The First Murder

by The Medieval Murderers

  The entire party leaned forward eagerly, and Gwenllian suspected he was about to spin some tale that would allow him to laugh at their gullibility in the tavern later. She did not care, and was just happy for them to be occupied. Then she saw Cole gesturing to her urgently from the door, and excused herself.

  ‘I have found Hurso,’ he whispered. ‘He is dead.’

  ‘What?’ Gwenllian pulled him into the corridor so they could speak without being seen or heard. ‘Are you sure?’

  Cole nodded. ‘He was hanging from a rope on the wall’s scaffolding. I cut him down and carried him to the chapel. It was not suicide – he was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ echoed Gwenllian, shocked. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because his fingernails are torn, and there is a cut on the back of his head. Clearly, he was knocked insensible during a fight, after which his opponent tied a rope around his neck and tipped him off the scaffolding.’

  Gwenllian was appalled. ‘I cannot believe it! The King will not overlook two suspicious deaths. He will use them to oust you.’

  ‘Not if we can prove they were none of my doing.’

  Gwenllian thought he was being naïve, but said nothing. She considered what they had been told about Hurso’s last hours. ‘Robert and Luci saw him alive late in the afternoon, and everyone was in the hall eating by dark. That means he must have been killed roughly between four and six o’clock. Unfortunately, all our guests slipped away at some point during that time, when they were not needed for reading.’

  ‘You cannot narrow our suspects down at all?’ asked Cole, dismayed.

  Gwenllian considered carefully. ‘Luci – he was not gone long enough to have reached the walls, killed someone and come back. And Foliot has an alibi in Archdeacon Osbert. But that still leaves Gerald, Prior Dunstan, young Robert and the Hospitallers. I am sorry, Symon! I was so intent on keeping the peace that I did not pay attention to their comings and goings. I should have done.’

  ‘It does not matter.’ Cole was thoughtful. ‘The sleet turned to rain at roughly four o’clock, which means that anyone out for any length of time would still be wet. Look at me – I am drenched from being out for just a few moments.’

  ‘They all came in sodden at some point, and I made a joke about it, but they said they were glad, because rain melts snow.’ Gwenllian felt a surge of panic. ‘Then they will leave, and we will never have answers!’

  ‘What about motives?’ asked Cole calmly. ‘I understand why Gerald would kill Hurso – it is revenge for Pontius. But why would the two Austins or the two knights harm one of their own party?’

  ‘Perhaps it was a sacrifice, to ensure that Gerald or Foliot did not murder them. Or maybe there was a quarrel, which led to murderous rage. I shall speak to our servants. Someone must have seen something – the scaffolding is in full view of the castle.’

  ‘Not the part where I found Hurso. I would have missed him were it not for the creak of the rope as he swung in the wind. I investigated the sound, because I thought it might be another “accident” in the offing.’

  ‘This is dreadful!’ Gwenllian felt weak with horror for the evil that was unfolding around them. ‘We will lose Carmarthen for certain!’

  ‘Then we shall live in Normandy. It is not so terrible.’

  ‘How can you even think of leaving our friends at the mercy of one of John’s creatures?’ cried Gwenllian, distressed. ‘Besides, who is to say that he will let you leave the country? He might consider you a traitor and order your execution.’

  Cole blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘He might, I suppose. He certainly prefers his enemies dead to living, and he does not like me. So ask your questions in the servants’ quarters, while I try to make sure no one else dies before you have exposed the culprit.’

  Unfortunately, Gwenllian learned nothing useful. The foul weather had kept their retainers indoors, while Cole had sent the labourers home long before Hurso had taken his final, fatal stroll. She persisted with the castle’s residents regardless, hoping one would remember Hurso walking – and someone watching or following him.

  ‘You cannot have stayed in the entire time.’ She felt near to tears, terrified of what would happen if she failed to unmask the killer. ‘Some of you must have gone to the latrines, or to fetch water from the well.’

  ‘None of us did,’ explained the cook, ‘because of Norrys. We remember when he was constable here, see, and when he left . . . well, suffice to say there was great rejoicing and he is a man for grudges. We kept out of the bailey on purpose, in case we met him.’

  She returned to the hall to find Gerald and Foliot on one side of the hearth, and the Canterbury men on the other. Cole, Archdeacon Osbert and Burchill were standing between them, to keep them apart. Norrys’s hand twitched over his sword, and Luci’s face was pale and drawn. Foliot was gripping Gerald’s arm, as if he thought his bishop elect was on the verge of leaping up and launching an attack on their adversaries.

  ‘You murdered Hurso,’ Robert was snarling to Gerald. ‘Because you believe – without cause – that one of us hurt Pontius. But you will pay. I liked Hurso. He was kind to me.’

  ‘I cannot imagine why,’ said Gerald disdainfully. ‘You are a vile little worm.’

  Red with rage, Robert lunged at him. Cole shoved him back. Dunstan objected to an Austin being manhandled, Gerald applauded it, and then a nasty altercation was underway. Gwenllian took the opportunity to study her suspects. The only dry one among them was Osbert – and the bald archdeacon was not on her list of suspects! She caught his eye and made a desperate sign that he should say something to quell the spat before it turned violent.

  ‘I am going to the chapel to pray for Hurso’s soul,’ Osbert obliged. It was a clever ploy: Dunstan and Gerald could hardly continue to bicker after such a pious suggestion.

  ‘So will I,’ said the prior. ‘He was my secretary, after all. Robert, come with me.’

  ‘I would rather do it here,’ said the lad, not moving. ‘It is still raining, and I do not want to get wet.’

  Even Dunstan seemed taken aback at such selfishness, while Gerald and Luci shook their heads in disgust. Norrys only smirked.

  ‘I still cannot believe it,’ said Foliot shakily. He looked at Cole. ‘Are you sure Hurso is dead? You cannot be mistaken?’

  ‘No,’ replied Cole gently. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘You will be,’ said Norrys coldly. ‘It will mean the end of you. King John will certainly not overlook two murders in as many days.’

  There was nothing Cole could say to such a remark, so he turned and led the way to the chapel, where he had set Hurso on a bier and covered him with a blanket. Unceremoniously, Prior Dunstan hauled off the blanket, and did not seem particularly dismayed as he looked at the man who had been his secretary.

  Meanwhile, Gwenllian noticed Foliot watching his bishop elect intently. Then Foliot looked at Osbert, who shook his bald head, a stricken expression on his face. She could only assume that Foliot had shared his suspicions with a fellow priest. She clenched her hands to prevent them from shaking. She did not want the culprit to be Gerald – a Welsh candidate for the See of St Davids, and a man – a kinsman – she liked.

  She studied the others. Norrys’s eyes flashed with vengeful satisfaction, and it occurred to her that he was certainly the kind of man to kill a member of his own party in order to harm Symon. Luci was quiet and shocked, and she thought she saw the glitter of tears.

  ‘We should establish who was where between four and six o’clock,’ said Cole. ‘It is—’

  ‘Then let us start with you,’ interrupted Norrys. ‘Did Gerald pay you to kill Hurso? Or did Hurso find out that you dispatched Pontius, so had to be silenced? Perhaps that was what Hurso was doing all afternoon – not reading, but investigating murder.’

  ‘I hardly think that Sir Symon—’ began Archdeacon Osbert angrily.

  ‘It is Cole’s castle.’ Norrys rounded on him. ‘He will know where to lure a victim, so there will be
no witnesses to the foul deed.’

  ‘Symon has an alibi in half the town,’ said Gwenllian sharply. ‘He was quelling riots when Hurso was killed, and dozens of people can testify to that fact.’

  ‘You are familiar with the castle too, Norrys,’ said Gerald when the Hospitaller had nothing to say. ‘You were once its constable. And personally, I think it is suspicious that you are so eager for Cole to be blamed. So tell us where you were when Hurso died.’

  Norrys scowled. ‘Learning the role of King Nebuchadnezzar – on my own. I could not concentrate with all that jabbering in the hall, so I came to the chapel.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for you?’ asked Cole.

  Norrys regarded him with open hatred. ‘No, but I have no reason to kill Hurso. The archbishop hired me to protect him.’

  ‘Which you failed to do,’ Gerald pointed out. ‘Luci? Do you have a better story?’

  Luci nodded. ‘I went out briefly – a moment, no more – when I saw Hurso in the bailey. But it was cold and wet, so I hurried back inside and did not leave again. Lady Gwenllian will confirm that I am telling the truth.’

  Gwenllian nodded, and Cole turned questioning eyebrows on Dunstan.

  ‘I was in many places,’ replied the prior unhelpfully. ‘I am an active man, and I dislike being pent up indoors. I walked around both baileys, to stretch my legs.’

  Gwenllian was dissatisfied with this explanation, and so was Gerald because his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  ‘I went out, but Archdeacon Osbert was with me,’ said Foliot before Gerald could speak. ‘We practised our roles for “Jonah and the Whale” in a room near the kitchens. God help us, but we laughed together while a man was being . . .’ He trailed off, unable to continue.

  ‘When we finished, I walked with Foliot to the hall, then came to the chapel to say my offices,’ added Osbert. ‘I did not see Norrys here, though.’

  ‘You must have missed me in the dark,’ said Norrys. Then he realised the chapel was far too small for that, so added, ‘Or I left a few moments before you arrived. Regardless, I am not the culprit.’

  ‘I also spent time alone,’ said Gerald. ‘In my room. I was praying, so my alibi is God. However, no one can possibly suspect me of this crime. I am bishop elect.’

  It was some time before Gwenllian and Cole were able to steer their guests from the hall to their quarters, because neither party wanted to sleep. Prior Dunstan, Gerald and young Robert were the most vocal, while Norrys watched the efforts of Foliot, Luci and Gwenllian to calm them with spiteful satisfaction.

  ‘It is late,’ said Cole, loudly and with finality. ‘And time for us all to rest.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Dunstan, standing. ‘I shall pray for Hurso in the chapel, then retire.’

  ‘I would not walk across that dark bailey if I were you,’ said Norrys slyly. ‘Not alone.’

  ‘Then come with me,’ snapped Dunstan. ‘It is what you are being paid for – to protect me from danger.’

  ‘And me,’ added Robert. ‘Although I hope you do a better job than you did with Hurso.’

  ‘I will go with you, Father Prior,’ said Luci quickly. ‘Unless you prefer to say your prayers in your room instead. God will not mind, and it will be much more comfortable.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Dunstan, capitulating quickly. ‘Robert can go in my place.’

  ‘I most certainly shall not,’ cried Robert. ‘It might be dangerous.’

  Dunstan regarded him witheringly. ‘Canon Wilfred lied when he told me you were a selfish brat with no sense of propriety. He was being far too charitable.’

  Gerald roared with laughter, and Dunstan strode away with his head held high. Robert scurried after him, his face dark with fury, and Luci was hot on their heels, apparently afraid of what might happen once they were alone. Norrys watched expressionlessly, then poured himself more claret. Gerald’s amusement faded as he studied Norrys’s wine-flushed face and belligerent eyes.

  ‘Who will guard me tonight?’ he asked Cole in a low voice. ‘I shall be slaughtered in my bed, and Wales will lose the best bishop that God has ever provided.’

  ‘Do not worry,’ said Foliot. ‘I shall sit by our door, and prevent anyone from entering.’

  As Gwenllian had just finished treating Foliot’s injured shoulder with a hot poultice, she doubted he would be much use in a scuffle. Then it occurred to her that he might be just as concerned to keep Gerald in, as keeping others out.

  ‘Both of you will sleep,’ stated Cole. ‘I shall stand guard the first half of the night, and Iefan will take over when I relieve Burchill. No one will harm you, I promise.’

  Gerald nodded acquiescence, and Cole accompanied him and Foliot to their chamber. Gwenllian followed, and when the two priests had closed the door, she put her ear to the wood to listen, eager to learn whether Foliot would confront Gerald with his suspicions. But neither man spoke, and after a while the light went out under the door.

  ‘Go to bed, Gwen,’ said Cole. ‘One of us should be alert tomorrow.’

  She nodded, but made no effort to leave. ‘Do not forget that Gerald may be the killer, cariad,’ she whispered. ‘He is one of our five suspects. Be careful.’

  ‘If he did kill Hurso, then his motive will have been to avenge Pontius. But if that is the case, then who dispatched Pontius? Or do we have two killers on the loose? We might, I suppose. Both groups hate each other, and emotions are running high.’

  ‘No,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘Murder is a terrible thing, and I do not believe there are two deranged monsters in our castle. There is one, and we must catch him before he leaves, or King John will hold you responsible. And I am not ready to be a widow just yet.’

  Cole was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘At the risk of sounding petty, I think Norrys is the culprit. Murders in my castle suit him very well, and as a knight, he is no stranger to violent death.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Gwenllian. ‘And he claims to be close to the King, who is keen to see you ousted. For all we know, John ordered him to make trouble here, with the promise that Norrys will be constable when you are no longer in office.’

  ‘You think John would order priests murdered?’ Cole was shocked.

  Gwenllian shrugged. ‘Not openly – he is far too clever for that. Indeed, he may not have mentioned murder at all, but left Norrys free to do whatever he deemed necessary.’

  ‘Should I arrest Norrys, then?’ asked Cole worriedly. ‘Lord! John will not like that!’

  ‘Not yet. Norrys is a strong suspect, but not the only one.’

  ‘True. We have eliminated Foliot and Luci, so we are left with him, Gerald, Dunstan and Robert. I suppose Robert is next on my list – he is a horrible lad. No wonder Oseney Abbey lent him to Dunstan: they were desperate to be rid of him.’

  ‘Oseney,’ mused Gwenllian. ‘We must not forget that other suspicious death, either –Wilfred. There was talk of poison, and Robert freely admits that Wilfred was a bully.’

  ‘So Robert may have dispatched him? Then realised that murder is an easy way to dispense with people he does not like, so he tried to kill Gerald but got Pontius instead? And he dispatched Hurso when the secretary guessed what had happened?’

  ‘It is certainly possible.’

  ‘Or perhaps the culprit is the same man who has arranged our series of “accidents”. A falling stone, a hanging from scaffolding – both are incidents he might have organised.’

  ‘If that were true, then our guests cannot be responsible, because none of them were here when those mishaps first started. It would mean that the murderer is from Carmarthen – a soldier, servant or labourer.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Cole uncomfortably. ‘You are right.’

  Gwenllian took a deep breath, knowing what she was about to say would be greeted with anger and disbelief. ‘Burchill sent me a note to say he was “unavailable” this afternoon, even though he knew I needed his help – and so, I imagine, did you. He also plied Norrys with enough drink to make him aggressive
yesterday, and he has been indiscreet with gossip. It was he who told Norrys about the accidents on the wall.’

  Cole stared at her. ‘You think Burchill is the murderer? No! How could you even think such a thing? He is not a killer!’

  ‘He is a knight, Symon – of course he is a killer! And he has been on crusade, one of the bloodiest and most disreputable acts ever committed by one group of men against another.’

  ‘No,’ said Cole stubbornly. ‘Now go to bed. We shall not discuss this again.’

  Gwenllian slept poorly that night, wishing she had kept her suspicions about Burchill to herself. Cole was recklessly loyal to his friends, but many did not deserve it. And she knew it must gall Burchill to take orders from a man three decades younger than he.

  The hour candle showed it was one o’clock when she heard Iefan arrive and Cole leave to relieve the elderly knight from his patrols in the town. Little Meurig shifted in his sleep, and she wondered whether her discomfiture was transferring itself to him. She rocked the crib gently, then returned to bed, thinking about the murders and the suspects.

  She slept deeply shortly before dawn, and was heavy-eyed and sluggish when the maid came to wake her. She washed and dressed quickly, hurrying to reach the hall before her guests. She arrived just in time to prevent Norrys from upsetting a vat of porridge over Gerald, and silenced Robert with a glare when the boy began a speech outlining why the Pope would never raise St Davids to an archbishopric.

  The others were in a sombre mood, and she suspected they had slept as badly as she had. When the door clanked open, they all jumped in alarm. It was Burchill, who looked very well rested, and she wondered whether he had worked as hard at peace-keeping the previous night as he should have done.

  ‘The weather is much milder this morning,’ he smiled, rubbing his hands together briskly. ‘And the snow is melting fast. It will not be long before you can leave.’

  ‘Thank God!’ breathed Dunstan, crossing himself. ‘When? Today?’

  Burchill shook his head. ‘Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after, if the thaw continues.’

  Gwenllian was torn between wishing them gone before anyone else died, and needing them to stay so she could catch the culprit. She experienced a surge of helplessness. But how was she to find answers when every waking moment was spent trying to prevent quarrels? She fought down her rising panic, and filled her mind with resolve instead. No sly killer was going to give the King an excuse to blame Symon! If the guests argued, then so be it, but that day, she was going to concentrate on asking questions.