The Deadliest Sin

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘We do not fear it,’ said Walter coldly. ‘We just do not accept their authority to interrogate senior members of the Church. And now, if there is nothing else, we have business to attend.’

  He stalked out, Gilbert loping at his heels, and their unwillingness to co-operate served to put them firmly at the top of Gwenllian’s list of suspects. After all, why would they be obstructive if they had nothing to hide?

  ‘Let us hope we have more success with Belat and Henry,’ said Cole.

  He asked a passing lay brother to fetch them, but it was not long before the man returned to report that the two clerks were nowhere to be found. A search of the priory revealed that they had gone, taking all their possessions with them.

  ‘First, Stacpol, now, them,’ murmured Gwenllian.

  ‘Stacpol did not take his belongings,’ Cole pointed out. He turned to address the monks who had gathered to find out what was happening. ‘Who saw them last?’

  ‘Probably me,’ replied Cadifor. ‘They were in the stables at dawn, but it did not occur to me that they planned to disappear. I assumed they were just checking their horses.’

  ‘I overheard them whispering together shortly before that,’ added Dafydd, ‘when I went to start up the bread ovens. I am fairly sure they had been outside the priory, and had just come back in – which was odd, given the hour. I heard Belat mention “an Austin in the bushes”, although I have no idea what he meant.’

  ‘Oswin,’ surmised Gwenllian. ‘They must have spotted him, and realised that he would not have made such a journey without good reason. Their guilty consciences led them to flee before there was trouble. So there are our killers, Symon. Will you go after them?’

  Cole returned to the castle, and quickly organised patrols to hunt along each of the main roads. He thought it most likely that the pair were aiming for Brecon, so decided to search that track himself. He was just taking his leave of Gwenllian when Oswin approached.

  ‘So it was Belat and Henry who killed Prior Martin?’ the lad asked softly.

  ‘We believe so,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘It seems they spotted you hiding in the undergrowth, and knew the game was up. They fled before they were caught.’

  Oswin frowned. ‘They did see me, but they thought I was one of Cadifor’s canons, sent to spy on them. They were furious, and gave chase. They would have trounced me if that knight had not come to my rescue and . . .’ Oswin trailed off, his expression one of dismay.

  ‘What knight?’ asked Cole. Oswin did not reply, so he stepped forward threateningly.

  ‘Stacpol,’ blurted Oswin. He rubbed his eyes miserably. ‘He was kind to me, and I promised myself that I would keep his name out of this vile business. I do not know who to trust here, and I did not want to repay his goodness by putting his life in danger.’

  ‘So he was the other person you told about Martin’s death?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘The one whose identity you declined to reveal earlier?’

  Tears brimmed in Oswin’s eyes. ‘I found myself confiding in him after he saved me from Belat and Henry. He told me to tell you – he said that Lady Gwenllian would know what to do. But I was afraid for his safety . . .’

  So that was what the lad had been concealing, thought Gwenllian. It was nothing more than a desire to protect a man who had been kind to him.

  ‘So where is he now?’ demanded Cole.

  ‘I do not know. He saw me safely hidden, then went about his business. However, I think he may have gone after those two clerks . . .’

  Cole’s face was anxious as he strode towards the stables, but there was a clatter of hoofs, and a horseman rode through the gate. It was Stacpol, and behind him staggered Belat and Henry, their hands bound and fastened to his saddle with long pieces of rope. They were bedraggled and exhausted, but still able to blare an indignant tirade.

  ‘We cannot be treated this way!’ Belat was howling. ‘The King will hear of this.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stacpol grimly, dismounting. ‘He will. I have stayed silent long enough about you and your vile misdeeds.’

  ‘Be careful what you say, Stacpol,’ hissed Henry. ‘The King does not deal gently with those who break their oath of allegiance to him.’

  Stacpol addressed Cole and Gwenllian. ‘This pair have been defrauding religious houses for years. My oath to King John – who ordered me to turn a blind eye to their activities – prevented me from exposing them in Llanthony, but when I saw them here, I appealed to Bishop Geoffrey. He has released me from my vow, so now I am free to speak.’

  The blood drained from Belat’s face, while Henry glanced at the gate, as if wondering whether he could dart through it and escape.

  Cole frowned. ‘Are you saying that the King knows what they do and condones it?’

  ‘I doubt he knows the details,’ replied Stacpol. ‘But coins are deposited in his coffers every so often, and he asks no questions. However, when the antics of this pair are made public, he will hasten to deny all knowledge of them. He is not a fool.’

  ‘What have they done?’ asked Cole. ‘Exactly?’

  Stacpol began to relate a long list of sly, devious crimes that had deprived monasteries and convents of money. The bishop’s secretarius wrote everything down, and the two clerks, snivelling and frightened, were taken into Geoffrey’s custody, to stand trial in the ecclesiastical courts. Other secular officials might have argued about jurisdiction, but Cole was glad the matter was to be taken out of his hands.

  ‘I wronged you,’ said Gwenllian to Stacpol, when everyone else had gone. ‘I thought you were working with them.’

  ‘You had good cause,’ replied Stacpol sombrely. ‘Unfortunately, I pledged myself to do John’s bidding before I realised what kind of man he was – which is why I accepted a post in the westernmost reaches of his kingdom. He never comes here, and I am away from his malign demands. But all has been put right now.’

  ‘Not quite. We still do not know who poisoned the march-panes. Was it them?’

  ‘No,’ replied Stacpol. ‘They wanted Roger alive, because he represented easy prey. I wish they were the killers – Asser was my friend, and I want vengeance.’

  Gwenllian was about to suggest to Cole that they sit quietly and review what they had learned that day, when Dafydd waddled through the gate.

  ‘You must come to the priory, quickly,’ he gasped. ‘Prior Walter is dying.’

  Gwenllian did not think Walter was dying, although he lay in a bed in the guesthouse, surrounded by canons and clerks, busily issuing instructions as to what should be done with his worldly goods when he was in his grave. Geoffrey started to step forward with more of his remedy, but Gwenllian rested her hand on his arm to stop him.

  ‘Wait,’ she whispered. ‘Let us see what he will disclose if he believes his end is near.’

  The bishop gazed at her. ‘That would be ruthless – and unworthy of a healer.’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But I believe he is a killer, and I would like a confession for Stacpol’s sake. Asser was his friend.’

  Geoffrey’s amiable face was deeply unhappy, but he stood aside and indicated that she was to approach the bed. Cole went, too.

  ‘Good,’ breathed Walter weakly. He snapped his fingers at his retinue. ‘Leave us. You, too, Gilbert. What I have to say is for the constable, his wife and Bishop Geoffrey only.’

  Gilbert’s expression was dangerous, and there was a moment when Gwenllian thought he would refuse to go, but he bowed curtly, and followed the others outside.

  ‘Well?’ she asked of Walter. ‘What do you want to tell us?’

  Walter addressed the bishop. ‘I made a mistake by demanding Hempsted’s independence. When I am dead, I want you to get the decision repealed. And do not let Gilbert succeed me – he is unfit to rule.’

  ‘I shall do as you request,’ promised Geoffrey. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. I resign as Prior of Hempsted. As of now, I am just a simple canon, which should work in my favour when my soul is weighed. I should not like the
saints to consider me vain.’

  ‘Your resignation is accepted,’ said Geoffrey gravely. ‘I shall inform the Prior General immediately. Do you renounce your claim on Carmarthen, too?’

  ‘I cannot – not now the King has issued that writ. I am afraid it will have to become a cell of Hempsted. But it should fare well enough if you keep Gilbert away from it.’

  ‘Why did you summon me?’ asked Cole. ‘What crimes do you want to confess?’

  Walter eyed him coolly. ‘I may not have lived a blameless life, but I have done nothing to interest a constable. The reason I called you here is to witness a few deeds for me, ones I do not want the other canons to know about. They are private, you see.’

  Cole gaped at him. ‘You dragged us here to help with your personal affairs? I thought you were going to tell us who killed Martin, Roger and Asser!’

  Walter grimaced irritably. ‘I will – after you have helped me with these deeds.’

  Cole turned sharply on his heel. ‘Good day, Prior Walter. You are—’

  ‘Wait!’ Walter sighed gustily. ‘Very well. We shall discuss murder first, if we must. I am not the culprit – I am dying, and I am not so foolish as to stain my soul now. And despite what I might have said before, Cadifor is innocent, too. I ordered him watched, as I considered him a danger to my plans. He did not poison the marchpanes.’

  ‘So we have eliminated Londres, Belat, Henry, Walter, Cadifor, Stacpol and the bishop,’ said Cole, oblivious to Geoffrey’s surprise that he should have been on such a list. ‘There is only one suspect left: Gilbert. No wonder you do not want him to succeed you!’

  ‘That is not the reason,’ said Walter. ‘It is because I just caught him tampering with my medicine. I have been ailing for years, and he is the reason why. He confessed it all just now – he has been poisoning me, because he likes being my right-hand man. He thinks I would not need him if I was hale and hearty.’

  ‘So Oswin was wrong,’ mused Gwenllian. ‘He thought you, Gilbert and the clerks were plotting murder when you huddled together. Instead, you were merely planning your assault on Carmarthen.’

  ‘Oswin?’ asked Walter. ‘Who is he?’

  Gwenllian supposed she should be glad that Gilbert was under lock and key, but the whole affair had been distasteful, and she was in a sombre mood as she sat in the solar that night. Gilbert had screeched, fought and spat when he was arrested, and everyone had been relieved when the cell door had been closed on his curses. Walter had been equally abusive when he had learned he was not dying after all, and that he would make a complete recovery once he stopped taking whatever Gilbert had been feeding him – especially now that he no longer needed to bear the strain of running Hempsted.

  ‘He was livid,’ mused Cole. ‘I thought he was going to explode.’

  He spoke absently, because he was watching Geoffrey teach Alys a game that involved a long piece of twine and a knife. Her brothers were in bed, but she had claimed more bad dreams in a brazen attempt to secure extra time with the adults. Her ploy had worked, because first Cole and then Geoffrey had fussed over her.

  Gwenllian smiled. ‘It serves him right for including Carmarthen on his list of conquests. All I hope is that the King will accept the bribe of ten marks from Cadifor.’

  ‘He will,’ predicted Geoffrey wryly. ‘But the money must be presented to him directly. Cadifor will need a lot more if he recruits corrupt clerks to help him – men like Belat and Henry, who will demand a sizeable commission for themselves.’

  Alys began to drowse on his knee. The bishop stared at the fire, rubbing the table with the knife, an unconscious gesture akin to the random scribbles Gwenllian made with ink when she was pondering the castle accounts. But Geoffrey’s scraping made a faint pattern in the wax coating, and it was one that Gwenllian had seen before. Her stomach lurched in horror.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she breathed. ‘The killer made marks like that when the marchpanes were poisoned. We saw them etched on the table in the priory kitchen.’

  Geoffrey glanced at the scratches as if seeing them for the first time. ‘What?’

  ‘It was you,’ said Gwenllian, standing slowly, and acutely aware that the prelate was holding her daughter. Cole was frozen in mute horror. ‘You poisoned the marchpanes. You know all about soporifics, because you are interested in medicine.’

  ‘I am,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘But I use my knowledge to heal, not to harm. Besides, I did not reach the priory until after Asser was dead. I had no opportunity to tamper with them.’

  ‘Yes, you did – when Dafydd first gave them to you,’ said Gwenllian. ‘You ate half and poisoned the rest.’

  ‘But that was before Walter arrived,’ objected Geoffrey. ‘How could I know that he and his entourage would appear the following day?’

  ‘Because Londres wrote to tell you,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘He admitted it before he left. I should have guessed that there was a reason for your visit: you never usually travel in January, when the roads are poor – you come at Easter. But you made an exception this year, because you wanted to be here when Walter arrived.’

  ‘But why would I—’

  ‘You knew no one at the monastery would touch the sweetmeats, as they would not want to incur Dafydd’s wrath. But Roger was a greedy man, and you guessed he would visit the kitchen and take what he fancied. Unfortunately, you reckoned without Asser.’

  Cole found his voice at last, but it was unsteady. ‘Asser knew what you had done. With his dying breath, he whispered the words that you had etched on Martin’s coffin, and he told me to look for the “incongruously sharp knife”. Alys, come here.’

  ‘Everyone has sharp knives,’ said Geoffrey, tightening his grip on the sleeping child. ‘Including you.’

  ‘Yes, and that was Asser’s point,’ said Cole. ‘He told us to look for the incongruously sharp one – no churchman should need a blade with as keen an edge as the one you are holding now. Please be careful it. My daughter is only—’

  ‘It is for slicing bandages,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘A blunt one is no good.’

  ‘It does not matter why you have it,’ said Gwenllian. ‘The point is that you are a monk, and Asser thought it was a peculiar thing for you to have. He must have seen the scratches when he stole the marchpane, and he, unlike us, realised their significance when he fell ill.’

  ‘If Asser thought I was a killer, why did he not just say so?’ asked Geoffrey with quiet reason. ‘These riddles make no sense.’

  Cole’s eyes were fixed on Alys and the knife; Gwenllian had never seen him so white. ‘He knew you were nearby, and that you would deny it,’ Cole said, his voice unsteady. ‘He spoke in code, certain that Gwenllian would work it out. Please release my daughter.’

  ‘Stay away!’ Geoffrey brought the knife to rest on the pale, soft skin of the girl’s neck. Alys shifted in her sleep but did not wake. Cole retreated until his back was against the wall, holding his hands in front of him in a gesture of surrender.

  ‘Asser was an accident, but Roger was not,’ said Gwenllian, aiming to distract the bishop for the split second it would take Cole to leap forward. ‘When Roger was dead, you removed the plate from the kitchen, and brushed the crumbs from his habit and the floor. You expected his demise to be deemed natural.’

  ‘It might have been,’ snapped Geoffrey, breaking at last, ‘if your greedy friend had not eaten the damned things, too.’

  His angry voice woke Alys, and confusion filled her face as she tried to sit up and found she could not move. She did not struggle, but only looked at Cole in mute appeal.

  ‘And I know why you did it,’ said Gwenllian. ‘You killed Martin for losing Hempsted, and you dispatched Roger for failing to ensure that Walter did his duty. They were—’

  ‘Sloth,’ said Geoffrey bitterly. ‘The deadliest of sins. I hoped the words I etched on Martin’s coffin would warn others, but Roger ignored them and so did Walter. And as I said last night, sloth is not laziness, but a sluggishness of the mind that neglects to
do good, oppressing the soul and drawing it away from noble deeds. Martin and Roger were indolent men, and thus unsuitable for running priories.’

  ‘Martin was right,’ said Cole, taking a tiny step forward. ‘He confided to Oswin that his killer was a high-ranking Austin or a clerk. Oswin thought he meant Walter or Gilbert, but you are also an Austin.’

  Gwenllian began to gabble to distract the bishop when Cole inched forward again. ‘You told us that you had no remedies with you, but what healer travels without the tools of his trade? Of course you had them – and you poisoned the marchpanes. Your claim to have no medicines was a ruse, so that you would not be a suspect.’

  ‘Please,’ begged Cole, as Geoffrey stood abruptly and began to move towards the door. ‘She is a child. If you want a hostage, take me.’

  Geoffrey laughed without humour. ‘I think Alys will be rather easier to control. Now, I am going to lock you in, collect my people and ride away. Your daughter will come with us, but no harm will come to her as long as you stay here and do not raise the alarm.’

  ‘How do we know?’ asked Cole in a strangled voice. ‘You are a killer.’

  ‘Because I give you my word,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘Give me yours that you will not follow, and she will be returned to you unharmed. Refuse, and I will slit her throat.’

  Cole and Gwenllian could see he meant it, and there was nothing they could do as Geoffrey walked out, taking their daughter with him.

  The uncertainty of the next few days was dreadful, but Geoffrey kept his promise. Alys appeared one morning in the arms of a bemused cleric, who had been instructed to take her to the castle. She was tired, dirty and bewildered, but none the worse for her experiences. Cadifor and Stacpol were there to witness the family reunion.

  ‘He let me ride in front of him,’ Alys said, as Cole snatched her up and hugged her so tightly that Gwenllian feared he might hurt her. ‘All the way to Llansteffan. It was fun, but I would rather ride with you. You do not bounce around so much.’

  Cole called for his horse, aiming to hunt the bishop down, but Gwenllian laid her hand on his arm. ‘This is a battle we cannot win, Symon. Leave it to Gilbert. He has offered to take the tale to the King, and the less we are involved, the better.’