The Irish Bride

by Sarah Woodbury

  Madyn uncorked the jar, sniffed what was inside, and then brought the jar to Gareth. “If you can separate what is coming from Harald’s mouth from other contents of his stomach, would it smell similar to this?”

  Gareth sniffed, and the alcohol fumes were so strong his eyes watered, just as they had when he’d opened Harald’s mouth. “Yes.” He choked a little himself. “Definitely yes.” The back of his hand to his nose, he asked, “What is that?”

  “Uisce beatha. Or, as they say in Dublin, whiskey.”

  Conall grunted, acknowledging he knew what Madyn was talking about.

  Gareth looked from one man to the other. “What is that to someone who doesn’t speak Gaelic or more than passable Danish?”

  “It means water of life, an alcoholic drink distilled by monks throughout Ireland,” Conall said.

  Madyn nodded. “Though wine is preferred here at Christ’s Church, whiskey is often used in the sacrament in more remote areas when wine isn’t available, as it very often isn’t.”

  “Harald was a Dane,” Gareth said.

  “Oh yes.” Madyn gave a small smile. “Over the generations, the knowledge of how to distill whiskey has spread beyond the church. You don’t have to be Irish to associate with Irishmen, as you well know, my lord. The Danes have been in Ireland long enough to have learned many Irish customs. As the cellarer, I am one of the few monks at Christ’s Church who meet with the laity on a daily basis, though as you can see, we are wide open to the residents of the city. Any monk can come and go as he pleases at any time, provided he isn’t expected somewhere else. While I can’t confirm that any of my brothers frequent local taverns, I know for a fact that a man can order whiskey in several right here in the city.”

  Gareth rubbed his chin. “I have never heard of whiskey.”

  “You are Welsh. Your mead is the best in the world. Nobody would drink this when he could have something better, unless—” Madyn broke off, his brow furrowing.

  “Unless what?” Conall said.

  Madyn thought for another moment before answering. “Whiskey has other uses besides the Holy Sacrament and getting a man drunk. It alleviates pain, for starters, which—” he gestured to Harald’s body, still frowning, “—might have been Harald’s reason to drink it. I hurt just to look at him. It isn’t as powerful as poppy juice, but enough of it can make a man insensate.”

  “Where did what you have there come from?” Conall asked.

  “We keep a little in the church, in the event the wine has soured or isn’t available.” Madyn lifted the stopper again to show them the contents. “As you can see, it is three-quarters full. It is the same level as when I last checked it earlier this week.”

  “So what Harald drank couldn’t have come from the cathedral’s stores?”

  “No.”

  “But drinking whiskey could kill him?” Gareth asked.

  “Like any alcohol, it could if he drank enough of it, and whiskey requires less than most.” Madyn held up the bottle. “This amount would do it.”

  “How quickly would it work?”

  “That is very hard to say.” He gestured to Conall and Gareth. “You have known very drunk men before. Some behave quite reasonably up until the moment they lose consciousness.”

  Conall nodded. “Just this spring, I fought with men I could have sworn should be blind drunk and staggering, and yet they held the shield wall.”

  “I am no warrior,” Madyn said, “but this is common among Danes, I think? Whiskey is no different from mead in its effects. Certainly, it can take some time for it to overcome mind and body. A surfeit of alcohol is a terrible, but not unheard of, way to go.”

  “So he could have walked to the church on his own and laid himself on the altar?” Conall said.

  Madyn took a long look at the body. “As I said, it would depend upon how much time passed between drinking the whiskey and coming here. If he’d lived, he might not remember anything afterwards. But with the right circumstances and motivation, like the warriors with whom you fought, anything is possible.”

  Chapter Six

  Day One

  Gwen

  Gwen had spent an oddly large amount of time in monasteries over the course of the last few years, generally in the company of Gareth in his service to Prince Hywel. Very often, a monastery was the best place for the royal retinue to stay if the palace or castle, which the prince was visiting, was crowded. It had reached a point, in fact, where Gwen almost preferred staying at monasteries because they were the same in every land and she knew what to expect.

  Even if she or her children occasionally were on the receiving end of a monk’s disapproving glance, she could put up with a few sneers if it meant beds were warm and clean. In general, monks were afforded very few pleasures, so they made sure their food and mead were of the highest quality. And such was the daily sameness of their routine that having guests was a form of entertainment—especially those who, such as Gwen’s father and brother, could sing. Gwen was going to sing at Godfrid and Caitriona’s wedding, but it would be at the joining of hands itself. Having a woman raise her voice in song during mass was still viewed as a bridge too far.

  She had only rarely been given access to a monastery dormitory, however. Christ’s Church wasn’t exactly a monastery—or had only recently become one—and Harald had a cell rather than a bed among his brothers in the dormitory, so she supposed today didn’t count for that either.

  Prior James himself had led her and Llelo here, and though it was clear he had business to attend to, he wavered in the doorway. “You will think we are very lax here, though I assure you we are not.”

  “Father, I make no judgments. Your brothers are grown men who chose this life. If one reconsiders his calling and chooses to step outside the bounds of the Church, that is not your responsibility. Each man is responsible for his own soul and what he does with it.”

  Prior James canted his head. “My lady, I apologize if I did not greet you as I should have. Do I detect a convent upbringing in your past?”

  Gwen smiled. “My father is bard to King Owain Gwynedd, and I was raised at court. But you may know our good friend and companion, Abbot Rhys of St. Kentigern’s Monastery in St. Asaph. I have learned much from him.”

  At the mention of Abbot Rhys, James’s eyes lit. “I met him earlier this year. A wise man, and much given to deep thought. Please mention me to him when next you see him.”

  “I will.”

  He hesitated again. “I do not know how and why Harald came to be as he was. I am ashamed, in truth, that I don’t know, and I wonder now what else has been going on at Christ’s Church about which I am unaware.”

  “All men have secrets.”

  “A fact I should remember more.” He bent his head. “I leave you to your work. Please seek me out if you need anything from me.”

  Gwen thanked him and turned back to the room. As had been her experience with residents of other ecclesiastical houses, Harald had few possessions. Even from the doorway, she could count his in a quick scan of the room: a basic rope bed with a straw mattress (monks didn’t rate feathers), a bedside table with a cup and pitcher for water in the night, hooks on the wall for spare clothing, of which Harald had one robe and one undergown, a washbasin with a cloth for drying beside it, and three shelves containing underclothing, which would be changed daily, and a basket in which to put the dirty clothing once worn.

  Throughout, the colors all came from the same palette of cream to brown. Gwen wondered why there were never green monks, or blue ones. Why brown, black, or white? If the natural world outside the door were any indication, God didn’t have anything against color.

  But if what she saw was all Harald owned, if he kept anything precious in the room, it was hidden.

  Llelo had been waiting for her to finish her conversation with Prior James before he began to examine the room. “If the armor he wore was his, he didn’t store it here. The sword neither.”

  “I can’t see either going dow
n well with the prior or Bishop Gregory,” Gwen said, agreeing.

  Then Llelo edged past her with an excuse me, Mother, and went to the bed upon which Harald had slept. He lifted up the mattress, and when he found nothing underneath, began to inspect the casing for holes.

  While her son got busy with his knife at the mattress’s seams, Gwen made a circuit of the room, including the small square window that looked north towards the Liffey. The dormitory and cells were on the first floor above the warming room and chapter house. Though the outside walls were built in stone, the floor was wooden, and she peered through a grate in one corner that allowed her to look down into the warming room. No fire was lit today, but in the winter, the warmth from the room below could provide heat for the bedrooms above. It was an ingenious arrangement, one worth copying.

  The grate would also allow anyone above to eavesdrop on those below. Obviously, Harald had kept his secrets to himself.

  “If he hid the sword and armor in his bed, uncomfortable would hardly describe it.” Llelo grunted as he severed a thread and then pulled the mattress apart to the width of two fingers, not wanting to entirely destroy it if he didn’t have to. “The prior didn’t know about Harald’s activities—unless he’s lying?” He shot a questioning look at Gwen, who’d straightened and turned to look at her son.

  “Never assume and all that?” Gwen nodded. “The objective is fine as far as it goes, but if the prior—or Bishop Gregory himself—is lying, then we are done for before we’ve even started. Whatever we find will be hushed up, and then why call us in at all? What would be the point?”

  “To get to the truth?”

  Gwen smiled at the way her son was so much like his father.

  “Bishop Gregory did call you in,” a new voice came at the door, speaking in French, and Gwen turned to see a beautiful woman with dark hair and green eyes that could have been gray had she been wearing something else but today matched her dress. She was looking at Gwen with a smile that was amused, curious, and pleased all at the same time. Then her smile widened. “I’m Cait.”

  Gwen had guessed that already and met her a few paces into the room. “Gwen.”

  They both paused a moment, and then Gwen threw caution to the winds and hugged her. It was Gwen’s nature to be affectionate, and though she was unsure what Godfrid’s Irish bride would find comfortable, she felt that an immediate connection between the two of them was necessary—especially with the way the plans for the day had been upended by Harald’s death. “Godfrid is so happy. Thank you for making him happy.”

  Delightfully, Cait hugged her hard. “I’ve heard so much about you!”

  “And I you.” Gwen stepped back, and both women continued to smile. As Gwen had hoped, her hug had swept aside whatever formality and awkwardness might have colored their initial meeting. She gestured to Llelo. “This is my son, Llelo.”

  Llelo bowed. “My lady.”

  “It is a pleasure.” Then Cait’s smile dimmed a bit. “Though, naturally, instead of us meeting as intended at the palace or Godfrid’s house, we are here—" she made a sweeping gesture, “—in the cell of some poor murdered monk.”

  Gwen made a helpless motion with one hand. “This seems to happen to us more than one might expect.”

  The smile was back. “So I’ve heard.”

  Llelo had straightened to greet Cait, and now he held out his hand to show both women a round wooden coin with the engraving of two crossed axes on one side. “This was hidden in his mattress.”

  Gwen frowned to see it. She had encountered a similar-looking coin in Shrewsbury as a marker to allow admission to a brothel. By following the coin to its source, they had ultimately discovered Conall and concluded that particular investigation—though not without peril first. The thought of Harald—a monk—visiting a brothel was so horrifying she didn’t want to speak of it out loud.

  Now, she looked at Cait. “Does the coin look familiar to you? Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

  Cait shook her head, though somewhat hesitantly. “Not to look at, though of course I know of such things from Conall. I see from the look of concern in your eyes that you remember it well.”

  “Not to be indelicate, but are you familiar with the brothels in Dublin?”

  “Familiar, no.” Cait’s lip curled. “I was pretending to be a slave for a merchant on the docks, however, so of course I am aware of them.”

  Gwen kept her tone level. “Do any of them acquire their patrons through the use of wooden tokens?”

  “Not that I know—and I think I would know.” At Gwen’s initial question, Cait’s expression had hardened, but now she paused, her shoulders dropped, and some of the tension left her body. “I apologize for the way I just reacted. You weren’t questioning my knowledge of Dublin. You were merely making an inquiry.”

  Gwen gave her somber smile. “I have been to Dublin only once, and I don’t speak Danish, so anything you can contribute would be helpful.”

  Cait let out a breath. “I am on edge. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  Gwen put a hand on her arm. “Godfrid, Conall, Gareth, and I have been friends for some time. We have saved each other’s lives. You are new to us, and it’s natural to want to belong and to want things to go well. You don’t know me at all, but I can tell you with absolute sincerity that I will never deliberately say anything to offend you.”

  For a moment, Cait appeared not to know how to reply. Then she tossed her head and laughed. “Whereas I have a bad habit of speaking my mind before I’ve thought through what I’m going to say.”

  “So we should get on well together.” Gwen grinned. “I’m glad you came, so we could get that out of the way upfront.”

  Cait wrinkled her nose. “When Godfrid and Prince Hywel arrived at the palace without Conall or you, I knew something wasn’t right. I snuck out of the hall as soon as it was seemly.”

  The she laughed at Gwen’s widened eyes. “Don’t worry. Godfrid has set two of his men to watch over me. They spend most of their time loitering in anterooms and doorways. It can’t be very exciting for them.”

  Gwen smiled. “I imagine you were used to going about on your own when you lived here as a slave. Gareth never lets me go anywhere by myself anymore, though I have more freedom now that I have my grown up son at my beck and call.” She shot Llelo a grin too.

  But he wasn’t paying attention. While the women had been talking, Llelo had continued to work. He’d moved on to the bedside table, set on the far side of the bed, near the washstand. Gwen had been so focused on Cait she’d almost forgotten their purpose in being in the room.

  Now, he picked up a scrap of paper, which had been kept in place by the wooden water cup. “Mother—”

  The tension in his voice had Gwen moving around the bed before he’d finished his sentence with, come look at this.

  The piece of paper was no more than a scrap, one torn from a larger paper, as evidenced by the uneven edge at the bottom. But while the paper was unexceptional, the words written on it in black ink were in exquisite penmanship, albeit in a language Gwen didn’t read. Llelo couldn’t read it either, and he wordlessly stretched his arm across the narrow bed towards Caitriona.

  Cait stepped closer, her brow furrowing, and took the paper from Llelo. “It’s a passage from the Bible, written in Danish: Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup of suffering from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.” She looked up. “It’s a quote from Luke, but—”

  She appeared as much at a loss as Gwen, who finished her sentence for her, “—but in this context, what does it mean?”

  Chapter Seven

  Day One

  Gareth

  It had been some time since Gareth had felt this particular rumbling in his belly. It was like being hungry, which he was, a little bit, but that hunger was mixed with excitement and tension too. They were on a trail now, and from the sidelong glances Conall kept sending him as they left the laying out room and walked towards the cl
oister, he knew it too. Madyn had already returned to his duties.

  “You are like a cat stalking a mouse. You’ve grown silent and even your gait has changed.”

  “We have a mystery, my friend. And if I’m the cat, I just hope my prey is really a mouse, rather than something larger with bigger teeth.” Gareth pulled up. “I’m wondering a few more things now as well, and I suspect you are too.”

  “Of course I am. You go first.”

  “For starters, and maybe completely irrelevantly, why didn’t Bishop Gregory mention he had a Welsh monk among his brothers? Why didn’t Prior James say anything once he learned I don’t speak Danish?”

  “In the case of the Bishop, perhaps he thought I was adequate to the task. Or it simply could be he doesn’t know Madyn. This arrangement with the Benedictines is new. In a way, I’m surprised he recognized Harald on sight.”

  Gareth considered that for a moment, and then caught sight of Gwen, Llelo, and another woman, who by her staggering beauty had to be Cait. They were leaving the building just ahead of them, so he waved and caught their attention.

  While they made their way to him, he said to Conall, “Am I wrong to be sensing an element of discord between the priests and the monks?”

  Conall raised one shoulder and dropped it as he watched the women and Llelo approach. “I am not a churchman. I attend mass when I can, but otherwise leave spiritual matters to them and to God.” His eyes narrowed. “But I could see why there might be issues. You’ll have noted the community has a prior only, and no abbot. The monks have taken over tasks that used to be performed by laymen in service of the priests, who remain in significant numbers here. When the priests had laymen working for them, the balance of power was straightforward: the laymen were servants. But monks are not servants, and even if priests aren’t supposed to view themselves as superior to monks, many feel they are anyway. That attitude is unlikely to go over well with any of the monks here. These men are servants of man and God—but not of priests. They would view the differences in their habits and education as a matter of calling, rather than value.”