by Mike Ashley
She walked across the rough ground and I quickened my steps to keep up with her. Then she stumbled and I grabbed her. I told myself that it was to keep her from falling but in reality I was seizing the chance to touch her warm body. I held her, longer and closer than was necessary for I had never held a woman before. Then, to steady her, my hands strayed inside her cloak. She pushed them away with swift efficiency but not before they had touched the belt slung around her slender waist. She stepped back and I saw the fear in her eyes for, concealed beneath Awena’s cloak, was a long, sharp dagger. I said nothing. I needed time to think. I watched her hurry off down the road and wondered what I should do.
Meredudd was waiting for me, almost as if he were expecting my visit. This time the fire was lit in the hearth and the smoke swirling around the room stung my eyes. He said nothing as I entered, uttered no greeting or question. I stood before him, not knowing where to begin.
But he spoke first. “You are here because you think I killed my son.” There was no hint of madness in his words. His eyes met mine and I looked away. “I have never broken God’s law in that way – although I have been tempted many times. I did not kill him.”
To this day I don’t know why I believed him. But some instinct within me told me that he was telling the truth. I stood there, wondering what to say next. I was a boy then and no expert in extracting the truth from the guilty or the innocent.
But I feigned a confidence I did not feel. “It is said that a murdered corpse bleeds if touched by its killer. Will you touch your son’s body?”
I stared down at the man boldly, but with uncertainty and fear in my heart. I wondered why Gerald had charged me with this task.
“I will undertake any test you care to name,” Meredudd said quietly. “But the Lord may still judge me a murderer because I have wished Hywel dead a thousand times.”
I was suddenly afraid that if Meredudd’s innocence was proved, then Awena would come under suspicion of killing the man who had quarrelled with her mother and tried to lure her beloved brother away to a hot death beneath foreign skies. And I knew that I would probably do everything in my limited power to allow that lovely girl to evade justice. I shuffled my feet, unsure of what to do next. Meredudd stared into the smoking fire for a while before looking up at me.
“Has the brother told you anything?”
“The brother?” I hoped the old man wasn’t slipping into madness again.
“The brother from Ynys Enlli: the brother I met there who did not tell me the whole truth about Cynan’s death. I saw him in Nefyn. If you speak to him he may tell you more than he told me. He may tell you what he was hiding from me eight years ago.”
My heart began to beat faster. “Where did you see this brother?”
Meredudd told me and I hurried back along the track to the town. There was one person I had not yet questioned.
I found him in the church, kneeling by Hywel’s body. He looked up when he heard the church door open and my eyes met his.
I walked softly across the church and his expression was wary as he watched me approach.
“Touch him,” I said when I was standing by his side.
I saw that there was fear in his eyes.
“Touch him,” I repeated.
“I cannot.”
I took hold of Brother Deiniol’s large hand and thrust it towards the white-covered shape that had once been Hywel.
“No,” he cried before pushing me aside and rushing from the church.
But I knew where he would go. He would not leave Nefyn without the precious book. I ran to the priest’s house and I found him there, gathering up his possessions with frantic haste. He swung round and stared at me like a cornered animal. But there was no violence in him and I had no fear for my safety. I walked towards him, holding out my hand reassuringly. I told him I just wanted to speak to him and that I was in no position to do him harm.
He looked at me and nodded. Then he sat down by the fire and clutched the precious book of Merlin close to his chest. “It is not as you think,” he said softly.
“Tell me,” I said.
Deiniol hesitated for a few moments. But when he spoke his voice was clear and unemotional. “Eight years ago a young pilgrim called Cynan was murdered on the shore of Ynys Enlli on the same day that a precious book was taken from the brothers’ library there. The brothers of the island agreed between themselves to give Cynan a quiet burial amongst the saints and not to speak about his death to anyone.”
He must have seen the look of surprise on my face as he began quickly to explain. “The island’s reputation as a peaceful, holy place where nobody dies except of old age would hardly have lasted if word of a murder had got out, and the pilgrims who were our livelihood would have stopped coming. The brothers there all agreed it would be best. The culprit had escaped by then and our abbot said we should leave his punishment to God.” He hesitated again. “We did not lie – we just did not tell the whole truth. Without the pilgrims and their offerings, how could our community afford to carry on?”
“You lied to Cynan’s father. You said that his body had been found on the mainland.”
Deiniol nodded sadly. “A small untruth.”
“Go on,” I prompted with the impatience of youth.
“I had witnessed Cynan’s death from a distance. I had seen a man holding the young pilgrim’s head beneath the waters, bringing violence and murder to our sacred place, but I was too far away to help the unfortunate victim or to see the murderer clearly. As the months passed, I found that I was reminded of the evil I had witnessed, and my lack of power to prevent it, each time I passed the scene of Cynan’s death or his humble grave. So after a while, I decided to leave the island. I said farewell to my brothers there and, knowing no other way of life, I joined the brothers of Whitland which I thought would be far enough away to allow me to forget.”
He stopped and stared at the fire, his lips pressed together in anger. “Then a brother called Hywel joined our house. From the start I never liked him but I begged the Lord’s forgiveness because I thought the fault was mine. There was something familiar about Hywel, something which I could not place. Then I realized that his colouring and build, the way he moved, reminded me of the man I had seen from afar killing the young pilgrim on Ynys Enlli. I told myself that this unfortunate resemblance was causing my irrational dislike, but of course it never occurred to me that Hywel and the murderer could be the same man. Later, however, I came to discover that Hywel’s virtue was false and that he did indeed come from Lleyn, so I began to watch him but I never voiced my suspicions as I had no proof.”
Deiniol looked at me with clear blue eyes which were started to brim with tears. “Then we came here and when the book of Merlin – the treasure stolen from Ynys Enlli – was presented to the Archdeacon yesterday, I knew that Hywel was indeed the man who had taken it from the brothers there . . . and the killer of the pilgrim, Cynan. My instincts had been correct all along. I followed him last night and challenged him, as I could no longer remain silent. I had to expose his wickedness which had no place in a house of God.”
“What happened then?”
“When I told him I knew what he’d done on Ynys Enlli, he drew his knife. He said that he’d killed once: he’d drowned his own brother who had caught him stealing our precious book. I admit that I was afraid. I grabbed at the knife and in the struggle which followed he was stabbed. It was all so quick that I don’t remember exactly how it happened.” He turned his eyes towards the flames of the fire and sat for a few moments in brooding silence. “He realized I knew the truth about him and he was going to kill me. I merely defended myself.”
I stared at Deiniol and wondered what to do. I could hardly bring this gentle monk to justice because he defended himself from a murderer. And I believed he told the truth.
“What will you do now?” I asked him.
“That is up to you, my young brother. Archdeacon Gerald instructed you to discover the truth. Now you have done
it.”
I stared at the book of Merlin resting on the stool beside Deiniol. “I think the Archdeacon intended that the book should be returned to its rightful place. That’s why he left it here instead of taking it with him. And I suspect that he knew the truth already and selected a mere novice to seek it out so that you might go free.” I smiled at him. “You are no murderer, Brother Deiniol. And I think you should return this volume to your brothers on Ynys Enlli.”
I left him there. I walked out of the house into the street, mounted my aged pony and coaxed the hardworking beast to a trot. Then I rode out of Nefyn, taking the road to Bangor and I was not to hear of Deiniol again for many years.
Some time later, when I read Gerald the Welshman’s account of his journey through Wales with Archbishop Baldwin, I noted with some amusement that he boasted of having discovered the works of Merlin – which he had long been looking for – himself. But he had added the words “or so I would like you to think,” as a tantalising hint at the truth. He made no mention of Hywel’s death or the task he had set me and I blessed him for this. Deiniol would, after all, be able to live out his days in peace in the service of his Maker. Gerald was ever a man with a ready wit and I think of him now and smile.
A year ago I went on pilgrimage and crossed the racing tides to Ynys Enlli. There I met a frail and aged monk, about ten years older than myself. I recognized Brother Deiniol, even after the fifty years that had passed since our last meeting, and he greeted me like a long lost friend. He had returned to his blustery island and had at last found peace. And the memories of Hywel’s crime had faded with the passing of time.
As I was leaving Ynys Enlli, Deiniol put his hand, now thin as a skeleton, on my weary shoulder and told me how he was longing for the day when he would sleep with the saints on the island where nobody dies.
A Perfect Crime
Derek Wilson
Derek Wilson is the author of over forty books, and is a leading writer of popular history, biography and fiction. Amongst his books of naval history are The World Encompassed (1977) and The Circumnavigators (1989). He is also the author of a series of mystery novels featuring art specialist Tim Lacy, which began with The Triarchs (1994), and he has recently embarked on a series of novels about the Intelligence war. The following story, though, takes us right back to the time of the Crusades and the Knights Templar and a particularly devious crime.
In the high summer of the year of our Lord 1265 I, Brother Thomas of the Order of Saint Francis, was chosen to accompany the ill-fated mission which set out from the Temple in London for the Holy Land. Now that more than a quarter of a century has passed I can, indeed I must, write down a true account of all that happened on that journey.
It was a time of chaos. A time of vengeance. God’s judgment was being visited on the whole of Christendom for its violent rejection of Christ’s teaching of peace and poverty. Kingdom fought against kingdom. In England Henry III was the captive of Simon, Earl of Leicester, and paraded around the country like a tame bear. In Outremer disaster had fallen on the Christian knights. All the triumphs of the one whom men called Louis the Pious had been reversed by the Infidel. The self-styled Poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon were losing castle after castle. Hundreds of defenders were being put to the sword in their vain efforts to defend the Holy Places. I recall clearly a letter received by the Master of the Temple in England that I was called on to read to the brethren gathered in the great church towering proudly over the river and the streets huddled against the city wall. He understood well the fate falling upon the gold-glutted Order. “Rage and sorrow possess my heart so firmly that I scarce dare stay alive,” he wrote:
It seems that God himself is on the side of the Mameluke Turks. Outremer has lost so much territory that it can never regain its position. They will turn holy Mary’s convent into a mosque while her Son looks on approving. To fight against the Turks is madness when Christ himself does not. They have conquered and they will continue to conquer, for God sleeps and Mohammed waxes powerful.
It fell to me, a priest brother of the poor Franciscans, to announce these dire tidings because none of the Templars knew their letters and, as confessor to the Master, Hugh de Tremblay, I enjoyed his complete confidence. De Tremblay had received from Thomas Berard, Master in Jerusalem, an urgent appeal for funds. This presented no problem to his brother Templars in London. They might live frugally (though of true poverty they were ignorant), but their coffers so bulged with the income from lands and trade that they were the envy of every prince in Christendom. The decision was immediately made to send succour to the beleaguered knights of the Holy Land, and Simon de Benville, the Master’s close friend and comrade in arms, was appointed to lead the mission. I begged leave from my superior and from de Tremblay to accompany the party in order to make a long-hoped-for pilgrimage to the land of our Saviour and this was granted.
Reluctantly – I can say that in all humility, for it is true. I had made myself very valuable as priest and spiritual counsellor ever since my transfer to the new Franciscan house in London. As one who had drunk at the pure well of Assisi I had attained a certain reputation and my austerities were applauded by those who had no desire to emulate them. There is no need to burden whoever may read this in years to come with details of my own early history. It is enough to say that, at a very early age I understood with a passionate certainty the path to holiness and purity my life must follow and this drove me from my native Carcassonne, where such a life was no longer possible, to walk barefoot to the mother house of the Franciscan order and beg admission.
Preparations were made quickly and we set out on a day of heat and dust to travel to Dover where we would requisition a ship to carry us across the narrows. “We” were a party of fifty-six souls. Simon de Benville was a pious and dedicated Templar. As a younger man he had seen crusading service against the Cathars and been well rewarded with lands in Languedoc and Provence. Soon after that he had joined the Order and assigned all his estates to the Templars. By 1265 he had long reached the age when active men turn philosophical, seeking reasons behind orders and purpose beyond deeds. He and I had spent long hours debating the state of the Church, the spread of heresy and the seeming success of the Infidel.
Not so de Benville’s younger brother. Were it not for the respect in which Simon was held Philip would have long since been expelled from the Order. He possessed the braggadocio which is possibly an asset in a newly fledged knight but which is tiresome when flaunted by a warrior past middle years. In truth “warrior” is scarcely an appropriate word for Philip de Benville. If he had been involved in half the chivalric exploits of which he boasted he would certainly have been a hero. In fact most of the heads he had broken had been in tavern and whorehouse brawls. The severest penances had not deterred him from his tumultuous way of life or separated him from companions drawn from the lees of London life. Everyone on this expedition knew why Philip de Benville had been included: to remove him from the fellowship in which he was a disruptive influence.
Simon de Benville’s designated lieutenant was Geoffrey de Vaux, another veteran of Templar campaigns. He had been to the Holy Land before, having accompanied Louis IX in 1248 on the crusade which had resulted in the King’s capture and the appalling suffering of many of his companions. It was said by those who had known de Vaux since before that expedition that his head had been turned by the tortures inflicted on himself and by the death of many comrades in the desert sands. Certainly by the time I came to know him he was a morose man with few, if any, friends whose thoughts and feelings were not for sharing.
The captain of our fifty strong body of men at arms was William Leyburn, the younger son of an honourable Kentish family. He was not a member of the Order. The English Templars could not put a large body of military knights in the field as they had once done. The majority of the brethren, even at that time, were farmers, administrators and bankers whose energies were fully employed (when they were not at their devotions) in sc
rupulously husbanding the vast resources of the Order. When soldiers were needed in a holy cause the Templars never failed to provide them – by purchase. Mercenaries are always to be had – at a price – and the golden well of the Poor Knights was deep.
This, then, was the party which hastened towards the coast in those July days. The de Benvilles rode in front attended by de Vaux, myself and Simon’s squire-cum-body servant, John Barnet, a young man whose only virtue was his dedication to his master. Leyburn followed, keeping an eye on his men who guarded the single closed wagon which contained the treasure-chest and all our equipment. We wasted no time on the road, anxious to get to sea while the weather was still favourable.
Dusk on the second day brought us within sight of the walls of Dover and we presented ourselves at the Franciscan house which at that time was just outside the town. We were, of course, hospitably received, though the Prior was full of apologies that he was unable to accommodate all our number. Some of the soldiers had to be sent to find their own lodgings in Dover while ten of them were appointed to do sentry shifts over the wagon in the convent’s inner courtyard. The rest of us were made comfortable in the guest quarters and invited to share fully in the life of the community.
Food was prepared for the company and most of them were only too glad to fall to their victuals after a long day in the saddle. I, of course, joined the brothers at Compline. Nourishment of the soul is more important than providing for the body. I had grace from the Prior to miss the last daily office but explained that I have trained my body in the rigours that lead to perfection. As we filed into the chancel from the cloister I happened to glance sideways into the body of the church and noticed that other members of the party had come to share the worship. Simon de Benville was there, kneeling close to the chancel step, and de Vaux was beside him, determined, I thought, not to be outdone in deeds of piety by his comrade. Farther back, in the uncandled dusk, John Barnet leaned against a pillar. His presence there surprised me. He was a surly, foul-mouthed fellow who certainly loved his belly. As I peered along the length of the church I gained the impression that he did not want to be seen for, observing me turn in his direction, he pressed himself back against the stonework. The next time I looked round he was gone.
