‘Enough, please!’ cried the abbot. In desperation, he turned to Wilfred. ‘Perhaps you will tell our guests about The Play of Adam. I am sure they will be interested.’
‘Well,’ began Wilfred, pleased to be the centre of attention. ‘It was—’
‘There is a section about Cain and Abel,’ interrupted Robert eagerly. ‘But it has never been performed at Oseney. It is a pity, because I would make an excellent Cain.’
Wilfred glared at him, glad he had persuaded Hugh to send the boy away. With any luck, he would never return.
‘I have a gift for you, Robert,’ he said, forcing himself to smile. ‘To remember me by when you trudge the long and dangerous road west.’
Robert snatched the proffered package in delight, but his happy expression faded when he saw what he had been given. ‘A copy of The Play of Adam,’ he said flatly. ‘How lovely.’
It was the one Wilfred had forced him to make himself, and by giving it back to him, Wilfred was effectively saying that he did not value his work. Abbot Hugh took it from him.
‘I see it includes the section about Cain and Abel,’ he mused. ‘It looks innocuous enough. Why do you always omit it, Wilfred?’
‘Because it is dull,’ replied Wilfred shortly. ‘And I decided long ago that it was not worth an audience’s time, although we have rehearsed it on occasion.’
‘You have?’ pounced Hugh with obvious relief. ‘Good! Then summon your actors and put it on for us now. And when it is finished, it should be time for bed.’
‘I would rather not,’ said Wilfred shortly. ‘There is some suggestion that this particular section may bring bad luck, and we—’
‘Bad luck?’ interrupted Gerald in lofty distaste. ‘I would remind you that we are men of God – we put our trust in the Lord, not in heathenish superstition.’
Wilfred opened his mouth to object, but a spitefully gleeful Robert was already moving tables while the abbot was hastily assuring the company that heresy had no place in Oseney. Wilfred grimaced when he saw he was to have no choice, and itched to wring Robert’s neck.
‘May I play God?’ asked Prior Dunstan, once the preparations were complete. ‘I do not know the words, of course, but I can read them, and I have always wanted to act.’
‘No,’ said Wilfred, more curtly than he had intended. ‘That role is mine.’
Dunstan said nothing, but Wilfred was taken aback by the venomous glare he received. Clearly furious, the prior spun round and marched away.
‘You should not have annoyed him,’ said Secretary Hurso, watching him go. ‘He may look harmless, but he is clever and determined, and will make for a dangerous enemy. Gerald should watch himself, too.’
There was no time to ponder the remarks, because the abbot was signalling to tell him to start. Wilfred shoved his first player onto the makeshift stage, and ‘The Story of Cain and Abel’ began.
‘You are pale,’ whispered Robert, appearing at Wilfred’s side and making him jump. He held a jug of wine. ‘Drink this. It will calm your nerves.’
‘My nerves are perfectly calm,’ snapped Wilfred, but it was a lie, because his heart thumped and his hands were sweaty. He could not stop himself from thinking about what had happened when this particular section had last been performed at Oseney. It was all very well for Gerald to sniff his disdain at the concept of luck, but Wilfred was less willing to dismiss things he could not begin to understand.
He drank two cups of Robert’s claret, but it only served to make him more agitated than ever, and he kept seeing the face of a long-dead canon named Paul in his mind’s eye – surprisingly vividly, given that Paul had been in his grave for almost half a century. Wilfred listened to the familiar words, and heartily wished the abbot had found another way to distract his querulous guests.
Beware the sins of envy and vainglory,
Else foul murder ends your story.
For some unaccountable reason, the final couplet struck a cold fear into Wilfred. Was it guilt, gnawing at him in a way that it had never done before? He shook himself impatiently. It was late, he was tired, and he had drunk too much. He would feel better in the morning.
But the room tipped, and he stumbled to his knees. What was happening? He grabbed the table for support, upsetting the wine jug as he did so. He felt terrible – there was a burning pain in his innards and he was struggling to breathe. Was he having a seizure? Or was it divine vengeance for his role in the untimely deaths of Paul, Sylvanus, Wigod and several others who had had the temerity to stand between him and his desire for an easy life?
Then another thought occurred to him, one that made his blood run cold. Had he been poisoned? Prior Dunstan’s servant claimed he had – by the priests from Wales – and Wilfred was sure the trio had not forgotten his incautious remark about modesty. Or had Dunstan made an end of him because he had wanted to be God? Or was this Robert’s parting gift to a master he disliked? Yet surely no one would kill for such petty reasons?
‘A seizure,’ declared Hugh sadly, when Wilfred had stopped shuddering and lay still. ‘He was past three score years and ten, so had reached his allotted time.’
But someone among the onlookers knew different.
II
Carmarthen, December 1199
Gwenllian awoke to a world transformed. There had been a few flurries of snow the previous day, but nothing to prepare her for the fall that had taken place during the night. She opened the window shutters to a blanket of pure white, broken only by the icy black snake of the River Towy meandering towards the sea.
She leaned her elbows on the sill and gazed out at the town that had been her home for the past thirteen years. She had hated it at first, frightened by its uneasy mix of Welsh, Norman and English residents, while the castle had been an unsavoury conglomeration of ugly palisades, muddy ditches and grubby tents. It was certainly no place for a Welsh princess, who had been raised in an atmosphere of cultured gentility, surrounded by poets and men of learning.
She had not been particularly enamoured of her new husband, either. Her father, Lord Rhys, had arranged the match because it had been politically expedient to ally himself to one of the King’s favourite knights, and Gwenllian had been horrified to find herself with a spouse whose mind was considerably less sharp than her own. But she had gradually grown to love Sir Symon Cole, and to love Carmarthen, with its bustling port, hectic market and prettily winding streets.
The castle was improving as well, now that Cole was rebuilding parts of it in stone. He had already raised a fine hall with comfortable living quarters for his household and guests, while his soldiers were housed in dry, clean wooden barracks. He was currently working on the bailey walls, although a spate of silly mishaps meant the project was taking longer than he thought it should.
Yet despite his grumbles, the walls were still ahead of schedule, mostly because he was content to let Gwenllian order supplies and haggle for the best prices, while he oversaw the physical side of the operation. He had no skill at administration, and it was widely thought that he would not have remained constable for as long as he had without his wife’s talent for organisation.
It was not long after dawn, and she could hear the usual sounds of early morning – the clank of the winch on the well as water was raised for cooking and cleaning, the chatter of servants laying fires and sweeping floors, and the shrill crow of cockerels. The sharp scent of burning wood was carried on the wind, along with the richer aroma of baking bread.
She could see the builders at the curtain wall already, despite the bitter weather. Cole was there too, shovelling snow off a pile of stones. She smiled. Not many constables would deign to wield a spade themselves, but the labourers liked the fact that Cole was willing to toil by their side. Of course, there was also the fact that he enjoyed it, being a large, strong man who excelled at physical activities.
She watched the mason – a sullen, avaricious man named Cethynoc – climb the wall and walk along the top, kicking off snow as he went. Clearly, h
e was going to decide if work would have to stop, or if it could continue. Suddenly, there was a yell and the workmen scattered in alarm. Something had fallen off the top of the wall. Gwenllian’s stomach lurched in horror – she could not see Cole among the milling labourers!
She turned and raced out of the bedchamber, almost falling in her haste to reach the bailey. Iefan, Cole’s faithful sergeant, was also running there, but he stopped and took her arm when he saw her. Gwenllian knew why: her second child would be born in May, and the entire castle had suddenly become solicitous, knowing exactly who was responsible for their regular pay, clean barracks and decent food.
Heart pounding, she approached the wall, then closed her eyes in relief when she saw Cole inspecting a piece of rope. His naturally cheerful face was sombre as he grabbed her hand and pulled her to one side so the workmen would not hear what he was saying.
‘You did not believe me when I told you someone was sabotaging our work.’ He held out the rope. ‘Do you believe me now? This has been deliberately cut, so that a bucket full of rubble would drop from the top of the wall.’
Gwenllian examined it, then shook her head. ‘It has frayed, Symon. If it had been cut, the edges would be sharp and . . .’
She faltered into silence when he scraped his dagger back and forth on another part of the rope, eventually producing a break that was identical to the one in her hand. She stared at it, but still could not bring herself to believe what he was suggesting.
‘It was an accident,’ she insisted. ‘Who would interfere with the castle walls? When they are finished, they will benefit everyone – the entire town will be able to take refuge here in times of trouble. There cannot be a saboteur.’
‘This is the fifth “accident” in two weeks. The others have been more nuisance than danger – spoiled mortar, lost nails, loosened knots on the scaffolding – but this one might have killed someone. I need to catch the culprit before he claims a life.’
‘No,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘It is just a spate of unfortunate coincidences. No one can have anything against your walls. Indeed, they are popular because they are providing employment for the poor at a time when other work is scarce.’
‘A stone castle is a symbol of Norman domination,’ Cole pointed out, ‘and some people are afraid that it might be used for subjugation as well as defence.’
‘They know you would never use it for such a purpose,’ objected Gwenllian.
‘Perhaps, but King John itches to dismiss me and appoint someone else. It is only a matter of time before he finds a way to do it. And people remember my predecessor.’
‘Roger Norrys – a vicious, mean-spirited tyrant,’ recalled Gwenllian. ‘Thank God my father did not force me to marry him, or I would have been hanged for murder years ago. Did that falling basket hit you? You are limping.’
‘No, the lace on my boot is broken. I will send it to William the corviser to be repaired.’
‘Not him,’ said Gwenllian quickly. ‘He has disliked you ever since you fined him for cheating his customers. I will find another shoemaker. And before you suggest it, William is not your saboteur – he is more likely to wound with words than actions.’
‘I will catch the culprit, Gwen,’ said Cole with quiet determination. ‘I must. None of my labourers will be safe until I do.’
Gwenllian did not bother to argue with him.
As they walked across the bailey, they were intercepted by the visitors who had arrived the previous afternoon. Gwenllian was kin to Gerald de Barri, a fact he had been quick to mention when requesting hospitality. He and his two companions had been to Canterbury, and were travelling home to St Davids. Carmarthen was in St Davids See, but the three priests still had several more days of travel before they reached their cathedral in the far west of the country.
‘I am afraid we shall have to impose on you for a while longer,’ said Gerald with an apologetic smile. ‘All the roads are closed by snow.’
‘Are they?’ Cole was openly dismayed. He did not enjoy the company of clerics, because they tended to know nothing about horses and warfare, two topics he considered important in a man. The St Davids priests were no exception, and one – Foliot – had compounded the deficiency by admitting to falling off his pony. Cole had been aghast that anyone should have lost his seat on so docile an animal.
Gwenllian felt differently, though. Gerald was witty and amusing, and she had been fascinated by his tales of journeys around Wales. She liked small, dark Foliot, too, with his kindly eyes and gentle manners. Pontius was sharper and more outspoken.
Gerald sighed. ‘We have been away for almost four months now, and we are eager to be home. This situation does not please us, I assure you.’
‘Nor me,’ said Cole bluntly. ‘How long do you think it will be before you can leave?’
‘A few days,’ replied Foliot quickly, when Gerald’s eyebrows shot up at the ungracious question. ‘No more, God willing.’
‘Let us hope not,’ said Pontius slyly. ‘Your sergeant claims there has been a spate of mishaps here, and we do not want to be crushed under plummeting baskets.’
‘Then we shall not put you to work on the castle walls,’ said Gwenllian, smiling at him. ‘Because that is where the accidents have occurred.’
Foliot winced at the notion, putting his hand to the shoulder that had been bruised by his tumble from the horse. ‘I shall use the opportunity to rest.’
‘So shall I,’ said Pontius. ‘I have a bad back – too much time in the saddle.’
Cole regarded him wonderingly. ‘Is there any such thing?’
Gerald laughed, although Cole had not meant to be amusing. ‘It is good to be back in my own See. I was unimpressed with Canterbury – the archbishop is as devious as his master the King. Incidentally, when I am enthroned as bishop, I shall be elevating St Davids to an archbishopric. I do not want to be under Canterbury’s sway.’
Cole looked alarmed. He had scant respect for John, whom he considered weak, vacillating and untrustworthy, but as a royally appointed official he was not in the habit of engaging in seditious discussions with strangers. Gwenllian was interested in something that would affect all of Wales, though.
‘An archbishopric would make this See the equal of Canterbury and York,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ nodded Gerald. ‘And quite rightly so. Why should we be under the authority of Canterbury, a place that knows nothing of us or our customs? And I shall certainly bring it about, because the Pope is a great admirer of mine, and can refuse me nothing. Well, I did recruit hundreds of warriors for his crusade. Did you go, Cole?’
‘Yes, I fought in several battles, including the—’
‘You are welcome to stay for as long as you like,’ interrupted Gwenllian quickly, before Cole could regale them with details. His war stories were not for the delicate ears of priests. ‘It will be our pleasure to entertain you.’
‘Entertain us,’ echoed Pontius, looking around with a smirk. ‘That promises to be interesting. How will you do it?’
‘We shall go hunting, if the snow is not too thick,’ replied Cole pleasantly. ‘We have plenty of wild boar, and stags too. Or there is hawking. It is too cold for fishing, but—’
‘How about an activity that does not involve killing something?’ asked Pontius archly.
‘My wife can take you shopping,’ retorted Cole, unimpressed by the question. ‘Or teach you how to embroider a—’
‘We shall have some music,’ said Gwenllian before he could insult them further. ‘Osbert, our archdeacon, plays the crwth, and Symon will sing.’
‘Battle songs?’ asked Gerald, humour glinting in his black eyes.
‘Welsh ballads,’ corrected Gwenllian with pride. ‘I taught him myself.’
‘We shall look forward to it,’ said Foliot graciously, although Pontius looked dubious.
‘And I may honour you by reading excerpts from one of my books,’ said Gerald. ‘I did it in Oxford last autumn, and it was very well received. It took
three days, and my audience was spellbound the entire time.’
‘You read aloud for three days?’ Cole was horrified, evidently afraid the same might be attempted in Carmarthen. ‘Without stopping?’
‘Well, obviously, we went away to sleep,’ said Gerald. ‘But we started afresh the following dawn. Everyone said they were much edified.’
‘God’s teeth!’ breathed Cole. To Gwenllian’s relief, he was prevented from saying more by tripping over his broken lace.
‘You should mend that before you hurt yourself,’ advised Gerald. ‘Do you have a spare to give him, Foliot? Or a piece of twine?’
‘I am afraid not,’ replied the priest. ‘I used it to mend my reins after the ambush.’
‘Ambush?’ asked Cole immediately. ‘Where? Not near here?’
‘Once in Brecon and once outside Trecastle,’ replied Gerald. ‘It was how Foliot came to bruise his shoulder. His pony reared and he slipped off. Do not worry, though: both were well outside your jurisdiction, so we shall not blame you for them.’
Gwenllian laughed at Cole’s obvious dismay as their guests walked away, and assured him that she would look after them. He nodded relieved thanks, and she saw he had been worried that playing host would keep him from his walls.
‘What did Cethynoc say when he made his inspection?’ she asked.
‘That we cannot build as long as the weather stays so cold, but there are other tasks that can be managed – preparing the rubble infill, cutting stones, moving supplies. The men are keen to continue.’
Gwenllian was sure they were: they would not be paid for idle days, and winter was a bad time to be without money. She followed Cole into the hall, where their baby son toddled towards them. Meurig squealed his delight when Cole scooped him up and tossed him high into the air, but Gwenllian closed her eyes in maternal horror: did he have to be so rough?
‘A person is responsible for these mishaps,’ Cole said after a while, handing Meurig to his nurse, and returning to the subject that so troubled him. ‘Five incidents is too many for coincidence.’
The First Murder Page 4