The Deadliest Sin (29 page)

‘I cannot – not now the King has issued that writ. I am afraid it will have to become a cell of Hempsted. But it should fare well enough if you keep Gilbert away from it.’

‘Why did you summon me?’ asked Cole. ‘What crimes do you want to confess?’

Walter eyed him coolly. ‘I may not have lived a blameless life, but I have done nothing to interest a constable. The reason I called you here is to witness a few deeds for me, ones I do
not want the other canons to know about. They are private, you see.’

Cole gaped at him. ‘You dragged us here to help with your personal affairs? I thought you were going to tell us who killed Martin, Roger and Asser!’

Walter grimaced irritably. ‘I will – after you have helped me with these deeds.’

Cole turned sharply on his heel. ‘Good day, Prior Walter. You are—’

‘Wait!’ Walter sighed gustily. ‘Very well. We shall discuss murder first, if we must. I am not the culprit – I am dying, and I am not so foolish as to stain my soul now.
And despite what I might have said before, Cadifor is innocent, too. I ordered him watched, as I considered him a danger to my plans. He did not poison the marchpanes.’

‘So we have eliminated Londres, Belat, Henry, Walter, Cadifor, Stacpol and the bishop,’ said Cole, oblivious to Geoffrey’s surprise that he should have been on such a list.
‘There is only one suspect left: Gilbert. No wonder you do not want him to succeed you!’

‘That is not the reason,’ said Walter. ‘It is because I just caught him tampering with my medicine. I have been ailing for years, and
he
is the reason why. He confessed
it all just now – he has been poisoning me, because he likes being my right-hand man. He thinks I would not need him if I was hale and hearty.’

‘So Oswin was wrong,’ mused Gwenllian. ‘He thought you, Gilbert and the clerks were plotting murder when you huddled together. Instead, you were merely planning your assault on
Carmarthen.’

‘Oswin?’ asked Walter. ‘Who is he?’

Gwenllian supposed she should be glad that Gilbert was under lock and key, but the whole affair had been distasteful, and she was in a sombre mood as she sat in the solar that
night. Gilbert had screeched, fought and spat when he was arrested, and everyone had been relieved when the cell door had been closed on his curses. Walter had been equally abusive when he had
learned he was not dying after all, and that he would make a complete recovery once he stopped taking whatever Gilbert had been feeding him – especially now that he no longer needed to bear
the strain of running Hempsted.

‘He was livid,’ mused Cole. ‘I thought he was going to explode.’

He spoke absently, because he was watching Geoffrey teach Alys a game that involved a long piece of twine and a knife. Her brothers were in bed, but she had claimed more bad dreams in a brazen
attempt to secure extra time with the adults. Her ploy had worked, because first Cole and then Geoffrey had fussed over her.

Gwenllian smiled. ‘It serves him right for including Carmarthen on his list of conquests. All I hope is that the King will accept the bribe of ten marks from Cadifor.’

‘He will,’ predicted Geoffrey wryly. ‘But the money must be presented to him directly. Cadifor will need a lot more if he recruits corrupt clerks to help him – men like
Belat and Henry, who will demand a sizeable commission for themselves.’

Alys began to drowse on his knee. The bishop stared at the fire, rubbing the table with the knife, an unconscious gesture akin to the random scribbles Gwenllian made with ink when she was
pondering the castle accounts. But Geoffrey’s scraping made a faint pattern in the wax coating, and it was one that Gwenllian had seen before. Her stomach lurched in horror.

‘Oh, no!’ she breathed. ‘The killer made marks like that when the marchpanes were poisoned. We saw them etched on the table in the priory kitchen.’

Geoffrey glanced at the scratches as if seeing them for the first time. ‘What?’

‘It was you,’ said Gwenllian, standing slowly, and acutely aware that the prelate was holding her daughter. Cole was frozen in mute horror. ‘You poisoned the marchpanes. You
know all about soporifics, because you are interested in medicine.’

‘I am,’ acknowledged Geoffrey. ‘But I use my knowledge to heal, not to harm. Besides, I did not reach the priory until after Asser was dead. I had no opportunity to tamper with
them.’

‘Yes, you did – when Dafydd first gave them to you,’ said Gwenllian. ‘You ate half and poisoned the rest.’

‘But that was before Walter arrived,’ objected Geoffrey. ‘How could I know that he and his entourage would appear the following day?’

‘Because Londres wrote to tell you,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘He admitted it before he left. I should have guessed that there was a reason for your visit: you never usually travel
in January, when the roads are poor – you come at Easter. But you made an exception this year, because you wanted to be here when Walter arrived.’

‘But why would I—’

‘You knew no one at the monastery would touch the sweetmeats, as they would not want to incur Dafydd’s wrath. But Roger was a greedy man, and you guessed he would visit the kitchen
and take what he fancied. Unfortunately, you reckoned without Asser.’

Cole found his voice at last, but it was unsteady. ‘Asser knew what you had done. With his dying breath, he whispered the words that you had etched on Martin’s coffin, and he told me
to look for the “incongruously sharp knife”. Alys, come here.’

‘Everyone has sharp knives,’ said Geoffrey, tightening his grip on the sleeping child. ‘Including you.’

‘Yes, and that was Asser’s point,’ said Cole. ‘He told us to look for the
incongruously
sharp one – no churchman should need a blade with as keen an edge as
the one you are holding now. Please be careful it. My daughter is only—’

‘It is for slicing bandages,’ explained Geoffrey. ‘A blunt one is no good.’

‘It does not matter why you have it,’ said Gwenllian. ‘The point is that you are a monk, and Asser thought it was a peculiar thing for you to have. He must have seen the
scratches when he stole the marchpane, and he, unlike us, realised their significance when he fell ill.’

‘If Asser thought I was a killer, why did he not just say so?’ asked Geoffrey with quiet reason. ‘These riddles make no sense.’

Cole’s eyes were fixed on Alys and the knife; Gwenllian had never seen him so white. ‘He knew you were nearby, and that you would deny it,’ Cole said, his voice unsteady.
‘He spoke in code, certain that Gwenllian would work it out. Please release my daughter.’

‘Stay away!’ Geoffrey brought the knife to rest on the pale, soft skin of the girl’s neck. Alys shifted in her sleep but did not wake. Cole retreated until his back was against
the wall, holding his hands in front of him in a gesture of surrender.

‘Asser was an accident, but Roger was not,’ said Gwenllian, aiming to distract the bishop for the split second it would take Cole to leap forward. ‘When Roger was dead, you
removed the plate from the kitchen, and brushed the crumbs from his habit and the floor. You expected his demise to be deemed natural.’

‘It might have been,’ snapped Geoffrey, breaking at last, ‘if your greedy friend had not eaten the damned things, too.’

His angry voice woke Alys, and confusion filled her face as she tried to sit up and found she could not move. She did not struggle, but only looked at Cole in mute appeal.

‘And I know why you did it,’ said Gwenllian. ‘You killed Martin for losing Hempsted, and you dispatched Roger for failing to ensure that Walter did his duty. They
were—’

‘Sloth,’ said Geoffrey bitterly. ‘The deadliest of sins. I hoped the words I etched on Martin’s coffin would warn others, but Roger ignored them and so did Walter. And as
I said last night, sloth is not laziness, but a sluggishness of the mind that neglects to do good, oppressing the soul and drawing it away from noble deeds. Martin and Roger were indolent men, and
thus unsuitable for running priories.’

‘Martin was right,’ said Cole, taking a tiny step forward. ‘He confided to Oswin that his killer was a high-ranking Austin or a clerk. Oswin thought he meant Walter or Gilbert,
but you are also an Austin.’

Gwenllian began to gabble to distract the bishop when Cole inched forward again. ‘You told us that you had no remedies with you, but what healer travels without the tools of his trade? Of
course you had them – and you poisoned the marchpanes. Your claim to have no medicines was a ruse, so that you would not be a suspect.’

‘Please,’ begged Cole, as Geoffrey stood abruptly and began to move towards the door. ‘She is a child. If you want a hostage, take me.’

Geoffrey laughed without humour. ‘I think Alys will be rather easier to control. Now, I am going to lock you in, collect my people and ride away. Your daughter will come with us, but no
harm will come to her as long as you stay here and do not raise the alarm.’

‘How do we know?’ asked Cole in a strangled voice. ‘You are a killer.’

‘Because I give you my word,’ replied Geoffrey. ‘Give me yours that you will not follow, and she will be returned to you unharmed. Refuse, and I will slit her
throat.’

Cole and Gwenllian could see he meant it, and there was nothing they could do as Geoffrey walked out, taking their daughter with him.

The uncertainty of the next few days was dreadful, but Geoffrey kept his promise. Alys appeared one morning in the arms of a bemused cleric, who had been instructed to take her
to the castle. She was tired, dirty and bewildered, but none the worse for her experiences. Cadifor and Stacpol were there to witness the family reunion.

‘He let me ride in front of him,’ Alys said, as Cole snatched her up and hugged her so tightly that Gwenllian feared he might hurt her. ‘All the way to Llansteffan. It was fun,
but I would rather ride with you. You do not bounce around so much.’

Cole called for his horse, aiming to hunt the bishop down, but Gwenllian laid her hand on his arm. ‘This is a battle we cannot win, Symon. Leave it to Gilbert. He has offered to take the
tale to the King, and the less we are involved, the better.’

‘Gilbert!’ spat Cole. ‘A man who dosed his friend with “remedies” that made him think he was dying – for years. I hardly think he is someone we can trust to
tell the truth.’

‘But we can trust him to keep our names from this affair,’ argued Stacpol. ‘Which is ultimately more important. I learned from Belat that Gilbert cheated the King of some of
his taxes while he was Sacrist of Hempsted, so he will want us as far away from Westminster as possible, lest the secret slips out.’

‘Yes, let the matter go, Symon,’ begged Cadifor. ‘We do not want to become entangled in these webs of deceit.’

‘On one condition,’ said Cole. ‘That you do not repay the ten marks Geoffrey lent you to bribe the King. It will be retribution of a sort, because he did mention that not
having it would be inconvenient.’

Cadifor grinned. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

‘Even so,’ said Cole unhappily, ‘it will be difficult to live with the knowledge that Geoffrey wanders around freely and merrily while Asser lies dead.’

‘He has bad dreams, just like me,’ piped up Alys. ‘He wakes up in the night and howls that the Devil is coming for him. And then he cries himself back to sleep.’

‘So he might wander freely,’ said Stacpol softly. ‘But not merrily. His conscience will see to that. Thank you, Alys.’

‘Moreover, he is unpopular with the people,’ added Gwenllian. ‘His inability to speak Welsh has turned many against him, so his pontificate will not be an easy one. And he will
always be wondering whether he will be accused of murder. That is punishment enough.’

‘If you say so.’ Cole watched Alys scamper away to join her brothers. ‘Yet he did teach me something – that it is a sin not to appreciate the good things we have been
given. Shall we all go riding? It is a glorious day, and I feel like being outside.’

‘What, now?’ asked Gwenllian, startled. ‘What about the castle accounts, and the plans for the new gatehouse?’

‘What about them?’ Cole laughed suddenly. ‘We have a family, good friends and we live in paradise. Let us enjoy it while we can.’

He strode towards the stable to saddle up his horse, and as he went he began to sing.

Historical Note

Symon Cole was constable of Carmarthen in the early 1200s, and Lord Rhys of Deheubarth had several daughters named Gwenllian. Richard Belat and Henry de Rolveston were
royal clerks, who went to Carmarthen to conduct John’s business in 1203. Other ‘locals’ mentioned in the Welsh Episcopal Acts in the early 1200s are Elidor, Asser and Philipp de
Stacpol.

Llanthony Priory was a dangerous place to be during the Anarchy of the mid-twelfth century, so the Austin canons fled to Hempsted, Gloucestershire, to wait the troubles out. However, when it
came time to return, some elected to stay behind to form a cell known as Llanthony Secunda (called Hempsted in the story, for simplicity’s sake). By the early 1200s, it was as strong and rich
as its parent, so it was decided to separate them.

Geoffrey de Henlaw had been prior of both, and oversaw some of the preliminary arrangements for the partition, before he was elevated to the Bishopric of St David’s in 1203. He was noted
for his medical skills, but Gerald of Wales wrote that he was greedy, violent and corrupt. Geoffrey’s successor was Martin, who was replaced by Roger in 1205. The first independent prior of
Llanthony Secunda was Walter, who ruled for two years before Gilbert took over.

In 1208, Hempsted decided to expand by laying claim to Carmarthen Priory. The King’s blessing was obtained, after which William de Londres, the town’s bailiff, led a takeover bid.
Carmarthen was naturally indignant, and Prior Cadifor offered John a bribe of ten marks if he changed his allegiance. John seized the money with alacrity, and wrote to Bishop Geoffrey, ordering him
to restore Carmarthen’s independence.

By the time the fourth story, the tale of Sloth, was over and done with, the last traces of the stormy summer light were long gone from the sky. There was no question of
listening to any tales of the three deadly sins that still remained out of the seven. Why, to do so, the band of listeners would have had to stay awake and attentive until the sun was rising once
more on the other side of the sky! Laurence promised that there would be plenty of time for them to hear about pride and anger and envy on the next day. No one dissented. None of the travellers
expressed the wish to get on with their journey at first light. Providentially, it was a Sunday, so the pilgrims would be able to attend St Mary’s, to receive the blessing of the local priest
and distract the local people of Mundham with their different clothes and accents. In church, they could meditate on the stories they’d heard so far and contemplate their own sinfulness
– or, no doubt in the case of a few of the pilgrims, their own worthiness.