The First Murder

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘I do not trust Norrys,’ he whispered. ‘Symon is safer with me nearby.’

  Cole did not need the protection of an old man, and Burchill knew it, leaving Gwenllian wondering why he had forgone the luxury of his own bed. She forced her attention back to the room. Gerald and Foliot were pressed against the far wall, as if they were afraid more stones might drop, while the Canterbury visitors were clustered in the doorway. Cole was crouching by Pontius, feeling for signs of life. Evidently, there was none, because he stood and addressed Iefan.

  ‘Fetch Cethynoc. Being a mason, he can tell us what happened.’

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ sneered Norrys. ‘A great lump of rock has dropped out of the wall and landed on Pontius’s skull. You do not need a mason to tell—’

  ‘Stones do not fall for no reason,’ retorted Cole. ‘We need the opinion of a professional man if we are to understand what happened here.’

  ‘You mean someone might have caused it to fall deliberately?’ whispered Gerald, while Gwenllian wished Cole had kept his thoughts to himself. ‘That Pontius has been murdered?’

  ‘We cannot know yet,’ she said, stepping forward quickly. ‘Perhaps you will tell us what you did after you retired?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Foliot’s voice was unsteady, and his kindly face was white. ‘Pontius and Gerald came here directly, while I went to the kitchen for a poultice to put on my injured shoulder. When I returned, they had already doused the candle. I climbed on to my own pallet, and was almost asleep when there was a terrible crash . . . ’

  ‘I let Pontius have the best bed, because he has a bad back,’ explained Gerald. Anger replaced shock as he glared at the envoys from Canterbury. ‘But they would have expected me to take it, because I am bishop elect. They arranged for the rock to drop, because they want me dead. But their villainous plot failed, and poor Pontius is killed in my place.’

  ‘How dare you accuse us!’ shouted Dunstan. His goat-beard was stiff with outrage. ‘We had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘It is true,’ said Secretary Hurso, licking dry lips. ‘We did not.’

  ‘We would not sully our hands,’ stated Norrys, although there was a glint in his eye that Gwenllian did not like at all. Meanwhile, Luci said nothing, and his face was closed and difficult to read.

  ‘At least it was quick,’ said Robert, who had pushed his way into the room and was inspecting Pontius’s body with ghoulish relish. Cole inserted himself between them, forcing the young Austin to return to his companions.

  ‘Did you notice anything amiss before you retired?’ Cole asked. ‘Dust on the bedclothes, for example, which might have suggested the stones were unstable?’

  ‘It did not occur to us to look for such a thing,’ said Gerald, troubled.

  ‘Then did you hear anything before it fell?’ persisted Cole.

  ‘No, we were asleep,’ replied Foliot. He kept glancing uneasily at Gerald, as if he was considering his bishop elect as the culprit. ‘The crash woke us.’

  ‘It woke us too,’ said Prior Dunstan. ‘Along with the screeches that followed.’

  ‘We did not screech,’ snapped Gerald. ‘We raised the alarm. And I doubt you were asleep when this happened. I think you were waiting for it, because you arranged it to fall. As I said, you want me dead, because you see me as a threat.’

  ‘You are a nuisance,’ said Dunstan witheringly. ‘Not a threat.’

  ‘It is true, Gerald,’ said Secretary Hurso with an apologetic shrug. ‘You are not sufficiently important to warrant us staining our souls with the sin of murder.’

  ‘It is another example of shoddy workmanship in Carmarthen Castle,’ crowed Norrys. ‘Guests will not die under collapsing walls when I am constable.’

  Gwenllian studied each of the guests in turn. Norrys had been very quick to blame Cole. Had he arranged for the stone to fall, to improve his chances of being made constable? She could not read Luci, so did not know whether he was the kind of man to help a brother knight commit murder.

  Meanwhile, Gerald seemed more indignant than dismayed by Pontius’s fate. Tears gleamed in Foliot’s eyes, but she had seen other killers weep for their victims. Had Gerald or Foliot dropped the stone on the sleeping Pontius, just so they could accuse Dunstan of the act?

  She glanced at the three Austins. Or had one of them tried to kill the man who was such a thorn in their side, so they would not have to return to Canterbury and admit failure, and Gerald was right to believe he would be dead if he had taken the best bed? With a sigh, she supposed she would have to find out.

  Cole, Burchill and Iefan carried the body to the chapel, leaving Gwenllian to persuade the visitors back to bed. Not surprisingly, Gerald declined to sleep in the chamber where his friend had died, so she helped him and Foliot move into her own. Foliot accompanied Gerald very reluctantly, and once again Gwenllian wondered whether he suspected the bishop elect of foul play. When they were settled – Gerald to sleep, but Foliot announcing that he would spend the rest of the night awake in prayer – she went to the chapel. Cethynoc was there, making his report to Cole.

  ‘There were scratches that suggest the mortar was deliberately prised out,’ the mason was saying. ‘As you would have seen for yourself had you bothered to look. You did not need to drag me out of bed. Or will you pay me for the inconvenience?’

  ‘No,’ said Burchill, before Cole could reply, ‘but we will not set you in the stocks for your insolence. How does that sound?’

  Cethynoc scowled, and Gwenllian was amazed that Cole was able to tolerate the mason’s unpleasantness day after day as they worked together on the walls. Or his greed. She regarded him with distaste, wondering whether he had arranged the petty ‘accidents’ as a way to earn himself more money. Iefan was also glowering, and she saw he itched to trounce Cethynoc for his disrespectful attitude.

  ‘What else can you tell us, Cethynoc?’ asked Cole patiently.

  ‘Nothing,’ snapped the mason. ‘Except that the bed was moved slightly. I imagine it was to ensure that the stone would land squarely on whoever was lying there.’

  ‘So it was definitely murder,’ said Cole unhappily when Cethynoc had gone. ‘But who would do such a terrible thing?’

  ‘The three Austins, of course,’ replied Burchill. ‘They expected Gerald to be in the best bed, and they want him dead. I imagine they have been charged by the archbishop to ensure that he is never consecrated.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Cole. Gwenllian understood his alarm: the King would not thank him for accusing a Canterbury prior of murder, or for suggesting that the archbishop was complicit in the deed.

  ‘Personally, I suspect Norrys,’ argued Iefan. ‘He wants the King to accuse you of negligence, so he can be constable in your stead.’

  ‘Or Gerald and Foliot, because they want the world to think Dunstan is responsible,’ said Gwenllian, although she spoke reluctantly. She liked both men – far more than she liked the prior and his retinue. ‘Why did Gerald let Pontius take the best bed? I doubt he is naturally generous. Moreover, I should have thought that Foliot is more deserving of such compassion. I saw the bruises on his shoulder from his fall, and they look painful.’

  ‘Of course, Cethynoc could be mistaken,’ proposed Iefan tentatively. ‘It might just be a mishap – like the accidents on the castle walls.’

  ‘Those were not accidents,’ said Cole firmly. ‘And neither was this. Someone tampered with the stone earlier in the day, intending for it to fall.’ He looked at his sergeant. ‘You were with Pontius all afternoon. Did he have a bad back?’

  ‘He certainly said so – a lot,’ replied Iefan.

  ‘So we have seven suspects,’ said Cole. ‘Can we eliminate any with alibis? I am afraid I left Prior Dunstan to his own devices for an hour while I dealt with a problem on the scaffolding; and Archdeacon Osbert was obliged to abandon Hurso and Robert when it was time to hear his parishioners’ confessions.’

  ‘I had business of my own to attend for some of the a
fternoon,’ said Burchill, a little defensively, ‘so I left Norrys and Luci in the tavern, but they were sitting at the same table when I got back. I do not believe they left . . . but they might have done.’

  ‘Foliot went to the kitchen for wine to dull the ache in his shoulder while I helped Sir Symon with the scaffolding,’ said Iefan. ‘But I suspect he would have been in too much pain to climb walls and chip out stones. I have no idea where Pontius went.’

  ‘And I left Gerald unattended to spend time with Meurig,’ admitted Gwenllian.

  Cole sighed. ‘So we can eliminate none of them. Damn!’

  ‘Perhaps they are all innocent and our wretched saboteur is responsible,’ suggested Burchill. ‘He is bored of petty mishaps, so decided to opt for something more dramatic.’

  ‘There is no saboteur,’ said Iefan tiredly, ‘just a run of bad luck. However, Pontius was not an accident, and I hope Lady Gwenllian catches the culprit before he kills anyone else.’

  ‘Me?’ asked Gwenllian in alarm. ‘But I—’

  ‘She will,’ predicted Cole with touching confidence.

  Cole was unrealistically disappointed when dawn broke the following day, and he discovered that there was still too much snow for their guests to leave. Gwenllian’s feelings were ambiguous. On the one hand, she was glad there would be time to unmask the killer before her suspects left for good; on the other, she did not relish the thought of a killer in her home, or the prospect of keeping the two factions apart for a second day.

  The morning was taken up with burying Pontius. Cole attended the gloomy ceremonies with Gerald and Foliot, while Gwenllian entertained the Austins in the castle. Burchill was allocated the unenviable task of minding the two knights.

  The afternoon turned to wind and sleet, forcing the visitors indoors, although Cole and his labourers persisted with their work on the walls. He sent them home when Iefan arrived to report some trouble in the town – the merchants had raised the price of bread on the grounds that their customers could not leave town to find better deals elsewhere. Food was now prohibitively expensive, and the poor objected.

  Left to manage the guests with only Archdeacon Osbert to help her – Burchill had sent a message saying that he was unavailable – Gwenllian asked Robert for The Play of Adam. A sly expression crossed the young Austin’s face.

  ‘You may have it only if you agree to let me play God.’

  ‘I shall decide who plays what,’ she retorted with an icy hauteur that reminded him she was a princess of Wales. ‘Now fetch the script at once.’

  Chastened, Robert slunk away, but not before she had seen the vicious resentment on his face. She recalled what had been said about the monk who had died at Oseney – that he might have been killed with poisoned wine, and that Gerald and Dunstan had accused each other of the crime. Yet Robert had mentioned being bullied by him, so perhaps he was the guilty party. And then, flushed with success, he had decided to make an attempt on Gerald, with Pontius paying the price.

  ‘I am not in the mood for drama,’ said Secretary Hurso apologetically. ‘I slept badly last night, and I would rather sit in our room and read. Do you mind?’

  Gwenllian could hardly refuse. The others clustered around Robert eagerly, though, snatching at the scroll as they decided which roles best suited their talents. Gwenllian was not surprised when Gerald and Dunstan were rivals to Robert for the role of God, and there was considerable ill feeling until she had negotiated a series of compromises.

  They began by sitting around the fire to read the script aloud, and she was astonished when calm descended. She was a little uncomfortable with Gerald and Dunstan as Cain and Abel, but the scene passed off without incident.

  Gerald, Foliot and Dunstan quickly revealed themselves to be competent performers, because they were used to public speaking. Robert was adequate, Luci enthusiastic and Norrys wooden. Unfortunately, there were few sections where all participants were needed at once, so they tended to wander off, and she was unable to monitor them all. Archdeacon Osbert helped, although Gwenllian noticed that he paid particular attention to Gerald, indicating who was his prime suspect for Pontius’s murder.

  Eventually, the light began to fade, so the clerics went to the chapel for evening prayers, while Norrys and Luci disappeared to check their horses. Cole arrived shortly after dark, cold, wet and anxious.

  ‘I have no authority to dictate prices, but I wish I did,’ he said, pulling off his sodden clothes and reaching for dry ones. ‘What the merchants are doing is shameful – profiteering, no less – and I do not blame the poor for objecting.’

  ‘How did you resolve it?’ Gwenllian asked. They were in the chamber where Pontius had died, because Gerald and Foliot still occupied the one they usually used. Little Meurig was fretful in the unfamiliar surroundings, and she was trying to rock him to sleep.

  ‘I have not resolved it – sleet drove them home. Trouble may break out again later, though, so Burchill will patrol for the first half of the night, and I shall take the second.’

  ‘Oh, Symon! Burchill has been out in the cold with you all afternoon, and he is no longer as young as he was. You cannot expect him to work half the night too.’

  ‘He has not been with me,’ said Cole, startled. ‘I sent him to help you.’

  Gwenllian experienced a surge of unease, although she was careful to conceal it. What had the old knight been doing? Shirking, because neither quelling riots nor minding querulous guests was his idea of fun? It was not the first time he had sloped off on business of his own of late, and although there was no reason to suspect anything untoward, it bothered her none the less.

  ‘I do not suppose you have learned the identity of our saboteur, have you?’ asked Cole hopefully. ‘I know you have been busy, but it is important.’

  ‘Not as important as preventing influential churchmen from killing each other,’ she replied tartly. ‘And discovering who murdered Pontius.’

  ‘You have identified the culprit, then?’ asked Cole, eagerly. ‘Who is it?’

  She scowled. ‘Of course not! I am not a miracle worker, Symon.’

  ‘You are to me,’ he said with a beatific smile.

  Hurso did not appear for the meal that night, and when Gwenllian enquired after his wellbeing, she was surprised and then concerned to learn that he had not been seen for some time. Robert was sent to check their room, but returned to say the secretary was not there.

  ‘I saw him in the bailey late afternoon,’ the lad said. ‘He was yawning and stretching, as though he had been asleep, but had woken and was walking to clear his wits.’

  ‘I saw him then too,’ said Luci. ‘When I was returning from the latrines. It was sleeting hard, and I suggested he did not linger outside.’

  ‘I am afraid I did not notice much once we started reading,’ said Foliot apologetically. ‘I left the hall for a while – in search of peace, so I could memorise my part in the story of “Jonah and the Whale”. You came with me, Osbert, and we found a quiet room by the kitchens. Did you see Hurso?’

  ‘No,’ replied Osbert. He regarded the bishop elect with open suspicion. ‘But I saw Gerald, pacing around in the wet.’

  ‘I was learning my lines,’ declared Gerald haughtily. ‘It was damp, but free of babble.’

  ‘I will look for Hurso,’ said Cole, standing and obviously relieved to pass the duty of entertaining back to Gwenllian again.

  When he had gone, the conversation became acerbic, thanks to Norrys, who intimated that Gerald had harmed the secretary in revenge for what had happened to Pontius.

  ‘In revenge?’ pounced Gerald. ‘That suggests you murdered Pontius, and so expect Hurso to be dispatched in return.’

  ‘No one has “dispatched” Hurso,’ stated Foliot, shocked. ‘What a terrible thing to say! He will have found some warm corner to read, and has fallen asleep.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Dunstan, his pale goat-eyes curiously devoid of emotion. He rounded on Gerald. ‘However, no one in my party murdered your Pont
ius.’

  ‘I shall complain to the Pope about you,’ threatened Gerald viciously. ‘I shall have you and your archbishop expelled from the Church. And good riddance!’

  ‘You will never be in a position to excommunicate us,’ snarled Dunstan. ‘And—’

  ‘I have arranged something special for you this evening,’ interrupted Gwenllian loudly. ‘Cethynoc the mason has agreed to come and talk to you about castle-building.’

  ‘Castle-building,’ echoed Robert in astonishment. ‘But I do not know anything about it.’

  ‘Even more reason to listen, then,’ said Gwenllian tartly. ‘You may learn something.’

  Before the young man could argue, she ushered the visitors towards the hearth and began to pour wine, at the same time embarking on a detailed description of a recent journey to Bath.1 She spoke in a rapid gabble to ensure there were no interruptions, certain there would be a quarrel if she permitted conversation.

  Just when she was running out of things to say, Cethynoc slouched in, furious at being ordered to spend his evening ‘working’, and began a dreary monologue on pulleys and scaffolding that would not hold anyone’s attention for long. Gerald was the first to roll his eyes, although Foliot listened with polite attention. Dunstan pretended to be asleep, and Norrys produced a pair of dice. Gwenllian was about to order him to put them away – Cole did not permit gambling in the castle, because it led to fights – when rescue came in the form of Robert, albeit unwittingly.

  ‘I suppose raising fortresses is a lucrative business?’ he asked with a bored sigh.

  Cethynoc smiled for the first time since Gwenllian had known him, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘Oh, yes. I am a rich man.’

  That secured everyone’s attention. ‘How rich?’ asked Gerald keenly.

  Cethynoc’s grin was smug. ‘Very rich. Of course, I have other business interests too. Would you like to hear about them? You may learn something to make you wealthy.’