Free Hill of Bones by The Medieval Murderers Page B

bed.
    There followed the sounds of a clumsy skirmish – swords whipping through the air, mostly failing to connect but occasionally resulting in a clash or a grunt, and muttered curses. There was another sound, too: a deep, guttural growl. Had the invaders brought an animal? Gwenllian’s blood ran cold at the notion.
    ‘Kill him quickly!’ came a furious hiss. ‘You are making too much noise.’
    Gwenllian tried to identify the voice, but she had never been good at recognising whispers. Sparks flew when a sword struck the stone wall. Then she heard a cudgel land with a sickening thud, and Cole gasped in pain. A second blow followed, and she sensed his assailants home in on the sound. Unwilling to cower while he was battered to death, she began to scream as loudly as she could.
    ‘Silence her!’ came the frantic voice.
    Gwenllian kept yelling, punching away the hands that tried to lay hold of her. Then footsteps hammered on the stairs. Rescue! A sudden draught told her a window had been opened. The hands withdrew, and she scrambled from under the bed just in time to see three shadows jostling with each other to make their escape.
    Cole struggled to his feet and started to follow, but reeled dizzily. Iefan jerked him back before he could tumble out.
    ‘You cannot fight with a broken sword,’ the sergeant said gruffly. ‘I will go.’
    Cole glanced at the weapon in his hand, and swore when he saw the tip of the blade had sheared off. He sat on the bed, hand to his side, and smiled wanly at Gwenllian.
    ‘I thought I was dead once they had knocked me down, but your howls drove them off.’
    Gwenllian inspected his ribs. The cudgel’s imprints were etched clearly into his skin, long red marks already darkening into bruises. There were lacerations at one end, too, where she assumed sharp objects had been hammered into it, to render it more deadly.
    Eventually, Iefan returned to report that their attackers had escaped him. Tracking was difficult at night, and the culprits knew the city better than he. Then the landlord arrived, all horrified concern. Nothing like it had ever happened before, he told them; Gwenllian was sure he was telling the truth. He refused to leave until he was sure they believed him, so it was some time before she and Cole were alone again.
    ‘It was too dark to see, but they had an animal,’ she said. ‘I heard snarls . . .’
    ‘A dog,’ nodded Cole. ‘I heard it, too. And they were professional warriors – I could tell by the way they fought.’
    ‘Osmun and Fevil? Or soldiers hired by someone else? Regardless, it tells us that someone does not want us asking questions.’
    Gwenllian dozed fitfully for the rest of the night, while Cole declined to sleep at all; he stood guard by the door, honing a dagger to keep himself awake. As soon as it was light, they went to find a smith who could mend his sword.
    They were directed to a man who had set up business by one of the springs, the stench of hot metal vying with the sulphurous odour of steaming water. He was chewing a stick of dried meat, which he was evidently in the habit of sharing with local dogs, because a pack had gathered by his door. Gwenllian gave them a wide berth, but Cole stopped to pet a couple; they swarmed around him, tails wagging.
    Once the smith had assured Cole that the sword would be repaired by the following day, they left for the abbey. Gwenllian wanted to see Reginald’s grave, although Cole grumbled that they would be better off confronting Dacus.
    The tomb was a simple one, near the high altar, and was surrounded by pilgrims. Robert detached himself from the throng, and came to greet them.
    ‘The miracles started here two months ago,’ he said proudly. ‘Beginning with the return of Savaric’s crosier.’
    ‘But Reginald has been dead for eight years,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Why the delay?’
    ‘Who knows the minds of the saints?’ Robert turned his gaze heavenward.
    ‘Perhaps these miracles should be