King Arthur's Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘What is it, man?’ Sir Richard asked.

  ‘I am a fool!’

  They found the priest in his chapel, bent almost double before the altar. Under the vill’s pall lay the body of the pardoner, wrapped in linen.

  He heard them enter but gave them no acknowledge ment, merely remaining with his hands clasped, until he nodded briskly to himself and stood.

  Turning to face them, he looked them over carefully and made his way along the empty hall to the door. Departing by it, he stood waiting for them outside.

  ‘A shame to have no one to stand by the body over the night. I must pay one of the poorer parishioners to sit up with the man.’

  ‘He won’t care much now,’ Coroner Richard said.

  ‘How do you know?’ the priest asked. ‘He may be waiting even now in Purgatory, hoping that someone will sit in vigil and pray for him. God knows, he had enough to pray for.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? A dealer in trinkets, in false promises of pardon, in fake relics. What would you think of his chances?’

  ‘You hate men like him, don’t you?’ Coroner Richard said.

  ‘I hate the things they do. Like building up people’s hopes by lies. That is a cruel and evil thing to do.’

  ‘You were at the tavern last night,’ Simon said. ‘Did you return to kill him?’

  ‘Me?’ Father William looked at him.

  The coroner grunted. ‘You know as well as I that, if you did, it would not be to your detriment. You can claim benefit of clergy, entirely safe in the knowledge that you would never face a rope. There is nothing to prevent you confessing.’

  ‘I think any confessions should be made to my confessor,’ Father William said.

  ‘He repelled you, didn’t he?’ Baldwin said. ‘That is why you happily shield the man who killed him.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Where are the bones?’

  ‘Perhaps I do not know.’

  ‘Oh, you know, Father,’ Baldwin said. ‘You may hate men who deal in false pardons, but you’d be keen to look after the relics in case they were genuine.’

  ‘Of course I would – if I knew where they were.’

  ‘You do,’ Baldwin said. ‘And I think you know who killed the pardoner.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, it was a discussion we were having a little while ago, my friends and I. The good coroner said that you were the clear suspect in the matter, because you made your hatred of the dead man so plain. And that struck me. Because, of course, only you could do that safely. You have the benefit of clergy, so you are secure from serious punishment. No one will hang you.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘So you sought to divert us from the man who was guilty.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘Who, though?’ Baldwin continued. ‘I can only assume that the man was the one with whom you were talking when we spoke to you. You sought to move our attention from him and on to yourself. And we were speaking with you and Ulric, weren’t we?’

  ‘He has nothing to do with this. He was an—’

  ‘What? An innocent? Even though he murdered a man? You have a curious attitude to one who would kill an innocent for no reason.’

  ‘He had reasons,’ the priest said with chilling certainty.

  ‘And they were good enough to justify letting him go free while we arrested and possibly executed another innocent man?’

  ‘Oh, what do you know of such matters? You have no idea what Ulric went through when he was in Wales. You know he lost his only son there? You prate on about innocence – what about his own boy?’

  ‘What of his boy? The man he killed isn’t Welsh. This was no revenge attack on a man who represented the fighters who killed his son. This was a mere pardoner minding his own business, man,’ the coroner rasped. He stepped forward, and Baldwin thought for a moment he was about to punch the priest.

  ‘Of course he wasn’t – but he had the bones, you fool!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Baldwin asked, restraining the coroner with a hand.

  ‘The bones of King Arthur! The Welsh king who would rise and conquer England!’

  They retired to a bench outside the tavern, and Hob brought jugs of cider to refresh them all as the priest reluctantly told them the full story.

  ‘He was in the tavern bragging about the blasted things. A handful of bones, he said, but worth a king’s realm, if they were to get into the wrong hands. Apparently he was there at Abbey Dore, when a piece of the abbey floor was taken up. There were many there, because the abbey had been given something to install there, and they wanted to give it a suitable location. No one thought much of it, so John said. But then the workmen brought up this box, apparently. Inside were bones, and it was nothing to him. He thought that they were just a set of human remains, nothing more.’

  ‘What did he do?’ Baldwin asked, although he knew the answer.

  ‘When it was dark, he went inside and stole a handful of them. It’s what pardoners do, as you know well enough. If there’s something they can get for nothing, they’ll take it. And so he did. And it caused his death.’

  Father William shifted uncomfortably. ‘He told us all about the bones that night in the tavern. He hadn’t known anything about them, just grabbed what he could and made off, back this way. Somehow he heard that he should beat a retreat, because these bones are those of Arthur, and there were many in Wales who would seek to recover them and kill whoever might have desecrated them.’

  ‘And Ulric did their bidding for them?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Sweet Jesu! Are you so stupid, man?’ William spat. ‘I am sorry, Sir Knight,’ he added quickly, seeing Baldwin’s expression change. ‘Forgive my words. But no, Ulric killed the man to rescue us from the bones! The pardoner was anxious about them, and even suggested that he should take them back to the grave.’

  ‘Where they would pose an everlasting threat?’

  ‘Exactly. If the bones are kept separate, how could this Welsh Arthur return to life and rescue Wales from the English, rightful king? No, the only sensible route was to rescue the bones.’

  ‘Ulric went in there, took the bones, and all to protect the country?’ the coroner rumbled doubtfully.

  ‘He sought to prevent the risk of another war,’ Father William said. ‘He has lost his own son. He didn’t want to see another family lose theirs.’

  ‘That is fine – but why cut off the man’s hand?’ Simon demanded.

  ‘Ulric is religious. How else would you treat the hand of a thief who had polluted the burial place of an important man?’

  ‘So he cut it off to burn it?’ Baldwin said. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know. He has fled the vill. You won’t find him.’

  ‘You underestimate the authority of a Keeper of the King’s Peace,’ Baldwin said. ‘What of Henry? We have heard that he was in the vill that night too. Hob thought he saw him.’

  ‘He was a sad man. He feared that his wife was a harlot. Perhaps he was here to see if Hob was entertaining her? I don’t know.’

  Saturday before the Feast of St John the Baptist,7 Sandford

  It was only the middle of the following day when the murderer of Henry was brought back. His arm was broken, his face bloodied, but he confessed to his crimes before Baldwin and Sir Richard.

  ‘The church can afford to lose a little grain, some barley and wine. I wasn’t taking it on my own. Why shouldn’t I do it? I saw how to take it, and was bold enough to try.’

  Baldwin said: ‘Your accomplice was a canon.’

  ‘Aye, the milksop brat Arthur. Pathetic churl, he is. Scared of his own shadow much of the time. But he was happy to take the money. He brought sacks of grain, barrels of wine and other goods straight to me, and I sold them on our account through my master’s business. We took the money in our purses.’

  ‘And you forced your mistress to help you?’ Sir Richard said.


  ‘Aye. And did she tell you why? It was because—’

  Sir Richard stepped forward quickly, and his gloved fist swept backhanded across the man’s face. ‘I won’t have you insulting the poor widow only a day after you killed her man! Be silent, dog!’

  As the semi-conscious man was dragged away, Sir Richard averted his gaze from Simon and Baldwin. ‘Can’t have the poor woman’s name dragged through the mud.’

  ‘Indeed not!’ Baldwin said, adding: ‘And what use would it serve to have Henry shown to be a cuckold now he is dead?’

  Morrow of the Feast of St John the Baptist,8 Sandford

  It was three more days before the men returned with the body.

  ‘We didn’t want to have to kill him, Sir Baldwin, but he wouldn’t surrender. I had three men against him, but he wouldn’t submit, no matter how much we demanded that he yield.’

  The constable was a short, rather slender youth with the black hair and eyes of a Celt, but now he stood with a broad-brimmed hat twisting in his fingers as he told his tale. ‘I didn’t want this,’ he finished miserably.

  ‘He fought?’

  ‘On foot with only a knife. All of us had staves. We had to do something, so I gave the order, and while two penned him in I thrust at him with mine.’

  Baldwin nodded as he stood beside the coroner staring down at the dead reeve. It was astonishing how much damage an oaken staff could do to a man’s face. The staff had been thrust hard, and the weight of the oak had driven into Ulric’s face at the side, but had slipped into his temple. It had crushed the thin bones. All the side of his head to a point over his ear was bloodied, the skull fractured. ‘He would have felt little, friend,’ he said.

  ‘But why didn’t he just come back with us? Or seek sanctuary in a church? There was no need for him to die.’

  ‘He sought to protect us all,’ Baldwin said and sighed. He weighed the little purse in his hand. The contents rattled almost comfortingly, like ivory. ‘With your leave, coroner?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing to do with me. I’m only the coroner.’ Sir Richard smiled.

  ‘Then, Huw, here!’ Baldwin said, and threw them at their guardian. ‘And may you find your journey homewards is easier than the one here. Godspeed.’

  Thursday after the Feast of St John the Baptist,9 The Church of the Holy Cross

  and the Mother of Him Who Died Thereon, Crediton

  ‘So you left him to go on his way?’ Dean Peter said.

  ‘Yes. What else might we do?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘It is probably for the best. And in the meantime, as you suggested, my good canon, Arthur, is to be left in a cell to contemplate his own part in this sorry tale.’

  ‘He confessed?’

  ‘As soon as he heard that his accomplice had told the full story, yes. It took a little while. He has defrauded the church of moneys ever since he took up his duties. A sad man, indeed.’

  ‘At least you know now that Henry himself was innocent.’

  ‘I suppose so. I admit, however, old friend, that I am surprised you permitted the bones to be sent back to Wales. Did you not fear that they may indeed be those of this Welsh figure?’

  ‘Arthur? Nay, Peter. Why, the real Arthur was found at Glastonbury by the old king, wasn’t he? I remember that.’

  ‘No. Not found. The bones were discovered – oh, over a hundred years ago, certainly. The old king, Edward of blessed memory, took those bones and moved them to the new shrine fifty years ago, so that they could be properly revered.’ Peter peered into his goblet and sighed. ‘But the men who rally to a saint often don’t know the precise antecedents of the relics they possess. Who can say that the bones found originally were still the same as those collected up by King Edward I and reinterred in the choir of the abbey? Who can say the first bones were truly those of King Arthur?’

  ‘True. But I think it is enough to know that a man’s bones will be reunited. It may not matter to his soul, but it can do no harm either. Or so I hope and believe anyway,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I only hope Huw makes the journey homewards safely.’

  But Huw was not going to return home. Not now. By stages he crossed the countryside to Exeter, where he stayed for two days, walking the streets and thinking about the bones.

  The chapel was no longer safe. It would be dangerous to return there with the bones now that he had told others of it. He couldn’t in truth remember whether he had ever mentioned the precise location of the chapel to the coroner and his friends, but the fear was there that he had. And if news of the bones of King Arthur came to the ears of those who might seek to destroy any hopes of the Welsh rising against their English oppressors, they could too easily be taken.

  He could, of course, take them back to Abbey Dore, but if he did there was no certainty that he would be able to secrete them inside safely. Before, he had Owain, but that had been almost four years ago, and in God’s name Owain had looked frail enough then. What if he was dead? There was no one else to whom he could give the bones in the abbey. He knew no one there. The alternative was to find somewhere else to place the bones.

  Many cities had their own places to store bones. Here in Exeter there was a great cemetery by the cathedral – but the bones would be sure to be dug up. The cathedral had a monopoly of burials for the city – the graveyard was already crowded, and bones were regularly dug up by the sexton and removed to the big Charnel Chapel near the west door. Huw couldn’t bear to think of his bones being separated. They must be kept together.

  On the third day he finally came to a decision and walked from the city on the old road to Bristol. Five miles from Exeter he came to a large open field, and here he paused, looking about him. A hill rose on his left, further to his right he recognized a line of trees, and he nodded to himself.

  ‘Not long now,’ he muttered to the soft leather package about his neck.

  He trudged along the tracks until he had passed a vill which was familiar, and then turned west, down to a stream. Here at the ford, he smiled and grunted to himself. There was a thick mess of brambles, and beneath them a hole such as a vixen raising cubs might make. Carefully he reached into the hole until he felt the sharp edge of the box, almost at the extent of his arm’s reach. Before long he was digging with his hands, hauling away the soil which he had piled up on the day when he had first seen the pardoner and taken the decision to hide the bones in order that he might rescue those John had stolen.

  Later, sitting at a fire in woods not far from the roadway, he opened the box and reverently laid the leather purse inside.

  ‘My king, I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I am weak and stupid. I cannot take you home to Wales, and I can’t get you to Dore. I have been too foolish. I have to find somewhere else where you will be safe.’

  The choices were too confusing. That night he dined on alexanders with some beans he’d brought from Exeter, and chewed on some rough, dried meat that tasted rank but was better on his empty belly than his watery pottage. He curled about the box, desperate, and passed the night in fitful sleep.

  But as morning rose he was filled with a firm resolution. He would take the bones to another land where they would be safe. The danger to the bones lay in the English threat. He would take them to another Celtic land – to Cornwall. There must be somewhere there where he could place them and ensure that they were safe. He knew little of Cornwall, but there was a castle at Tintagel, he knew.

  He would take the bones to Tintagel. There must be somewhere safe for them there. He had heard of a place just along the coast – Trevenna? There was a small church there dedicated to St Materiana, so he had heard. He would try there. Surely there would be a safe place to hide the bones in a small parish church like that, he thought.

  ACT FOUR

  London, 1606

  I had never seen the royal animals in the Tower of London before. Perhaps I was not curious enough to want to watch the lions and lionesses or the single tiger and the porcupine or the wolf and the eagle. Or maybe it was
that I was reluctant to pay the entrance fee of three pennies, which was three times what it would cost to buy a standing place at our very own Globe theatre. Or else it was simply that, like many inhabitants of our great city, I could not stir myself to go out of my way to see its great sights. Leave that to the visitors.

  Now that I was here, against my will, I could not see the beasts, but I could hear and smell them. I was in one of the compartments of the Lion Tower meant for animal use. More of a cave or a cell than a chamber, it smelled rank. In the next-door cell was a body, not animal but human and supposedly murdered. The body I had recognized. Likewise the man who was slumped in a corner, his head in his hands. On either side of him stood a keeper whose more usual job would be to guard the lions and the tiger but who now found himself watching over a murderer, cudgel in hand. But it did not appear that the slumped man was going to attempt an escape. Instead he looked up at me and said: ‘I did not do this thing, Nick. I am innocent, I swear.’

  I

  It was the first time I’d caught William Shakespeare in the act of writing. Why I say ‘caught’ I don’t know, since it makes WS sound like a felon. But he was always secretive about his work and most reluctant to discuss it. Which was the reason his request that I should call on him in his lodgings in Silver Street came as a surprise. This was his lair, his private place.

  Shakespeare was sitting at a desk by an open window. Once he’d glanced around in a distracted way to see who was standing in his doorway and given the slightest of nods, he said: ‘Ah, Nick, I’ll only be a . . . make yourself . . .’

  I never discovered what I was supposed to make myself since, instead of telling me, WS performed a vague flourish with his quill and then reapplied himself to the sheet in front of him. There were no sounds apart from the birdsong in the garden below – the casement was open; it was a sunny morning in May – and the small scraping noises as his pen moved across the paper.

  I was interested to see William Shakespeare at work, I’ll admit that. Privileged too, maybe, for by this time WS was reckoned to be the finest playwright in London, and not just by us players at the Globe theatre. I’d heard that he wrote with great fluency, rarely pausing to blot his work or cross through a line, and from what I now saw it was true. His pen moved with the regularity of a tailor’s needle. Not wanting to pry or hang over his shoulder, I picked up a book from a pile on a table and flicked through the pages. It was a translation from the Latin of Plutarch’s Lives, and my eye fell on a description of Julius Caesar being murdered in the Senate. Some years before, WS had written his play of Caesar’s death at the hands of Brutus and the rest.