Hill of Bones (6 page)

‘Bishop Reginald founded it,’ Cole explained, while they waited for someone to come to attend to them. ‘For the sick to enjoy the healing springs. He died eight years ago, and people have prayed at his tomb ever since. The merchant we met last night said that miracles started occurring there two months ago, beginning with the return of Bishop Savaric’s crosier.’

Gwenllian regarded him in confusion. ‘You mean his crook?’

Cole nodded. ‘It was stolen, apparently, but he prayed to Reginald, and the very next day, it appeared on the high altar. Since then, a number of people have been cured or granted boons. I intend to pray there myself – I should like our son to have a sister.’

His words startled Gwenllian enough that she was gaping when a priest arrived. He was a large, bulky fellow with a mane of black hair and wild eyes.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

‘To see Adam,’ replied Cole, unruffled by the hostile greeting. ‘He is an old friend.’

‘He is dead,’ said the priest, spite supplanting churlishness. ‘And it served him right. He was an evil man, and he came to an evil end.’

The announcement caused the colour to drain from Cole’s face. ‘He cannot be dead! And he is not evil, either. He is a healer!’

‘He was skilled at medicine,’ conceded the priest grudgingly. ‘But he was wicked in all else. I suppose you are the man charged to find out what happened to Prior Hugh? You took your time coming. We were beginning to think you had decided not to bother.’

‘The weather was bad,’ explained Cole shortly. ‘But who are you? And why—’

‘I am Dacus, Adam’s successor. He died two months ago, which was not a moment too soon, as far as I was concerned. Bath is a better place without his tainted presence in it.’

Cole stepped forward angrily, but Dacus did not shy away, as most people would have done when faced with an irate Norman warrior, and Gwenllian wondered whether he was entirely sane. She interposed herself between them, loath for the investigation to begin with violence.

‘If he really is dead, show us where he is buried,’ she ordered.

Dacus made a peculiar curtsy that made her even more convinced that something was awry, then led them to the yard. It was an odd combination of vegetable plot and cemetery, with graves in a line along the wall. He pointed to one in the corner.

‘How did he die?’ asked Cole hoarsely.

‘Throat torn out by a wolf,’ replied Dacus. ‘He was rash enough to visit Solsbury Hill on a full moon, and his body was found the following morning. Hugh died the same way, although I imagine you already know that.’

‘There are no wolves in England,’ said Gwenllian. ‘What really happened?’

Dacus glowered and became childishly sullen. ‘There
are
– ask anyone. Hugh was stupid to have lingered there after dark. Especially given what had happened to Adam.’

‘My wife is right,’ said Cole stiffly. ‘There are no wolves here, and if Adam and Hugh did die in the way you suggest, then some other beast did it. A dog, perhaps. Although it would take a monster to train one to act in such a way . . .’

Dacus laughed mockingly. ‘The manner of Hugh’s demise is news to you! I thought the King’s officer would have been better informed.’

‘Then enlighten us,’ suggested Gwenllian, reaching out to prevent Cole from grabbing the priest. ‘You can start by telling us about Solsbury Hill.’

Dacus pointed over the wall to a mound about three miles distant. His voice grew curiously singsong. ‘It is a malevolent place, and only those with pure souls can survive a night there. Adam and Hugh took the test, but failed.’

‘Hugh was not pure?’ asked Gwenllian, gripping Cole’s arm more tightly. Dacus was providing information, and she was willing to accept intelligence from anyone willing to talk, no matter how objectionable they were.

‘No,’ replied Dacus airily, ‘because otherwise he would have lived. Will you take the test, King’s man? There is a full moon on Thursday – three days’ time. Go to Solsbury then, and if you are honourable, God will protect you. But if you are sinful, you will die. Of course, you will have to do it alone.’

‘How do you know a wolf killed Adam and Hugh?’ asked Gwenllian quickly, before Cole was goaded into accepting the challenge.

‘It savaged them, but it was God who decided they should die,’ declared Dacus. ‘Of course, there was no need for avenging wolves in Bishop Reginald’s day.
He
was a saint, who kept good order in Bath. He should have been an archbishop, you know.’

‘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.’