Gwenllian nodded. ‘Pica wants to be Abbot of Glastonbury, and it would not be the first time an ambitious man has killed to achieve his objective. I am suspicious of Robert, too. He was the one who told Hugh to walk up Solsbury Hill – an excursion that cost the prior his life.’
‘But if Robert were guilty, he would not be insisting that Adam and Hugh were murdered,’ Cole pointed out. ‘He would be saying it was an accident or seraphim, like everyone else. Moreover, I am under the impression that he suspects Walter of the crime.’
‘Walter is a strong contender,’ acknowledged Gwenllian. ‘His grief for Hugh is insincere, he is Savaric’s toady, and he was made prior the moment Hugh died. He has plenty of reasons to kill, but no reliable alibi—’
Suddenly, Cole leaped to his feet, grabbed his sword and kicked over the lantern, plunging the room into inky darkness. An instant later, the door flew open and an arrow thudded into the mattress. Instinctively, Gwenllian dived for safety beneath the bed.
There followed the sounds of a clumsy skirmish – swords whipping through the air, mostly failing to connect but occasionally resulting in a clash or a grunt, and muttered curses. There was another sound, too: a deep, guttural growl. Had the invaders brought an animal? Gwenllian’s blood ran cold at the notion.
‘Kill him quickly!’ came a furious hiss. ‘You are making too much noise.’
Gwenllian tried to identify the voice, but she had never been good at recognising whispers. Sparks flew when a sword struck the stone wall. Then she heard a cudgel land with a sickening thud, and Cole gasped in pain. A second blow followed, and she sensed his assailants home in on the sound. Unwilling to cower while he was battered to death, she began to scream as loudly as she could.
‘Silence her!’ came the frantic voice.
Gwenllian kept yelling, punching away the hands that tried to lay hold of her. Then footsteps hammered on the stairs. Rescue! A sudden draught told her a window had been opened. The hands withdrew, and she scrambled from under the bed just in time to see three shadows jostling with each other to make their escape.
Cole struggled to his feet and started to follow, but reeled dizzily. Iefan jerked him back before he could tumble out.
‘You cannot fight with a broken sword,’ the sergeant said gruffly. ‘I will go.’
Cole glanced at the weapon in his hand, and swore when he saw the tip of the blade had sheared off. He sat on the bed, hand to his side, and smiled wanly at Gwenllian.
‘I thought I was dead once they had knocked me down, but your howls drove them off.’
Gwenllian inspected his ribs. The cudgel’s imprints were etched clearly into his skin, long red marks already darkening into bruises. There were lacerations at one end, too, where she assumed sharp objects had been hammered into it, to render it more deadly.
Eventually, Iefan returned to report that their attackers had escaped him. Tracking was difficult at night, and the culprits knew the city better than he. Then the landlord arrived, all horrified concern. Nothing like it had ever happened before, he told them; Gwenllian was sure he was telling the truth. He refused to leave until he was sure they believed him, so it was some time before she and Cole were alone again.
‘It was too dark to see, but they had an animal,’ she said. ‘I heard snarls . . .’
‘A dog,’ nodded Cole. ‘I heard it, too. And they were professional warriors – I could tell by the way they fought.’
‘Osmun and Fevil? Or soldiers hired by someone else? Regardless, it tells us that someone does not want us asking questions.’
Gwenllian dozed fitfully for the rest of the night, while Cole declined to sleep at all; he stood guard by the door, honing a dagger to keep himself awake. As soon as it was light, they went to find a smith who could mend his sword.
They were directed to a man who had set up business by one of the springs, the stench of hot metal vying with the sulphurous odour of steaming water. He was chewing a stick of dried meat, which he was evidently in the habit of sharing with local dogs, because a pack had gathered by his door. Gwenllian gave them a wide berth, but Cole stopped to pet a couple; they swarmed around him, tails wagging.
Once the smith had assured Cole that the sword would be repaired by the following day, they left for the abbey. Gwenllian wanted to see Reginald’s grave, although Cole grumbled that they would be better off confronting Dacus.
The tomb was a simple one, near the high altar, and was surrounded by pilgrims. Robert detached himself from the throng, and came to greet them.
‘The miracles started here two months ago,’ he said proudly. ‘Beginning with the return of Savaric’s crosier.’
‘But Reginald has been dead for eight years,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Why the delay?’
‘Who knows the minds of the saints?’ Robert turned his gaze heavenward.
‘Perhaps these miracles should be attributed to Adam, not Reginald,’ suggested Cole. ‘They coincide with his murder, after all.’
Robert’s beatific expression slipped a little. ‘I doubt Adam would have returned Savaric’s crosier. He was generally sympathetic to thieves – he often tended them in his hospital.’
‘Assuming the crosier was stolen in the first place,’ muttered Gwenllian.
‘What are you saying?’ cried Robert, loudly enough to attract the attention of Walter, who was collecting coins from hopeful penitents. ‘Of course it was stolen!’
‘It was,’ agreed Walter, coming to join them. ‘And to suggest otherwise infers that Reginald’s cult is based on deception.’
‘Do either of you own a vicious dog?’ asked Cole, changing the subject abruptly enough to make both monks blink their surprise.
‘No, of course not!’ replied Walter irritably. ‘I do not allow fierce creatures in my abbey.’
‘But Reginald kept hounds,’ mused Robert. ‘He had kennels built in the Prior’s Garden. These days, we use them to store the urine we shall use for tanning leather this winter.’
‘The wind blows the stench away from my house,’ said Walter. Then he added with a grimace, ‘Most of the time, at least. Would you like to see them? I can provide pomanders.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Gwenllian in distaste.
‘As you wish,’ said Walter. ‘What prompted you to ask about dogs?’
‘They probably think one was used to kill Adam and Hugh,’ explained Robert. He turned back to Cole. ‘Osmun and Fevil keep hounds – an entire pack of them.’
‘I doubt those animals are responsible,’ countered Walter. ‘They are used for hunting.’
‘Visit them, and decide for yourself,’ said Robert slyly, ignoring his prior’s immediate glare at the suggestion. Then he gave a small bow. ‘But you must excuse me: I have religious duties to perform.’
He hurried back to the pilgrims, and Walter followed, apparently unwilling to be seen as less devout than his sacrist. After a moment, Cole went to kneel at the tomb. When he had finished his prayers, Walter was ready with a bowl for his donation.
Cole took a deep, careful breath as they left the abbey, then winced. ‘It still hurts,’ he complained. ‘And if you are not pregnant by the time we leave, I am getting my money back.’
Gwenllian regarded him askance. ‘What did you—’
‘Can we look for this dangerous dog now?’ interrupted Cole impatiently. ‘When we have it, we shall know our killer. We shall begin with Dacus, at the hospital.’
Dacus was supervising his elderly charges as they took the healing waters. They splashed and wallowed like children, and he smiled indulgently as he sat in a chair, a fat ginger cat in his lap. His contented expression evaporated when he saw Cole.
‘The man who admits to befriending Evil Adam,’ he sneered, standing abruptly. The cat hissed its disapproval as it was deposited on the floor. ‘What do you want?’
‘Do you own a dog?’ asked Cole, manfully overlooking the slur on his friend.
‘I prefer cats.’ Dacus’ eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘Why? Is it becau
se the wolf came after you last night, and you are eager to know who controls it?’
‘How do you know what happened last night?’ demanded Cole suspiciously.
‘News travels fast in Bath. But there is no wolf here at the hospital. Try asking Osmun and Fevil – they like savage beasts. Savaric has one, too; Pica gave it to him.’
‘Why would Pica give Savaric a gift?’ asked Cole, bemused. ‘They dislike each other.’
Dacus’ voice took on the curious singsong quality he had used the first time they had met. It made him sound demented. ‘It was a bribe, presented three months ago, to encourage Savaric to relinquish his claim on Glastonbury. It did not work, of course.’
‘Pica gave Savaric a dog?’
‘A big fierce one.’ Dacus laughed suddenly. ‘Do you think Savaric set it on you? He might have done. It is common knowledge that he does not want you here. But he should have waited until tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘Because dogs become wolves when the moon is full,’ chanted Dacus. He poked Cole in the chest, a liberty few dared take with Norman warriors, which told Gwenllian for certain that he was fey-witted. ‘Will you go to Solsbury tomorrow? Or are you as sinful as Adam, so fear to take the challenge?’
‘He will not,’ said Gwenllian, before Cole could reply for himself. ‘He does not believe these ridiculous tales of wolves, seraphim and full moons.’
Dacus regarded Cole with utter disdain. ‘Coward!’
‘We have the proof we need now,’ said Cole, the moment he and Gwenllian were outside. ‘Dacus denies owning a dog, but there were hairs all over his habit. Did you see them?’
‘I saw a cat in his lap. I imagine those came from her.’
‘No,’ stated Cole emphatically. ‘Cat hairs and dog hairs are not the same.’
Gwenllian doubted he could tell the difference. ‘Do you really think a cat would stay if a savage dog was at large?’ she asked, trying to keep the impatience from her voice.
‘Clearly, he keeps it tethered. I shall break into the hospital after dark tonight, and look for it.’
‘No! If you are caught committing burglary, the King will use it as an excuse to seize Carmarthen. Besides, we should inspect the dogs owned by Savaric, Osmun and Fevil, first.’
‘To eliminate them, thus reinforcing our case against Dacus,’ nodded Cole. ‘Good idea.’
Although Gwenllian was used to her husband’s occasionally stubborn moods, she wished he had not chosen to indulge in one when so much was at stake. It meant she was effectively investigating alone, and she was silent as they walked, hoping he would sense her irritation and adopt a more reasonable attitude. Unfortunately, he did not seem to notice.
Pica was in Savaric’s hall when they arrived. He was apoplectic with rage, and Osmun and Fevil had unsheathed their swords.
‘How dare you?’ he was howling. ‘You cannot excommunicate me! I am Abbot Elect.’
‘Your election was unlawful – the King says so,’ said Savaric. ‘And I would not have to excommunicate you had you shown a shred of restraint. But you strut about the city making disparaging remarks about me.’
Without further ado, he began reading the words that would banish Pica from the Church. Pica surged forward, his face dangerously red, but all he did was wag a shaking finger in Savaric’s face before storming out.
‘There,’ said Savaric, closing the book in satisfaction. ‘Let us see how he likes that. But what can I do for you, Sir Symon? Or are you here to tell me that you are going home?’
‘I want to see your dogs,’ said Cole bluntly.
Savaric blinked. ‘I do not have any. All dogs in the Bishop’s Palace belong to Osmun or Fevil. You may view those, if you wish.’
He led the way to a yard, where two outbuildings had been given over to the care of hounds. Fevil opened the door to the first, and Cole immediately forgot that he was meant to be looking for one that killed people, and waded among them in delight, calling compliments to their owners. His praise was effusive enough to make even the sour Fevil smile. Savaric watched in disdain.
‘I cannot abide dogs,’ he said to Gwenllian. ‘All they do is eat, bark, bite and shove their noses in embarrassing places.’
Gwenllian suspected that might be true of Osmun and Fevil’s collection; they seemed an unappealing pack to her.
‘These are all we have,’ said Osmun quickly, when Cole started to move towards the second shed. ‘Look at these pups. Their dam is that brindled bitch in the corner.’
While Cole was distracted, Gwenllian turned back to Savaric. ‘Which one is Pica’s gift?’
‘That thing is dead, thank God! Osmun, tell the good lady what you did with that vicious beast Pica had the temerity to press on me. That grey creation with the nasty yellow teeth.’
‘Fevil slit its throat, and we served it to Pica in a pie.’ Osmun’s reptilian gaze was bland, so Gwenllian had no idea whether he was telling the truth.
There was no more to be learned, so she indicated it was time to leave.
‘That was a waste of time,’ she said in disgust, once they were outside. ‘I have no idea whether the animal Pica gave Savaric is dead or alive, while you were more interested in admiring the quality of their breeding bitches than in assessing whether any were killers.’
‘I did assess them – none is savage. However, Osmun offered me a pup if we left Bath today. The fact that he tried to bribe me says he has something to hide.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Gwenllian. ‘But what?’
They decided to visit Pica next. They found him near the Chapter House, braying his fury to Walter and Robert about his treatment at Savaric’s hands.
‘It is your fault!’ he raged, stabbing a finger at Cole. ‘Savaric says he has no time for my complaints, because he is busy with you. It is your fault he excommunicated me.’
‘He excommunicated you because you rail at him,’ countered Cole shortly. ‘Besides we have spent very little time in his company since we arrived. He is fobbing you off with excuses.’
‘I am sure he will lift the interdict if you ask nicely,’ said Robert soothingly.
‘Offer him a little something to gain his favour,’ suggested Walter. ‘But make sure you say it is for the abbey. If you imply it is for him personally, the price will go up.’
Cole laughed, although Walter had apparently not intended to be amusing, because he looked too startled.
‘We are here to ask about another bribe, as it happens,’ Cole said. ‘A dog.’
‘I presented one to him three months ago.’ Pica scowled. ‘It cost me a fortune, but the gesture did nothing to make him more kindly disposed towards me. I should have kept it myself, because it was a lovely creature.’
‘We were told it was savage,’ said Cole. ‘Did you give it to him in the hope that he would be bitten?’
‘No,’ said Pica, in a way that told even Cole, who tended to take such remarks at face value, that he was lying.
‘Then did you eat a pie with him not long afterwards?’
‘I do not recall,’ replied Pica, frowning his puzzlement. ‘What a peculiar thing to ask!’
‘Have you seen the dog recently?’
Pica glared. ‘No, and I resent all these questions. What are you going to do about this excommunication? You must abandon your enquiries and intervene. In the King’s name!’
‘Meddle, and you will be sorry,’ warned Walter. ‘It is none of your concern.’
‘I disagree,’ said Robert softly. ‘No bishop should excommunicate someone over a private quarrel. Sir Symon should postpone his investigation, and attend to this matter.’
He and Walter began to argue, Pica interrupting angrily every few words. Gwenllian and Cole took the opportunity to slip away.
‘Savaric, Pica and Robert urge us to abandon our enquiries, Osmun offers you a new dog, and Walter threatens us,’ she mused. ‘I wonder what inferences we can draw from that.’
Cole had no answer. As they still had monks to inte
rview, Gwenllian suggested returning to the abbey. Cole yawned hugely, weary after two nights of interrupted sleep, so she suggested he go back to the Angel, to rest.
‘And I mean rest. That does not entail confronting Dacus.’
‘I will attend Mass,’ he said, using the airy tone that told her he was lying. ‘But the abbey is too noisy, so I will go to St Michael’s instead.’
As St Michael’s was near where his horse was stabled, Gwenllian suspected he intended to spend time with it, but did not want her to think he was leaving her to do all the work. As it happened, she did not mind: the monks were more likely to confide in her without a bored knight looming over them.
Just before they parted ways, Trotman intercepted them, to express his shock over what had happened the previous night.
‘Perhaps you will join me in a prayer of thanks for your deliverance,’ the canon said. ‘I am going to meet Pica in the abbey, and you are welcome to join us. Ah! Here he is now.’
‘My husband has made arrangements to visit St Michael’s instead,’ said Gwenllian, before Cole could respond with a more pithily worded refusal. ‘He will—’
‘Good,’ said Pica unpleasantly. ‘Let us hope God tells him to ditch his stupid enquiries about Hugh, and take up my cause instead.’
It was dark by the time Gwenllian had finished. Iefan was waiting to escort her back to the inn, and they were just passing St Michael’s when they heard a commotion. They joined a crowd of people hurrying to see what was amiss.
Lechlade was lying on the ground, dead from a wound near the groin.
Those in authority did not take long to arrive. Walter was first. He had brought a lantern, and Gwenllian looked away when she saw the amount of blood that had been spilled. Next came Trotman, Robert at his side. Trotman dropped to his knees and began to weep when he saw his friend’s corpse, and Robert laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Then the bishop appeared, his henchman-knights slouching behind him.
Cole arrived, holding the tool he used for paring hoofs. Dacus was not far behind, and Gwenllian realised the stables were near the hospital; Cole might have been tending his horse, but he had also been monitoring the man he considered a villain.
Hill of Bones Page 7
