‘He was offered the post,’ explained Cole, seeing Gwenllian’s eyebrows rise at the claim, ‘but he died on his way to Canterbury. He considered himself unworthy, and God apparently agreed, because he was struck down as he—’
‘How dare you say God killed Reginald!’ shrieked Dacus, lurching forward suddenly. ‘You stupid Norman! He was murdered. I was his chaplain, and I was there – I know.’
One of his fists shot out, but Cole had no trouble evading it. Dacus tried again, so Cole caught his arm and twisted it behind his back. Dacus struggled frantically, then began to weep and curse in equal measure.
‘He is demented,’ said Gwenllian quietly. ‘He does not know what he—’
‘I do know,’ shrieked Dacus. ‘I am glad Adam is dead. He was evil! He deserved to die.’
When the priest’s rage was spent, Cole released him. Dacus crawled into a corner and began to whisper to himself. Cole watched for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode outside. Gwenllian followed.
‘Do not let him upset you,’ she said gently. ‘His wits are awry, and—’
‘He would not have been appointed master of a hospital if he was truly mad,’ interrupted Cole tightly. ‘And it is obvious what happened: he hated Adam and Hugh, so he murdered them.’
Gwenllian gazed at him. ‘Symon! There is no evidence for—’
‘He killed Adam because he wanted his job, and he killed Hugh to prevent him from telling anyone. And he challenged me to go to Solsbury Hill on Thursday, because he intends to kill me, too. It is why he told me to go alone.’
Gwenllian regarded him askance. ‘Our task here will be difficult enough without you jumping to wild conclusions—’
‘Dacus murdered Adam,’ repeated Cole, in a tone of voice that she had never heard him use before. ‘I can see it in his eyes.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said soothingly. ‘But you will need evidence to bring charges against him.’
‘Then I shall find it.’ Cole sprang into his saddle, and wheeled the destrier round in a savage arc. ‘See Gwen settled in a decent inn, Iefan. I will join her later.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Gwenllian, alarmed.
‘To do as you suggest.’ Cole’s next words were called over his shoulder as he kicked the horse into a canter. ‘To find evidence that Dacus killed Adam.’
Gwenllian stared after him in astonishment. He did not usually abandon her in strange towns. Moreover, what sort of evidence did he think he was going to find, on horseback when daylight was fading? Regardless, she hoped he would do nothing rash.
Iefan regarded her rather helplessly – his English was not good enough to question passers-by about suitable accommodation – so Gwenllian waylaid two Benedictines, and asked them to recommend some. The first was a portly fellow with a beatific expression, and the second, who was thin with sly eyes, haughtily informed her that he was Prior Walter.
‘Hugh’s successor?’ asked Gwenllian.
Walter nodded as he led the way along a lane. ‘Bishop Savaric appointed me. He and I have always enjoyed an easy relationship, so I was the obvious choice. There is no unseemly wrangling between diocese and abbey with me in charge.’
‘No,’ agreed his chubby companion, rather ambiguously.
‘That knight who almost rode us down just now,’ said Walter, choosing to ignore the remark. ‘Is he the man charged to look into Hugh’s death?’
Gwenllian nodded. ‘Do you know anything that might help him?’
‘No,’ replied Walter. ‘Although we still grieve.’ He did not sound sincere.
‘We do,’ agreed the fat one. ‘Hugh was strict, cold and humourless, but we miss him.’
‘He was a decent man,’ countered Walter. ‘Of course, he was nothing compared to Bishop Reginald. Will you visit Reginald’s tomb, lady? He is granting petitions aplenty at the moment. For example, I prayed for more money for the abbey last month, and within a week, a benefactor died, leaving us a house. Now that is the kind of miracle I like!’
‘I see,’ said Gwenllian, not sure a benefactor’s death was something a monk should welcome so brazenly.
‘Tell her, Brother Robert,’ Walter urged. ‘Tell her of all the wonders that have occurred. You spend more time in the church than anyone else, so you have witnessed most of them.’ He smiled at Gwenllian. ‘Robert is our sacrist, you see.’
‘People have been healed,’ obliged Robert. ‘Back pains cured, headaches eased, lost items found—’
‘Like Bishop Savaric’s crosier,’ put in Walter.
‘Quite,’ agreed Robert. ‘He was distraught when it disappeared, because it had been a gift from Reginald himself. Its return was the first miracle.’
Gwenllian nodded politely, although none of the ‘miracles’ seemed especially dazzling to her – cured headaches and backaches were difficult to verify, while ‘lost’ objects reappeared all the time.
‘Tell me about Hugh,’ she said. ‘I understand he died on Solsbury Hill, as did Master Adam. Do you know what happened to them?’
‘Our bishop guessed it immediately,’ nodded Walter. ‘They fell, and the wounds to their throats were caused by sharp rocks.’
‘That is one interpretation,’ said Robert, earning an irritable glance from his prior. ‘However, I suspect murder, because it is not possible to die falling down Solsbury Hill. Not from those sorts of injuries, at least.’
‘Then who killed them?’ asked Gwenllian.
‘I do not know,’ replied Robert, although Gwenllian did not miss the look he flicked towards his prior. She tried to guess what it meant. Did he think Walter had killed Hugh? Or was he trying to mislead her?
She was about to resume her questions when two priests materialised out of the darkness. One looked like a pig, with small eyes and a snout-like nose, while the other was more warrior than cleric – he wore a dagger and carried a mace.
‘Good evening, Walter,’ said the pig. ‘I thought it was time for vespers. You will be late.’
‘I will oversee the ceremony,’ offered Robert eagerly. ‘It will be no trouble.’
‘I am sure it will not,’ said Walter coolly. ‘But our brethren can wait until we have escorted our guest to the Swan Inn.’ He turned to Gwenllian. ‘Allow me to introduce Canon Lechlade and Canon Trotman. They are from Wells Cathedral, here on business with the bishop.’
The pig bowed. ‘We heard the King’s agents had arrived – news travels fast in Bath. But you cannot install them in the Swan, Father Prior. It has fleas. They must go to the Angel. But you two go to vespers – Lechlade and I will take her there.’
Robert smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you. It is kind—’
‘I will do it,’ said Walter sharply. Then he grimaced. ‘Although it is late, so I suppose Robert had better take vespers in my stead.’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ gushed Robert smugly.
Gwenllian was glad of Iefan’s reassuring presence at her side as she followed the three clerics, and wished Cole had not abandoned her. Supposing one of them was the murderer? Trotman was chatting about Bath’s healing waters, an innocuous subject that should have put her at ease. It did not, and she became more uneasy with every step. When a dog barked suddenly, she jumped in alarm.
‘There is no need to be frightened,’ said Walter, smirking. ‘Bath is quite safe. Bishop Savaric sees to that.’
‘Does he?’ asked Gwenllian, heart hammering in her chest. ‘How?’
‘With henchmen,’ explained Trotman. He raised his hands defensively when Walter started to object. ‘They are henchmen. How else would you describe Osmun and Fevil?’
‘Knightly advisers,’ replied Walter shortly. ‘And please do not make disparaging remarks about Savaric. He is a fine man, and I am proud to serve him.’
‘Serve him?’ pounced Lechlade disapprovingly. ‘A prior should not serve anyone except God.’
‘I serve my King,’ Walter flashed back. ‘And Savaric is one of his favourite prelates.’
‘No one can
deny that,’ agreed Trotman pointedly. ‘There is nothing Savaric would not do for John. And nothing John would not do in return.’
Gwenllian was not sure what was meant by the remark, but it was enough to tell her that she would need to be careful when she met the bishop the following day.
‘You are no doubt wondering why two canons from Wells should be in Bath,’ said Lechlade pleasantly, although the question could not have been further from her mind. ‘We are here to tell Savaric that he has no right to declare himself “Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury” without our approval.’
‘Wells is supposed to be consulted on all major decisions, you see,’ explained Trotman. ‘But Savaric made this one alone – and we do not approve. Glastonbury does not want him, for a start. They have elected their own abbot. His name is Pica, although Savaric refuses to recognise him.’
‘Who cares what Glastonbury wants?’ shrugged Walter. ‘Ever since King Arthur’s bones were discovered, they have been getting ideas above their station. Personally, I am delighted that Savaric cut them down to size by making them subordinate to Bath.’
‘He only did it because he wants to control their coffers,’ countered Lechlade acidly. ‘But they should decide who rules them, not him.’
‘The King and the Pope disagree,’ argued Walter. ‘They both support what he did.’
‘That Pope is now dead,’ snapped Lechlade. ‘And the King only gave his blessing to the scheme because Savaric offered him a share of Glastonbury’s profits in return. Do not deny it, Walter – you know it is true.’
‘Walter has been telling me about Prior Hugh,’ said Gwenllian, speaking before the quarrel could escalate further – she wanted to hear about Bath, not Glastonbury. ‘And about Master Adam and Bishop Reginald.’
‘All dead before their time,’ said Trotman sadly. ‘There are rumours of murder, but I do not believe them. Adam and Hugh were called by God. Well, by seraphim, to be precise.’
‘Seraphim?’ echoed Gwenllian, startled.
Trotman nodded keenly. ‘There are fiendishly sharp claws on every one of a seraph’s six wings, and God sent them after Adam and Hugh, although I cannot tell you why – they seemed like decent men to me. However, seraphim did not kill Reginald – he died of a fever. I know this for a fact, because Lechlade and I were there.’
‘Lots of people were there,’ elaborated Walter. ‘Reginald wanted friends from Glastonbury, Bath and Wells to see him enthroned in Canterbury. Naturally, I was among his honoured guests. So were Robert, Pica, Sir Fevil and Dacus.’
‘Dacus?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘We just met a man named Dacus. He told my husband to go to Solsbury Hill on Thursday, when there will be a full moon . . .’
Trotman grimaced. ‘Dacus has not been in his right mind since Reginald died. Savaric was wrong to have made him Master of the Hospital.’
‘He did it because he thought the responsibility might help Dacus regain his wits,’ explained Walter defensively. Then he sighed ruefully. ‘Although it does not seem to be working.’
‘Did Dacus tell you that spending a night on Solsbury will prove your virtue?’ asked Trotman, adding when Gwenllian nodded, ‘Then do not take the challenge lightly. If you go in an irreverent frame of mind, you will die. Seraphim do not approve of levity.’
The Angel was a pleasant inn that smelled of burning pine cones and fresh rushes. Gwenllian was allocated a chamber that was clean, warm and inviting. Hot water was available for washing, along with a meal of bread and roasted meat.
She was exhausted, but refused to sleep until Cole returned. He was quite capable of looking after himself, but her anxiety still increased as the night wore on, and she was near to panic by midnight, when he eventually appeared.
‘Where have you been?’ she demanded angrily. ‘I have been worried!’
‘There was no need.’ He went to kneel by the fire; its faint light showed him to be wet, scratched and muddy.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘What have you been doing, to get so bedraggled?’
‘I went to Solsbury Hill. But it was devoid of wolves.’
‘Of course it was! Even if one is in the area, it will not frequent the place regularly, or people would kill it.’ Gwenllian regarded him coolly. ‘Or was it a different kind of wolf you were hoping to meet? Dacus, for example?’
Cole winced that she should read him so easily. ‘I thought he might appear, after tempting me there with all those remarks about the danger.’
‘I think they were intended to frighten, not entice you! Besides, he suggested you go on Thursday, when the moon is full – presumably so he can see what he is doing as he kills you.’
Cole began to remove his sodden boots. ‘He has had his chance. I am not climbing up there again. It was not a comfortable jaunt, especially in the rain.’
‘Did you learn anything that might tell us what happened to Prior Hugh?’
Cole nodded. ‘The same thing that happened to Adam: Dacus lured him up there, then set some savage beast on him.’
‘And why would Dacus do that?’ asked Gwenllian tiredly.
‘Presumably because he had decided that they were evil. We both heard him say so.’
‘We shall bear it in mind – but not to the point where we are blind to other possibilities.’
‘There are no other possibilities. I know Dacus killed Adam, which means he killed Hugh, too. All you need to do is prove it.’
‘I shall do my best,’ said Gwenllian wearily. ‘However, there are other suspects. Walter, who succeeded Hugh as prior, is Savaric’s creature – perhaps they conspired to be rid of an awkward customer. Meanwhile, Brother Robert is nauseatingly pious, and I am always wary of such men. Then there is Reginald to consider.’
‘He died years ago,’ said Cole, startled. ‘He cannot be a suspect.’
‘I meant we cannot overlook the possibility that Dacus is right, and he was murdered, too,’ explained Gwenllian patiently. ‘Which means we have three odd deaths to investigate.’
‘I disagree. The King mentioned neither Adam nor Reginald in his letter.’
‘No,’ agreed Gwenllian acidly. ‘Although I imagine he has certainly heard the rumours of foul play. But let John play his sly games – he will not best us.’
‘We had better pay our respects to the bishop this morning,’ said Gwenllian, after a breakfast of smoked pork, eggs and dried fruit. ‘We do not want to offend him by delaying.’
‘Very well,’ said Cole unenthusiastically. He rarely enjoyed the company of senior clerics, mostly because they tended to be deficient in their knowledge of horses and dogs.
The Bishop’s Palace was an elegantly appointed mansion in the southern quarter of the abbey precinct, which boasted windows of real glass. There were also arrow slits in the walls, and a crenellated roof. Cole surveyed it with a professional eye.
‘It is better defended than Carmarthen Castle! I could hold out for months here.’
Gwenllian was less impressed. ‘So Savaric feels the need for defence. I wonder what he does that makes him unpopular.’
They were ushered into a solar, where two knights were waiting, both wearing leather leggings and mail tunics. Gwenllian could not suppress a shudder when her eyes met those of the first. They were pale green, like a serpent’s, and she did not think she had ever seen a colder expression. He was Cole’s height, but thinner. His companion was a giant, with the blankly stupid expression of a man who followed orders without question. Instinctively, she sensed that neither was a man to be crossed.
‘Carmarthen’s castellan,’ said Reptile Eyes, treating Cole to a smile that was far from friendly. ‘Why have you brought your wife? Do you plan to be here a while?’
‘As long as it takes,’ replied Cole evenly, although Gwenllian bristled at the man’s tone. ‘We will not leave without seeing a murderer brought to justice.’
The pair exchanged glances that were easy to read: alarm. Gwenllian wondered why.
‘I see.’ Reptile Eyes cleared his throat
. ‘I am Sir Osmun d’Avranches, and my companion is Sir Fevil. We had the honour of escorting King Richard to Acre on the last Crusade, where we played a vital part in breaking the siege. Now we are advisers to Bishop Savaric.’
‘Advisers?’ Gwenllian wondered what kind of advice these brutes could offer a prelate.
‘He values our opinions,’ elaborated Osmun, while behind him Fevil scowled, sensing an insult in the question, but not quite sure what to do about it.
‘I was at the Siege of Acre, too,’ said Cole. ‘Did you see the red and white striped walls?’
‘Of course,’ replied Osmun. ‘They are very fine. But we had better save our reminiscing for when the bishop is not waiting. We shall take you to him.’
‘Tell us what you know of Hugh’s death,’ said Cole, as they walked along corridors that told them the Bishop’s Palace was large as well as elegant. ‘And Adam’s.’
‘Why?’ asked Osmun suspiciously.
‘Because we respect the views of knights who advise the bishop,’ lied Gwenllian. She favoured him with a disarming smile, although it was not easy to simper at such a man.
Osmun was flattered. ‘Then you shall have them. There is a rumour that Hugh and Adam were savaged by an animal, but Fevil and I do not believe it – there are no wolves in Bath. It is our contention that they fell, and caught their necks against jagged rocks.’
‘What, both of them?’ asked Gwenllian incredulously.
‘Yes, both of them,’ replied Osmun smoothly.
‘We have been told that a seraph is the culprit,’ said Cole.
Osmun laughed. ‘I doubt they were wicked enough to warrant the attentions of seraphim. When others fail Solsbury’s test, they are just sent home screaming, not harmed physically.’
‘Do many folk accept this challenge, then?’ asked Cole.
Osmun smirked. ‘Yes, but few pass. Fevil and I did, though. We took it when we first arrived, and our success means we are courageous, true and bold.’
Gwenllian decided to reserve judgement on that. ‘Did you see the bodies?’
Both men nodded, although it was Osmun who answered again, and Gwenllian began to wonder whether Fevil was capable of forming a sentence.
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