In carrying out these orders, he slew several of his own maternal uncles (his mother’s brothers, who were also Cristina’s uncles) before dying himself. This left Cristina’s ancestral lands bereft of lordship and King Owain’s father annexed them back into Gwynedd. Cristina’s father had escaped the familicide by marrying into a Norman family in Flintshire and wisely renouncing his holdings in Gwynedd.
King Owain hoped that this marriage, rather than opening old wounds, might heal them.
“To which of Cristina’s relatives did the man owe allegiance?” Hywel said.
“I don’t know.” Taran scrubbed at his hair with both hands as he thought, and then dropped them. “I have failed you all.”
“You couldn’t have known what the boy would do,” Gareth said. “Unless, perhaps, you paid him to do it?”
“Gareth—” Hywel stopped himself, knowing as well as Gareth that these questions had to be asked.
Taran gaped at Gareth. “You can’t think that I had anything to do with this? That I would conspire to murder my king?”
“It’s all right, Taran.” Hywel put a hand on Gareth’s arm as if holding him back from an imminent assault on the steward. The two of them had slipped effortlessly into their well-practiced roles of friendly questioner (Hywel) and unreasonable interrogator (Gareth). “He’s only doing his job.”
“It is my job to ask,” Gareth said. “And I note that you didn’t answer, Taran. Did you hire the boy to kill King Owain?”
“No!”
Hywel patted Taran’s shoulder but spoke to Gareth, though for Taran’s benefit. “There’s no point in speculating when we have so little information. The boy will wake soon and we can question him then.”
The three men gazed at each other, and then at the youth on the floor. “He’s coming around.” Taran crouched next to the prisoner.
To Gareth’s eyes, the steward had aged considerably in recent months. Owain Gwynedd rode out with his men from time to time, still vibrant in his forties despite the thickening around his waist. For all that Taran was of an age with his friend and lord, he looked fifteen years older. His once nearly black hair had gone mostly gray, and his shoulders were no longer those of a fighting man, but rounded. Of late, he’d spent too much time at his papers and ledgers.
The prisoner coughed once and then opened his eyes. He stared up at the three men, blinked, and pushed himself to his elbows. “Where am I?”
“In the stables at Aber Castle.” Hywel met Gareth’s cynical look with one of his own. “What is your name?”
“I-I-I can’t say.” The boy’s eyes widened in panic at this lack of knowledge. Or seemingly so. Gareth, for his part, remained skeptical.
“Why did you try to kill King Owain Gwynedd?” Hywel said.
“What?” The failed assassin struggled to sit up but couldn’t manage it on his own. After watching him try to shift himself without success, Gareth helped him, half dragging, half-carrying him to rest with his back to the rough planks of the wall.
Hywel’s hands were on his hips again. “You’re telling us you don’t know who you are?”
The boy gazed around the small room. “N-n-no. I can’t remember! What happened to me?”
Gareth was disgusted. “You took a hard fall.”
“I did?” The youth put a hand to the back of his head and came away with blood.
Hywel crouched in front of the boy. At the sight of Hywel’s intense face, the boy dug his heels into the dirt floor, scrabbling and pressing his back to the wall. “Wh-what’s going on?” He looked away, presenting his cheek to Hywel. Pathetic.
“That’s what we’re trying to get out of you,” Hywel said. “You entered the hall just now with a knife and tried to stab the king with it. You don’t remember?”
“N-n-no, my lord! Please tell me this is a jest! It can’t be true!”
“I don’t believe this.” Gareth kicked at a clump of dirty straw at his feet.
Hywel gazed at the boy for a count of three and then straightened. The boy’s eyes remained wide and he breathed rapidly, as if in a panic. Of course, if Gareth had been caught with a knife in the act of trying to murder the King of Gwynedd, he’d be panicking too.
Hywel backed off and turned to Gareth, lowering his voice as he spoke. “It could be true. We’ve seen it before in men who have taken a fall.”
“It could, but it’s mighty convenient—for him and for the one who paid him to kill the king, if he was indeed paid.” Gareth surveyed the boy, who put his hand to the back of his head again, feeling under his hair. “Men have landed harder and fallen farther with fewer ill effects.”
“And some have died,” Hywel said.
“Who are you?” the boy’s voice trembled and he pointed towards Gareth with a wavering finger.
Gareth glowered at him. “Someone you should be very afraid of.”
“Let’s try this another way.” Hywel’s eyes glinted.
Gareth understood what Hywel wanted without needing him to articulate it. He smirked at his prince and then stepped up to the youth, grasped him by his shirt, and hauled him to his feet. He pushed him against the planks of the wall and shook him once.
“Who is your lord? Who paid you to kill Owain Gwynedd?”
“I d-d-don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Gareth thrust him against the wall again. The back of the boy’s head snapped into the wood. His eyes rolled. Given that he was already bleeding in that spot, it had to have hurt. The boy was so convincing, Gareth began to wonder if he wasn’t faking ignorance. He had fallen hard.
Hywel crowded close, getting right in Gareth’s face. “Let him go! Can’t you see he’s hurt!”
Gareth glared at Hywel, and then released the boy, who dropped to the floor like a child’s doll, legs and arms splayed.
“Listen to reason, my lord!” Gareth said. “Have you gone as soft in your head as in your heart? Your father could have died!”
“But he didn’t, and this boy, here, obviously isn’t the mastermind behind the plot.” Hywel crouched beside the boy again. “Someone will tend to your wounds shortly. Can’t you remember anything? Anything at all about why you brought a knife to my father’s hall?”
“Prince Hywel—” Gareth managed a good growl and Hywel’s lips twitched. At that point, Gareth figured he’d better shut up or they’d both give the game away.
“I will see to this, Sir Gareth.” Hywel pointed to the doorway. “Stand over there.” He turned back to the boy. “Now. Tell me what you do remember.”
The youth licked his lips, glanced from Hywel to Gareth, who continued to glower at him. The boy cowered against the wall until Hywel shifted to block Gareth from his view. “I-I-I remember coming into the castle with many other people. It was mid-morning, I think.”
Gareth glanced at Taran, who was standing with his arms folded across his chest a few paces from the boy. He nodded. “That’s right.”
The boy turned his head as if seeing Taran for the first time. “I spoke with someone about serving the king. He gave me a piece of warm bread with butter before I started work … was I hired to work in the kitchens?”
Taran stepped closer. “Yes, you were. I hired you. Do you remember my face?”
“It is you! I do remember you!” The boy’s eyes widened. “You were the one who ordered me to kill the king!”
Taran’s mouth fell open. “What? That’s ridiculous!”
“No! No! It was you!”
Hywel swung around, gazed at Taran for six heartbeats and then stood. He waved a hand at Taran and Gareth, indicating that they should follow him, and marched from the room. “I’ll be back.” He kicked the door closed behind him.
“Make a note of what he says,” Gareth said to one of the guards, a friend named Alun. “But don’t believe it.”
Alun nodded. “Yes, my lord.” The other guard nodded nervously.
“And don’t tell anyone what has passed here tonight,” Gareth said. “Either Prince Hywel or I wi
ll return before your relief and speak to both of you.”
Hywel locked the door behind him and pocketed the key. “No one goes inside without my permission, is that clear?”
“What about food and water?” Alun said. “And his head wound—”
“Not for anything!” Hywel said. “Not unless I am there to witness it!”
Another nod and two yes, my lords. Hywel waved again at Gareth and Taran. “Come.”
They came, with Taran hurrying to come abreast with Hywel. “I had nothing to do with this. King Owain has been my friend—”
“He has been your friend. I am willing to believe the boy is lying—about this and the fact that he can’t remember anything. I’m not going to throw you into a cell, as my father did to Gareth last summer, not on the word of that boy.” Hywel stopped and grabbed Taran’s arm. “If you know more than you’re telling, however, speak now. I can give you the benefit of the doubt because you have been a friend, but I will get to the bottom of this. You know that.”
“I do, my lord.” Taran swallowed hard. “I swear to you, the boy lies.”
Gareth fell in behind them. Taran had sweated enough for all four men, and that meant he was nervous. Maybe he didn’t hire the boy to kill the king … but was that the whole truth? And what about Prince Hywel? Gareth couldn’t get the idea out of his head that Taran wasn’t the only one who knew more than he was telling.
Chapter Four
Gwalchmai began to sing within moments of Gareth leaving the hall. King Owain was attempting to distract his guests from what had happened, not that anyone was likely to forget that someone had just tried to murder him. To Gwalchmai’s credit, his glorious soprano quieted the crowd, if only for the time he took to sing his song. They’d get back to speculation and gossip soon enough. King Owain had to know it.
As Gwen edged her way through the press of people, she glanced towards the high table. King Owain must have been waiting for her to look at him because his eyes were already upon her. He lifted one finger—just a casual gesture but one that Gwen recognized—and after a moment’s hesitation (because she was having trouble encompassing the fact that the king wanted to speak to her), she changed direction.
When she reached the dais, he waved her around the table and then scooted back his seat to sit catty-corner, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair and a finger to his lips. Gwen came to a halt within two feet of him. King Owain intimidated her and she found her hands worrying at each other underneath her apron. She stilled them and then clasped them behind her back. Lord Tomos sat at the king’s right hand, in the seat Rhun had occupied during the feast. The young prince had left the high table to mingle with the guests. Rhun’s smile and good cheer made him welcome everywhere and would help to soothe King Owain’s guests.
“Tell me what you saw, Gwen,” King Owain said.
Gwen swallowed, finding her mouth dry. The gold links in the chain around King Owain’s neck glinted in the torchlight and she focused on them instead of on his eyes. It made it easier to keep her voice level. “The boy arrived in the doorway to the kitchen as you were toasting Lady Cristina. He put down his tray and stood next to me. I thought nothing of it or him at the time.”
“At what point did you see the knife?”
“As he drew it,” Gwen said. “And then I was so surprised, it was as if my feet were frozen to the floor. I am so sorry that I didn’t stop him before he reached you.”
King Owain coughed a laugh. “Your Gareth very ably filled that need. For your part, you have already been of more help to me than any young woman of my acquaintance.”
Gwen blushed. She couldn’t help it. King Owain gestured to Lord Tomos. “My friend, this is Gwen, the young lady who uncovered my brother’s plot last summer.”
“To be beautiful and intelligent is a blessed combination. It is no wonder you keep her close, my lord.” Tomos took Gwen’s hand and kissed the back of it.
“Thank you.” Gwen tried to tug away her hand but Tomos still held it, smiling into her eyes and making it hard for her to find anything to say. She glanced down at her feet.
“You’ll have to find yourself another, as I have.” King Owain didn’t notice Gwen’s unease and he clapped Tomos on the shoulder. “She’s taken, my friend.”
“Is she?” Tomos said. “When is your wedding, my dear?”
“G-G-Gareth and I haven’t had a chance to speak of it since he returned from Ceredigion, my lord.” As she said Gareth’s name, Gwen managed to retrieve her hand from Tomos’ grasp. “Soon, we hope.”
“How delightful.” Tomos nodded to his king and then stood. “If I might take my leave, my lord, I must ensure that Goronwy stays awake. We still have to complete some preparations for your wedding. It will be one of the finest days in Aber’s history.”
“Yes, it will.” King Owain laughed and snapped his fingers, indicating that the servant behind him, who had taken Gwen’s place on the dais after the assassination attempt, should bring him more wine. “A fine day indeed.”
Gwen still stood before him, surprised by his rolling laughter, but understanding it, too. The shock of his near death experience was fading, replaced by amusement that he lived to fight another day. He was drunk at the moment on more than just wine.
“Why must Lord Goronwy stay awake?” she said. “What preparations?”
“Nothing that concerns you, my dear.” King Owain waved a hand dismissively. “My friends have sworn to uphold the tradition of maintaining an honor guard outside my room tonight.”
Gwen wondered if some of Gareth’s friends would do the same for him when the time came. Probably. It sounded like something Evan would gleefully organize, complete with far too much mead for everyone to drink.
“Tell me, Gwen,” King Owain said, “why is it that my enemies are unable to accomplish these heinous deeds themselves? Over and over again, they hire others. None have the courage to meet me face-to-face.”
King Owain had to be thinking of Cadwaladr, but Gwen thought of Hywel, who had faced Anarawd when he killed him, even if nobody witnessed it and he’d caught him unawares. “Because they’re not great men,” she said.
Owain gazed out at the crowd, which had turned animated once Gwalchmai’s song had ended. King Owain was allowing the servants to be freer with the drink than he might have otherwise. Gwen’s father had his eyes fixed on the high table, waiting for a signal as to whether he and Gwalchmai should play and sing again.
King Owain caught his eye, nodded, and then turned back to Gwen. “I’ll speak to Hywel. I suppose you and Gareth should poke around at this. See what you can discover.”
“Yes, my lord.” Gwen curtseyed.
Owain caught her wrist before she could turn away. “Discreetly, this time, eh? I don’t want you ending up in Dublin again. That young lad of yours would never forgive me.”
Gwen didn’t want that either. “No, my lord.”
Owain still hadn’t let her go. “And if my brother is somehow involved in this, you tell me straight away.”
Instinctively, Gwen glanced towards the fire where she’d last seen Cadwaladr holding court. He was still there. Even in his disgrace, sycophants and men who thought him their friend surrounded him. Cadwaladr had no friends—only those who served him or might serve him. Without stopping to think, she said, “Could he have done this?” She swallowed hard. It wasn’t her place to pose such a question to the king.
“I don’t want this to be his doing,” King Owain said, surprisingly frank with her. “I’m glad I have your betrothed watching my back.”
Gwen swung her eyes back to the king’s and was pleased to see that his were alight with good humor.
“I am too, my lord,” she said.
King Owain nodded, agreeing with Gwen while at the same time dismissing her from his presence. As Gwalchmai sang the first notes of another song, one he would sing without accompaniment, Gwen made her way down the far wall to where her father sat with his box of instruments. His eyes hadn’t left
the king the whole time Gwen had been speaking to him. Once she stepped off the dais, he waved at her animatedly. It was rather unlike him, and thus, not something she could ignore.
“What did the King want with you?” he said.
Gwen shrugged. Her first instinct was to dismiss her father’s question, since the answer was self-evident. And then she bit her lip. A twelve-year-old would shrug at her father. A soon-to-be married woman of twenty-one should know better. She lifted her chin. “King Owain would like me to assist Gareth in determining whether or not the assassin worked alone, or was paid by someone else.”
“You mean by Prince Cadwaladr.” Meilyr’s eyes went hard and flinty, more gray than blue in his intensity. “Don’t you go getting yourself mixed up in something dangerous again. I’ve never been so worried in my life as when Cadwaladr took you to Dublin.”
“I will be careful, Father,” Gwen said, “but I’m already mixed up in this.” Despite her surprise that he’d taken the time to express his concern to her, she was touched by it too. “The youth stood next to me before he attacked King Owain. I was the first to see the knife. Besides, Gareth can’t solve this crime all by himself. Prince Hywel needs me to inquire where Gareth can’t.”
“He’ll put you in the thick of it, you mean?” Meilyr said. “You’ll go nosing about among the ladies and the servants?”
“Yes,” Gwen said.
Meilyr harrumphed to himself. “I suppose that’s no more or less than you usually do, barring that trip to Dublin, of course. Just as long as that knight of yours doesn’t find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time again.”
Gwen leaned in, her heart thumping. “Nobody could possibly think that Gareth had anything to do with this. He saved the King!” It was from her father that she’d learned to watch people without seeming to, to blend unnoticed into a crowd, and to listen. He’d taught her these skills for his own preservation, never thinking she’d use them to serve Prince Hywel and the King of Gwynedd himself. Had he heard something already that would affect Gareth?
The Uninvited Guest Page 3