The First Murder

by The Medieval Murderers

  Gwenllian sighed. ‘Very well, let us assume you are right. Who are your suspects?’

  He was silent for a long time before replying. ‘I do not have any. Who are yours? You are the one good at solving mysteries.’

  ‘Only if there is a mystery to solve.’

  ‘There is, Gwen, and I was hoping you would help me catch the villain.’ He grimaced resentfully. ‘But now Gerald and his priests will take up all your time, I suppose I shall have to unmask him by myself.’

  They turned as Sergeant Iefan approached with two other men. They were Osbert, Archdeacon of Carmarthen, and a grizzled knight named Sir Robert Burchill. Osbert had a shiny bald head and was famous for never wearing a hat, even in the most inclement of weather. Burchill was much older than Cole, and believed that his age and experience gave him the right to be condescending. Gwenllian found him irksome and hypercritical.

  ‘Five visitors arrived at my house last night,’ Osbert began. ‘It was a tight squeeze, but we managed. However, now the snows keep them here, I must make other arrangements – there is simply not enough room for them in my home. Will you take them? They are important men – three Austin canons and two knights. I cannot send them to an inn.’

  ‘If they are Austins, they can stay at the priory,’ said Cole.

  ‘Apparently, they did that on their outward journey, and quarrelled so bitterly that the brothers say they are no longer welcome. They are envoys from Canterbury, and have been in St Davids, telling the Cathedral Chapter that it cannot have the prelate it elected, but must have a fellow of the archbishop’s choosing instead.’

  ‘Then I cannot help you,’ said Cole apologetically. ‘Your envoys will quarrel with Gerald, and we shall know no peace. They will have to stay in an inn.’

  ‘You cannot slight them, lad,’ warned Burchill. ‘Prior Dunstan has the ear of the King.’

  ‘So?’ shrugged Cole. ‘I do not care whether—’

  ‘John longs for an excuse to oust you,’ interrupted Burchill sharply. ‘Your marriage gives you powerful allies, so he cannot dismiss you without good reason. However, offending ecclesiastical envoys will certainly give him the pretext he needs.’

  Gwenllian had been about to say the same thing, and was irritated that Burchill should have pre-empted her. Cole sighed.

  ‘John will have his way eventually, so perhaps we should go to live on my manor in Normandy – resign before he dismisses me.’

  ‘But I like it here,’ objected Gwenllian, dismayed. ‘Carmarthen is my home.’

  ‘I like it too, but I am a soldier, not a diplomat, and I do not know how to deal with John. Or with warring clerics, for that matter. And then there is the saboteur . . . ’

  ‘There is no saboteur, Sir Symon,’ said Iefan, a little irritably, and Gwenllian saw she was not the only one who had tried to disabuse the constable of this particular notion. ‘We have just suffered a series of minor mishaps.’

  ‘I will find the culprit – if there is one to be found,’ said Gwenllian soothingly. ‘And I will keep the peace between Gerald and the archbishop’s envoys, too. You can work on the walls. They will impress John and may encourage him to keep you.’

  ‘Rather you than me, my lady,’ said Archdeacon Osbert wryly. ‘Gerald and Dunstan met in Oxford three months ago, and there were ugly scenes, by all accounts. It will not be easy to keep them from each other’s throats.’

  ‘Osbert has not told you the worst news yet, Symon,’ said Burchill, a little smugly. ‘Dunstan has two Knights Hospitaller to protect him, and one is Roger Norrys.’

  Cole smiled with genuine pleasure. ‘Norrys? It must be more than a decade since we last met. It will be good to see him again.’

  ‘Unfortunately he does not feel the same way about you,’ warned Osbert. ‘Last night he talked of nothing but how you snatched Carmarthen from him by sly means.’

  ‘But I did not ask to be constable,’ objected Cole, stung. ‘Indeed, I begged King Henry to let me remain in his household guard, but he would not listen. There was nothing sly about my appointment – not on my part, at least.’

  ‘I am sure of it, but Norrys is bitter and resentful anyway,’ said Osbert. ‘The first thing he did when he arrived last night was seek out his old cronies – William the corviser and Tancard the brewer—’

  ‘Troublemakers,’ said Gwenllian in disgust. ‘They would be friends!’

  ‘They drank vast quantities of ale and sat muttering together,’ said Osbert. ‘I tried to draw them into gentler conversation, and so did Prior Dunstan, but to no avail.’

  ‘You will have to watch Norrys, lad,’ said Burchill. ‘Or he may cause problems.’

  ‘I shall win him round,’ said Cole, ever the optimist. ‘Fetch these envoys now, Osbert. Gerald is in the chapel, and we might be able to install them without him noticing.’

  ‘He will notice eventually,’ said Burchill, startled. ‘Our castle is not that big!’

  ‘Do not worry.’ Cole gave a happy smile. ‘Gwen will keep them from sparring.’

  It was not long before a commotion by the gate heralded the arrival of the Canterbury men. Iefan and Burchill glanced uneasily towards the chapel, but Gwenllian had ordered the chaplain to conduct a lengthy Mass, which she hoped would keep them busy while the newcomers settled. First in was Sir Roger Norrys, with his brother Hospitaller at his heels.

  It had been thirteen years since Norrys had stormed out of Carmarthen after receiving the news that he had been replaced by a man barely half his age. Gwenllian watched him warily. He was thicker around the middle, and had lost a lot of hair, but he was still an imposing figure in his fine black surcoat. She did not like the way he stalked into the bailey and looked around appraisingly.

  ‘I hope he does not set us alight,’ she whispered to Cole, aware that the servants had recognised Norrys and many were looking fearful – they remembered his bullying ways. ‘Most of our buildings are wood.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Cole, startled by the remark.

  Never thinking ill of anyone was another of Cole’s endearing but ill-advised habits, and Gwenllian winced when he strode forward to greet the older knight like a long-lost friend.

  ‘It is a pleasure to welcome you back,’ he said sincerely. ‘I doubt these Austins will be interested in hunting, but our woods are at your disposal. Yours and your companion’s.’

  ‘I am Robert de Luci,’ said the second knight, speaking before Norrys could tell Cole what to do with his offer. ‘And we shall be delighted to accept.’

  Osbert introduced the three Austins: the goat-like Prior Dunstan, the hen-like Secretary Hurso and the youngster, Robert, whom Gwenllian distrusted on sight for his scheming eyes and spiteful smile. While Osbert spoke, Burchill and Iefan continued to cast uneasy glances towards the chapel, obviously worried about what would happen when Gerald emerged.

  ‘Did I hear you mention hunting?’ asked Dunstan keenly. ‘I have not enjoyed a decent chase since I went with the King in the New Forest.’

  ‘John hunts?’ asked Cole doubtfully. It did not go with his concept of the monarch as a debauched womaniser with no interest in manly pursuits.

  ‘I meant his father,’ explained Dunstan. ‘Henry. He knew his way around a bow. So do I, of course, and he once said I was the best archer in Kent.’

  Gwenllian had no idea whether it was true, but Cole was impressed, and he and Dunstan were soon deep in discussion about weapons, while Secretary Hurso listened with an indulgent smile. Luci’s expression was more difficult to read, although Norrys’s was full of open hatred, furious that Cole should have won the prior around with so little effort.

  ‘Cole is a fool to build in stone,’ he said to Burchill, looking around in disdain. He ignored Iefan and Gwenllian as of no consequence. Gwenllian bristled, both at his manners and his remark; Cole had done wonders with what he had inherited, and the castle was now larger, stronger and infinitely cleaner than when Norrys had held it. ‘The Welsh will only burn it down, and he w
astes the King’s money with his foolery. I shall tell John so when I see him.’

  ‘It was John who ordered us to do it,’ she said coldly. ‘And we are proud to report that we are far ahead of the schedule he set. I suggest you tell him that instead.’

  ‘Then it is not surprising that you have suffered so many accidents,’ Norrys spat back. Burchill shot Gwenllian a guilty glance, and she supposed the information had come from him. ‘You are rushing the work.’

  ‘No,’ snapped Iefan. He did not usually speak out of turn, and Gwenllian saw he was offended by the criticism on behalf of Cole and the workforce, many of whom were his friends, family and neighbours. ‘We are ahead because we are efficient.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Burchill proudly. ‘You will not find a better-run castle than this one.’

  Norrys released a short bark of laughter. ‘That is not what John thinks. He does not trust Cole or his Welsh connections, and it is only a matter of time before he passes Carmarthen back to me. He has virtually promised as much.’

  ‘Perhaps you will show Sir Roger to his quarters,’ said Gwenllian to Burchill. She kept her voice level, although she was inwardly seething. Was the claim true, or just hubris?

  ‘I am sorry, my lady,’ said Luci when Norrys had gone. ‘I managed to avoid Carmarthen on our outward journey, but the weather conspired against me this time. I hope the snow does not last long, because it will be better for everyone when we can leave.’

  ‘Do you anticipate trouble, then?’ asked Gwenllian worriedly.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Luci simply. ‘Norrys hated losing this place, and returning has reopened old wounds. I shall try to keep him contained, but it will not be easy. Meanwhile, our three Austins will certainly quarrel with your three Welsh priests. You will have no peace until we go our separate ways.’

  Unhappily, Gwenllian watched him trail after his companion to the hall. Then she became aware that someone was standing close behind her, and whipped around in alarm. It was Secretary Hurso, his birdlike eyes sharp and bright, and young Robert. She had thought they had gone with Burchill, and wondered how long they had been listening.

  ‘Norrys is a vile brute,’ said Hurso. ‘I cannot imagine why the archbishop chose him to guard us. And he is far worse now he is here, at the scene of an ancient humiliation.’

  ‘Then Luci and Burchill must keep him from brooding,’ said Gwenllian. ‘And you two must keep your prior away from Gerald. We cannot have our town thinking that the Church is full of men who cannot control their tempers.’

  ‘We shall do our best,’ promised the secretary. ‘Although we had scant success in Oxford. There, we almost came to blows, especially after that old monk died, and Gerald accused us of poisoning him. What was the fellow’s name, Robert?’

  ‘Wilfred,’ supplied the youngster with an inappropriately cheerful grin. ‘And Prior Dunstan accused Gerald in return. Abbot Hugh had to summon lay brothers to stop them from punching each other.’

  ‘This Wilfred was murdered?’ asked Gwenllian uneasily.

  ‘Yes, but he was not very nice, anyway,’ said Robert blithely. ‘He bullied me, and was incurably lazy. If anyone deserved to be dispatched, it was him.’

  ‘He was not “dispatched”,’ said Hurso irritably. ‘He died of a seizure, brought on by too little exercise and too much fine food.’

  ‘What about the poisoned wine?’ demanded Robert, eyes flashing challengingly.

  ‘What poisoned wine?’ asked Hurso dismissively. ‘Wilfred spilled it in his death throes, so it could not be tested – not that there would have been anything to find if we had. He died of natural causes, and I mentioned him only to warn Lady Gwenllian of the trouble that might arise if we fail to keep Dunstan and Gerald apart.’

  ‘No doubt you will provide two separate bedchambers, my lady,’ said Robert, declining to argue. ‘But unless you lock them in, they will meet several times a day, and they will certainly fight. However, I have something that will distract them.’

  ‘What?’ asked Gwenllian suspiciously.

  ‘The Play of Adam,’ replied Robert. ‘It is a dull thing, full of boring morality and scripture. But I have memorised the role of God, and I shall perform it for you, if you like.’

  ‘Perhaps we can all perform it,’ suggested Hurso, suddenly eager. ‘We saw it in Oseney Abbey and enjoyed it hugely. A series of rehearsals might serve to keep Gerald and Dunstan from sparring – and Norrys from attacking your husband into the bargain.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Gwenllian, not liking the notion of an activity that would force everyone into such close proximity. ‘I will look at it tomorrow.’

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Cole took Prior Dunstan on an extensive tour of the stables, while Archdeacon Osbert showed the other two Austins his collection of religious manuscripts. Burchill escorted the Hospitallers to a tavern, and Gwenllian listened to Gerald talk about himself.

  Meanwhile, Iefan commandeered Cethynoc the mason to help him show Gerald’s two priests around the castle. Neither was very interested, and Foliot asked several times to be excused, but Cole had charged Iefan to keep them busy, and the sergeant was not a man to flout orders. The hapless clerics were forced to inspect every last stone, with Cethynoc supplying a detailed technical commentary.

  The evening was more problematic. As was the custom on winter nights, everyone gathered in the hall. The cook provided an excellent meal, but the trouble came when the guests left the table and settled around the hearth. One of Cole’s dogs was in the way, so Norrys kicked it. It yelped, more from shock than from pain.

  ‘There was no need for that,’ snapped Gerald. ‘Any man who vents his temper on animals is a brute himself.’

  ‘A brute, am I?’ asked Norrys dangerously. He had been drinking all day, and was unsteady on his feet. ‘Would you like me to show you just how much? It would be a pleasure to spill your guts.’

  Gerald regarded him in disdain, then turned to Prior Dunstan. ‘The archbishop must hold you in very high esteem, to supply such a well-bred warrior for your protection.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Pontius, quick to support his bishop elect. ‘Of course, if Prior Dunstan was not engaged on such a wicked mission, he would not need guards in the first place. Norrys performs the devil’s work.’

  ‘I am not the devil, and neither is my archbishop,’ snapped Dunstan. ‘How dare you!’

  ‘I shall issue an edict removing you both from office when I am back in my See,’ declared Gerald haughtily. ‘You stain the good name of the Church with your presence.’

  ‘Osbert, fetch your harp,’ said Gwenllian quickly. ‘It is time for some music.’

  ‘I do not like music, and it will be banned from Carmarthen when I am constable,’ said Norrys sullenly. He regarded Cole with contempt. ‘It does not surprise me to learn that you encourage such nonsense, though. You always were soft in the head.’

  ‘There is nothing “soft” about appreciating culture,’ said Gwenllian, gripping Cole’s hand under the table to prevent him from responding.

  ‘Your bailey walls are very nice,’ said Foliot, in an obvious attempt to change the subject to one that was less contentious. Everyone looked at him, so he flailed around for a way to elaborate. ‘Smart stones and lovely mortar.’

  ‘Those defences are far in excess of what is needed,’ countered Norrys. ‘Who do you think will attack, Cole? Saracens? And you put your workforce at risk with this silly project. I heard you were almost crushed by a falling basket only this morning.’

  Cole started to rise, but Burchill grabbed his shoulder. Norrys started to laugh, amused that the constable should let himself be constrained by an old man. Burchill had been right to warn Cole not to react, but Gwenllian wished he had done it more discreetly.

  ‘Do not let him provoke you, sir,’ whispered Iefan, who always stood behind Cole’s chair at mealtimes. ‘No one was in danger. Ignore him.’

  ‘Here is Osbert with his crwth,’ said Gwenllian, relieved when
the bald archdeacon re-entered the hall. ‘It is the custom to listen in silence.’

  ‘Whose custom?’ asked Gerald curiously. ‘It is not a Welsh one.’

  ‘Carmarthen’s,’ said Gwenllian firmly, and gestured for Osbert to begin.

  At her insistence, he played until the guests were yawning and the fire had burned low in the hearth. All bade their hosts a hasty good night when the archdeacon paused to massage his sore fingers, and escaped while they could. Cole sighed when they had gone.

  ‘Let us hope the snow melts tonight, because I do not think I can stand another evening like that one. They bickered like fractious children!’

  They went to bed, and Gwenllian was not sure how long they had been asleep before she became aware that Cole was no longer lying next to her. By the embers of the fire she saw him buckling his sword around his waist.

  ‘What is the matter?’ she asked in alarm.

  ‘I heard something,’ he whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  Gwenllian climbed out of bed and tugged her cloak around her. ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘I am not sure. A thump, as if something had fallen. It was—’

  He stopped when a series of anguished howls tore through the silence of the night. He raced from the room, Gwenllian at his heels. The wails were coming from the chamber that had been allocated to the St Davids priests, and he flung open the door, drawing his sword as he did so. He stopped so abruptly that Gwenllian cannoned into the back of him. Pontius was lying on a mattress, his head obscured by a stone that had dropped from the wall and crushed him.

  The horrified cries of Gerald and Foliot brought the other castle guests running. Prior Dunstan was clad comically in a long white nightshift, although Secretary Hurso and Robert wore their habits. The two knights were on their heels, both holding swords and looking so alert that Gwenllian suspected that neither had been asleep; she wondered what they had been doing.

  Iefan and Burchill also arrived. Gwenllian was not surprised to see Iefan, because the sergeant never strayed far from Cole – he hated the idea of not being first to hand if there was trouble – but Burchill owned a house in the town, and never slept inside the castle. He saw Gwenllian looking at him and shrugged.