Chapter Eleven
“Get up! Get up!” The words hissed in Gwen’s ear.
She sat up with a start, thinking that her unsettled dreams had become reality. This most recent one had been full of fighting men, their swords swinging wildly in her direction. Gwen calmed as Gareth settled on the edge of her pallet and put a hand to her arm to hush her so she wouldn’t wake the woman next to them. A dozen ladies, many of whom had come for the cancelled wedding and would go home disappointed, slept around her on the floor. Cristina, King Owain’s assumed intended, occupied the only bed.
“Anarawd’s body has disappeared.”
Gwen swallowed hard as she gazed at Gareth, finding it difficult to marshal a reasonable reply. “Will it never end? This gets more complicated by the hour.”
Gwen pushed at Gareth to move him out of her way so she could gather her things and get out of the room. With her dress under her arm and her boots in her other hand, she followed him into the corridor. Looking left and right for stray observers, she relaxed against the wall and tipped her head back to gaze at the ceiling.
“Come on,” Gareth said when she didn’t instantly spring into action.
“This is just too much.” Gwen slipped the dress over her head, covering her undyed shift. “It ties in the back.” She turned to face the wall. “Can you fix it for me?”
To his credit, Gareth didn’t hesitate. Far more expertly than Gwen would have thought him capable, he laced her dress up the back. “I never got a chance to examine the body, you see,” Gareth said.
After Gareth had felt well enough to stand, the three of them had gone to the great hall and found a spot in the corner for him to rest. Over the course of the evening, Gareth had recovered more fully, until he’d been able to consume a piece of fresh bread and a hunk of cheese. He’d refused the mead, however, for which Gwen couldn’t blame him. But still, much to his disgust, she’d insisted on tasting everything he’d been offered to eat or drink before she’d let him have it.
Gwen turned to face him. “You don’t think the job Hywel and I did was adequate? We did what we could.” That last bit came out defensive, and Gwen wished she could take it back.
Gareth shook his head, seeming to understand. “It’s not that I don’t trust you or respect your abilities, it’s just—” He paused as he thought. “Hywel spoke to me of the ragged edge in Anarawd’s wound. You showed it to him?”
“Yes,” Gwen said.
Gareth nodded. “Do you remember when you came upon me at that first ambush site?”
“Of course,” Gwen said, “how could I forget?”
“Your arrival distracted me, but I was studying how his body was laid on the road. Remember how I said that the murderer had dragged it?”
“From the scuff marks on his toes,” Gwen said.
“That and because there wasn’t enough blood on the ground beneath his body,” Gareth said. “If he’d bled out like his companions, it would have soaked the ground. It hadn’t rained the night before and, although the earth in the road was damp, it wasn’t damp enough to indicate he’d died there.”
“But there’s more,” she said. “You think there’s something else?”
“Yes,” Gareth said. “Did you notice that his nails were full of dirt?”
Gwen gazed at him. “No. I didn’t.”
“Anarawd scrabbled in the dirt. Maybe he tried to crawl away from his killer before he died.”
Gwen shivered at how cold the killer’s heart must be. “You never mentioned this before.”
“I thought there was plenty of time to make certain,” he said. “I should have inspected the body straight away, but with the singing in the hall, and the dark, I assumed this morning would be soon enough.”
Gwen gave him a half-smile. “Do you know the first thing that Hywel told me after he asked me to spy for him?”
“What?”
“Never assume.”
Gareth snorted laughter—more in disgust than amusement Gwen thought—and led the way down the stairs to Hywel’s rooms. Just like the night they arrived, Hywel appeared to have slept alone. He stood before the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked up as they entered.
“You were still abed?” he said, taking in Gwen’s night braid. Although she’d pulled on her boots, she hadn’t yet attended to her hair. “It’s nearly dawn.”
“One of us got to bed later than she liked,” Gwen said. “And that would be your fault.”
Even though she’d gone to bed earlier than Gareth and the men that Hywel had set to protect him, she’d stayed in the hall with him far too late, listening to Hywel sing. His tenor had filled the air with song after achingly beautiful song. Gwen’s father, had he been there, would have been pleased with the progress his student had made, even if Hywel had taken what Meilyr had taught him and made the art his own. Most of his songs—the ones he’d written himself—had an unusual meter and rhyme.
“I assume Gareth has told you that Anarawd’s body is missing, along with all his possessions.”
“Yes,” Gwen said.
“Like an idiot, I didn’t leave a guard on the room,” Hywel said.
Gareth shook his head. “You couldn’t have foreseen this, my lord, any more than an attempt to poison me. We’ve seriously underestimated our opponent. I believe it’s time we took all this to the king.”
“We must do a complete search of the castle, not only for the body and Anarawd’s possessions, but belladonna as well,” Gwen said. “We’ll need his permission to do that.”
Hywel turned back to the fire, hesitated, and then nodded. “I urged something like this on my father after we discovered you’d been poisoned. Now we have to act.”
“We should start now, before the nobles and their lackeys are awake,” Gwen said. “We might get more assistance from the kitchen and the craft halls when there’s nobody watching.”
“You two begin the interviews. I’ll organize men from the garrison to do a search for the body,” Hywel said. “It may be that the culprit was forced to stash it in an out-of-the-way spot inside the castle.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gareth and Gwen said together and left the room, heading for the kitchens. They’d find breakfast there, warmth, and the loquacious cook, Dai.
“I can’t believe I have to do this again,” Gwen said, “and at Aber, no less.”
“Tell me about the murder Meilyr was charged with,” Gareth said.
Gwen shook her head, mentally going over the disaster that week had been, remembering her fear and her struggle to help her father. “I never believed he did it, though perhaps it was marginally more likely than you murdering Anarawd.”
“What happened?”
“During one of our visits to the south of Wales—all the way to Carreg Cennan—a man was found dead, garroted with one of my father’s iron harp strings.”
“A few twists and one of those could cut through most anything,” Gareth said.
“Including the culprit’s fingers,” Gwen said. “My father always wears gloves when he strings his harp because without them he cuts his hands every time. The murderer didn’t know that. Given that my father was in a cell, it was to the murderer’s advantage to hold off seeking aid, which he did for three days until his fingers festered and became impossible to hide.”
“And you noticed?”
“The fool came to the herbalist for treatment, a friend of mine. By then, we were looking for an injured man and knew he was guilty from the moment we saw his hands.” She shrugged. “After a few well-placed questions in front of the castellan, Lord Cadfael, the man confessed.”
Gareth shook his head over that, but when Gwen glanced at him, he was smiling.
When they entered the kitchen, just as Gwen had hoped, Dai plopped a plate of biscuits, newly churned butter, jam, and a watery porridge in front of them.
“You look serious, Gwen. And you,” Dai said to Gareth, looking him up and down, “are a very ill young man.”
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br /> “Someone poisoned him yesterday with an infusion of belladonna,” Gwen said, her mouth full of biscuit.
“Never say so!” Dai took a step back. “Not in my food!”
“The culprit put it in the mead,” Gwen said. “Since Gareth had to stay locked in his cell, he doesn’t have any idea who did it.”
“What was the name of the boy who brought the food?” Gareth said.
“Llelo,” Dai said and then without pausing for breath, raised his voice to carry through the kitchen to the pantry. “Llywelyn ap Rhys! Get in here!” A boy of twelve tumbled through the curtain that separated the pantry from the kitchen proper, wiping his hands on his apron, his eyes wide. Dai gestured towards the boy. “Here he is.”
“Come here, boy.” Gareth waved him closer.
Llelo looked at Dai, who nodded, and came to a halt in front of Gareth. He eyed the biscuits, licking his lips. Gwen picked one up and handed it to him. He accepted it, still wary and nervous, but not as noticeably stiff-legged.
“My lord,” Llelo said.
“You brought me my noon meal yesterday,” Gareth said. “Tell me about it.”
Llelo blinked twice. Clearly this was not what he’d expected to have Gareth ask. It made Gwen wonder what else he’d been up to, though it was probably getting into mischief with the other boys his age—something that he thought might be more serious than it was. “Cook laid your food out for me on the side table and I took it to you straight away, once I came in from chopping firewood.”
“And the mead?” Gwen said. “You brought that too?”
Llelo glanced at Dai, who nodded again. Llelo licked his lips.
“Tell them,” Dai said.
“Yes,” Llelo said. “It was hard to juggle the cup, jar, and platter all at the same time, but I managed without spilling any.”
“Good for you,” Gwen said. “So between the time you collected the food and drink and when you delivered it to Sir Gareth, nobody waylaid you? Nobody spoke to you?”
“No, ma’am,” Llelo said.
Gareth nodded, and Dai jerked his head at Llelo, who departed, much relieved.
“Do you believe him?” Gwen asked Dai.
“I have no reason not to,” Dai said. “I saw him leave by the kitchen door. I even told him to take two trips, but of course he pretended he hadn’t heard me.”
“It was you who set out the food?” Gwen said. “And the mead as well?”
“I tapped it myself. It was the least I could do for his lordship, here.” Dai paused and leaned in. “I never thought you killed that foreign king.”
Gwen just managed not to laugh at Dai’s provincial attitude. That foreign king. She and her family had traveled the length and breadth of Wales in the last six years. While a few traditions differed, the language, the customs, and the blood were all the same.
“So then the question is, how long did my meal sit on the table unattended, waiting for Llelo to bring it to me?” Gareth leaned forward to match Dai, his tone earnest.
Dai pursed his lips. “Let’s see now—I had the boy at the bucket for water to wash his hands and face. His hands were sticky from wood pitch. He can’t seem to chop a single log without getting it all over him. Then back here, so … a quarter of an hour perhaps? I’ve four other regular helpers in and out all day, but they were mostly in the hall. We don’t usually serve a meal that time of day, but we’ve been kept hopping with all the comings and goings. I’ve had to hire another half dozen just to keep up with the roastings and the soups.”
Gwen and Gareth looked at each other, inwardly sighing.
“We’ll have to speak to them all,” she said. “Maybe one of them saw something that will help us.”
Two hours later, they’d worked their way through all but one of the servants. Of the ten they interviewed, six had remained in the hall throughout the meal, while the other four had run back and forth between the kitchen and the serving tables, keeping the diners well stocked with food and drink.
Owain Gwynedd was known for laying on a fine table and, even in a state of mourning, yesterday had been no exception. None could say anything about who had or had not been in the kitchens. Unsurprisingly, none would confess to being the poisoner. Nor had any of them noticed someone hauling a body out of the barracks in the middle of the night and hiding it.
“It isn’t any of them,” Gwen said, finally, after the last servant had turned away. “It’s got to be this last person we can’t find.”
“I agree.” Gareth stood, stretched, and then guided Gwen out the rear of the kitchen and into the garden beyond. The herbs were in the flush of late summer growth, with green vines winding up the trellises and flowers of every color decorating the beds. “Is any belladonna growing here?”
“No,” Gwen said. “I did look.”
“You’re sure?” Gareth said. “It would be easier if it was.”
“I know, but belladonna gives off a strong odor—even a nauseating one as you can attest—when it’s crushed or bruised. The culprit would have had to abuse it to contaminate your mead.”
“I haven’t smelled anything like that,” Gareth said.
“Nor I,” Gwen said. “And none of the other servants’ hands or sleeves smelled of it either. I made certain.”
“Someone else could have given them a prepared vial,” Gareth said. “He wouldn’t have had to touch it at all.”
“Of course,” Gwen said, “and then the traces would be on him, not a servant.”
“We’re going in circles,” Gareth said.
“Even if we found the servant who did the deed, we’d need to force them to reveal who paid them.”
“I’m sure Hywel and I could find a way,” Gareth said.
Gwen glanced at him. She was sure he could too. “We need to take a look at your peers.”
Gareth’s lips twitched. “None of them—whether knight, man-at-arms, or simple soldier—will take well to being questioned by a woman.”
“I’ll hang back. We’ll be nosy but not too much so and perhaps something will come to us. The murderer has been one step ahead of us for two days. We have to catch up. We have to think like him.”
“I hope that’s harder for you than you’re making it sound,” Gareth said.
“I’d never killed anyone until two days ago,” she said.
Gareth pulled up, tugging Gwen to a halt on the pathway. “What did you say?”
Gwen hadn’t meant to tell him, but she couldn’t keep it in any longer. “When I was riding with you, when the Danes ambushed us, I stabbed a man with my knife. I even meant to do it, but somehow when the blade went in all the way to the hilt, I couldn’t quite believe it.”
Gareth clasped both her hands in his and brought them to his lips. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not sorry, not in the sense that I regret what I did. But I keep seeing him die, seeing him fall.” Gwen’s throat closed at the memory, and she forced back the tears that pricked her eyes. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to weep in front of Gareth. She felt that if she were to start crying, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
“If it’s the only man you ever kill, you’ll remember it for the rest of your life,” Gareth said. “Better that than to be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of lives you’ve taken.”
Telling him had eased Gwen’s heart, just a little, but— “I don’t like thinking of you in that position. Here I cry about one death by my hand, as if you didn’t kill men yesterday yourself. And that’s only one of a hundred days you’ve done the same.”
“Two hundred,” Gareth said. “I serve my lord the only way I know how.”
“Owain!”
The scream split the air and, after a shared glance, Gwen and Gareth set off at a run for the stables from which the sound had come. Just as they reached the open door, Cristina, King Owain’s intended, staggered out, her hand to her head.
Gwen grabbed her arms. “What is it?”
Cristina shook Gwen off, flinging out a hand to point
behind her. “There’s—there’s—” She couldn’t speak.
King Owain burst from the hall and hustled over. He wrapped his arms around Cristina’s waist and glared hard at Gareth, who took a step back. “What did you do?”
“Nothing, my lord,” Gareth said. “Whatever frightened her is in the stables.”
“Don’t just stand there, then,” King Owain said. “Go look!”
“Yes, my lord,” Gareth said.
Gwen and Gareth hurried into the airy building that took up nearly the whole of the south side of Aber’s courtyard. To Gwen’s eyes, the stables appeared as they always had, but then Gareth gave a tsk of exasperation. “Another one.”
Gwen looked to where he pointed. An arm poked out of the pile of straw, which the stable boys used for making fresh beds for the horses. “It wasn’t very well hidden. It’s almost as if he wanted us to find it.”
“I don’t know about that.” Gareth crouched beside the body, most of which remained under the straw. “And which he and which it we’re looking for is the question of the hour.”
“What do you mean?” Gwen said. “Isn’t this Anarawd’s body?”
“No.” Gareth pointed with one finger along the length of the arm. “This is not a hand that has ever held a sword.” He glanced up at her. “It’s a woman.”
The Good Knight Page 11