‘Here is Osbert with his crwth,’ said Gwenllian, relieved when the bald archdeacon re-entered the hall. ‘It is the custom to listen in silence.’
‘Whose custom?’ asked Gerald curiously. ‘It is not a Welsh one.’
‘Carmarthen’s,’ said Gwenllian firmly, and gestured for Osbert to begin.
At her insistence, he played until the guests were yawning and the fire had burned low in the hearth. All bade their hosts a hasty good night when the archdeacon paused to massage his sore fingers, and escaped while they could. Cole sighed when they had gone.
‘Let us hope the snow melts tonight, because I do not think I can stand another evening like that one. They bickered like fractious children!’
They went to bed, and Gwenllian was not sure how long they had been asleep before she became aware that Cole was no longer lying next to her. By the embers of the fire she saw him buckling his sword around his waist.
‘What is the matter?’ she asked in alarm.
‘I heard something,’ he whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’
Gwenllian climbed out of bed and tugged her cloak around her. ‘What did you hear?’
‘I am not sure. A thump, as if something had fallen. It was-’
He stopped when a series of anguished howls tore through the silence of the night. He raced from the room, Gwenllian at his heels. The wails were coming from the chamber that had been allocated to the St Davids priests, and he flung open the door, drawing his sword as he did so. He stopped so abruptly that Gwenllian cannoned into the back of him. Pontius was lying on a mattress, his head obscured by a stone that had dropped from the wall and crushed him.
The horrified cries of Gerald and Foliot brought the other castle guests running. Prior Dunstan was clad comically in a long white nightshift, although Secretary Hurso and Robert wore their habits. The two knights were on their heels, both holding swords and looking so alert that Gwenllian suspected that neither had been asleep; she wondered what they had been doing.
Iefan and Burchill also arrived. Gwenllian was not surprised to see Iefan, because the sergeant never strayed far from Cole – he hated the idea of not being first to hand if there was trouble – but Burchill owned a house in the town, and never slept inside the castle. He saw Gwenllian looking at him and shrugged.
‘I do not trust Norrys,’ he whispered. ‘Symon is safer with me nearby.’
Cole did not need the protection of an old man, and Burchill knew it, leaving Gwenllian wondering why he had forgone the luxury of his own bed. She forced her attention back to the room. Gerald and Foliot were pressed against the far wall, as if they were afraid more stones might drop, while the Canterbury visitors were clustered in the doorway. Cole was crouching by Pontius, feeling for signs of life. Evidently, there was none, because he stood and addressed Iefan.
‘Fetch Cethynoc. Being a mason, he can tell us what happened.’
‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ sneered Norrys. ‘A great lump of rock has dropped out of the wall and landed on Pontius’s skull. You do not need a mason to tell-’
‘Stones do not fall for no reason,’ retorted Cole. ‘We need the opinion of a professional man if we are to understand what happened here.’
‘You mean someone might have caused it to fall deliberately?’ whispered Gerald, while Gwenllian wished Cole had kept his thoughts to himself. ‘That Pontius has been murdered?’
‘We cannot know yet,’ she said, stepping forward quickly. ‘Perhaps you will tell us what you did after you retired?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Foliot’s voice was unsteady, and his kindly face was white. ‘Pontius and Gerald came here directly, while I went to the kitchen for a poultice to put on my injured shoulder. When I returned, they had already doused the candle. I climbed on to my own pallet, and was almost asleep when there was a terrible crash… ’
‘I let Pontius have the best bed, because he has a bad back,’ explained Gerald. Anger replaced shock as he glared at the envoys from Canterbury. ‘But they would have expected me to take it, because I am bishop elect. They arranged for the rock to drop, because they want me dead. But their villainous plot failed, and poor Pontius is killed in my place.’
‘How dare you accuse us!’ shouted Dunstan. His goat-beard was stiff with outrage. ‘We had nothing to do with it.’
‘It is true,’ said Secretary Hurso, licking dry lips. ‘We did not.’
‘We would not sully our hands,’ stated Norrys, although there was a glint in his eye that Gwenllian did not like at all. Meanwhile, Luci said nothing, and his face was closed and difficult to read.
‘At least it was quick,’ said Robert, who had pushed his way into the room and was inspecting Pontius’s body with ghoulish relish. Cole inserted himself between them, forcing the young Austin to return to his companions.
‘Did you notice anything amiss before you retired?’ Cole asked. ‘Dust on the bedclothes, for example, which might have suggested the stones were unstable?’
‘It did not occur to us to look for such a thing,’ said Gerald, troubled.
‘Then did you hear anything before it fell?’ persisted Cole.
‘No, we were asleep,’ replied Foliot. He kept glancing uneasily at Gerald, as if he was considering his bishop elect as the culprit. ‘The crash woke us.’
‘It woke us too,’ said Prior Dunstan. ‘Along with the screeches that followed.’
‘We did not screech,’ snapped Gerald. ‘We raised the alarm. And I doubt you were asleep when this happened. I think you were waiting for it, because you arranged it to fall. As I said, you want me dead, because you see me as a threat.’
‘You are a nuisance,’ said Dunstan witheringly. ‘Not a threat.’
‘It is true, Gerald,’ said Secretary Hurso with an apologetic shrug. ‘You are not sufficiently important to warrant us staining our souls with the sin of murder.’
‘It is another example of shoddy workmanship in Carmarthen Castle,’ crowed Norrys. ‘Guests will not die under collapsing walls when I am constable.’
Gwenllian studied each of the guests in turn. Norrys had been very quick to blame Cole. Had he arranged for the stone to fall, to improve his chances of being made constable? She could not read Luci, so did not know whether he was the kind of man to help a brother knight commit murder.
Meanwhile, Gerald seemed more indignant than dismayed by Pontius’s fate. Tears gleamed in Foliot’s eyes, but she had seen other killers weep for their victims. Had Gerald or Foliot dropped the stone on the sleeping Pontius, just so they could accuse Dunstan of the act?
She glanced at the three Austins. Or had one of them tried to kill the man who was such a thorn in their side, so they would not have to return to Canterbury and admit failure, and Gerald was right to believe he would be dead if he had taken the best bed? With a sigh, she supposed she would have to find out.
Cole, Burchill and Iefan carried the body to the chapel, leaving Gwenllian to persuade the visitors back to bed. Not surprisingly, Gerald declined to sleep in the chamber where his friend had died, so she helped him and Foliot move into her own. Foliot accompanied Gerald very reluctantly, and once again Gwenllian wondered whether he suspected the bishop elect of foul play. When they were settled – Gerald to sleep, but Foliot announcing that he would spend the rest of the night awake in prayer – she went to the chapel. Cethynoc was there, making his report to Cole.
‘There were scratches that suggest the mortar was deliberately prised out,’ the mason was saying. ‘As you would have seen for yourself had you bothered to look. You did not need to drag me out of bed. Or will you pay me for the inconvenience?’
‘No,’ said Burchill, before Cole could reply, ‘but we will not set you in the stocks for your insolence. How does that sound?’