The Deadliest Sin

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘You have no right,’ Londres snarled. ‘I am a royally appointed official, and I answer to no one but the King.’

  ‘Symon is also a royally appointed official,’ Gwenllian reminded him. ‘One with the power to arrest and execute those he considers dangerous to Carmarthen’s security.’

  Cole chose that moment to draw his sword and inspect the blade. Gwenllian knew there was no deliberate intention to intimidate – he was just tired of being indoors, and itched to be about more manly pursuits – but she said nothing as Londres eyed him uneasily. The bailiff grew more nervous still when Cole took a whetstone and began to hone the edge.

  ‘You cannot execute me,’ he declared in an unsteady voice. ‘The King will—’

  ‘The King will hear that you conspired to do Carmarthen harm,’ snapped Gwenllian. ‘And he will be grateful to us for ridding him of a traitor.’

  ‘I am not a traitor!’ cried Londres. His face grew hard with spite. ‘That honour belongs to Cole, who will either ignore a royal writ or let hostile troops invade his domain. He is the one who will have to answer for his decisions, not me.’

  Gwenllian smiled coldly. ‘The scribe you corrupted has made a full confession, so do not lie.’ She treated him to a dose of his own medicine by adding an untruth of her own. ‘He also said that Belat and Henry plan to renege on the sly agreement you made – they will keep what you paid them, but will fail to do what they promised. You are in very deep trouble, Londres.’

  The bailiff’s defiant resolve began to crumble. ‘Everything I did was for the King.’ He gulped. ‘No one can condemn me for that. If you execute me, you will have to explain yourself to an angry monarch.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it will not matter to you, because you will be dead,’ Gwenllian pointed out. ‘It is a crime to falsify official documents, and you have been caught red-handed.’

  Cole began swishing the sword through the air, to test its balance. Again, it was innocent, but she did not blame the bailiff for thinking that Symon was preparing to hack off his head then and there.

  ‘No,’ gulped Londres. ‘You cannot—’

  ‘You have chosen the wrong confederates,’ she continued relentlessly. ‘Belat and Henry will deny all knowledge of this deception, and you will bear the blame alone. You could have carved a nice niche for yourself here, but instead you plotted, connived and bled our people dry with illegal fines.’

  ‘What choice did I have?’ bleated Londres. ‘The King stopped paying me after a few weeks, so how else was I to live? And as for the Hempsted business – I had to do something to regain John’s affection, or he would have left me here for the rest of my life.’

  ‘So you hatched a plot to see Symon discredited, using Walter’s greed to facilitate it. You do not care that the priory will suffer as a result.’

  ‘I hate Cadifor,’ said Londres sullenly. ‘It would not surprise me to learn that he killed Roger. After all, Cadifor left Llanthony in protest when Roger became prior. He probably murdered Martin, too, then left that message about sloth. It is a vice he deplores.’

  Cadifor had said as much himself, Gwenllian recalled, calling it the ‘deadliest of sins’, which were the exact words that had been scratched into Martin’s coffin. But it was no time to ponder Cadifor, and she turned her attention back to the bailiff.

  ‘You accuse Cadifor, but I think you killed Roger. What better way to disgrace Symon than have a high-ranking cleric murdered in his town?’

  Londres shook his head vehemently. ‘No! I was too busy making sure that my plan was going smoothly. And Roger’s death is a nuisance, to be frank. It means that people will look more closely at what happened here.’

  It had a nasty ring of truth, and Gwenllian found she believed it, although she was sorry to lose Londres as a suspect. All the fight had drained out of him. His shoulders were slumped, his face was grey, and he looked worn and tired.

  ‘I heard that Walter was looking to expand his domain,’ he whispered, ‘so I told him about our priory’s fine wool. And suddenly, there was a letter demanding to know when Cole might be away.’

  Gwenllian recalled how she had been suspicious when she had seen Londres and Walter muttering together after the Hempsted party had arrived. She thought they had been oddly familiar with each other, and she had been right. Moreover, Londres’ antics explained why he had been challenging Cole’s authority and levying more fines over the last few weeks – he had believed his days in Carmarthen were numbered, and was busily making the most of them.

  ‘So you told him about Symon’s hunt?’ she asked.

  Londres nodded. ‘And I wrote to Bishop Geoffrey, so he would be here to witness Cole’s disgrace. But that is all I did of my own volition. Everything else has been on the orders of Belat and Henry. I am not a traitor. Ask Stacpol. He knows what that pair are like. They are sly and wicked, and I was powerless against them.’

  ‘You accuse Stacpol?’ asked Cole dangerously, gripping the hilt of his sword so that the blade hovered very near to Londres’ neck.

  ‘No! I merely suggest that you ask him about Belat and Henry. He knows all about them, although I have no idea what form their previous encounter took.’ A tear ran down his cheek. ‘What will happen to me now?’

  ‘You are unscrupulous, corrupt and sly,’ said Gwenllian icily. ‘And you have admitted that the King no longer cares for you, so he will not object if you hang. However, there is a ship leaving for the Low Countries this morning. We will look the other way if you board it and agree never to show your face here again.’

  ‘I will,’ gushed Londres in relief. ‘I will leave and never return.’

  ‘But there is a condition. I want to know how much Walter paid for the King’s writ.’

  ‘Five marks,’ replied Londres promptly. ‘Belat and Henry arranged it. May I go now?’

  Gwenllian and Cole escorted Londres to the ship. It was ready to cast off, and was soon sailing down the river to the sea. The bailiff did not once look back, giving the impression that he was glad his sojourn in Carmarthen was at an end. Or perhaps it was because a small crowd had gathered on the quay, yelling taunts about his spectacular fall from grace.

  ‘Are you sure you are right to let him go?’ asked Cole unhappily. ‘He might sail straight to John and tell all manner of lies about us.’

  ‘Unlikely. John is not kind to those who let him down, and Londres has failed in what he was charged to do. He will be far too frightened to show his face at Court.’

  They returned to the castle to find Elidor waiting. Stacpol had not slept in his bed the previous night, and no one had seen him that morning. Elidor was worried.

  ‘Perhaps he has fled,’ suggested Gwenllian. ‘He refused to reveal the nature of his past association with Belat and Henry, and he knows we will solve Asser’s murder . . .’

  ‘Then he would have taken his belongings with him,’ said Elidor stiffly, not liking the implications of her remark; Cole simply ignored it. ‘He has not gone anywhere willingly, My Lady, and I only hope he is safe.’

  ‘I am sure he can look after himself,’ said Gwenllian.

  ‘In an honest fight, yes,’ agreed Cole. ‘But not against sly knives in the back.’

  While Cole went to inspect Stacpol’s lair to see if he could ascertain why the knight had disappeared, Gwenllian went to the solar, where she found Bishop Geoffrey with the children. He was playing a word game them, to test their Latin. Alys sat on his lap, while the boys clustered around his feet. Gwenllian watched, amazed that the prelate could entertain such an unruly horde with so little effort. When the game was over, they clamoured for another. Geoffrey obliged, and they were so intent on besting him that they barely noticed Cole arrive.

  ‘Do not worry.’ Gwenllian smiled at their father’s crest-fallen face; Alys in particular always ran to him when he appeared. ‘Geoffrey is new and interesting, and has sweet-meats to dispense. They will still be clamouring for a bedtime story from you tonight.’

  Cole sniffed. ‘I
think he should go back on your list of potential killers.’

  Gwenllian laughed, and went with him to the priory, to interview the monks and lay brothers again. But it was a fruitless morning. Walter claimed he was too busy to be bothered with such nonsense, but ordered Gilbert to ensure that his people were not browbeaten. Gwenllian disliked the dark presence at her elbow, and tried various ploys to make Gilbert leave. None worked, and the sub-prior stuck with them like a leech. She was relieved when the last Hempsted man had been questioned, and they were able to escape.

  They met Cadifor in the yard. He was uncharacteristically subdued, which he confessed was due to concern about how to repay the bishop’s loan of ten marks – double the five that Walter had paid the King. His wool fetched good prices, but that year’s money had already been earmarked for other things, and it would not be easy to raise such an enormous sum.

  ‘And what if John takes the money, but refuses to honour the arrangement?’ he asked worriedly. ‘Walter has powerful supporters, and his demands will carry more weight than mine. Moreover, John will not want to annoy a wealthy place like Hempsted, knowing that it is far more likely to make him generous gifts than poor Carmarthen.’

  Gwenllian had no answer, because Cadifor was right. She left Cole to interrogate Walter’s soldiers, and wandered away, watching Belat and Henry sitting together in the winter sunlight. They returned her gaze with smug arrogance, but declined to be drawn into conversation, even when she informed them that Londres had revealed all before fleeing.

  Belat shrugged. ‘If he is no longer here, he cannot speak against us. And what value is the word of a corrupt official, anyway? Your bailiff is a scoundrel, and there is not a man, woman or child in Carmarthen who will say otherwise.’

  Visiting the priory had been a waste of time, and Cole was disheartened as he and Gwenllian began to walk back to the castle. He stopped when he reached the woods that separated the priory from the town.

  ‘I know you are there,’ he called. ‘And you are eager to talk to me, or you would not be dogging my footsteps. Well, I am ready to listen, so show yourself.’

  Nothing happened, and he was about to walk on when the leaves parted and a youth stepped out. He was an Austin, but his robes were torn, his face was smeared with mud and his hair was matted. He was shivering, and looked miserable.

  ‘Come,’ said Cole kindly. ‘There is hot soup, dry clothes and a fire at the castle.’

  ‘I will be seen,’ whispered the boy, glancing both ways along the track with frightened eyes. ‘I cannot go with you.’

  ‘Seen by whom?’ asked Cole, but the lad only stared at the ground and would not reply. ‘Here is my cloak. Wrap it around you, and cover your face with the hood. You will be safe with me, I promise.’

  The youth hesitated, but the prospect of warmth and food was too tempting to resist. He drew the cloak around him, then trotted obediently after them to the castle. They took him to the office, where Cole grimaced when he heard Alys and the bishop singing together. It was a song he had taught her, but it sounded better with Geoffrey’s tenor than his toneless bass. The Austin ate three bowls of stew, and when he had finished, Gwenllian indicated that he was to start talking.

  ‘I am Oswin,’ the lad obliged. ‘From Llanthony. I was a novice when Martin was killed, but I have taken my vows since, so I am now a canon. I overheard the argument in Martin’s solar when Walter declared Hempsted’s independence. And I know a secret, which I have only ever revealed to one other person . . .’

  ‘Who?’ asked Cole suspiciously.

  ‘I would rather not say. But I can tell you that I shared it for the first time last night.’

  ‘Why not before?’

  ‘Because I was frightened. However, when I heard that Walter intended to steal Carmarthen, I tried to arrive first, to warn Cadifor. But Walter had horses while I was obliged to travel on foot, and I arrived to find that Walter had beaten me by an hour. It was all for nothing.’

  ‘Yet you believe that something might still be salvaged, or you would have gone home,’ surmised Cole. ‘I have seen you several times, lurking in the bushes.’

  Oswin smiled wanly. ‘My adventures on the way here have taught me how to hide myself, although you almost caught me.’

  ‘You say you came to warn Cadifor.’ Gwenllian spoke quickly, lest Cole should distract him by offering practical tips on evading pursuers. ‘About what? Walter’s plans?’

  ‘No – about the fact that a murderer is at large.’

  ‘You know who killed Asser and Roger?’ demanded Cole eagerly. ‘Who?’

  ‘The same man who poisoned Martin. And I was right to be concerned, given that Roger and your knight died in suspicious circumstances.’

  ‘How do you know Martin was poisoned?’ asked Gwenllian sceptically. ‘We have been told that there was no proof.’

  ‘Because I was with him when he died.’ Oswin’s voice was unsteady. ‘It was my turn to act as his servant, you see, and I was in his solar, dousing candles and closing the shutters. He was sitting at his table, grumbling about Walter’s high-handed tactics while he scoffed marchpanes. Then he stopped talking . . .’

  ‘And?’ prompted Gwenllian.

  ‘I went to see if he was unwell. His eyes were closed, so I shook his arm. He woke, but it was an effort, and it was then that he told me the marchpanes had been dosed with a powerful soporific. I did not believe him at first, but he was insistent . . . I wanted to fetch help, but he would not let me – he knew he would be dead before I came back.’

  ‘What else did he say?’ asked Gwenllian urgently.

  ‘That the sin of sloth had caused Llanthony to lose Hempsted, which was true – if he had written to the Pope, we would still have a daughter house. Then he told me that a visitor had killed him. It was no one from Llanthony, because we had no almonds. The gift of poisoned march-panes had come from a guest.’

  ‘Then why did you not report all this to your superiors?’ asked Cole. ‘Straight away?’

  ‘Would you accuse high-ranking Austins and two royal clerks?’ asked Oswin archly. He looked Cole up and down. ‘Well, perhaps you might, but I was little more than a boy.’

  ‘A high-ranking Austin?’ pounced Gwenllian. ‘Not one of the ordinary canons who accompanied him?’

  ‘Martin specifically said that his killer was high ranking,’ replied Oswin firmly. ‘Which means Walter, Gilbert, Belat or Henry. All four of them wanted him dead, so that Roger could be appointed instead – Martin could be stubborn, but Roger is weak and malleable.’ He looked miserably at his shoes. ‘Martin’s death has gnawed at my conscience ever since.’

  ‘It has not gnawed too hard, or you would have done something about it sooner,’ remarked Cole.

  Oswin winced. ‘I told you – I was afraid. But I have done something now: I came all the way here on my own, hoping to prevent another death. I failed, but not for want of trying.’

  ‘What made you think someone else would die?’ asked Gwenllian.

  Oswin shivered, despite the warmth of the fire. ‘The fact that those four “high-ranking” men went to Llanthony on their way here, and ordered Roger to accompany them. Why do that? It made no sense. I could tell they were planning something untoward, because they kept talking in low voices, scheming and plotting . . .’

  ‘They brought him as a hostage, to ensure Llanthony did nothing against Hempsted while its two most powerful monks were away,’ explained Gwenllian. ‘And of course they were scheming and plotting – they aimed to invade a sister house and claim it for themselves.’

  ‘Then why did they not say so?’ demanded Oswin.

  Gwenllian smiled at his innocence. ‘It is hardly something they could announce, and I am sure your older brethren understood exactly what was happening. Did you talk to any of them before you left?’

  ‘No, because they would have stopped me – or asked me what I knew about Martin’s death, which I dare not share with them now. They would never trust me again!’
r />   Gwenllian stood. ‘I had better rescue the bishop before Alys drives him to distraction. That must be the twentieth time they have sung that song.’

  She ushered Oswin out, and told Iefan to find him somewhere to sleep.

  ‘Damn,’ muttered Cole when sergeant and Austin had gone. ‘I had eliminated Walter and Gilbert from your list, but now they are suspects again.’

  ‘Only if you believe Oswin’s tale,’ said Gwenllian.

  Cole blinked. ‘You do not?’

  ‘I am not sure, Symon. He has kept his guilty secret for three years, and it is odd that he should break his silence now – not once, but twice in as many days. And why does he refuse to tell us who else he has confided in?’

  ‘So what shall we do about his confession – such as it is?’

  ‘There is only one thing we can do: speak again to Walter, Gilbert, Belat and Henry, to see if we can catch them out in an inconsistency. But do not be too hopeful. They have sharp minds, and will not be easy to trip up.’

  ‘You are more than their equal,’ said Cole confidently.

  Gwenllian asked Bishop Geoffrey to accompany them to the priory, feeling his presence would be a calming influence. They arrived to find Walter with his hand to his stomach, but the lines of pain around his mouth lessened once Geoffrey had requisitioned ingredients from the kitchen to make a soothing tincture, and it was not long before the colour returned to his cheeks.

  ‘You should rest more,’ said the prelate admonishingly. ‘Take some time to appreciate what God has given you, instead of racing around trying to acquire more.’

  Walter shot him an unpleasant look, then refused to answer any of the questions Gwenllian or Cole put. Gilbert followed his example, and they sat side by side with their arms folded and their lips sealed shut. Eventually, Cole threw up his hands in exasperation.

  ‘Perhaps I should arrest you both, and keep you incarcerated until your Prior General tells me who is guilty of killing Roger and Asser.’

  ‘And Martin.’ Geoffrey regarded the two canons sternly. ‘Symon and Gwenllian are trying to help, and if you have nothing to hide, you need not fear their investigation.’