, Hugh was sure, organised ‘accidents’ before.
Next on the list was someone who had argued bitterly with both Adam and Reginald, and who made no secret of his dislike. His name was William Pica, a fierce bantam of a fellow, whom the monks at Glastonbury had elected as their new abbot – an election that was their way of saying they did not recognise Savaric’s claim. They had chosen Pica not because he was popular, but because he was one of few men who was not afraid of Savaric.
Then Hugh had two suspects in his own abbey – the slippery Walter and the nauseatingly pious Robert. Both had been in the party that had been escorting Reginald to Canterbury, and neither could account for his whereabouts on the night that Adam had died. They had no obvious motive for either murder, but there was something about both that Hugh found unsettling. And he had not reached his lofty position by ignoring his instincts.
And finally, there was Reginald’s chaplain. Dacus had been distraught when his bishop had died, so much so that Hugh had feared for his sanity. Had guilt prompted his wild display of mourning – that he had not loved Reginald as much as he had claimed, and had killed him for some warped reason known only to himself ? By contrast, Dacus had received the news of Adam’s death with an indifferent shrug. Hugh could not fathom the man at all, but wished Savaric had not appointed him as Adam’s replacement at the hospital. Compassionate and patient Dacus might be, but Hugh considered him unstable.
He came out of his reverie when he noticed that the sun had set. He swore softly. He was supposed to be looking for clues to tell him what had happened to Adam, not sitting around doing more brooding. And now it was too late – it would be dark soon. With an irritable sigh, he stood, and started to make his way back down th
e path.
He stopped when he heard a sound behind him. It sounded like panting. He peered into the shadows, but there was nothing to see. Had he imagined it? He began walking again, more quickly this time, then whipped around a second time when a grunt told him he was not alone.
‘Who is there?’ he demanded.
The only reply was a growl that made his blood run cold. He turned and ran, stumbling over the uneven ground. Then he fell, and when he stopped rolling, something was looming over him. Sobbing his terror, he tried to push it away, but it was too strong. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came, and all he could hear was enraged snarls as teeth fastened around his throat.
II
October 1199
Winter had come early, bringing with it biting winds, slashing rain and even the odd flurry of snow. Gwenllian shivered, and wished she could have stayed in Carmarthen, the great castle her husband was building in west Wales. She glanced at him as he rode beside her. He seemed oblivious to the foul weather, and was humming under his breath.
‘You are enjoying yourself!’ she said accusingly. ‘We leave our comfortable home and our baby son, to spend days trudging along dreary roads to Bath, and you are happy!’
‘No,’ he replied, although his guilty expression said otherwise. Sir Symon Cole was a terrible liar, which was one of the reasons Gwenllian loved him.
Of course, she thought wryly, it was his inability to prevaricate that had made their journey necessary in the first place. Other knights would have been able to look John – recently crowned King, following the death of his brother, Richard – in the eye and shower him with compliments, but not Cole. He considered the new monarch weak, treacherous and incompetent, and had elected to stay silent rather than say things he did not believe.
Unfortunately, John knew exactly what Cole thought, and was keen to replace him with one of his sycophants. Luckily for Cole, Gwenllian was the daughter of a powerful Welsh prince, and dismissing Cole without good cause would offend too many of her volatile kinsmen. So John had set him a challenge instead: if he could discover who had murdered Bath’s prior, he could keep Carmarthen; if he failed, he was to resign.
‘I miss Meurig,’ Gwenllian said, pulling her mind from politics. ‘By the time we go home, he will not know us.’
‘You think he is lacking in wits, then?’ asked Cole. ‘Like his father?’
Gwenllian knew what had prompted that remark. She was the clever one, who would catch the prior’s killer. Prudently, she changed the subject. ‘Will we reach Bath before dark?’
Cole squinted at the sky. ‘Yes, and I am looking forward to seeing the Master of St John’s Hospital again. You will like him, Gwen.’
Gwenllian decided to reserve judgement on that. Cole liked most people, and more villains than she cared to remember had been introduced with the earnest assurance that they were decent men.
‘Tell me again how you met,’ she said, to avoid passing comment.
‘I was injured during an ambush some years ago, and he helped me recover. He was a monk at Glastonbury, and was there when King Arthur’s relics were discovered.’
They exchanged a glance. They knew a great deal about King Arthur’s bones, and what had happened to them after they had been excavated.1 Gwenllian eased her horse towards him, so they would not be overheard by Sergeant Iefan, who was riding behind.
‘I know the master of this hospital is your friend, but King John’s letter implied that Prior Hugh may have been murdered by a colleague. This master will be a colleague . . .’
Cole shook his head firmly. ‘He is the kindest, most generous man alive. I know I have said that about other people, but it really is true of him.’
Gwenllian stifled a sigh. Loyalty to friends was another of Cole’s virtues, but she hoped it would not impede their investigation. John’s determination to discredit him meant it was imperative that she solved the mystery, and she could not afford to be hindered by his blind affection for an old comrade.
Bath was a pretty place, its cluster of buildings dominated by the mighty abbey church. Its roads were well drained, and someone paid for them to be swept regularly, because they were almost as clean as Carmarthen’s. Cole led the way along the shop-lined main street.
‘I wish you had told the King what he wanted to hear.’ Gwenllian had never enjoyed travelling, and could not recall a time when she had been colder, wetter or more tired. ‘It would have saved a lot of trouble.’
‘Yes.’ Cole tried to sound apologetic, but he had a Norman’s love of horses, and for him, the prospect of days in the saddle was a delight. He liked dogs, too, and if she had not objected, he would have brought several with him and prolonged the journey by hunting.
He reined in outside a building with gracefully arched windows and a carving of St John the Baptist above the door.
‘This is the hospital. We shall visit it now, and find an inn afterwards – we cannot stay in the abbey, given that one of its monks might be a murderer.’
‘I would rather find an inn first,’ objected Gwenllian. ‘I am too wet and dirty for—’
‘No one will mind,’ said Cole, reaching up to lift her from the saddle.
He had opened the door before she could inform him that she had been thinking about her own comfort, not the impression she might make on Bath’s residents. She stepped inside reluctantly. The hospital was a pleasant building, and no expense had been spared on its construction. It comprised a chapel with a hall to house inmates on one side, and a chamber containing a pool of greenish water on the other. A corridor led to a yard at the back.
‘Bishop Reginald founded it,’ Cole explained, while they waited for someone to come to attend to them. ‘For the sick to enjoy the healing springs. He died eight years ago, and people have prayed at his tomb ever since. The merchant we met last night said that miracles started occurring there two months ago, beginning with the return of Bishop Savaric’s crosier.’
Gwenllian regarded him in confusion. ‘You mean his crook?’
Cole nodded. ‘It was stolen, apparently, but he prayed to Reginald, and the very next day, it appeared on the high altar. Since then, a number of people have been cured or granted boons. I intend to pray there myself – I should like our son to have a sister.’
His words startled Gwenllian enough that she was gaping when a priest arrived. He was a large, bulky fellow with a mane of black hair and wild eyes.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘To see Adam,’ replied Cole, unruffled by the hostile greeting. ‘He is an old friend.’
‘He is dead,’ said the priest, spite supplanting churlishness. ‘And it served him right. He was an evil man, and he came to an evil end.’
The announcement caused the colour to drain from Cole’s face. ‘He cannot be dead! And he is not evil, either. He is a healer!’
‘He was skilled at medicine,’ conceded the priest grudgingly. ‘But he was wicked in all else. I suppose you are the man charged to find out what happened to Prior Hugh? You took your time coming. We were beginning to think you had decided not to bother.’
‘The weather was bad,’ explained Cole shortly. ‘But who are you? And why—’
‘I am Dacus, Adam’s successor. He died two months ago, which was not a moment too soon, as far as I was concerned. Bath is a better place without his tainted presence in it.’
Cole stepped forward angrily, but Dacus did not shy away, as most people would have done when faced with an irate Norman warrior, and Gwenllian wondered whether he was entirely sane. She interposed herself between them, loath for the investigation to begin with violence.
‘If he really is dead, show us where he is buried,’ she ordered.
Dacus made a peculiar curtsy that made her even more convinced that something was awry, then led them to the yard. It was an odd combination of vegetable plot and cemetery, with graves in a line along the wall. He pointed to one in the corner.
‘How did he die?’ asked Cole hoars
ely.
‘Throat torn out by a wolf,’ replied Dacus. ‘He was rash enough to visit Solsbury Hill on a full moon, and his body was found the following morning. Hugh died the same way, although I imagine you already know that.’
‘There are no wolves in England,’ said Gwenllian. ‘What really happened?’
Dacus glowered and became childishly sullen. ‘There are – ask anyone. Hugh was stupid to have lingered there after dark. Especially given what had happened to Adam.’
‘My wife is right,’ said Cole stiffly. ‘There are no wolves here, and if Adam and Hugh did die in the way you suggest, then some other beast did it. A dog, perhaps. Although it would take a monster to train one to act in such a way . . .’
Dacus laughed mockingly. ‘The manner of Hugh’s demise is news to you! I thought the King’s officer would have been better informed.’
‘Then enlighten us,’ suggested Gwenllian, reaching out to prevent Cole from grabbing the priest. ‘You can start by telling us about Solsbury Hill.’
Dacus pointed over the wall to a mound about three miles distant. His voice grew curiously singsong. ‘It is a malevolent place, and only those with pure souls can survive a night there. Adam and Hugh took the test, but failed.’
‘Hugh was not pure?’ asked Gwenllian, gripping Cole’s arm more tightly. Dacus was providing information, and she was willing to accept intelligence from anyone willing to talk, no matter how objectionable they were.
‘No,’ replied Dacus airily, ‘because otherwise he would have lived. Will you take the test, King’s man? There is a full moon on Thursday – three days’ time. Go to Solsbury then, and if you are honourable, God will protect you. But if you are sinful, you will die. Of course, you will have to do it alone.’
‘How do you know a wolf killed Adam and Hugh?’ asked Gwenllian quickly, before Cole was goaded into accepting the challenge.
‘It savaged them, but it was God who decided they should die,’ declared Dacus. ‘Of course, there was no need for avenging wolves in Bishop Reginald’s day. He was a saint, who kept good order in Bath. He should have been an archbishop, you know.’
Hill of Bones Page 4
