The Deadliest Sin (23 page)

Cadifor stood straight and there was a defiant jut to his chin. ‘There will be no need for underhand practices, thank you. We are in the right, and Bishop Geoffrey will not support the
King in a matter that is blatantly illegal.’

‘He will not,’ agreed Gwenllian. Having met the unpleasant Walter, she was now firmly on Cadifor’s side. ‘And his opinion will be recorded in the transcripts of
today’s proceedings, which may help to convince His Majesty of the unfairness of the situation.’

Belat and Henry exchanged angry glances, and she saw they had not reckoned on having the views of a powerful churchman included in the account that would be presented at Court. Good, she
thought. Perhaps justice would prevail after all.

Belat and Henry grabbed Londres’ arms and hauled him away, no doubt to remonstrate with him for not warning them that this might happen. Gwenllian stared absently towards the kitchen,
wondering what more she could do to further Cadifor’s cause. Cole was standing with Elidor, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, while the other two knights had gone inside to beg
for food. Suddenly, Stacpol dashed out.

‘Lady Gwenllian, come quick!’ he shouted urgently. ‘Asser has been taken ill.’

The kitchen was a massive room with two large fireplaces and lines of scrubbed tables. Pots and pans hung on the walls, and there was a pleasantly sweet smell of simmering fruit. Asser lay on
the floor with his eyes closed. Gwenllian knelt next to him, but it took no more than a glance to see that he was well beyond her meagre medical skills – his face was white, his life-beat
feeble, and his breathing unnaturally shallow.

‘What is wrong with him?’ demanded Cole. ‘He was perfectly well a few moments ago.’

He grabbed the stricken man’s shoulder and shook it. Asser opened his eyes, but they were glazed, and Gwenllian doubted that whatever he whispered in Cole’s ear would make sense.
Then he went limp. She glanced up and saw Stacpol in the doorway, his expression closed and distant.

‘It must have been an apoplexy,’ said Prior Cadifor, when Gwenllian had pronounced Asser dead and his monks had intoned the necessary prayers. ‘He was a large man who ate too
much, and he was excitable. Such men are prone to these sorts of attacks.’

‘But he has never had one before,’ objected Cole.

‘Yes, he has,’ countered Stacpol. ‘About a month ago. He told me not to mention it, lest you sent him back to Normandy and recruited a fitter man to take his place.’

Cole would have done. He had licence to keep six knights, and could not afford to house one who was unable to fulfil his duties. Gwenllian glanced at Stacpol again, and was surprised by his lack
of emotion – he and Asser had been friends. Was he manfully concealing his grief, or was he actually relieved? Asser had, after all, witnessed Stacpol’s previous encounter with the
royal clerks and had threatened to reveal whatever had transpired.

‘How curious that he should die now,’ she said, looking hard at him. Stacpol only stared back, his expression impossible to read.

‘Not really,’ said Prior Cadifor. ‘As I said, such men are prone to this kind of ailment.’

‘Especially when they are under strain,’ agreed Stacpol, a little too quickly for Gwenllian’s liking. ‘And today has been full of vexation.’

‘Not for him,’ countered Cole. ‘It was not his horse that went lame, forcing its owner to run about in full armour. Nor was he obliged to solve this business with Walter. All
he had to do was sit on his stallion and look menacing, which should not have been too difficult.’

‘I refer to the quarrel he had with the cook,’ said Stacpol. ‘That was vexing.’

All eyes turned to the monk in question, a plump, volatile man named Dafydd.

‘Of course I gave him a piece of my mind,’ Dafydd snapped, although his eyes were uneasy. ‘He ate some of the marchpanes I made for the bishop. Geoffrey loves them, and I
always prepare a batch when he visits. But Asser came along and stole a handful before I could stop him. And I cannot make more, because we are out of almonds.’

‘He took only four,’ said Stacpol reproachfully. ‘I am sure they will not be missed.’

‘Yes, they will,’ argued Dafydd bitterly. ‘The bishop ate a lot when he called in to see us last night, so there were only a few left.’ He smiled fondly. ‘I like to
spoil Bishop Geoffrey. He has always been good to us. He will prove a friend over these current troubles, too.’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ said Cadifor fervently.

Cole wrapped Asser in his cloak, ready to be taken back to the castle, while Cadifor began to pray again for the dead man’s soul. The commotion had prompted two of the visitors to emerge
from the guesthouse: Sacrist Gilbert from Hempsted and Llanthony’s fat Prior Roger.

‘Gluttony,’ declared Gilbert sanctimoniously, when he heard about the marchpanes. ‘Asser should have restrained himself.’

‘I love marchpanes,’ said Roger wistfully, while Gwenllian gripped Cole’s hand to prevent him from making a tart rejoinder. ‘They are my favourite of all things. Did this
knight eat them all, or are there any left?’

‘Yes, but they are for the bishop,’ said Dafydd curtly. ‘And no one else.’

‘I am Prior of Llanthony,’ declared Roger angrily. ‘It is not for a mere cook to forbid sweetmeats to me. Now fetch them at once.’

‘You always were a greedy fellow, Roger,’ said Cadifor in distaste, while Dafydd glowered at the prior and refused to move. ‘You should beware. Greed is almost as deadly a sin
as sloth – the vice that ended up killing your predecessor.’

Fortunately, a clatter of hoofs heralded the arrival of Geoffrey, so a quarrel was averted. Keen to assert his ecclesiastical authority with a show of pomp, the bishop had brought not only his
secretarius and the castle scribe, as he had been asked, but a large number of richly clad attendants. They formed an impressive procession, and Gwenllian saw Cadifor’s monks take courage
from the spectacle.

Walter emerged from the guesthouse, and hurried towards the prelate, ready to begin whispering in his ear. Bishop Geoffrey, however, was more concerned with Asser. He eyed Walter coldly until
the prior fell silent, then walked to the dead knight’s body.

‘Pity,’ he said softly. ‘Asser was a good man. A crusader, no less.’

Gwenllian did not think the two were necessarily linked, and was of the opinion that most crusaders were violent brutes who should not have been allowed back into the country. Even her beloved
Symon had done some terrible things in the name of the so-called holy war.

‘He died because he gorged on your marchpanes, Father Bishop,’ said Dafydd bluntly, and with a good deal of rancour.

Geoffrey blinked. ‘He choked on them?’

‘They probably brought about an apoplexy,’ explained Cadifor. ‘But you have some experience with medicine, Your Grace. Examine him, and give us your opinion.’

The bishop was famous for his skills as a healer, an unusual talent for a prelate, but one for which hundreds had been grateful. He knelt by the body, and Gwenllian was impressed by his calm,
competent manner, although he eventually stood and raised his hands in a shrug.

‘I see nothing to tell me you are wrong, Prior Cadifor. An apoplexy is the most likely explanation for what happened. Poor, poor man.’

Gwenllian had always liked the Austins’ chapel. It was a pretty, silent place with large windows that made it light and airy, even on the darkest of days. It was
stone-built, with a grey tiled roof, and boasted some of the finest carvings in the country. Cadifor led the way inside, where he arranged seats for Gwenllian, Cole, the bishop and the scribes.
Londres and the Hempsted faction were left to fend for themselves. Walter snapped imperious fingers, and his canons brought him a chair that was far grander than anyone else’s. Geoffrey
pursed his lips disapprovingly, and Gwenllian saw he was unimpressed with the petty point-scoring.

‘Send your scribe home, Cole,’ ordered Prior Walter. ‘You, too, Bishop. There is not enough room at the table, and there is no need for us all to record what is said. My man,
Cadifor’s clerk and Henry are more than enough.’

‘It would be remiss not to keep our own account,’ said Gwenllian, sweetly, aware that Henry and Walter’s versions were likely to match, thus casting doubt on Cadifor’s.
‘Our scribe will stay.’

‘So will mine,’ added Geoffrey genially. ‘He is not doing anything else today.’

‘Then it will be the best documented hearing in the history of Carmarthen,’ drawled Stacpol, as Londres, Belat and Henry exchanged irritable glances. ‘Five separate reports!
And I am sure they will all be accurate reflections of what happens here.’

‘He has just lost a friend,’ whispered Gwenllian to Cole. ‘Yet he here he is making snide remarks. Perhaps he is glad Asser is no more, because now no one can tell me what
transpired between him and those clerks.’

‘You spout nonsense, Gwen,’ replied Cole shortly. A facet of her husband’s character that annoyed her intensely was an unquestioning allegiance to those he considered to be
friends. Few deserved it, and he was invariably surprised to learn that his loyalty was misplaced, or that the ‘friends’ were nothing of the kind. ‘He is grieving deeply, as am
I.’

When everyone was settled, Geoffrey asked for God’s blessing on the proceedings, then declared them open. Cadifor and Walter drew breath to speak, but Prior Roger was there first.

‘It has been a long time since we met, Cadifor,’ he said. ‘And I know why you came to this desolate backwater – you could not bear to remain at Llanthony when I was in
charge.’

‘Carmarthen is not a desolate backwater,’ objected Cole, offended. He turned to Walter. ‘And you must agree, or you would not be here trying to steal it.’

‘I steal nothing,’ said Walter, tight-lipped. ‘I only claim what is lawfully mine.’

‘Why did
you
come, Prior Roger?’ asked Gwenllian quickly, before Cole could argue. Londres was grinning at her husband’s incautious words, and she had no doubt that
Henry was gleefully recording them for the King’s edification. ‘Are Llanthony’s affairs still entwined with those of Hempsted?’

‘They are,’ replied Walter, before Roger could answer for himself. ‘Our foundations are very close, and we support each other in all things.’

‘If you say so,’ muttered Roger. ‘Although Llanthony will not benefit from this particular jaunt, and I would rather have stayed home. It may not be very comfortable without
the income from Hempsted, but it is better than the open road in January.’

‘I imagine he is a hostage,’ Gwenllian murmured in Cole’s ear. ‘Walter brought him to prevent Llanthony from doing anything to harm Hempsted while he is away. Clever
Walter! He has left nothing to chance.’

‘If I were a canon of Llanthony, I would not be too concerned about putting Roger in danger,’ Cole muttered back. ‘He is not a very nice man, and I imagine his monks are
delighted to be rid of him for a while.’

They stopped whispering when Walter stood, towering over them all. He was a formidable presence, and Gwenllian was not surprised that so many churches and manors had fallen under the force of
his personality.

‘I, Walter of Hempsted, hereby lay claim to Carmarthen Priory,’ he intoned in a powerful voice that rang through the ancient arches. ‘My claim is based on history – this
place was founded by a Hempsted monk, and was always intended to be a cell. King John agrees, and has furnished us with a writ giving his approval.’

Belat produced a document, a luxurious thing of velum with a large red seal. ‘Anyone may look, but no one may touch,’ he said. ‘We cannot have it “accidentally”
torn, and thus rendered null and void.’

Gwenllian immediately suspected that he did not want it examined too closely lest it was revealed as fraudulent, so she went at once to inspect it. Cadifor and Geoffrey did likewise, although
Cole did not bother, knowing he could look all he liked, but was unlikely to spot anything amiss – he was a warrior, not a clerk, and was happy to leave such matters to Gwenllian.
Unfortunately, she could detect nothing wrong either.

‘Perhaps a Hempsted monk did found Carmarthen,’ said Cadifor, when everyone was seated again. He made no remark on the document, but his expression was strained: Gwenllian was not
the only one who thought it was probably genuine. ‘However, I cannot imagine that he intended you to come along a century later and claim it for yourself.’

‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Roger. Anticipating a lengthy hearing, he had brought some food with him, and the front of his habit was covered in crumbs. ‘Now can we go
home?’

Gwenllian addressed him. ‘Hempsted was still a daughter house of Llanthony when this monk was founding cells. Ergo, it should be Llanthony making this claim, not Hempsted.’

Roger waved a careless hand. ‘I suppose so, but that would entail a great deal of work, and such details have never been my forte.’

‘No,’ said Cadifor acidly. ‘Details such as ensuring that Prior Martin wrote to the Pope to contest Hempsted’s bid for independence. Carmarthen would not be in this
situation now if you had done your duty.’

‘It was Martin’s responsibility, not mine,’ objected Roger. ‘And he paid the price for his indolence. He will be in Hell as I speak, in a snake pit, which is the fate for
those of a slothful disposition.’

‘Are you not concerned that you might join him there?’ asked Cadifor archly. ‘I know that you have done nothing to improve Llanthony’s lot since you were appointed, and
its situation has gone from bad to worse.’

‘I am not slothful!’ declared Roger. ‘I just have a pragmatic approach to life, which entails not striving after impossible goals. You should learn from me, Cadifor. The
King’s writ means you are already defeated.’

‘The King can issue writs all he likes,’ Cadifor shot back angrily, ‘but we are an independent house, and the only man who can decide otherwise is our Prior General. The
King’s opinion is irrelevant in this matter.’

‘Watch your tongue, monk,’ hissed Henry menacingly. ‘There are many who would consider that remark treason.’

‘And there are many more who would consider it the truth,’ flashed Cadifor. ‘Walter’s claim is a contrived nonsense.’