To Gwenllian’s horror, Cole laid his sword in the grass, then raised his hands to show he was unarmed. ‘Enough, Dacus. Listen to me. Adam did not kill Reginald. No one did. It was a fever. I spoke to his physicians yesterday, and—’
‘Liar!’ hissed Dacus. ‘God thought I was right to kill Adam, because He immediately started granting miracles at Reginald’s tomb. Reginald was like a father to me, and Adam deserved to die for killing him. And so did Hugh, for asking too many questions.’
‘Neither of them—’
‘Kill him!’ screamed Dacus, unhooking the leash. He kicked the dog to start it moving.
Cole did not move as the animal bounded towards him. Dacus was hot on its heels, whipping it with the lead. At that moment, the moon went behind a cloud. Gwenllian abandoned her hiding place and stumbled forward, fighting off Iefan’s restraining hands. She could see nothing in the sudden darkness, but there were snarls, an agonised scream, a yelp and silence. The moon emerged again to reveal Cole standing in the same place, and Dacus on the ground with the dog lying across him. She hurried forward, Iefan close behind her. Cole spun around in alarm at the sound of their footsteps.
‘You should not be here!’ he cried in horror. ‘It might have attacked you.’
‘Iefan has a sword to protect us,’ countered Gwenllian. She glared at him. ‘Unlike you.’
Cole showed her the dagger he had concealed in his hand. ‘It posed no threat to me. Besides, Dacus maltreated it, and it was only a matter of time before it turned on him.’
‘But you could not have known that would happen tonight,’ shouted Gwenllian, angry with him. ‘You took a foolish, reckless risk.’
Cole regarded her irritably. ‘I did nothing of the kind. I know dogs, and as long as I posed no threat, I was safe enough. However, I imagine Hugh and Adam ran when they saw it, and it instinctively homed in on a moving target. And tonight, it was Dacus who was running.’
Gwenllian was unconvinced, and was about to say so when Iefan spoke.
‘It will not be biting anyone else,’ he said, struggling to haul the carcass from Dacus’ body. ‘He stabbed it with this peculiar knife.’
Cole took the weapon from him, and inspected it in the moonlight. Its blade was of such fine steel that it was almost blue, and the handle was ivory, carved with what appeared to be a bear climbing a tree. ‘It is soil-stained – he must have unearthed it when he dug the grave.’
But Gwenllian was more interested in Dacus. She knelt next to him, fighting off her revulsion for him and what he had done. ‘Help me, Symon. He still breathes.’
‘You passed Solsbury’s test,’ Dacus whispered weakly, as Cole crouched by his side. ‘I was wrong . . . about you. Will you . . . do something for me?’
‘Very well,’ agreed Cole, before Gwenllian could urge caution. ‘What?’
‘Do not bury me . . . near Adam. Somewhere else.’
He closed his eyes, and the breath left him in a hiss.
For a moment, no one spoke, then Cole stood and lifted Dacus in his arms. Gwenllian thought he was going to carry him back to the town, but he stopped next to the pit.
‘Is this a good idea?’ she asked nervously, as he laid Dacus in the hole and placed the dog at his side. ‘If anyone were to find him . . .’
‘No one will find him,’ said Cole, setting the peculiar weapon on Dacus’ chest and picking up a spade. ‘And it is time he had some peace.’
III
Carmarthen
The return journey was quicker and more comfortable than the outward one, and Gwenllian’s spirits soared when she saw Carmarthen’s familiar walls and roofs in the distance. There had been no word from the King, and while Cole believed this to be a sign that Savaric’s letter had worked, she was uneasy. John was vengeful, and she knew it was only a matter of time before he remembered that Carmarthen was held by a man who had declined to flatter him.
‘I should have listened to you,’ she said, as they travelled the last mile. ‘Your instincts about Dacus were right, and my logic was wrong. However, I am still vexed with you for going up Solsbury Hill to confront that wolf.’
‘It was a dog. Still, I suppose some good came out of our investigation. Savaric dismissed Walter, and appointed Robert as prior instead.’
‘Robert is a better man. Although I still think his piety is insincere.’
‘Others think so, too,’ said Cole with a conspiratorial grin. ‘On the grounds that there have been no miracles at Reginald’s tomb since he was appointed.’
Gwenllian hesitated, but then forged on. ‘There is something I should tell you. I did not mention it sooner, because I did not want to return to Bath . . .’
‘What?’ asked Cole uneasily. ‘Was it something in that letter you received in Brecon – the one you told me contained only a copy of the message we sent to John?’
Gwenllian nodded. ‘It was from Savaric. Pica managed to escape from the abbey cells, and is on his way to tell the Pope that he is innocent of killing Lechlade – and that he should be Abbot of Glastonbury into the bargain.’
Cole reined in. ‘Should we go after him? The man is a killer.’
‘Savaric sent Walter to do it.’
‘And Walter agreed?’
‘Of course – hoping to grease his way back into favour.’ Gwenllian indicated that Cole should begin riding again. ‘And the matter is no longer our concern, anyway. We did what the King asked, and we are likely to bring ourselves trouble if we dabble further.’
They rode in silence for a while. Then Cole pointed suddenly. ‘Look!’
A small party of riders was coming to welcome them home, and Gwenllian was sure she could see one of the soldiers carrying their infant son.
‘I know Walter confessed to fabricating those miracles,’ said Cole, ‘and that nothing divine has ever happened at Reginald’s tomb. But before we left, I asked Reginald a second time to provide us with a daughter, and I think he will oblige.’
Gwenllian regarded him askance. ‘You do? Why?’
‘Because I buried Dacus on Solsbury Hill for his sake – to spare the reputation of a chaplain he loved. And then you explained Dacus’ disappearance by telling everyone that he had gone on a pilgrimage. Reginald will be grateful to us, so I imagine you will have some good news for me soon.’
Gwenllian stared at him, wondering whether the queasiness she had been suffering these past few mornings could be a new life beginning inside her, and not something she had eaten, as she had assumed. She did some rapid calculations. It was certainly possible.
Rome, 1200
It had taken Walter some time to catch up with Pica, but he had done it in the end, intercepting him just as he was about to enter the Holy City. He watched dispassionately as Pica grabbed the poisoned goblet and raised it to his lips. The feisty Abbot Elect drained the contents in a single swallow, and set it back on the table with an impatient clatter.
Walter smiled. Life had been so much better since he had manipulated the unstable Dacus into believing that Adam had killed Reginald. Walter had hoped to be appointed master of the hospital himself, but when he had seen Adam’s murder pass virtually unremarked, he had decided to try for an even greater prize. Again, it had been easy to persuade Dacus that Hugh was close to learning the truth about Adam’s murder, and within days, Walter was prior.
Of course, Savaric could hardly keep him in post after Gwenllian had exposed his role in the tavern attack – although mercifully, no one had guessed that he was the power behind Dacus as well. He had been in the process of urging Dacus to kill Cole, too – the death of her husband would be Gwenllian’s punishment – but Dacus had selfishly disappeared on a pilgrimage, so revenge would have to wait until both returned to Bath.
Walter’s fortunes had taken something of a downward turn since then, but he was not unduly worried. Savaric had shown his continued favour by giving him another mission, and would be delighted to learn that the belligerent Pica would no longer be a problem. Walter licked his
lips as he anticipated the riches and high offices that would soon be his.
He watched Pica sit suddenly and raise a hand to his head. It looked like the beginnings of a fever – and Walter knew, because that was what had happened after he had fed a similar substance to Reginald. Of course, Savaric did not know who had been responsible for that particular deed; for all this ambition, Savaric had loved his cousin dearly. Walter, though, had found the man’s piety irritating, and it had been deeply satisfying to poison him before he could be made Archbishop of Canterbury.
Walter did not wait to see Pica die, because a pouch had arrived that morning along with instructions that it was not to be opened until he had completed his duties. He was eager to know what it contained, because he could certainly hear the jingle of coins within. As Pica was already as good as dead, he fumbled with the seals, excitement making his fingers clumsy. He grinned his delight when several gold nobles spilled into his eager hands. There was also a letter.
He tore it open, and read the message within – Savaric thanking him for getting rid of a man who had been such a thorn in his side. Walter regarded it in alarm. Was the bishop mad to put such thoughts in writing? What if the pouch had fallen into the wrong hands? It would have sealed both their fates!
Then he became aware of raised voices and looked up to see that the people who had gathered around the dying Pica were staring at him. Pica raised a shaking hand and pointed. Immediately, three monks started to run towards him. Appalled, Walter tried to hide the letter, first slipping it up his sleeve, and then, in frantic desperation, stuffing it in his mouth.
It was no good. The monks forced him to spit it out, and their faces paled with shock when they read what was written. They grabbed his arms, so he could not escape, at which point, the coins dropped from his fingers. He tried to protest his innocence, but he had neglected to throw away the phial that had contained the poison, and they found it in his bag. That, with the letter and the gold, would be more than enough to convict him. Would it convict Savaric, too? Walter, full of frustrated spite, sincerely hoped so. But then he happened to glance at Pica, who still clung to the vestiges of life.
Pica was smiling. It was an unusual enough sight that Walter gaped. But then he understood. Clever Pica! He had guessed that he might not reach Rome alive, so he had staged his own revenge on the men he thought might kill him. Savaric had written no letter. Of course he had not – he was far too astute for such a blunder. It was Pica!
But would it succeed in destroying Savaric, or would the bishop’s denials be enough to let him keep the kingdom he had carved for himself in Bath and Glastonbury? Walter could have wept with pity for himself when he realised that he would never know.
Historical Note
There has been an abbey in Bath since Saxon times. Originally, an abbot was in charge, but this changed in 1098, when the then Bishop of Wells moved his seat there. The abbey became a cathedral priory, with a prior as its head. Hugh was prior from 1174; Prior Walter died in 1198; and Prior Robert stayed in office until being elected Abbot of Glastonbury in 1223.
In 1191, Savaric fitz Geldwin became Bishop of Bath, following the promotion of his cousin, Reginald fitz Jocelyn, to the Archbishopric of Canterbury. Reginald died en route to his installation, and his body was returned to Bath, where it was buried in the abbey church. He was popular, founding the Hospital of St John the Baptist (one of its early masters was named Adam), and several miracles were later said to have occurred at his tomb.
No such saintliness was attributed to Savaric, however. Greedy and ambitious, he contrived to have Hugh de Sully, Abbot of Glastonbury, appointed Bishop of Worcester, and then announced to Glastonbury’s astonished monks that he was their master now. Needless to say they objected, and immediately appealed against him to Richard I and the Pope. Unfortunately for them, both supported Savaric, although Richard later recanted, and claimed he had been coerced.
The Dean and Chapter of Wells were also outraged by Savaric’s high handedness in changing his title from ‘Bishop of Bath’ to ‘Bishop of Bath and Glastonbury’. Canons Ralph de Lechlade and Jocelin Trotman were the two representatives who travelled to Bath to make their objections known.
In 1198, the Pope died, Richard withdrew his support from Savaric, and the Glastonbury monks elected William Pica as abbot. Savaric promptly excommunicated Pica. Another twist in the tale occurred in 1199, when King Richard was succeeded by his brother John, who allowed Savaric to buy his support. Armed with John’s backing, Savaric invaded Glastonbury with a mob of henchmen, and forcibly enthroned himself. Several monks were injured in the resulting mêlée.
Outraged, Pica left for Rome. He died on the journey, and Glastonbury’s monks claimed that Savaric had had him poisoned. Glastonbury did not win its independence from Bath until 1219. Savaric weathered the accusations, and died a wealthy and successful man in 1205. He was succeeded as bishop by none other than Canon Trotman, who remained in post until 1242.
ACT TWO
September 1204
The lay brother set the wooden tray on the floor at his feet and stretched himself, hands pressed against his aching back. He had been bending for the last ten minutes, polishing the brass feet of a lectern until he could see his face in the gleaming metal.
Eldred took an almost proprietorial pride in his part of the great abbey church and now gazed around fondly in the peaceful noon-time, glad to be alone while the priests, monks and deacons were eating in the refectory. He was a slight, fair man of thirty, with an open face and an inoffensive manner to match.
He had been tending the fabric of Bath’s cathedral for the past ten years and had graduated from being a lowly cleaner down in the nave, to being responsible for this upper part of the building, the most sanctified area of the choir, the presbytery and the sanctuary, the space that held the high altar.
Picking up his tray of cleaning cloths and beeswax polish, Eldred moved to the centre and genuflected towards the altar, a long table covered with a lace-edged linen cloth of spotless white, on which was a bronze cross and a pair of tall candlesticks. He crossed to the north side of the presbytery, the space between choir and sanctuary. As he went, he looked briefly down through the rows of choir stalls. Beyond them, he saw the carved rood screen that shielded the holiest area from the nave and the rude stares of the townsfolk, when they came to stand there for Sunday worship. There was still no sign of anyone returning from their midday meal, so Eldred decided to give a quick polish to the sacred vessels – his favourite task, as it allowed him to handle the most venerated objects in the abbey.
Padding across the tiled floor in his sandals, he went to the aumbry, a cupboard set in the thickness of the wall between the presbytery and the ambulatory, the corridor that ran around inside the east end of the church.
The two doors of the aumbry were of polished oak with brass corners, an ornate ivory cross set into each panel. They were closed by a large brass hasp and staple, with a padlock securing them. Eldred fumbled for the ring of keys that hung on a chain from the leather belt around his long brown robe. By touch alone, he chose one that he had handled virtually daily for the past four years and advanced on the lock.
It was then that warning bells began to ring inside his head. As he touched the lock to push the key into the hole, the hasp swung slackly back on its hinge, the staple from the other door coming away with it. Almost unwilling to believe his eyes, Eldred saw that the four long rivets that had held the staple to the oak were drooping from the brass plate, scraps of torn wood falling to the floor beneath. In a frenzy of concern, he pulled open both doors, still hoping that this was some explicable happening, like dry rot or woodworm – a foolish thought, but better than the obvious alternative.
Inside, there were two shelves, the lower one carrying vials of oil and unguents, as well as the service books, sheets of parchment bound between wooden covers. Nothing there was amiss, but the upper shelf was almost bare. A couple of silver patens remained, on which the consecrat
ed host was carried to those taking communion, but the pride of the abbey, the golden chalice and the pyx, had gone!
Sweat began to pour from Eldred’s brow. He knew he would get the blame for this, as he was the only one with access to the aumbry, apart from Hubert, the sacrist, responsible for setting up the arrangements for each Mass, who was his direct superior, and Brother Gilbert, the cellarer, who was responsible for the material contents of the abbey. Even Prior Robert did not possess a key. That the aumbry had been forcibly broken into would not help Eldred, unless the real culprit was rapidly discovered, as the prior disliked him and would be only too ready to make him the scapegoat.
As the first horror of the situation subsided into a deadening acceptance, the lay brother knew that he had to report the theft immediately. The chalice, though small, was solid gold, a legacy of the first monastery on this site, many hundreds of years earlier. Eldred was not an educated man – he could neither read nor write – but had been around the abbey for many years and had picked up something of its history from listening to others. The chalice, given by Offa, King of Mercia in the eighth century, was probably made from gold stolen from the Welsh by the Saxons. The pyx, a small gold-lined silver box, was for holding the ‘reserved sacrament’, communion wafers that had been consecrated ready for use.
With feet of lead, Eldred made his way to the steps that led to the south transept, after first pushing the rivets back into the shattered holes in the door of the aumbry. For a moment, he contemplated leaving it as he had found it and letting someone else discover the catastrophe, denying any knowledge of it. But that would be futile, he recognised. Everyone knew that Eldred spent much of his time in the chancel, cleaning and polishing.
He began to hurry and reached the small door set just beyond the south transept, which led directly out into the cloisters. The clergy were thronging the cloister, gossiping as they came out of the refectory into the pillared arcade.
Almost immediately, Eldred saw the skinny figure of the sacrist approaching. Hubert of Frome, the monk responsible for the fabric and furnishings of the abbey, was a small, weasely fellow with a sallow complexion and a turn in his left eye. The black Benedictine habit hung badly on his meagre frame and his permanently irritable expression made him even more unattractive. His first words set the tone for a fraught encounter.
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