‘You are pale,’ whispered Robert, appearing at Wilfred’s side and making him jump. He held a jug of wine. ‘Drink this. It will calm your nerves.’
‘My nerves are perfectly calm,’ snapped Wilfred, but it was a lie, because his heart thumped and his hands were sweaty. He could not stop himself from thinking about what had happened when this particular section had last been performed at Oseney. It was all very well for Gerald to sniff his disdain at the concept of luck, but Wilfred was less willing to dismiss things he could not begin to understand.
He drank two cups of Robert’s claret, but it only served to make him more agitated than ever, and he kept seeing the face of a long-dead canon named Paul in his mind’s eye – surprisingly vividly, given that Paul had been in his grave for almost half a century. Wilfred listened to the familiar words, and heartily wished the abbot had found another way to distract his querulous guests.
Beware the sins of envy and vainglory,
Else foul murder ends your story.
For some unaccountable reason, the final couplet struck a cold fear into Wilfred. Was it guilt, gnawing at him in a way that it had never done before? He shook himself impatiently. It was late, he was tired, and he had drunk too much. He would feel better in the morning.
But the room tipped, and he stumbled to his knees. What was happening? He grabbed the table for support, upsetting the wine jug as he did so. He felt terrible – there was a burning pain in his innards and he was struggling to breathe. Was he having a seizure? Or was it divine vengeance for his role in the untimely deaths of Paul, Sylvanus, Wigod and several others who had had the temerity to stand between him and his desire for an easy life?
Then another thought occurred to him, one that made his blood run cold. Had he been poisoned? Prior Dunstan’s servant claimed he had – by the priests from Wales – and Wilfred was sure the trio had not forgotten his incautious remark about modesty. Or had Dunstan made an end of him because he had wanted to be God? Or was this Robert’s parting gift to a master he disliked? Yet surely no one would kill for such petty reasons?
‘A seizure,’ declared Hugh sadly, when Wilfred had stopped shuddering and lay still. ‘He was past three score years and ten, so had reached his allotted time.’
But someone among the onlookers knew different.
II
Carmarthen, December 1199
Gwenllian awoke to a world transformed. There had been a few flurries of snow the previous day, but nothing to prepare her for the fall that had taken place during the night. She opened the window shutters to a blanket of pure white, broken only by the icy black snake of the River Towy meandering towards the sea.
She leaned her elbows on the sill and gazed out at the town that had been her home for the past thirteen years. She had hated it at first, frightened by its uneasy mix of Welsh, Norman and English residents, while the castle had been an unsavoury conglomeration of ugly palisades, muddy ditches and grubby tents. It was certainly no place for a Welsh princess, who had been raised in an atmosphere of cultured gentility, surrounded by poets and men of learning.
She had not been particularly enamoured of her new husband, either. Her father, Lord Rhys, had arranged the match because it had been politically expedient to ally himself to one of the King’s favourite knights, and Gwenllian had been horrified to find herself with a spouse whose mind was considerably less sharp than her own. But she had gradually grown to love Sir Symon Cole, and to love Carmarthen, with its bustling port, hectic market and prettily winding streets.
The castle was improving as well, now that Cole was rebuilding parts of it in stone. He had already raised a fine hall with comfortable living quarters for his household and guests, while his soldiers were housed in dry, clean wooden barracks. He was currently working on the bailey walls, although a spate of silly mishaps meant the project was taking longer than he thought it should.
Yet despite his grumbles, the walls were still ahead of schedule, mostly because he was content to let Gwenllian order supplies and haggle for the best prices, while he oversaw the physical side of the operation. He had no skill at administration, and it was widely thought that he would not have remained constable for as long as he had without his wife’s talent for organisation.
It was not long after dawn, and she could hear the usual sounds of early morning – the clank of the winch on the well as water was raised for cooking and cleaning, the chatter of servants laying fires and sweeping floors, and the shrill crow of cockerels. The sharp scent of burning wood was carried on the wind, along with the richer aroma of baking bread.
She could see the builders at the curtain wall already, despite the bitter weather. Cole was there too, shovelling snow off a pile of stones. She smiled. Not many constables would deign to wield a spade themselves, but the labourers liked the fact that Cole was willing to toil by their side. Of course, there was also the fact that he enjoyed it, being a large, strong man who excelled at physical activities.
She watched the mason – a sullen, avaricious man named Cethynoc – climb the wall and walk along the top, kicking off snow as he went. Clearly, he was going to decide if work would have to stop, or if it could continue. Suddenly, there was a yell and the workmen scattered in alarm. Something had fallen off the top of the wall. Gwenllian’s stomach lurched in horror – she could not see Cole among the milling labourers!
She turned and raced out of the bedchamber, almost falling in her haste to reach the bailey. Iefan, Cole’s faithful sergeant, was also running there, but he stopped and took her arm when he saw her. Gwenllian knew why: her second child would be born in May, and the entire castle had suddenly become solicitous, knowing exactly who was responsible for their regular pay, clean barracks and decent food.
Heart pounding, she approached the wall, then closed her eyes in relief when she saw Cole inspecting a piece of rope. His naturally cheerful face was sombre as he grabbed her hand and pulled her to one side so the workmen would not hear what he was saying.
‘You did not believe me when I told you someone was sabotaging our work.’ He held out the rope. ‘Do you believe me now? This has been deliberately cut, so that a bucket full of rubble would drop from the top of the wall.’
Gwenllian examined it, then shook her head. ‘It has frayed, Symon. If it had been cut, the edges would be sharp and…’
She faltered into silence when he scraped his dagger back and forth on another part of the rope, eventually producing a break that was identical to the one in her hand. She stared at it, but still could not bring herself to believe what he was suggesting.
‘It was an accident,’ she insisted. ‘Who would interfere with the castle walls? When they are finished, they will benefit everyone – the entire town will be able to take refuge here in times of trouble. There cannot be a saboteur.’
‘This is the fifth “accident” in two weeks. The others have been more nuisance than danger – spoiled mortar, lost nails, loosened knots on the scaffolding – but this one might have killed someone. I need to catch the culprit before he claims a life.’
‘No,’ said Gwenllian firmly. ‘It is just a spate of unfortunate coincidences. No one can have anything against your walls. Indeed, they are popular because they are providing employment for the poor at a time when other work is scarce.’
‘A stone castle is a symbol of Norman domination,’ Cole pointed out, ‘and some people are afraid that it might be used for subjugation as well as defence.’
‘They know you would never use it for such a purpose,’ objected Gwenllian.
‘Perhaps, but King John itches to dismiss me and appoint someone else. It is only a matter of time before he finds a way to do it. And people remember my predecessor.’