In point of fact, however, none of them had dealt with a murder in many months. But Gareth was only speaking the truth when he said this kind of thing happened to him and Gwen every time they traveled, and Gareth’s laugh had been more about the inevitability of being summoned rather than reflecting real amusement—or even surprise.
The cleric had understood nothing of what they’d said, since they’d been speaking Welsh, so Gareth now held his hand out to him and switched back to French. “I am Gareth the Welshman. Of course we will come. Please tell the bishop we are on our way.”
If Bishop Gregory hadn’t requested Gwen as well, Gareth would have sent Llelo to escort her and the children to Godfrid’s house while he continued to the cathedral on his own. But her color was better than it had been in two days, and when he opened his mouth to suggest she leave this to him, her eyebrow arched at what he was going to say. In the end, he closed his own mouth rather than make himself look foolish.
Having dismissed the churchman to run ahead to the bishop with the news of their approach, Conall turned to Godfrid. “My friend, your brother is waiting. It would be no trouble for me to introduce Gareth and Gwen to the bishop while you continue to the palace with Prince Hywel. I speak French, Danish, and Welsh all well enough that we should be able to manage.”
The look of consternation that crossed Godfrid’s face was almost comical, indicating he was torn between his princely duty on the one hand and the possibility of adventure, even if grim or macabre, on the other.
With a similar amused look, one Gareth had seen on his prince’s face more times than he could count, Hywel clapped Godfrid on his beefy shoulder. “I have long experience leaving these two to their own devices. Murder is not for us to investigate—not this time, or at least not in this moment when we have so many able companions upon whom we can rely. We should do as Conall suggests. Your brother awaits us.”
Only then did Godfrid acquiesce. While one of Godfrid’s men led Gareth’s servants and children directly to Godfrid’s house, the rest of the large party set off down the main street from the dock gate at a faster pace than they would normally have taken, not wanting to keep the bishop waiting. Under normal circumstances, Gareth would have liked to gawk a bit at the city around him. There would be time for that later, hopefully.
For now, they didn’t have to diverge immediately. Nothing was very far away from anything else in Dublin, and the cathedral was a stone’s throw from Brodar’s palace, so they could all walk most of the way together.
“The two of you look well.” Conall was taking long strides, but he still managed to look both Gwen and Gareth up and down as the three of them kept pace behind Godfrid and Hywel. “I see Gwen survived the crossing.”
“Barely,” Gwen said with a twist to her mouth.
Conall laughed.
And, all of a sudden, the uncertainty and awkwardness that was a natural consequence of being apart for more than a year—and being faced with a murder within moments of their arrival—dissipated like mist on a sunny morning. They’d been through too much together for it to have lasted long anyway, and Conall’s laughter had been because he appreciated Gwen’s wit, not because he was mocking her seasickness.
Gareth reached forward to put a hand on Godfrid’s shoulder. “When we learned from Abbot Rhys that you and Conall had met and become friends, we couldn’t have been happier.”
“And then to learn that Godfrid was marrying Conall’s sister!” Gwen gave a little skip, which told Gareth how much better she was feeling. Dead body or no dead body, he could understand her exuberance, given how sick she’d been up until a quarter of an hour ago. “Abbot Rhys told us a little, but we long to hear the full story as to how that came about.”
“It involved a murder, naturally,” Godfrid said.
“As it would.” Gareth spoke more gravely than he might have a quarter of an hour ago as well. “And we have barely set foot on Dublin’s dock when we are summoned by Bishop Gregory to look at a body. How is it possible for him to have summoned us by name? How did he know to do so?”
Godfrid spread his hands wide, turning fully around to walk backwards up the street. “It is no secret you are a friend and were to have arrived today from Wales for my wedding.”
Conall’s lip curled in amusement. “Your reputation has preceded you, even in Dublin. You can’t be surprised.”
A grin spread across Hywel’s face, one Gareth was very happy to see. These past months the prince had been less light-hearted, carrying the weight of Gwynedd on his shoulders more and more, burdened by the effort to take away some of his father cares and desiring to prove himself. Now, when he smiled, he looked again like the Hywel of old.
“Do you still not know your own reputation, Gareth? The churchman who came for you spoke of Gareth the Welshman. I imagine your name precedes you to every castle from here to France. You saved the life of Prince Henry of England. Twice. King Stephen himself might call on you were he not at odds with my father. Even then, he might seek your help if he had a murder on his hands none of his men could solve.”
“As Conall, Cait, and I are not in a position to be called upon, I do find it interesting that he sent first for you, rather than Holm, Dublin’s sheriff.” Godfrid rubbed his chin and turned back around. They were almost at the church, the tower of which was visible throughout the city. “I might have to smooth some ruffled feathers in that quarter later this evening.”
Gareth took in a breath. He was not displeased to find his reputation had preceded him across the Irish Sea, but he was far less pleased to learn he might be stepping on someone else’s toes. He always tried to maintain a good relationship with whatever local men might normally enforce the law. An uphill battle with a slighted sheriff before Gareth even had seen the body was not a good way to start.
“If murderers were smart, they would run when they learned Father was coming rather than commit the evil deeds they planned.” Dai was walking beside Cadoc, the resident archer in the group, who’d taken the young man under his wing.
“Is this your doing, Godfrid?” Gwen asked.
“You forget that five years ago it was a band of men from Dublin who ambushed King Anarawd,” Godfrid said. “Gareth led the defense of the caravan escorting Anarawd’s body to Aber, and he himself came to Dublin in pursuit of you, Gwen. Your subsequent exploits have not gone unnoticed, even here.” He turned to look at Llelo. “And now I hear you are apprenticing in the family trade!”
Llelo bent his head and said quite formally, as was his wont when the subject of his apprenticeship came up. “I am, my lord.”
They had reached the church gate. Beyond, the churchman who’d come to find them was waiting for them in the porch. Gareth squared his shoulders, accepting what he couldn’t change. Death was always with them, and he and Gwen would always do their best to see that a murderer, if murder was the cause, was brought to justice.
With the promise they would meet up again at Godfrid’s house, Gareth, Conall, and Gwen said goodbye to the two princes and turned through the gate that led to the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, known locally as Christ’s Church, which Gareth remembered from his previous visit to Dublin during the aforementioned events five years earlier.
The church itself wasn’t as magnificent as some of the fantastical Norman constructions Gareth had encountered in England, but it was certainly larger than average, as befitting a bishop. It was within Dublin’s city walls, which meant space was at something of a premium. The graveyard to the south of the church building was full of headstones and looked to be running out of room, and the residential complex, with the dormitory and the cloister, overlooked the city to the west of the church, with only a narrow pathway between the buildings and the churchyard wall.
Conall seemed to be in a speaking mood, and regaled them as they entered the yard. “Since the Council of Reims in March, convened by the pope himself, Bishop Gregory has been working to reform the bishopric, even going so far as to include it within the
dominion of the Irish Church rather than Canterbury. Just since Brodar became king three months ago, Bishop Gregory has brought in Benedictine monks to serve as caretakers for the church and the diocese. The bishopric lays claim to many acres of land surrounding Dublin, which these monks now oversee at the behest of the Christ’s Church.”
Gareth had heard something of what the council had decreed from Abbot Rhys but didn’t know the rest. “Where did the monks come from? Are they Irish?”
Conall barked a laugh. “Not if Gregory can help it.”
Before Conall could expand further on the topic, about which he obviously knew a great deal, the churchman came forward from the porch.
He bowed first to Conall and said, “Lord Ambassador. My apologies for my initial haste and failure to greet you as I should have.” Then he looked to Gareth. “Thank you for coming, Lord Gareth.” This was all respectfully done in French, which Gareth assumed he’d be speaking predominantly from now on.
It was a commentary on Gareth’s reputation that Bishop Gregory would call upon him even if they were going to be disadvantaged throughout the investigation by their lack of Danish. And then his stomach twisted for a moment at the idea that their lack of Danish was why they’d been called upon. For now, he put the fear aside, not wanting to prejudge anything or anyone before he’d even seen the body.
Then the churchman put a hand to his chest. “I am Father Arnulf, the bishop’s secretary. If I can do anything for you while you are here, you have only to ask.”
Gareth eyed him, reassessing. If he was known as Father then he was a priest, not a monk, so not among the new Benedictines who’d been brought in a few months ago. “I can’t say it is my pleasure, but I am pleased to be of service to the bishop if I can.”
Arnulf bent his head again. “Bishop Gregory awaits you in his private chapel.” He hesitated, his eyes going to Gwen and then back to Gareth. “Perhaps Lady Gwen would like to wait in the warming room?”
Gwen gave him a gentle look. “You were the one who said the bishop had asked for me as well.”
He’d been looking hopeful, but now his face fell. “He did.” And such appeared to be Gwen’s reputation too that he didn’t argue and instead gestured them through the great doors of the cathedral.
The difference between a church and a cathedral had nothing to do with a building’s size. It was all about prestige. A church was called a cathedral when it was the seat of a region’s bishop. The Dublin Danes had been Christian since before the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity was built over a hundred years earlier, having become so after Sitric Silkbeard made a pilgrimage to Rome. But the Bishop of Dublin, with Gregory as the most recent occupant of the office, had been ordained in Canterbury rather than Armagh, a deliberate snub to the Irish Church—and an allegiance which apparently was now being reassessed—at the request of the Pope himself, no less.
From the few comments Gareth’s friend Abbot Rhys had made on the matter, the pope was hoping the inclusion of the Danes among the Irish bishoprics and parishes would further encourage the reform—and conformity—of the Irish Church to the strictures, precepts, and traditions set by the pope and the Roman church. He wanted the same thing for Wales—though, if Abbot Rhys had anything to say about it, he wasn’t getting it any time soon. Gareth couldn’t help his stir of pride at the strength of his people. They would not bow so easily to foreign custom and law.
To Gareth’s eyes, the cathedral and surrounding buildings looked very much like a monastery, rather than the seat of a bishop. He knew of two such seats in Wales and had been to both: the bishopric of Dewi Sant in Pembroke and the seat of the Bishop of Bangor in Gwynedd. Now that the Normans had taken over Pembroke, they’d consecrated a new magnificent cathedral and what could only be called a palace for the bishop, replacing much of what had been Welsh with that which was English—as the Danes had done with what had been Irish.
If asked, Gareth would have said he cared very little about church politics, except that he cared very deeply for his people and their way of life. He imagined the Irish felt the same. But because both Conall and Godfrid liked Bishop Gregory, for now Gareth could put aside his own private assessments and thoughts and focus on the task at hand. All murdered men deserved justice and were equal in the sight of God, no matter before which king they’d bent the knee.
Bishop Gregory was waiting for them two-thirds of the way down the church. Conall introduced Gareth and Gwen, leaving out Llelo, who as usual was acting as their retainer. Llelo wouldn’t take offense, since he’d been silent in the presence of great men before and knew not to speak or call attention to himself unless spoken to.
“Thank you for coming so immediately.” Bishop Gregory was a small man, no more than an inch or two taller than Gwen, with kindly eyes, which today were clearly grieved. Past sixty years old, he was mostly bald, with tufts of white hair remaining above his large ears.
He stood in front of the altar that split the cathedral and separated the eastern choir, which was the province of churchmen, from the nave, where the common people worshipped. The cathedral in Bangor in Gwynedd was roughly the same size, but either would have fit into the nave at St. David’s (the new Norman name for Dewi Sant). While normally there were rules about where in the cathedral a layman like Gareth could go, today Bishop Gregory simply motioned them past the altar to the eastern end of the cathedral, underneath the great stained glass window that would have admitted the light of the rising sun on the equinox. “This way.”
In addition to the sunlight coming through the windows, the cathedral was lit by dozens of candles in candelabra. Bishop Gregory went to a smaller one, with three candles half burned down, and picked it up. He himself then led them into the darkened vestry, the place where priests gathered to dress in their vestments and where the holy relics for the cathedral were kept, and then through a narrow doorway in a side wall.
Although the passage he led them down was open, it could be blocked by a wooden door which Gareth couldn’t help hesitating in front of. Made of an unknown dark wood, it bore ornately carved scenes from the Bible.
Behind him, Arnulf said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Gareth could only agree, and as he followed the bishop through the doorway, he realized they’d stepped back in time. Beyond the doorway were five steps down, which led to an unlit stone passage so narrow Gareth’s shoulders almost touched the walls on either side. They had to navigate it single file. At the end of the corridor was another ornately carved door, this one closed. When Bishop Gregory reached it, he stopped with his hand on the latch, said a prayer in Latin under his breath, and crossed himself.
Then he opened the door to reveal a small chapel, perhaps eight feet wide and ten long, with a single window above Gareth’s height in the eastern wall. As in the corridor, the flagstones had been smoothed by centuries of feet and even hollowed in places, and a clear path forward to the altar had been worn into the stone. The walls were stone as well, whitewashed to add a brightness to the room that was otherwise lit by candles in sconces on the rear wall and two more candelabra.
And upon the simple stone altar lay a man dressed in the full warrior gear of a knight, including mail armor, a white surcoat with a red cross, such as worn by Templars, and a two-handed bastard sword clasped to his chest.
Gareth didn’t need the bishop’s grave expression to know the man was dead.
Chapter Three
Day One
Conall
Gareth passed Bishop Gregory and went right up to the body, putting a hand first to the man’s neck to feel for the absent pulse, and then resting his hand flat on the corpse’s chest.
“I did check.” Bishop Gregory made a helpless gesture with one hand. “Every instinct told me I should have my flock remove him, but I thought you needed to see him as I found him.”
“Thank you for refraining.” Gareth dropped his hand and looked at the bishop. “How long ago did you find him?”
“About an hour.”
/> Conall had let Gareth enter the room first, since he was the professional investigator. And really, Conall saw no reason to get too close to the body just yet. He was more focused on the beautiful little church, which was clearly ancient, and it dawned on him that this must be the first church to be located in Dublin, built by the monks who’d established their community on this spot centuries before the Danes had come to Ireland.
At that time, a very different monastery had been associated with this little church. In fact, Conall recalled from the stories told at night in the hall where he’d grown up, that the Danes had sacked the community multiple times in their initial raids on Ireland, before deciding it was the best place to build their settlement and evicting the Irish monks entirely.
That was how the stories went. In all likelihood, the surviving monks had fled long since, having learned the lesson, belatedly and painfully, that they could not oppose a Viking landing party and live. Ancient buildings and sacred relics aside, monks were no use to anyone—God or man—dying on the end of a Norse blade. Farther inland, the monastery at Kells had chosen to maintain their position, but in so doing had built a high tower, from the top of which it was possible to see for miles in every direction. Its purpose was to provide warning of the Vikings’ approach, giving the monks and villagers time to flee. That hadn’t prevented Ottar, Dublin’s previous king, from sacking the monastery and village three times. But the loss of life had been minimal.
Conall’s Irish pride was rising to think of it—along with anger at the Danes who’d built their cathedral and their city over the ruins of this holy place. Conall had been sent to Dublin to help offset the generations of bad blood between the Danes and the Irish—and to evaluate how strong the sentiment against Leinster remained.
It was pretty strong, in truth, but not so much he thought his uncle had to fear rebellion—especially now that Godfrid and Cait were marrying.
The Irish Bride Page 2