The First Murder

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘I shall be glad to be home,’ Gerald was saying. ‘Although I wish Pontius was coming with me. He was my most loyal supporter – and a friend, too.’

  ‘Was he?’ asked Prior Dunstan smoothly. ‘You cannot be Bishop of St Davids without your most loyal supporter, so perhaps you had better do the decent thing and withdraw.’

  ‘Never!’ declared Gerald. ‘I have been called by God, and it is not for me to refuse Him. And not for you to thwart Him, either.’

  ‘It will not be pleasant to break the sad news about Pontius to our Cathedral colleagues,’ said Foliot quietly. ‘He was popular.’

  ‘Not as popular as Hurso,’ countered Robert, purely to argue. ‘His death is a terrible blow to our Order, because . . .’ He struggled to think of a valid reason. ‘. . . because he had lovely writing.’

  Gerald released a bray of derisive laughter, which had Prior Dunstan leaping furiously to his feet and Robert ducking behind him. Luci closed his eyes, as if in despair, while Foliot appeared to be praying under his breath.

  ‘I am sorry you will all leave with a negative impression of Carmarthen,’ said Norrys, although there was no sincerity in his voice. He poured himself more breakfast ale. ‘So I invite you all to return here when I am constable. I guarantee that no one will be murdered under my governorship. Cole is a—’

  ‘Stop,’ ordered Luci sharply. ‘It is not polite to denigrate one’s hosts, and I want no part in it. Ah, here is Archdeacon Osbert.’

  Osbert had come to inform them of the arrangements he had made for burying Hurso, having persuaded the Carmarthen Austins to spare a plot in their cemetery. Gerald decided to accompany the cortège, because he said the priory was in his See, and Foliot offered to go too. Gwenllian was under the distinct impression that he was reluctant to let the bishop elect out of his sight – and not because he felt Gerald needed protection, either.

  The little party set out, slithering on the rapidly melting ice. There was still a good deal of white on the surrounding hills, but it was melting quickly and Gwenllian thought Burchill was right to say the visitors would soon be able to leave. She turned to tell him so, but he had vanished. She was alarmed to note that Norrys was nowhere to be seen either.

  ‘Where has Norrys gone?’ she asked of Luci, who seemed quiet and preoccupied.

  Luci shrugged. ‘He has friends here. He has probably gone visiting.’

  Gwenllian was distinctly uneasy, but she put Norrys from her mind as they reached the market, and she saw the crowds that had gathered there, mostly people from the poorer part of the settlement. The mood was ugly, and the houses of several wealthy merchants had been pelted with dung. Cole was in the middle with his soldiers, struggling to keep the mob at bay. Gwenllian walked towards him, confident in the knowledge that not even the most reckless rioter would dare harm her.

  ‘Order them home,’ she whispered. ‘They cannot cause trouble if they are indoors.’

  ‘They all have legitimate reasons for being out,’ he replied tiredly. ‘Clearing the streets would be tantamount to declaring martial law.’

  She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze before hurrying after their guests, glad he was prepared to be tolerant. Carmarthen folk were not naturally rebellious, and an iron fist was likely to be counterproductive. He was wise to be patient.

  It did not take long to bury Hurso at the Austin Priory. Osbert raced through the ceremonies at a furious lick, unwilling to linger lest there was another outbreak of hostilities. It started to rain as they walked back to the castle, a drenching that went some way to emptying the streets of resentful paupers too. Gwenllian was glad to reach the warmth of the hall, and was also glad when Osbert offered to stay and help her with the guests.

  ‘Shall we rehearse The Play of Adam?’ she asked quickly, as Dunstan and Gerald began to fight over a fireside chair. ‘Or would it be unseemly after a funeral?’

  ‘It is a religious work,’ stated Gerald loftily, ‘so I declare it a suitable pastime. Besides, what else can we do? I am not going out again in this weather.’

  ‘He means he is too frightened to wander lest someone repays him for murdering Hurso,’ said Robert slyly. ‘I suspect the corbel fell on Pontius by accident, but he killed Hurso in revenge, and now he is afraid of being a victim himself.’

  ‘I think we are all afraid,’ said Archdeacon Osbert softly before Gerald could reply. ‘But I do not believe any of us are killers. I think the culprit is a stranger who—’

  ‘You are right,’ nodded Norrys. ‘Carmarthen is a pit of insurrection, so of course killers, robbers and other villains stalk its streets. Cole should keep better control.’

  ‘Speaking of riots, I had better relieve Symon,’ said Burchill. ‘He will be anxious to return here and hunt the murderer.’

  ‘Where were you all day yesterday?’ asked Gwenllian, unease and fear prompting her to speak more bluntly than she had intended.

  Burchill regarded her thoughtfully. ‘About my own business. Why?’

  ‘Because Symon needed your help to quell the trouble in the town, and I would have liked you here, but you were not available for either of us.’

  Burchill sighed. ‘Yes, but it could not be helped.’

  ‘So where were you?’ pressed Gwenllian.

  Burchill stared at her for a moment before replying. ‘If you do not identify the killer, Norrys will tell the King, and Symon will lose Carmarthen – or worse. I suggest you concentrate on that.’

  Seething, Gwenllian watched him go. The pompous ass! How dare he remind her of her duties! And what was he hiding that he felt the need to conceal behind such strictures?

  There was a buzz of excitement in the hall: the servants had scraped together an array of costumes and the players were eager to try them on. Their bubbling enthusiasm seemed inappropriate after a burial, and Gwenllian wondered whether they were ruthless or just putting brave faces on matters. Archdeacon Osbert was disinclined for frivolity, though, and asked if he might be excused the dressing-up.

  ‘I am surprised they are so excited over a drama,’ he confided. ‘To be frank, I would have thought such antics beneath their dignity.’

  Foliot overheard and smiled wanly. ‘Why? Clerics are used to dressing up in elaborate garments and holding forth. The stage is their natural home.’

  ‘But not yours?’ asked Gwenllian.

  Foliot shook his head. ‘I have never liked a lot of attention.’

  ‘How is your shoulder?’ asked Gwenllian, seeing him raise his hand to it. ‘Better?’

  ‘A little.’ Foliot smiled ruefully. ‘I do not usually tumble off ponies, but it was during an ambush.’

  ‘Which ambush?’ asked Osbert politely. ‘Gerald told me you were attacked twice.

  Foliot nodded. ‘Once in Brecon and once in Trecastle. I fell in Trecastle, and would have been embarrassed had I not landed so terribly painfully.’

  Gwenllian decided it was a good time to speak to Foliot without the others listening. Osbert started to leave, but she gestured for him to stay. There was nothing wrong with having the Archdeacon of Carmarthen as a witness to her interviews.

  ‘Who do you think killed Pontius?’ she asked of Foliot.

  The priest shook his head slowly. ‘I believe it was an accident, and your bad-tempered mason gave a false report to make trouble. As Norrys says, the castle is unstable, and there have been similar incidents on the walls.’

  ‘Hurso’s death was not an accident, though,’ pressed Gwenllian. ‘Who killed him?’

  Foliot swallowed hard. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Gerald?’ asked Gwenllian baldly.

  ‘No,’ replied Foliot, but he would not meet her eyes. He glanced at Osbert, though, and the archdeacon looked away quickly. ‘Gerald is proud and haughty, but I do not believe . . . murder is a terrible sin . . . He is bishop elect!’ He all but wailed the last words.

  ‘The culprit must be Robert,’ said Osbert, although he did not sound convinced. ‘He is a spiteful lad. Or perhaps it is
Norrys, because he wants Cole disgraced.’

  ‘You believe Dunstan and Luci innocent, then?’

  Osbert shrugged, and another glance was exchanged. Gwenllian lost patience.

  ‘What do you two know that you are not telling me?’ she demanded. ‘It is no time for games, because we shall all suffer if Norrys tells the King that it is Symon’s fault.’

  ‘We know nothing,’ objected Foliot in a strangled voice. ‘We just have suspicions and . . . I cannot say more. However, I promise I will tell you the moment we have solid proof.’

  ‘Solid proof of what?’ snapped Gwenllian, but Foliot would not be budged. He raced away in relief when Gerald shouted for him.

  ‘He is a good man,’ said Osbert, rubbing a hand absently over his bald head. ‘I have known him for years. It is a pity he is so shy, because the Church needs men of integrity in its upper ranks. Do not press him to speak before he is ready, my lady. He is not a man to besmirch the name of another without incontrovertible evidence.’

  Frustrated and angry, Gwenllian hoped it would not be too late.

  Although Luci had also been exonerated – from killing Hurso, at least – Gwenllian cornered him next. The scholarly knight seemed observant, and she was hopeful that he might have some intelligent observations to make.

  ‘I have been making enquiries,’ he confided. ‘Although with scant success. I hope the matter is resolved before we leave, because I dislike the prospect of travelling all the way to Canterbury with three men who suspect each other of a double murder.’

  ‘So you believe the killer is Dunstan, Robert or Norrys?’ pounced Gwenllian.

  ‘Or Gerald, but they will forget about him once we are on our way.’

  He had no more to add, so she let him go, warning him to be on his guard if he planned to ask questions. He grinned at her, amused that she should think he might not know how to look after himself.

  ‘Luci has changed since we were at Oseney,’ said Gerald, coming to stand next to her. ‘He was much more light-hearted then. Perhaps being with Dunstan has worn him down. Or Norrys, who is a beast. I pity Carmarthen if he ever rules it again.’

  ‘I do not intend to let that happen.’

  ‘You may have no choice. However, I shall write to King John and say that these deaths are not your husband’s fault. Dunstan is the guilty party – he murdered Pontius out of spite, and then he killed Hurso to disguise the fact.’

  ‘Why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘To harm me, of course. He hates the notion of returning to Canterbury and confessing that he has failed to convince St Davids to choose another candidate. He hopes that these murders will horrify me into withdrawing from the contest.’

  ‘Then he does not know you very well,’ said Gwenllian wryly.

  ‘No,’ agreed Gerald. ‘He tried to bully me in Oseney too – he engineered a meeting for that express purpose, but I soon put him in his place. He is a vile man, and it would not surprise me to learn that he killed that old man – Canon Wilfred – too.’

  ‘I heard about that. Was Wilfred dispatched with poisoned wine?’

  ‘He had been guzzling from a jug of his own, but he knocked it over in his death throes, which meant we could not test it. Dunstan must have been relieved.’

  ‘But why would Dunstan want to kill Wilfred?’

  ‘To blame the murder on me, of course. It did not work, because I left Oseney before accusations could be levelled.’

  Gwenllian watched him walk away. It sounded as though Gerald had beat a very hasty retreat from Oseney Abbey. Had he been fleeing the scene of the crime?

  Cole returned at noon, cold, wet and tired. He reported that the streets were quiet, but bread was still expensive and the poor were still outraged by the merchants’ profiteering. The trouble was far from over.

  ‘Would you like me to tell these greedy tradesmen that they will go to Hell unless they adopt a more reasonable position?’ offered Prior Dunstan.

  ‘Osbert has already tried that,’ said Cole. ‘It did not work.’

  ‘They said they would repent at the next confession, and then all would be well,’ explained the archdeacon unhappily, ‘because we have a forgiving God.’

  ‘I can disavow them of that notion,’ said Dunstan keenly. ‘I have had many a congregation quailing in its boots at my descriptions of Satan’s Palace.’

  ‘No,’ said Cole firmly. ‘They do not deserve that.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Dunstan huffily. ‘Incidentally, I hope you have not forgotten these vicious murders in all the excitement of the riots. I do not want another of my party to die.’

  Cole glanced hopefully at Gwenllian, and she hated having to shake her head to say she was still no further forward. She took the opportunity to question the prior.

  ‘I have been hearing tales about Canon Wilfred this morning,’ she began. ‘How he was fed poisoned wine.’

  ‘Who has been gossiping?’ demanded Dunstan. ‘Gerald, I suppose! Well, it is all lies. Wilfred died of natural causes. Robert did not conspire to avenge himself on a demanding, critical and harsh master.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, thinking it was a curious denial – one that made it sound as though there might be good reason to see young Robert as the culprit. Or was it a sly ruse to detract attention from Dunstan himself? ‘So Wilfred was not drinking wine when he died?’

  ‘He was – a large jug of expensive claret intended for the abbot’s guests.’ Dunstan’s frown was thoughtful. ‘Yet perhaps I am wrong to say he died a natural death. Perhaps God struck him down for depriving me of a delicious treat.’

  ‘And the Carmarthen murders?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘Who are your suspects for those?’

  ‘I only have one: Gerald. He killed Pontius because they never really saw eye to eye, no matter what he claims now. And he killed Hurso, because he knew I would be distraught to lose my secretary.’

  The prior had not seemed distraught to Gwenllian. She studied him closely, but could read nothing in his face. Uneasy under scrutiny, Dunstan bowed and moved away.

  ‘Is he the culprit?’ asked Cole, staring after him. ‘He was suspiciously determined to blame someone else.’

  ‘They have all been doing that,’ sighed Gwenllian. Then she spoke more urgently. ‘Go and do something outside, Symon. Quickly! Norrys is coming, and he has been drinking all morning. He looks set for a fight.’

  ‘Then he shall have one, because I am not running away from him in my own castle.’

  Before Gwenllian could explain the difference between running away and a prudent retreat, Norrys was there. His pugilistic face was twisted into a sneer, which looked odd with the stately robes he had donned to play Nebuchadnezzar. Cole regarded him askance, and Norrys’s realisation that he looked absurd did nothing to improve his temper.

  ‘So, you have riots in your town, murders in your castle and accidents on your walls,’ he began jeeringly. ‘Is there anything else wrong with your domain?’

  ‘The presence of surly guests with no manners,’ retorted Cole. He was usually slow to anger, and Gwenllian suspected that strain and tiredness had led him to snap.

  ‘We shall soon be gone,’ said Norrys. ‘And then the King will hear of the chaos here.’

  ‘Hardly chaos,’ said Cole coldly. ‘And there was no murder before you arrived.’

  The blood drained out of Norrys’s face. ‘Are you accusing me?’

  ‘Why not? You hate the St Davids priests, and you do not seem especially enamoured of your own companions either. Moreover, I have been regaled with tales all day about your excesses when you were constable. Murder is no stranger to you.’

  Gwenllian fell back with a cry of alarm when Norrys hauled his sword from his belt. Cole did likewise, and there was a sudden hush in the rest of the hall.

  ‘Put up your weapon,’ said Cole in disdain. ‘You are no match for me.’

  It was hardly the most diplomatic of remarks, and with a yell of fury Norrys attacked. There was a brief clash of
steel, and Gwenllian saw Symon was right: Norrys was a poor swordsman, and the fact that he was drunk did not help him. Cole defended himself almost lazily, then began an offensive of his own. Within moments, Norrys was disarmed and pinned against the wall. The Hospitaller showed no fear, only rage.

  ‘Will you skewer him?’ asked Gerald carelessly. ‘I probably would, in your position, because he has a poisonous tongue. However, it will make a terrible mess, and these are clean rushes. You had better let him go.’

  ‘Yes, do,’ agreed Prior Dunstan, although there was unease in his eyes, and Gwenllian suspected that he was less than impressed with the performance of the man who was supposed to be protecting him. She glanced around for Luci, lest he decided to help his fellow Hospitaller, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Cole stepped back and sheathed his sword. Norrys lunged again, but Cole had anticipated the move, and a punch sent him sprawling. Norrys’s face burned with hatred and humiliation. He drew a dagger and lobbed it, but it went well wide of its target.

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Cole, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and hauling him outside, where he deposited him cursing and struggling in a water trough. ‘Perhaps that will wash the wine from your wits.’

  He strode away. There was a loud cheer from watching servants and soldiers, and Gwenllian closed her eyes in despair. Shame would make Norrys more dangerous than ever! She became aware of sniggering next to her, and saw Robert.

  ‘It is high time someone taught that bastard a lesson. He is a pig, and I bet he poisoned Canon Wilfred. He probably killed Pontius and Hurso too.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Gwenllian coolly.

  ‘Because he is a bitter man who hates everyone. Your husband should watch himself from now on, because Norrys will have his revenge.’