‘Because when Panaretos was agitated he turned to his main comfort, which was not his wife, but food. And she gladly complied with his wishes. Over several months, she fed him rich food in ever increasing portions that made him fatter and fatter until the merest exertion brought on an apoplexy. She murdered him just as effectively as if she had used poison or a knife, but it was a much more subtle way to do it that meant she was not even suspected. Except by me, and I saw no reason to tell anyone my suspicions. You see, it was the slowest and the kindest murder I have ever witnessed.’
The Fourth Sin
‘Lust, greed and avarice are grave sins indeed,’ said John Wynter, prior of the Austin canons in Carmarthen, a tall, hatchet-faced man who had nodded approvingly at the punishments meted out to the wrongdoers in the previous tales. ‘But there is one graver yet.’
Wynter had strong opinions about sin, which was why he had been prepared to leave his comfortable monastery when all sensible folk were closing their doors and huddling together in the hope that the deadly pestilence would pass them by. It had not been his own lapses that had driven him east, of course: he had been appointed by his Prior General to sit in judgement over others – at their sister house in Walsingham.
‘A sin worse than greed?’ asked Katie Valier sceptically. Outside, an owl hooted in the night, as if agreeing with her. ‘Or lust and avarice?’
‘Sloth,’ hissed Wynter, ‘is the deadliest sin.’
‘I hardly think so!’ declared Katie. ‘You are wrong, Father Prior.’
‘It is the most deadly transgression because of its insidious effects on the soul,’ boomed Wynter in the deep, sepulchral voice that had made many a Carmarthen novice quail in his boots. ‘And I do not refer to simple laziness, but to an emptiness of the soul.’
‘I do not understand,’ said Katie, shaking her pretty head. ‘Why should—’
‘It is a spiritual apathy that will lead even good men to Hell,’ interrupted Wynter. ‘And I shall prove it. Here is a tale I was told many years ago. It describes what happens to those who allow sloth to rule them, and will be a warning to you all.’
He glanced around, saw he had his companions’ complete attention, and began with his tale of . . .
Sloth
Autumn 1205, the Austin Priory of Llanthony, Monmouthshire
Prior Martin had many vices, but the one that disturbed his monks the most was his determination to enjoy an easy life. He disliked making decisions, and had a nasty habit of postponing them until they no longer mattered, while any problems brought to him were dismissed with an airy wave and the injunction to ask God for a solution instead.
Unfortunately, that would not do for the matter that currently troubled the monastery – one that his canons felt would not have arisen if Martin had not been so lazy. Their daughter house in Gloucestershire had grown rich and fat under its powerful patrons and energetic leaders, and was clamouring for independence. It could not be given. The ‘cell’ at Hempsted was an important source of revenue, one Llanthony could not afford to lose.
The canons stood in the refectory, hands folded demurely inside their sleeves and their heads bowed, although all were in a state of high agitation, because a deputation from Hempsted had just arrived – a dozen sleekly arrogant monks who looked around disdainfully, comparing Llanthony’s cracked plaster and leaking roofs to their own palatial dwellings. They were led by Canon Walter, a ruthlessly determined man who would do anything to be Hempsted’s first prior. He was unwell, as attested by his pallor and damp forehead, but that did not make his ambition burn any less fiercely. He was aided and abetted by Gilbert, his monkey-faced sacrist, who intended eventually to step into Walter’s shoes – and better a prior’s shoes than those of a mere deputy under the thumb of Llanthony.
Also among Walter’s entourage were two royal clerks, sly, slippery individuals there to ensure the King did not lose out on any deals that were made between the two foundations. The royal treasury was always empty, and King John’s officials were assiduous in sniffing out sources of free money on their monarch’s behalf. The Llanthony men only hoped that Martin would not accede to unreasonable demands just because he could not be bothered to do battle.
Walter and his companions were not the only ones who had braved the wild Monmouthshire hills to visit Llanthony. Bishop Geoffrey had also arrived. He had been prior of Llanthony himself before being elevated to the See of St David’s, and although he was a likeable, friendly man, it was expensive to keep a prelate in the style to which he was accustomed, and his company was an expense Llanthony could have done without.
Then there were three knights who had requested a few nights’ respite as they travelled west to join the military garrison at Carmarthen. They were battle-honed Norman warriors who had reacted indignantly when Prior Martin had evicted them from the guesthouse to make room for the bishop. Their surcoats showed them to be crusaders, and such men were known to be dangerous and unpredictable. The monks did not like them, and wished they would go.
‘You must make sure Martin stands firm,’ whispered Almoner Cadifor to Sub-Prior Roger, although he suspected he was wasting his breath. Roger had followed Martin’s example, and was shockingly indolent. ‘We may not survive if we lose Hempsted.’
‘Not even the King will dare strip us of our most valuable asset,’ said Roger with a complacent smile. ‘If he tries, we shall appeal to the Pope.’
‘Of course!’ Cadifor sagged in relief. ‘Martin has already contacted Rome to outline our position, so His Holiness will certainly find in our favour.’
Roger’s expression was sheepish. ‘Martin has not written yet, but I shall suggest he does it tonight. Or tomorrow, perhaps.’
Cadifor’s jaw fell. ‘But he promised to do it months ago, and you pledged to ensure it was done! We discussed it at length in chapter meetings, and you—’
‘Do not rail at me,’ snapped Roger. ‘You, who cannot possibly understand the trials and tribulations that running a large foundation like ours requires.’
Cadifor was so astounded by the statement – it was common knowledge that he did far more to ensure the monastery’s survival than anyone else – that he could do nothing but gape as Roger waddled away.
‘I recommend we retire to the chapel, to pray for our future,’ he said stiffly to his brethren, once he had found his tongue again. ‘I think our home is sorely in need of petitions.’
They did as he suggested, but it was not long before whispered conversations broke out. Why had Walter brought so many monks with him, and why were royal clerks in his retinue? The King had always preferred Hempsted’s manicured splendour to the bleak beauty of Llanthony, so had he decided to back Walter’s bid for freedom? The muttering stopped at the sound of clattering footsteps. It was Oswin, their youngest novice, racing up the nave.
‘I eavesdropped on Martin’s meeting with the Hempsted monks,’ he blurted. ‘I know it was wrong, but I wanted to find out what was in store for us.’
‘What did you hear?’ demanded Cadifor, overlooking the fact that he should not encourage such unseemly conduct by asking questions.
‘They came to present a writ from the Pope, giving Hempsted its independence. We have lost! Walter has become Prior Walter, and he is here to lay claim to numerous farms and manors that he says now belong to him.’
There was an immediate clamour of consternation, but Cadifor silenced it with an irritable gesture. Oswin had more to report.
‘Prior Martin told Walter that he should have warned us of his plan to petition His Holiness,’ Oswin went on. ‘Walter replied that he had, but that Martin had ignored the letter.’
‘There was a letter from Hempsted,’ recalled the cellarer. ‘Back in March. I saw Martin reading it, but when I asked what it was about, he told me it was nothing.’
‘Martin knew we would be furious,’ Oswin continued. ‘He called Walter a greedy pig, so Walter slapped him. Martin slapped Walter back, but much harder, and threats were made by ever
yone before things calmed down.’
‘Oh, Martin is indignant now,’ said Cadifor bitterly. ‘But we would not be in this position if he had written to Rome as he promised. He was too lazy – and so was Roger for failing to ensure that he did his duty. Damn them both!’
‘What will become of us?’ asked Oswin tearfully. ‘Will we starve?’
‘Hopefully not,’ replied Cadifor. ‘We shall have to tighten our belts, of course, but we did not take the tonsure to live in luxury.’
No one seemed particularly comforted by this, but the bell rang for vespers, so they took their places in the chancel. Before they settled down to their devotions, there were many angry whispers regarding what would be said to Martin at the next chapter.
But Martin did not live to hear them. He was found dead the following morning, just before the meeting at which the formal separation was to be discussed. There were no signs of foul play, but few thought his death was natural. The visitors claimed he had been killed by his own canons. His canons accused the visitors, citing the unseemly fracas in the solar. The knights did not escape censure either: they had been offended that Martin had evicted them from the guesthouse, and such men were sensitive about slights to their dignity.
Martin was carried to the church and laid in a coffin, but prayers were perfunctory, as everyone’s thoughts were on the upcoming meeting. This took place in the chapter house, and was a lengthy, acrimonious event. There was not a man among them who did not storm out at one point or another, so when it was over, no one could claim to have sat through the whole thing. Even Bishop Geoffrey, who had offered to mediate, had thrown up his hands in despair after several hours of continuous bickering, and gone to lie down until he had his exasperation under control.
Eventually, it was over, and the Hempsted men were preparing to leave when there was a yell from the church, and Oswin hurtled out, gibbering about desecration. Everyone hurried inside to see that someone had scratched a message on Martin’s casket: ‘Sloth is the deadliest of sins.’
‘It certainly was for him,’ muttered Cadifor. ‘It saw him murdered.’
Winter 1208, Carmarthen
The weather was glorious – cold, crisp and clear. A pale sun shone in a cloudless sky, and the winter-bare trees were coated in rime. The carpet of dead leaves on the forest floor crunched underfoot, and the air smelled clean and fresh.
‘It will snow soon,’ said Sir Philipp Stacpol, whose crusader’s surcoat was spotlessly clean and whose armour gleamed, even after two nights of sleeping under the stars.
Sir Symon Cole, constable of Carmarthen Castle, cared nothing for such gloomy predictions. A guilelessly optimistic man, he lived for the present, and could not recall a time when he had been happier. His wife and children were a constant source of delight, there was peace in the region he governed, and he was riding his favourite horse. His naturally ebullient spirit soared, and he began to sing.
‘You tempt fate with your unseemly cheeriness,’ warned Stacpol waspishly. ‘It is never wise to be too joyful. Bad luck will certainly follow.’
Cole laughed. ‘It already has, Stacpol. Your horse is lame, and our hunt has ended early.’
‘I meant real bad luck,’ said Stacpol darkly. ‘Like a visit from the King or a rebellion. Or worse yet, an intricate political problem.’
Cole winced. He had scant talent for diplomacy, but fortunately he had married Gwenllian, who was the cleverest person he knew, and she excelled at dealing with such matters. He smiled fondly when he thought of her. It had been an arranged marriage that neither had wanted, but they had grown to love each other, and now he felt blessed to have such an intelligent, insightful wife. He had been Carmarthen’s constable for two decades, and knew he would not have kept the post for so long without her.
When they reached the top of the hill, he dismounted to gaze at his town, which stood a mile or so distant. Over the years, he had replaced the castle’s wooden palisade with stone curtain walls, and would raise a new gatehouse in the spring. He had already built handsome living quarters for his household, and clean, airy barracks for his men. It was a fortress to be proud of, and he was glad that old King Henry had made him constable – and glad that Henry’s successors, Richard and John, had renewed his appointment.
Of course, he had had his differences with John, whom he considered weak, treacherous and fickle, but that had been years ago, and their quarrels had long been forgotten – by Cole, at least. And John? As far as Cole could see, His Majesty had his hands too full with rebellious barons to worry about a distant Welsh outpost. As long as Carmarthen’s taxes were paid on time, the region was left to its own devices.
He tore his eyes away from the castle to look at the rest of the town. It was a sizeable settlement, with a busy market, a good bridge across the River Tywi, and a thriving quayside that could accommodate sea-going vessels.
A short distance north-east was the Austin priory. Recently, the canons had rebuilt their perimeter walls and purchased a new set of gates. Cole kept good order in the area, and his marriage to a native princess meant relations were better between the Norman invaders and the resident Welsh than in many places, but trouble was not unknown, even so. The priory, with its pretty chapel and handsome cluster of buildings, would be an obvious target for marauders, and Cole thought the Austins wise to strengthen their defences.
His companions came to stand next to him: Stacpol, breathing hard because he had been obliged to lead his lame horse while the others had ridden; Sergeant Iefan, who had fought at Cole’s side for so many years that he was more friend than subordinate; and Elidor and Asser, solid, reliable men from Normandy. Cole was about to mount up again when he saw a dark smudge above the priory. He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun.
‘Is that smoke?’
‘The monks must be burning rubbish,’ said Stacpol.
‘That is too big a fire for rubbish.’ Cole reached for his reins and vaulted into the saddle. ‘The priory is under attack!’
He jabbed his spurs into the horse’s flanks and was away, ignoring the others’ yells for him to wait. He dismounted when he neared the monastery, and crept forward on foot, too experienced a warrior to rush headlong into a situation without first taking stock. He reached a good vantage point, and began to assess what was happening.
The priory gates had been set alight, which accounted for the smoke. Then the remnants had been kicked aside and invaders had surged in. So much for the new defences! Peering through the gap, Cole saw a tall but stooped Austin barking orders, while Carmarthen’s prior, shorter by a head and not nearly as imposing, harangued him furiously. The rest of Carmarthen’s monks – fifteen of them, with roughly the same number of lay brethren – had been ordered to stand outside the chapter house, where they were being guarded by soldiers.
Cole turned at a sound behind him. It was his knights and Iefan. All four were tightening the buckles on their armour and checking that their swords were loose in their scabbards, ready for battle. He briefed them quickly.
‘There are about twenty soldiers – mercenaries, by the look of them – and a dozen Austin canons. I have never seen any of the monks before, but that thin, lanky fellow is obviously in charge. And for some reason, Londres, our bailiff, is with them.’
‘Londres!’ spat Iefan. ‘Trust him to be involved where trouble strikes.’
Londres had arrived in Carmarthen five years before, officially appointed by the King to collect fees and fines. It had been obvious from the start that his real remit had been to spy on Cole and itemise any failings, but Gwenllian was efficient, and Londres had found nothing untoward to report. He had grown increasingly frustrated as time passed, desperate to find something, anything, which could be used as an excuse to return to Westminster.
Unfortunately, the King had long since forgotten about the bailiff and his mission, and Londres had been left to fester. He was deeply unpopular in the town, because he was dishonest, selfish and sly. The inexorable passing of ti
me had made him more bitter and angry than ever, and recent weeks had seen him brazenly demanding unlawful levies, and flouting the constable’s authority at every turn.
‘I recognise the tall monk – he is Prior Walter from Hempsted,’ said Asser. He turned to Stacpol and Elidor. ‘Do you remember him from our journey here three years ago? We had stopped to rest at Llanthony, and he arrived to declare Hempsted’s independence.’
Elidor nodded. ‘The Llanthony canons told me later that he had purchased the necessary documents from the Pope – Hempsted’s freedom was won by deceit, not merit. Since then, he has been expanding his empire, riding all over the country to inform churches, villages and manors that they are now under his control.’
‘For the tithes,’ explained Asser, seeing Cole frown in puzzlement. ‘His monastery is twice as rich as it was when he took over, thanks to his diligence.’
‘And it seems that Carmarthen Priory has just become his latest conquest,’ finished Elidor.
‘On what grounds?’ demanded Cole, full of indignation.
Elidor shrugged. ‘He will have a document to prove his case. He always does.’
Cole’s first instinct was to storm the place and oust the invaders. Four knights and Iefan would be more than a match for mere foot soldiers. But the mention of documents stayed his hand. Clearly, this was a matter that required diplomacy, not brute force. He turned to Iefan.
‘Fetch Gwenllian. She will know what to do.’
Gwenllian was relieved when Iefan appeared. She was perfectly able to manage the castle in peacetime, but she had received reports that a contingent of soldiers was moving in Carmarthen’s direction. Then she had seen the plume of smoke. She had ordered the castle secured, the armoury opened, and the townsfolk had been invited to take refuge in the bailey, but Cole was the one who did the fighting, and she did not know what to do next.
She heard Iefan’s report in the solar, where she had gone to be with her children – three boisterous sons and a daughter who was the apple of Cole’s eye. They were not alone. Bishop Geoffrey had turned up the previous day on an official visitation. Gwenllian had not known that the prelate was coming – he tended to travel after Easter, when the roads were better – but it had not taken her long to discover that Cole had, and that the hunting trip had been timed to coincide with the prelate’s arrival. Cole had nothing against Geoffrey in particular, but he found clerics dull company in general, with little to say about important matters like horses, dogs and warfare.
The Deadliest Sin Page 16