The Favored Son

by Sarah Woodbury

  Of course, she didn’t shriek, curse, or in any other way indicate her unhappiness. Instead, she clenched her hands into fists and thought of her counsel to Llelo.

  “You are right, of course.” Now Roger’s voice was soothing. “But we tried to talk to him, and you know how he gets.”

  “He’s as stubborn as his mother.”

  “I can try again, if you think it might help,” Roger said.

  Fitzharding grunted. “I fear it might do more harm than good.”

  “Perhaps the prince would be willing to have you work alongside this Gareth.”

  “I spoke to the man.” Fitzharding sneered again. “His French is barely passable.”

  “I understood him fine.” Roger’s tone became heavy, his disapproval plain. In the course of a quarter of an hour, the young lord had been disdainful, welcoming, conspiratorial, dismissive, and now disapproving—and oddly, this time, not towards Gareth or Gwen.

  Gwen had no idea what to make of someone so changeable. She had no idea what Roger’s real thoughts were—or those of any of these Englishmen—but as she stayed in the shadows and tried not to breathe loudly, waiting for the men to leave, she grew more certain that Roger had wanted her to overhear his conversation with Fitzharding. And that meant she should believe everything—or nothing—either of them had said.

  Chapter Ten

  Gareth

  “Don’t Englishmen ever hold their children?” Gareth spoke in an undertone to Gruffydd after yet another woman had come up to him to coo at baby Taran. He and Gruffydd had settled themselves on a bench that put their backs to the outside of the inner curtain wall and allowed them to watch the gatehouse that guarded the way between the inner and outer wards to their right, and also the gate to the town to their left. He hoped that whenever Gwen finished with Lady Mabel, this might be one of the first places she’d pass in looking for him.

  The location was also a good spot to observe some of the daily activity in the castle. People constantly moved in and out of both gates, which were left open, bustling from the craft halls to the keep, to the stables, into town, and back again. Though he’d felt a few drops of rain earlier, the sun had come out from behind the clouds, and he was almost too warm in his armor and cloak. He checked Taran’s fingers and toes and found them warm too.

  The child was particularly bright-eyed, his face surprisingly full of expression for one so young, and he held his head up as well as many babies several months older. His favorite position when Gareth held him was face down along Gareth’s left arm, a pose that seemed to ease any tightness in the baby’s belly. None of the women liked to see Gareth hold him that way, however, and each approached him, hands out, and took him from him.

  Gareth held his son often—much of the night sleeping with him on his chest when he wasn’t nursing—so he didn’t resent the women’s fussing. Instead, he used it as an opportunity to question them about where they were when Sir Aubrey died. To a woman, they could tell him nothing. Like the first woman who’d stumbled on Aubrey’s body, and whom Gareth had questioned at the scene, none had seen the stone fall. None had anything but praise for any of the people who’d died, particularly Sir Aubrey. If he’d had a wandering eye or hand, they didn’t know—or weren’t going to tell Gareth—about it. He tried to get a sense of Sir Aubrey’s character, but the most anyone would say was that he was stern but fair and always put the interests of Earl Robert first.

  Gareth could have guessed that, actually, seeing as how Aubrey had held his position at the castle for more than twenty years. It stood to reason and was the one bit of information he heard from them that he didn’t think was either a half-truth or outright lie. All of the women also knew the maidservant who’d died on the floor of Earl Robert’s room, and their words when they described her were equally full of platitudes.

  She was lovely, that one, never an unkind word to say about anyone.

  Busy, busy, busy, that’s what she was. You could never get her to sit down for a moment.

  “How was she with the earl?”

  “Oh, he loved her. Always so helpful she was,” one woman said.

  “What about her husband?” he asked.

  The same woman tsked through her teeth. “A good worker, wasn’t he? And not an unkind bone in his body.”

  And so it went. None could give an explanation for why the maidservant had died, other than the sudden onset of illness, though all agreed that she hadn’t been ill that day that they knew. As an assistant washerwoman reluctantly handed back the baby, having given them no new information, Gruffydd shook his head and said, “This is getting us nowhere.”

  “A negative answer is still an answer.” Gareth eyed a young woman about his age coming towards them lugging a box, which turned out to be full of candle stubs. At the sight of Taran, she smiled and hitched the box higher on her hip so she could kiss the baby’s head.

  She didn’t compliment the child on his handsomeness, however, nor try to take him from Gareth. Instead, she said under her breath, “I have something to tell you, but not here. I’ll meet you in the church in the outer ward when the bell at St. James’s Priory tolls for None.” And then, with a nod, she walked off.

  None was the mid-afternoon vigil kept by the monks at the priory. Gareth didn’t think King Owain was any less devout than the next man, but his castles didn’t keep time by the bells the way Bristol did, making him think that Earl Robert must have been very pious indeed. Admittedly, Gareth hadn’t been to more than a handful of Norman castles, so maybe this was normal for them—and Bristol certainly had a huge number of churches. It could simply be they rang so often that the bells became the easiest way for the residents of town and castle to keep track of the day.

  Gruffydd, however, was frowning. “Her words implied that she was concerned someone might see her speaking to us, but she had no fear in her otherwise.”

  Gareth’s eyes went to the woman’s back. Her hips swung suggestively, in a way that might have left Gwen grinding her teeth. The woman knew her own beauty—and was pleased to have men watching her.

  Gruffydd nudged Gareth’s elbow. “It isn’t just us. Others watch too. I had thought, because of the angle, they were looking at us, but now I don’t think so.”

  “Are you interested?” Gareth said.

  Gruffydd scoffed. “In a Saxon girl? Hardly!”

  Gareth grinned and looked away, up to the ramparts and towers above them. Then he frowned too because out of the corner of his eye, he’d caught a glimpse of someone ducking behind a merlon and a second man whisking around the corner of a building. “I’m not so sure you’re right.” He turned slightly and moved more into the shadow of the inner curtain wall. “If they’re watching the woman, there would be no need to hide, would there?”

  Gruffydd scratched the back of his head and casually turned this way and that, stretching. “I see them. Who is it, do you think, that doesn’t trust us?”

  “Could be individual curiosity.” So far, Gareth hadn’t felt any menace towards him and his family. And though the English disparaged his people at every turn, given that he and Gwen had Prince Henry’s countenance, it should be obvious even to an English villain that if any of their party were harmed in any way, it would shine a beacon directly on the investigation. In the past, culprits who’d gone after him or Gwen in an attempt to silence them had ended up only exposing themselves.

  So far, Gareth hadn’t had the sense with these deaths that the man responsible was anxious to stick out his neck. The very fact that the deaths were made to look like accidents implied that the villain much preferred to watch and wait.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Gruffydd said.

  “What’s that?” Gareth’s eyes traveled along the battlement, still trying to discern the faces of the men patrolling them.

  “Why kill Sir Aubrey?”

  “Why does one person ever kill another?” Gareth said, and then answered his own question, “Because he hopes to gain something from it, whethe
r that be revenge, wealth, or freedom, from something or someone, or for something or someone. I was just telling myself that if he knew what was good for him, the murderer will be long gone by now—but if he has resorted to murder, likely he hasn’t achieved his goal and is still here.”

  That was one reason Gruffydd was mortared to Gareth’s side, of course, and why they were loitering in the ward waiting for Gwen to appear, so that she wasn’t left on her own inside or outside the castle. Bad enough he had to leave her with Lady Mabel, who presumably wouldn’t throw her in irons the moment Gareth’s back was turned. So far, Gareth had been frustrated by the behavior of the people he’d encountered. He didn’t trust any of them and was starting to regret bringing his family here.

  He moved away from the wall a few steps to give himself a better view of the gate through which Gwen would come. It wouldn’t make Gwen appear sooner, but it made him feel better that he would see her the moment she did. It was time his wife was back with him. If nothing else, Taran would grow restless soon. He was tethered to his mother by an invisible thread that Gareth didn’t pretend to understand, but one he didn’t have to understand to respect.

  At two months old, Taran was still in the easily-portable stage of infancy, though it was also a time that required the constant attention of his mother. Fortunately, he was a good eater, and already his arms and legs revealed a strength and heft to them that boded well for the future. They had been thankful to avoid the croup, but Gareth had hope that had he sickened, Taran would have been healthy enough to survive it.

  And before the baby could actually complain, Gwen herself appeared from underneath the gatehouse and arrived, breathless, in front of Gareth. He mutely held out Taran to her, and she took him into her arms. She kissed the baby’s cheek and then snuggled him against her chest, breathing deeply.

  “And all is right with the world,” Gruffydd said, under his breath.

  He wasn’t wrong. Gareth had watched the reunion between mother and child a thousand times, and the relief for both was always unmistakable—until the child was old enough to think himself above it. That too passed, eventually. Even Dai, when he saw his mother these days, tended to wrap his arms around her waist at his initial greeting.

  Gwen looked up from the baby. “People are talking to me. It’s astounding!”

  “Then you’ve had far more luck than I,” Gareth said, somewhat morosely.

  Gwen gestured with one hand. “It’s your station, I think. I’m more of an outsider with no power and no hope of ever having any in this world. Maybe people feel they can be honest with me in a way they can’t with anyone else, especially on such short acquaintance.”

  “Someone did just come forward,” Gruffydd said, still from his position against the wall, and told her about the upcoming meeting with the woman in the church.

  Gwen responded by telling them first about her meeting with Mabel and Eva, and then about the visit in the chapel with Roger and Robert Fitzharding.

  “I wish these Normans would stop giving every child born the same name. There are altogether too many Roberts, Rogers, Henrys, and Williams to keep track of.”

  Gareth laughed. “Without a doubt they say the same thing about us.”

  Gruffydd snorted too. “That’s why we have Rhys Goch, Rhys Fychan, and Rhys Fadog.”

  Gareth tipped his chin to indicate their son. “We named Taran for a man still living.”

  “There are no others though,” she said, a bit defiantly.

  “We may be here a while,” Gareth said. “It’s too early to be complaining about Norman customs.”

  “It is hard not to, especially when they are so very difficult to comprehend.” She shook her head. “Other than Eva’s lover and possibly the next castle steward, who is this Fitzharding? He spoke formally at first with Roger, but they were familiar with each other too.”

  “His father was the King’s Reeve in Bristol, and Robert has built on his inherited successes. A few years ago, he founded the Augustinian Abbey here in Bristol.” Gareth pursed his lips. “As a Saxon, he’s one of the few whose family retained their noble status after the Normans conquered England.”

  “He doesn’t like that we’re here.” She paused. “He was friendly enough earlier over the body, when he was with Charles, but it was a two-faced deception. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want us investigating these deaths or if he just hates Welshmen.”

  “Or both,” Gruffydd said.

  “The fact that we’re Welsh may be only an excuse,” Gareth said. “It sounds like he thinks he should be the investigator instead. We are stepping on his toes and getting in the way of him finding favor with Prince Henry or Earl William.”

  “It seems to be the only thing anyone cares about,” Gwen said.

  “Men look to please Prince Hywel,” Gareth said mildly.

  “To some degree—and more now than when he was only the second son, but it isn’t the same. We treat him with deference, but does anybody follow him blindly? We owe him our loyalty, but we expect the same loyalty in return. Even the lowest peasant knows he’s under Hywel’s protection, and we are all bound together by laws and family bonds. But here—” she adjusted Taran on her shoulder and patted his back, “The power the king wields has no check. These lords know it, and they know that if Prince Henry eventually becomes king, he will reward those who stood by him and punish those who doubted.”

  Gareth still had vivid memories of King Owain throwing him into a cell for a crime he didn’t commit, merely because the king was in a temper, but he didn’t speak of it. Gwen was right, in the main. These Normans had banned outright slavery, but Gareth had never seen more slavish behavior than in a Norman keep. The vast majority of the people of England were bound to the king with bonds that went only one way—up to the king.

  Over the years, Gareth had come to understand the great power a lord in England wielded as compared to the power of a nobleman in Wales—meaning Gwen wasn’t wrong. For a prince such as Henry—or an earl like William—their authority was all-encompassing. Once they achieved their maturity, their every wish could be granted, every desire sated, were they the type of person to demand it. The people they ruled had no recourse but to obey, for the English system of laws said the king was the law.

  In addition, as farmers rather than herders, the people didn’t move about like the Welsh did, so their dwellings, their churches, and their villages had a strange permanence to them. They were bound to one land and one man. Even a young man such as Henry, who as of yet had accomplished very little except to be the son of a claimant to the English throne, was treated with a deference that was unknown even to the King of Gwynedd.

  Gareth couldn’t imagine any Welsh baron accepting the kind of capriciousness from their king that was normal in England and France. In Wales, the priests said every man was responsible for his own soul. In England, the king was responsible for all his subjects’ souls. To excommunicate him put the entire country under interdict. What Welshman would stand for that? It was no wonder men like Robert Fitzharding resented an outsider like Gareth, who was his own man always, regardless of whom he served.

  A shout came from directly above them, “Gareth!”

  He turned to see Steffan gesturing from the wall-walk of the outer curtain wall.

  “Something you should see.” Then he indicated that they should look towards the gatehouse between the two outer wards.

  All three of them groaned, worried about who might have died, but as they hastened towards where Steffan pointed, Cadoc came off the wall near the middle gatehouse to meet them, Aron in tow. “Did Steffan tell you?”

  “Only that we should look,” Gareth said.

  “Probably best he didn’t shout it from the top of the rampart. An ambassador from King Stephen has come.” Cadoc pointed with his chin towards the far outer ward. “He’s progressing towards the keep now.”

  “Anyone we know?” Gruffydd said.

  Cadoc puffed out a breath. “Oh, I thi
nk so. It’s Cadwaladr.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gareth

  It was the first time any of them had seen Cadwaladr since his men had killed Rhun—a year ago now almost to the day. The sight of him riding across the ward towards the keep as if he belonged—and surrounded by what appeared to be an honor guard—threatened to upend any hard-won equilibrium Gareth had managed to acquire in the intervening year. The fact that Cadwaladr had tried to murder Gareth himself was by now beside the point.

  Gwen gripped his upper arm tightly. “I’m here. We are all here, and we’re not going anywhere.”

  “Who are those men with him?” Gareth asked Cadoc through gritted teeth.

  Nothing flustered Cadoc, and he answered with equanimity. “They belong to King Stephen.”

  “Why would the king send Cadwaladr anywhere at his behest?” Those were the words he spoke, but it wasn’t the real question going through Gareth’s head, which was more of a wailing why is he here?

  Or even, I’m going to kill him. How many of you are with me?

  “Say the word, my lord, and I’ll take him down.” Cadoc fingered the point of one of his arrows, which he’d removed from his quiver without Gareth noticing.

  For a moment, Gareth’s breath caught in his throat, fearing Cadoc’s sentence was in response to Gareth’s own thoughts said out loud, but he hadn’t, in fact, articulated what he was thinking. He hadn’t needed to.

  It was Aron, typically, who answered the question Gareth had asked aloud. “King Stephen sent Cadwaladr to Bristol to make use of him.” He canted his head. “And to get rid of him.”

  Gareth turned on Aron, wanting to shout at him, or shake him, or punch him for speaking so calmly when Gareth was still so full of rage it was coloring his vision red. He may never have felt so angry in his life.

  Aron stood his ground, and Gruffydd stepped between them. “This is not Aron’s doing, Gareth. Take a step back.”