King Arthur's Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  Saddened at the turn of events, Madoc carried on with his task, all too conscious that there was no way he could warn Owain of the new hunt for him. They had arranged to meet again at the elm, for them to give him more food. To try to find him deep in the woods along the Monnow, with all these soldiers around, would be futile and probably suicidal.

  With a sigh he carried on to collect the pig in the cart and take it down to Rhiannon, who would be devastated to hear this new turn in their lives.

  Owain never had any realistic hope of eluding capture, especially as he was not even aware that he was being hunted for murder rather than for being an alleged renegade.

  Late that afternoon he was woken from a sleepy reverie in his badger hole by the distant sound of baying hounds. At first he thought that it was probably a hunt for deer or foxes out of Kentchurch and decided to lie low and let them pass him by.

  But soon it became apparent that they were closing in, and he began to hear men shouting and the crack of snapped branches.

  Owain got up and listened more intently, then decided to make for the river, to wade across and lose any scent of him that the hounds may have picked up.

  He was too late. Before he had got fifty paces, a dozen hounds broke cover, including several lymers and running-dogs, which hunted by scent rather than sight. Though they did not attack him, they surrounded him and began barking and howling, so that soldiers soon crashed through the undergrowth and seized him roughly, throwing him to the ground. As he managed to look up as they lashed his wrists behind his back, he saw his nephew John Merrick calling his hounds back, managing to avoid looking at his captive uncle.

  ‘John, for Christ’s sake!’ he called in a strangled voice, for a burly soldier had his boot planted on his back. ‘What’s this all about? Was it you who denounced me?’

  The fair-haired man dropped his gaze to Owain, with a look of hate on his face. ‘Denounce you? You mean accuse you! You killed my father, you cowardly swine!’

  As he was pulled to his feet by a couple of men-at-arms, Owain stared at John in bewilderment. ‘Killed Ralph? He is dead?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent! You struck him a cowardly blow from behind! Could you not fight him like a man, face to face?’

  Before he could respond, Owain was dragged roughly by the rope around his wrists towards the nearest path, where Sergeant Shattock appeared, out of breath.

  ‘Good work, lads. You’ve got the bastard!’ He accompanied his words with a vicious punch to Owain’s face, before turning and leading them away from the river, up towards the church and the village.

  ‘What are we going to do with him?’ asked one of the soldiers, a rough-looking man with a face like a pig.

  ‘Until he’s hanged, lock him up,’ snapped the sergeant.

  ‘The castle’s no good, then,’ grumbled the ugly man. ‘The tower that had the lock-up has been pulled down and half the outer wall of the bailey is missing.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that!’ rasped Shattock, who until that moment had not given it a thought. He rubbed his bristly chin as he strode forward, then made up his mind. ‘We’ll use the church tower for now, until the steward decides what to do with him. That’s used as a lock-up for drunks and poachers.’

  It was true that a room at the base of the massive, squat tower of Garway was sometimes used for securing petty offenders and was known by the villagers as ‘the prison’. The tower had been erected some years earlier by the Templars when they rebuilt the ancient church and added their circular nave. It was a few yards distant from the church itself and intended more as a defence against marauding Welsh than for any religious function.

  Owain was dragged out of the woods and across the now-bare strip fields towards Garway. The sergeant marched ahead, then dismissed most of his men, telling them to return to Grosmont, leaving himself and three soldiers to handle Owain. After a few pointless struggles against his captors, he gave up and stumbled along behind them, staggering now and then as they gave a malicious tug to the rope that bound him.

  Below the tiny hamlet, they struck up the hillside, past the grey buildings of the preceptory, to reach the church. The familiar surroundings crowded into Owain’s consciousness: the farm, which he visited so often with his cart, and the church itself where he had taken the sacrament only a few days ago.

  The sergeant and his men hustled him into the churchyard and across to the tower, which stood alone like a massive stone thumb, with its four-sided conical roof and a pair of arrow-slits high up on each side.

  ‘Hold him there, while I get that door open,’ snapped Shattock and left them pressing their captive against the cold stone alongside a heavy door. He marched into the church through the south door and returned with a large key, almost as long as his forearm. An elderly man followed him out, with grey hair and full beard, wearing the brown habit of a Templar lay brother. Recognizing Owain, he demanded to know what trouble he was in.

  ‘He’s a rebel and a murderer!’ snapped the sergeant. ‘We must keep him confined until he’s hanged.’

  ‘Are you sure you have consent for this?’ called the sexton, as the sergeant thrust the key into a hole in the tower door.

  ‘It’s at the command of the steward of Grosmont – and will be confirmed by Prince Edmund when he arrives,’ lied Shattock brusquely. ‘We have no means of keeping a prisoner at the castle while the building work is going on.’

  The sexton was not impressed by this, as the Templars acknowledged no one except the Holy Father in Rome as their ruler and were unlikely to take orders from a castle steward. He went muttering under his breath towards the preceptory, to see what the knights thought of the situation.

  Inside the tower, which was even chillier than outside, Owain’s wrists were freed, then he was thrust into a small side-room. Its door was slammed shut and a bar dropped into stout brackets. It was entirely empty, with some mouldy straw on the floor and a low window-opening the size of Owain’s face running through the massive wall like a tunnel. He heard the big key being rattled in the outer lock and Shattock’s harsh voice telling a guard to stand outside until he was relieved.

  Then there was silence.

  As dusk fell, Madoc and Arwyn came into the churchyard and bribed the freezing soldier on guard with two pence to let them talk to the prisoner. Though he had the key, the man would not let them into the tower and they had to hold a conversation through the hole in the wall. They also used it to pass in the food and drink that they were going to take to him in the woods.

  ‘Has anyone been to see you?’ whispered Arwyn to the shadowy figure at the other end of the tunnel.

  ‘Brother Robert came and brought me some milk and bread a few hours ago. He asked if I wanted to confess, and I told him I had done nothing wrong, apart from wanting to fight for my country.’

  Arwyn sighed. ‘For the blessed Mary’s sake, Uncle, he’s from Normandy! He’s on the side of the bloody king. You shouldn’t admit anything to him.’

  ‘I swore on the Cross that I had not harmed my brother, and I think he believed me.’

  ‘Do you know what is going to happen tomorrow?’ asked Arwyn tremulously, for he already knew the answer.

  ‘They’ll take me down to Grosmont, no doubt. The steward will hold a mock trial in the name of Prince Edmund, then they’ll hang me.’

  His voice sounded dull and resigned, as if he’d already given up any hope. His nephews could think of nothing to say that would deny his morbid anticipation, so they turned to Arthur’s relics instead, telling him of their intention to get them back to Abbey Dore when the present emergency was over – presumably when Owain was dead and buried.

  He agreed, but impressed on them the need to pass on the secret of the chest’s whereabouts to their family when the time came. Arwyn had a baby daughter, though Madoc so far had no children, but they both swore that the family obligation would be honoured.

  ‘Tell Rhiannon to come to Grosmont when I am arraigned,’ pleaded Owain. �
��I must see her one last time before I join my father.’

  But once again fate took a hand.

  Next morning Madoc and Arwyn mournfully intended to follow their captive uncle down to Grosmont Castle to meet his accusers. A couple of hours after dawn, they went to the church expecting to see Owain being taken out of his cell by his gaolers, but apart from a different soldier stamping his cold feet outside there was no sign of activity. Ignoring the guard’s eavesdropping, Madoc called through the tiny opening in the wall. ‘Owain, has anything happened yet?’

  His uncle’s face appeared dimly at the other end, slightly more visible now in the eastern morning light. His voice was almost eager, different from the resigned apathy of the previous day. ‘That Father Samson from Llanfihangel Crucorney came here at first light, God bless him!’

  ‘What did he want? To shrive you before you hang?’ said Arwyn bitterly.

  ‘Not at all! He was trying to save my life.’

  Owain explained that the Welsh priest had exhorted him to claim sanctuary, as he was in a church! At first he had not taken him seriously, but Father Samson was emphatic in claiming that being on consecrated ground made it legal for him to be a sanctuary-seeker and to demand his forty days’ grace, free from arrest.

  Madoc gave a great shout, which startled the guard, but they ignored him. ‘I recall one of the old men in the village telling of such a case here years ago,’ he said excitedly. ‘He’d stolen a sheep from up on Garway common, but he ran to the church here and sat in the chancel, holding on to the altar for weeks. I can’t recall what happened to him.’

  ‘The priest says they have to call the county coroner, then after performing the right rituals, the accused can be sent out of the country,’ called Owain through his diminutive window. ‘He’s gone over to see the preceptor about it now.’

  Arwyn was doubtful about this ray of hope. ‘I can’t see those swine in Grosmont accepting this! They’ll just drag him out of there – after all, it is a prison.’

  ‘Well, let’s go into the church, brother, and pray that it does come about,’ suggested Madoc.

  Half an hour later a heated argument was going on in the preceptory yard, across the lane from the church. Sergeant Shattock had arrived on horseback with two men-at-arms and a spare horse to carry the prisoner back to Grosmont, about three miles away. Father Samson, in a rather threadbare cloak over his cassock, stood in the gateway where he had patiently awaited the expected escort and then informed them that they could not take Owain ap Hywel, as he had claimed sanctuary.

  ‘Don’t be damned silly, begging your pardon, Father,’ growled Shattock. ‘The fellow’s in gaol and we mean to take him out.’

  ‘He’s also in a church and, having declared himself a sanctuary-seeker, you can’t have him!’ said the priest stubbornly. ‘There are severe penalties laid down for violating that sacred right.’

  ‘He’s in bloody gaol!’ yelled the sergeant furiously. ‘Now get out of my way!’

  He pushed the slightly built cleric aside and waved to his men to follow him to the church, but a stern voice rang out behind him.

  ‘Stop, fellow! Come back here.’

  Shattock was not accustomed to being spoken to in this fashion, even by the steward or Edmund Crouchback. He swung around, ready to shower blasphemies on the speaker, but they died in his throat when he saw who was addressing him. A tall Templar Knight, flanked by two of his fellows, stood in their forbidding black winter cloaks with the red crosses. They formed an impressive sight as they regarded him impassively.

  He walked back towards them, his eyes on the preceptor, Ivo de Etton, whom he knew by sight and reputation.

  ‘Sir, I am but carrying out my duty. I have been commanded by the prince’s steward to bring this man to the castle for trial.’

  ‘Well, you can’t!’ the preceptor responded flatly. ‘He is in a church and has claimed sanctuary.’

  ‘But he’s in the tower, sir – not even joined to the church!’

  One of the other knights shook his head at the sergeant. ‘That’s of no consequence,’ said Robert de Longton. ‘Anywhere within the consecrated ground is sufficient. If he only crawled through the churchyard gate, he would still be entitled to sanctuary.’

  Shattock was not going to give up easily. ‘But he’s a murderer, not just some serf who’s illegally trapped a rabbit!’

  ‘That’s also immaterial,’ snapped the third Templar, John de Coningham. ‘Unless it involves sacrilege, the nature of the crime does not matter.’

  ‘I have to take him back to Grosmont!’ yelled the stubborn sergeant. ‘They are waiting to hang him. I’ll be in big trouble if I go back without him.’

  ‘That’s your problem, soldier,’ snapped de Coningham. ‘And it says little for natural justice that you intend executing this man even before he goes to trial.’

  Red in the face with anger, Shattock looked around and stared at the church down the lane. He was contemplating dragging Owain out of the tower and be damned to these monks, even though their reputation for battle was legendary.

  The preceptor seemed to read his mind. ‘Don’t even dare think about violating our church, sergeant!’ he barked. ‘You will answer to our Grand Master himself if you do. You could suffer greatly – fines, imprisonment, even excommunication!’

  In spite of his military calling, Shattock was in awe of the Church and knew that for the moment he was beaten. He was unsure if these Templars carried their swords under their cloaks, but in any event his ingrained discipline ensured that there was no way in which he was going to challenge three knights. Let the bloody steward or the Crouchback sort it out, he decided.

  ‘So what happens next, sirs?’ he muttered.

  ‘We will send to Hereford for the coroner,’ replied Ivo. ‘He has to take a confession from the prisoner and then arrange for him to abjure the realm.’

  Shattock’s face reddened again in outrage. ‘You mean the sod will get away with it?’ he roared.

  ‘As he’s not been tried yet, we don’t know that there’s anything for him to get away with,’ said the preceptor calmly. ‘You should go back to the castle and report what has happened, and we will get the coroner here as soon as possible. I’ll send a man to Hereford straight away.’

  The sergeant stomped towards the gate. ‘Prince Edmund is due shortly. He will have something to say about this!’ he warned.

  ‘He can say what he likes,’ responded Ivo placidly. ‘The refuge of sanctuary is older than Christianity itself, and no king or prince has any power over it. You can petition the Holy Father in Rome if you like – you might get an answer within six months!’

  ‘But your man will be gone long before forty days have passed,’ added Brother Robert maliciously. He had taken a marked dislike to the soldier’s arrogance.

  Shattock bristled. ‘I’m not taking my guard from the door,’ he snarled as he walked into the lane. ‘If I do, that Welshman will be off quicker than a scalded cat!’

  When he had gone, still fuming with injured pride, the preceptor sent John de Coningham over to the church tower to explain to Owain what was going to happen. John knew the carter well enough after Owain’s years of service to the farm and was solicitous about his well-being, checking that his nephews had brought him sufficient food and drink for the day.

  ‘Do I have to stay in this damned cell, sir?’ asked the captive. ‘There’s not even a bucket in here for me to use.’

  The Templar considered this for a moment. ‘I see no reason why you should not move into the church. I have read in our records that there have been several sanctuary-seekers here over the years, and they have all sojourned there.’

  In spite of the guard’s feeble protests, Owain was released and taken to the round nave a few yards away, where he could sit or lie on the shelf around the walls, built for the feeble and aged parishioners, as there were no chairs or pews on the floor of beaten earth.

  ‘I’ll send a bucket over for your use,’ promised the
knight as he left. ‘Understand that if you leave the confines of the church grounds, you are liable to be slain on the spot – that is the law.’ He forced the reluctant man-at-arms to stand outside the churchyard gate, telling him that he could only act against the accused if he put a foot outside it.

  Satisfied, he left the reprieved Welshman to his thoughts.

  In the tower room of Grosmont, Jacques d’Isigny listened impassively to the sergeant’s ranting. Though he was annoyed at the interference of the preceptory monks in his administration of justice in the area, he had more pressing matters to deal with than some peasant who may have assaulted his own brother. Furthermore, he had no intention of standing up to the Templars, who were virtually immune from interference from Church or state, being accountable only to the Pope. If Edmund Crouchback wanted to make an issue of it when he arrived, that was up to him, but with the spectre of Thomas Becket and the consequences to Edmund’s great-grandfather still hovering, violation of sanctuary was hardly to be contemplated for such a trivial matter.

  ‘Make sure he does not escape from the church, but do nothing else,’ he commanded Shattock. ‘We will see what Prince Edmund advises when he comes. Until then, let the coroner deal with this lout. Maybe he will refuse to take a confession, in which case we have to wait forty days, then the coroner will close up the church and let him starve.’

  The sergeant scowled, still smarting from his loss of face at Garway.

  ‘And if the coroner does allow him to abjure, are we to let the bastard walk away?’ he demanded.

  The steward stroked his smooth chin. ‘Then we let his family and their friends know which route he is given. Maybe they can engineer some unfortunate accident on the way.’