The Favored Son

by Sarah Woodbury

  “I wish I could talk to Earl Robert about this. I miss him,” Hamelin said simply. “The world is a poorer place without him in it.”

  “I never really met him, but my parents solved a murder at Newcastle-under-Lyme when he was in residence—at his request—and he never struck me as one to be anything less than diligent or to accept anything less than complete attentiveness in his men.”

  “That was years ago.” Hamelin started along the wall-walk to the tower they’d come up. “This past year he was much diminished, and he knew it. I haven’t said as much to Henry, who is still in deep mourning, but it was no life Earl Robert was living. I think by the end he welcomed death.”

  Llelo hastened to come abreast, stunned and honored at the same time that Hamelin would trust him with these thoughts. “Who is the captain of the garrison?”

  “Harold of Linfield.”

  Thomas had long since disappeared inside the tower, but now he reappeared on an adjacent wall-walk, where he stopped and spoke to another guard. From what Llelo could see, only two soldiers were on duty on the wall-walks of the keep at any one time. At the moment, the job belonged to Thomas and this second man. A third stood on the top of one of the towers, at the moment looking west towards the Severn Sea and Wales.

  Llelo could also see a man patrolling the wall-walk of the wall that surrounded the keep and the inner ward, and he could just glimpse a second farther along. Logically, the bulk of the men on duty patrolled the outer curtain walls, since these would be the first line of defense of the castle. He assumed someone was guarding the postern gate as well, though he had yet to locate it. He hoped, too, that Harold had posted someone at the entrance to the tunnel.

  “It is easy to become complacent,” Hamelin said. “Bristol has never been attacked. Most of these men have no experience in war.” He stopped abruptly to look at Llelo. “You have been a guard. Does that mean you have fought in battle?”

  “Yes. Gwynedd was at odds with Chester until we took Mold last spring. I was on the front lines throughout.” Llelo paused. “And then I was with Prince Hywel when he and his allies took Wiston from the Flemings.”’

  “You know the Dragons?” Hamelin’s expression lit, much as Prince Henry’s had when he’d spoken of them earlier that morning.

  Llelo found himself grinning. “Of course. They are my father’s closest companions. You can meet them. They are here.”

  Hamelin instantly deflated. “They won’t have any interest in me. I have never fought, not really. The few skirmishes last spring were with poorly-armed men and peasants. We should not have come when we did. My brother understood his folly almost immediately, but it was too late to turn back.”

  Llelo studied Hamelin’s downturned head. In this, Henry reminded Llelo strongly of Dai, though thankfully Dai was merely a man-at-arms and his impetuousness had never been on display for an entire country. “Prince Henry turned to Earl Robert for help, and he did not give it. Was that to teach him a lesson?”

  As he asked the question, Llelo had a moment of fear that it was one question too many and that Hamelin would take offense, but his new friend answered seriously.

  “I do not believe now that Earl Robert wanted to deny aid, but he had no choice since Henry’s mother had already done so. He was ill, but he still welcomed us when we arrived. If you need to know more, that is a conversation you must have with the prince himself.” Hamelin paused. “Or perhaps not.”

  Llelo gave a low laugh, knowing already that the prince had his own opinion about the circumstances of his debt to King Stephen. “Perhaps not.”

  They’d been talking freely, since they were alone in the stairwell, but one step from the stairway door, Llelo came to a dead halt. The foyer was full of people—he would have said unusually so. Hamelin butted up behind him, forcing Llelo to take another step, at which point everyone realized they were there. Many people had been talking animatedly up until that point, but as one their heads swiveled towards him and Hamelin. Silence descended on the room. Hamelin nudged Llelo in the back again, implying that Llelo himself should speak.

  His mouth went dry, and all of a sudden he didn’t have a single word of French in his head. His face coloring, he stepped quickly out of Hamelin’s way instead, and Hamelin bent his head in acknowledgement of the attention they were receiving. “As you must know by now, Sir Aubrey is dead, killed by a stone falling from the battlement. If you can tell us anything pertaining to this matter, please come forward—if not now, then at your earliest opportunity.” He stopped.

  Llelo’s heart raced as he realized that Hamelin didn’t know what else to say to them—and how could he? That was Llelo’s job. In a rush, before his brain could get in the way of his mouth, he added, “I am Llelo. It is my father, Sir Gareth, who has come at Prince Henry’s request to address these matters. Our companions are known as the Dragons—” a murmur went around the room at his words, which, quite frankly, was why Llelo had said them, “—and any one of us would be pleased to hear whatever you have to say.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  Then, with Hamelin at his side, he strode for the door as quickly as he could.

  Chapter Seven

  Gwen

  The five soldiers Roger had brought with him fell into formation around Gareth, Gwen, and Gruffydd, giving Gwen the feeling of being a prisoner, though she didn’t believe that was the intent. Normans liked formality, and they had a tendency to stand on ceremony even though more might be accomplished with a jest and a please.

  This time, however, when they passed into the keep, rather than taking them to the receiving room in which they’d met Prince Henry earlier that morning, Roger led them up the stairs in one of the towers—the same one Gwen had taken to get to the wall-walk—to an upstairs chamber located above the great hall. It was decorated like a noblewoman’s solar, with soft cushions on the window seat, several wide chairs, a thick fur on the floor, and a blazing fire. Gwen was tempted to sit without being asked, if for no other reason than because Taran was heavy. Before she could, however, a middle-aged woman came through a far doorway—gliding rather than walking—and put a hand on the back of a comfortable chair nearest the fire.

  “Wine, Roger.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Roger moved with alacrity while the other men around Gwen shrank back slightly—the Norman men, that is. Gareth and Gruffydd had no inherent fear of her, though Gwen had a sudden thought that perhaps they should.

  Mabel came serenely around the chair and accepted a goblet of wine from her son. Then, with a flick of her hand, she dismissed not only her own lady-in-waiting, who faded back through the doorway and closed the door, but the Norman guards who’d accompanied Gareth and Gwen. Before the man closest to Gwen turned away, he let out an audible sigh of relief, prompting a momentary laugh from Gwen, which she barely managed to swallow down. It would have been inappropriate, and the last thing she wanted was to get on the wrong side of Lady Mabel.

  His expression solicitous, Roger returned to the table set against the wall to Gwen’s right, and Gruffydd moved silently to put his back to the main door, as Llelo had done downstairs in Prince Henry’s receiving room.

  Gwen schooled her expression and studied Earl Robert’s widow. By all accounts, and by Gwen’s own assessment when she’d met him, Robert had been the kind of man who filled every room he entered. He was a strong leader—and a good man. The authority emanating from Mabel indicated that he’d also been a strong enough man to have a wife who intimidated everyone in her vicinity. Gwen had a passing thought that she’d love to know how Mabel and Empress Maud got along—and strongly suspected the answer was not at all well. That could be why Maud was mourning her brother alone at Devizes rather than with the widow here at Bristol.

  Mabel was Gwen’s height but very thin, as sometimes happened to women once their childbearing years were over. Even now, Mabel might not be entirely out of them, since she was somewhere in her forties. Earl Robert himself had been in the vicinity
of fifty. Together they had more than a half-dozen living children, the eldest of whom, William, had now inherited his father’s title. William was twenty-seven, having been born within a year of his father’s marriage to Mabel, and was seven years older than Roger.

  Gwen had noticed that sometimes when a couple had been married for many years, they started to resemble one another. Mabel was a much smaller person than her late husband had been, but they shared the same patrician nose, high forehead, and slate-gray hair, which in Mabel’s case was pulled back in a bun on the top of her head. Inside her own quarters, she wore no veil or kerchief. Her dress was of the finest wool Gwen had ever seen. Gwen still hadn’t changed out of her traveling clothes, and she felt drab and unfashionable by comparison. Probably, given her nursing mother’s figure, she would have felt that way regardless of what she was wearing.

  Having given his mother her wine, Roger poured a second goblet for Gwen, which she took with surprise and gratitude. Because of Taran’s needs, she was constantly thirsty, and if Roger hadn’t come to find her and Gareth, she would have made her way to the kitchen for refreshment.

  As she took a sip, Roger retreated back to the table. “Mother, it is a pleasure to see you. I had thought it was Cousin Henry who would be here. That is what I told Sir Gareth.”

  “Henry had other duties to attend to, and I wanted to speak to our guests myself.” Her look was severe.

  Gwen was left with the impression that Roger had been deliberately deceived—for reasons Gwen couldn’t yet decipher. Did Mabel fear that if she asked directly for Gwen and Gareth to come to her they wouldn’t have done so? The idea was ludicrous enough to be dismissed out of hand.

  Mabel raised a finger to Gruffydd. “I would speak to Sir Gareth and Lady Gwen alone.”

  Gruffydd’s eyes went immediately to Gareth, who conveyed his assent, and Gruffydd did as he was bid, though with obvious reluctance. “I will be outside if you need me,” he muttered in Welsh under his breath before closing the door behind him.

  While Roger had given Gwen a full goblet, Mabel hadn’t granted Gwen, who still held Taran in his sling, permission to sit. It was incredibly rude of her. Gwen would have thought that a matron like Mabel, who saw herself as superior in every way to Gwen, would not want to appear ungracious. She could have offered Gwen a seat if only to appear like a queen to a lowly subject. Then again, perhaps in her eyes, Gwen’s station was so far beneath hers that she didn’t believe she was a person worthy of notice. That was the reason she’d looked daggers at her son when he’d given Gwen the wine.

  She and Gareth were worthy enough of notice for Mabel to fix them with a beady gaze, however. “Henry believes my husband was murdered. I do not concur, and if it had been up to me, you would not be here now.”

  Taran, with the perfect timing of a baby, chose that moment to squawk. He flailed his arms, almost knocking Gwen’s cup out of her hand, and arched his back, demanding to be let out of his blankets.

  To Gwen’s relief, even though Mabel had showed no concern for her up until now, the noblewoman’s reaction was immediate. “Sit, my dear. You’ve traveled far, and my nephew should not have put this burden on you before you’d even had a chance to rest.” While offering Gwen a place to sit, one woman to another, had been out of the question, one mother to another was apparently a different matter.

  Gwen sat gratefully, putting the wine aside and pulling Taran out of his sling to hold him in her lap. Meanwhile, Mabel’s attention shifted back to Gareth. “How could you have brought her so far?”

  Gareth stood his ground, though he had his legs spread and his hands behind his back, as if fearing he was about to be buffeted by a high wind instead of merely Mabel’s opinions. “Prince Henry indicated that his need for our presence was urgent, and circumstances were such that leaving Aberystwyth seemed a better idea than staying.”

  “Croup. I heard.” Mabel canted her head, condescending to admit that Gareth might have a point.

  Gareth bowed. “Please allow me to express my condolences for your loss.”

  Mabel didn’t appear to know what to make of that. Either she was offended by his courtesy or surprised that such a pretty statement had come out of a Welshman’s mouth. Instead of thanking him or making any reply, she took a long drink of wine, nearly draining the cup, and resettled herself in her chair. The back of the chair was to the fire so she faced Gareth, who remained standing somewhat awkwardly in front of her.

  At which point Gwen realized that she had done Mabel a disservice. The Lady of Gloucester had been moved, not offended, by Gareth’s condolences, and her fluster and bluster had been intended to give herself time to recover from strong emotion—something these Normans strived at all times to hide.

  Finally, Mabel spoke again, though it was to address a new subject. “I hear you’ve already examined Aubrey’s body.”

  “Yes, my lady, though my conclusions are of no great import. We know how he died.”

  “And the battlement?”

  Gwen cleared her throat. “I’ve seen it, my lady. As did our son, who is even now speaking with the soldiers on duty at the time. The mason who examined the break does not believe it credible that the mortar failed in only that spot. He is of the opinion that someone deliberately chiseled out the stone.”

  “So this is murder.” It wasn’t a question.

  “It appears so,” Gareth said.

  Mabel sniffed. “It seems you have made business for yourselves here after all.”

  That was so patently unfair, Gwen’s breath caught in her throat.

  Gareth struggled on. “With these other deaths—”

  Mabel cut him off with a wave of her hand. “My husband’s death aside, I do agree that we’ve been stricken by a series of unfortunate events. The common folk are near panic, and I myself have been at wit’s end with them. The castle is in disarray, a condition I cannot abide. We’ve had enough death, murder, and betrayal with this infernal war without adding to it with unexpected losses like Aubrey’s.” She glared at Gareth, seemingly not having the heart to take Gwen to task with a baby in her arms. “I do not see the benefit in upsetting my people more than they already are. You must be more discreet! I can’t imagine what my nephew was thinking inviting strangers to Bristol.”

  Gareth wet his lips. “I apologize for any unrest our presence and our questions may cause. But asking questions is the only way to uncover the truth. If there’s a murderer loose in Bristol, it is only by making inquiries that we will catch him, hopefully before he strikes again.”

  “If.” She sniffed again. “And can you guarantee that he won’t strike again if you do ask your questions?”

  Gareth was silent a moment. “No, madam. I cannot. Even now he might be plotting his next move.”

  Mabel shuddered and seemed about to speak, but Roger cleared his throat. “We can’t send them away now, Mother.”

  “People might think I had something to hide, you mean?” Mabel was too ladylike to snort, but Gwen had the definite impression she wanted to.

  Roger’s next comment was more tentative. “It would also be ... unwise to overrule Henry. We can’t have his authority undermined.”

  “You don’t have to remind me of my place, Roger. William is the new earl, and while he didn’t support Henry’s accusations, it would have been impolitic to forbid Henry to pursue them.” Mabel made a tsking sound under her breath. “And look where it has got us.”

  Mabel’s comment implied that if Henry hadn’t summoned Gareth and Gwen, Sir Aubrey would not be dead. It was a disconcerting thought, and Gwen was honest enough to acknowledge that it might even be true. But the thought, by definition, indicated that at least one of these other deaths was not an accident. Gwen didn’t dare point out Mabel’s flawed logic, but she wasn’t going to cower before her either. “What can you tell us of these other deaths, my lady?”

  “Nothing.”

  Gwen ground her teeth, striving for patience. Lady Mabel’s response was one she might have
expected from Dai or Gwalchmai, but not the dowager lady of Bristol Castle. Gwen was trying to make allowances for Mabel’s grief, but she was already tired of being treated like a peasant or a serf—and Gwen herself would never treat anyone this way in the first place. “You must have known the maidservant who tended your husband. Who found her body?”

  “I did.”

  Gwen resisted raising her eyebrows. That was a new bit of information nobody had bothered to tell them yet. “Can you describe the circumstances in which you found her?”

  “I was passing by my late husband’s room. I heard a noise coming from behind the door, which was partially open, and I found her lying on the floor, dying.”

  “Was there any blood or other indication that her death had involved another person?” Gwen said.

  Mabel shook her head.

  Gareth took a slight step forward. “Did you notice anything unusual about the room?”

  “My husband wasn’t in it.” Mabel was back to obstructing, though her words were true as well.

  “Did she vomit before she died?” Gareth said. “Was there foam around her mouth or petechiae around her eyes?”

  Mabel paused a moment to consider before answering, and Gwen was glad to see she was taking the questions seriously for the first time. “Her lips were blue, I remember that. And she had a sunburned look to her cheeks, even though it was All Saints’ Day, and we’d had little sun for weeks.” She shrugged. “Neither our physician nor the herbalist could find an external cause of death. There’s nothing further to say.”

  Gareth looked at Gwen. “That could be in keeping with a heart condition.”

  Gwen tipped her head noncommittally. “It’s also a sign of poisoning from bitter almond—or perhaps a hundred other possibilities.” The description did make her think of suffocation. She wished Saran were here, because she might have better insight, but she and Gwen’s father had returned to Gwynedd. They hadn’t even met Taran yet.

  “Who was the herbalist you consulted?” Gwen asked.