The Irish Bride

by Sarah Woodbury

  The surprise of the night, however, had turned out to be not this murder Gareth was caught up in, but young Dai, Gareth’s adopted son, who was seated beside Cadoc. With a single-mindedness he’d shown in few arenas, Dai had spent these last months, ever since they’d learned of Godfrid’s wedding and that they’d all be going, at Cadoc’s heels, begging for every snippet of Gaelic Cadoc could impart. Even in one summer, he’d become conversant. Dai had also looked to Prince Hywel for Danish, though with less result, simply because Hywel had less time for him.

  Once their journey began, however, Dai had planted himself amongst the sailors who’d come for them in their ship for the two-day journey to Dublin, submersing himself in the language. By the time the ship docked, he could communicate in basic sentences in both languages and understood ten times more than he spoke. For the first time ever, Dai had discovered he was better than his brother at something—better than everyone, in fact.

  “What are they saying?” Cadoc nudged Dai’s elbow with his, drawing the boy’s attention to the group of Danes directly behind them. Tonight, Cadoc wasn’t sitting with his back to the wall. It wasn’t out of choice but because they’d arrived in the hall too late to claim any of the best places.

  Cadoc had worked with Llelo in Bristol and concluded he would ably fill his father’s shoes when the time came. But Dai had something about him that drew Cadoc to him. He was less earnest, certainly, but more fiery, questing all the time to prove himself. Likely Dai reminded Cadoc of himself as a boy. Dai had been fortunate enough to have been saved by Gareth at a far earlier age than Gareth had saved Cadoc, which had resulted, miraculously, in a fundamentally sunny personality and hardly any chip on his shoulder.

  “Shh. I’m listening.” Dai kept his head down, to all appearances completely focused on the trencher before him. “They’re talking about the advantages of one weapon over another.”

  Disappointed, Cadoc shifted in his seat. He missed the wall to lean against. “A bow is best. I could tell them that.”

  “Bows don’t look to be much used weapons of war for the Danes,” Dai said. “At issue for them are axes versus swords.”

  “Swords are expensive.” Cadoc pursed his lips. “Maybe the great lords like your father haven’t thought of it yet, but that’s another reason it’s strange for Harald to have had one.”

  From the age of ten, Cadoc had spent most of his life in martial pursuits, but in regards to Harald’s sword, as with the Danish language, he found himself a little out of his depth. While he could appreciate—and wield—a sharp knife when called upon to do so, he was an archer, not a swordsman.

  By now the entire Welsh contingent, every one of whom had participated in an investigation in one way or another over the last five years, knew what Gareth and Gwen knew. Each was charged with discovering whatever they could about who Harald was, to whom he confided, why he was dressed as he was, and what impact his gear may or may not have had on his death. The more they discovered tonight, the sturdier would be the foundation of the formal investigation that would begin first thing in the morning.

  What nobody had told Gareth was that the Dragons were in the midst of a private competition amongst themselves as to which of them could acquire the most useful and relevant information and be of most use to the investigation. In that endeavor, Cadoc viewed Dai as his secret weapon and had no qualms about using the boy to spy for him.

  “That’s what one man is arguing, saying a sword is all very well and good in battle, if a man knows how to wield it, but it is quite another thing in the—” Dai paused as the foursome behind them rose to their feet and departed.

  “He said all that, did he?” Cadoc said dryly.

  Dai’s expression turned sheepish. “It isn’t as if I understand every word. I let it wash over me, and then I can summarize.”

  “Can you finish the sentence? In the what? Why did you stop?”

  “I don’t know why he used the word he did.”

  “What word?”

  “Arena.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s from the Latin word harena and is the same in English as Danish. Lots of Danish words are.”

  Cadoc’s eyes widened slightly to hear it. “That’s why it’s been so easy for you to learn!”

  The corners of Dai’s mouth turned down, turning his expression truculent. “Others speak English. Father and Mother do. You speak English. And Danish hasn’t been easy for you.”

  Cadoc hastened to pat him on the shoulder. “No offense meant, young man. I hadn’t learned enough yet to make that connection.”

  Dai looked slightly mollified. To soften him up further, Cadoc added, “You are better at languages than anyone I have ever met. I suspect you could learn French more quickly if you do what you did with Gaelic and Danish. It’s trying to do it with a tutor and books that turns you upside down.”

  Dai’s expression turned thoughtful. “That’s what Father said. My French did improve enormously while we were in Bristol.”

  “There! See! What did I tell you?” Cadoc lowered his voice. “Best you don’t let any of these Danes know how good you are. Your eavesdropping could be the difference between uncovering the answers and not.”

  Dai scratched his forehead, his eyes scanning the crowd. The great hall was packed to the rafters, with everyone who was anyone in Dublin putting in an appearance.

  At that moment, Brodar stood and began to speak—in Danish, Cadoc again sourly observed. Dai focused intently on Brodar’s face, probably trying to read his lips as well as listen to his words.

  But the fact that Cadoc didn’t understand more than one word in ten had the effect of shifting his attention away from what people were saying to what they were doing. And while it appeared the majority of the audience was enthusiastic about the union between Godfrid and Caitriona—Dublin and Leinster—here and there appeared faces where the happiness seemed forced. Towards the back of the hall, several men were sitting in a row with their arms folded across their chests. They could simply be unromantic types, but they could also be trouble.

  Then Jon, Godfrid’s captain, eased onto the bench beside Cadoc and spoke to him in French. “Sorry not to introduce myself to you before. With this murder, I had other duties to attend to. You are one of the Dragons.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I am.”

  “You do not like my king’s speech?”

  “I do not understand your king’s speech, as you well know.”

  Jon eyed Dai, who appeared to be speaking to himself under his breath. Jon studied him for another few moments, his eyes narrowing, and then said, “Unlike this one?”

  Cadoc put a finger to his lips. “We are keeping that between ourselves for now.” And then he decided he liked Jon’s tone and attitude and could confess further, “He is my secret weapon.”

  Jon grinned. The two men were of an age, both veteran soldiers, and Cadoc felt his understanding returned. Then Jon lifted his chin to point to the warriors at the back of the hall. While Jon and Cadoc had been talking, they’d moved apart from one another, as if they’d realized they were giving themselves away.

  “Brodar didn’t exactly take the throne over Ottar’s dead body, since Ottar died in the war against the men of Meath, but he did die, and everyone knows Brodar believed Ottar was a usurper. If he hadn’t been serving in another part of the battlefield at the time of Ottar’s death, Brodar might have been accused of stabbing him in the back.”

  The bitterness in Jon’s tone had Cadoc looking at him hard. “Ottar was literally stabbed in the back?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the heat of battle, a man can get turned around, especially once a shield wall breaks. It doesn’t have to have been one of his own who did it.”

  “That is what Brodar put out for the few who knew the way Ottar died. We all would stab an opponent any way we could if it meant our own survival.” Jon’s chin wrinkled. “But the entry wound was narrow, as made by a knife.”

  “H
e got close, then.”

  Jon’s jaw firmed. “Good riddance, I say. Brodar was always the better man, and we can see even from the few months he’s been on the throne that he is a better king.”

  Cadoc nodded. “I have been in Dublin half a day, but I can tell what a small community it is. Gossip about the way Ottar dishonored himself, even if it isn’t discussed publicly, has to have spread by now.”

  “You’re right, and it hasn’t done Brodar any harm that he has refused to discuss it.”

  “But if Ottar’s most ardent supporters, those who didn’t fall in battle, are coming to realize who Ottar really was, they might be resentful, even ashamed—and then more resentful because they don’t like feeling ashamed.”

  Jon turned his head to look at Cadoc. “You see all that from a few hours in our city?”

  Cadoc gave a little snort. “There is also the matter of the queen. I understand she disappeared with Ottar’s son. What explanation has Brodar given?”

  “That she didn’t want to witness Brodar’s ascension and returned to the Isle of Man.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Messages to Man have gone unanswered.”

  “Ottar’s father does rule there,” Cadoc said. “He has refused to hear Brodar?”

  “So it appears.”

  Cadoc wet his lips. “That isn’t a good start.”

  Jon took a long sip from his cup. The mead was flowing freely tonight. “The King of Man has not marshalled an army, being busy with his own affairs and threats to his own throne, but we are on alert.”

  “Which brings us back to Ottar’s supporters. Brodar has enemies in his midst.”

  “Always.”

  “Could these enemies have had anything to do with Harald’s death?”

  Other than that one hard look at Cadoc, Jon had been continually scanning the hall, but now he swung his eyes back. “I heard he took his own life.”

  Cadoc frowned. “Did Godfrid tell you that?” Even had Gareth’s people spoken Danish, none would have mentioned it, under strict orders to keep the information secret.

  “He did, but only after I asked, having heard from someone else already.” Jon frowned. “I think one of the men said something about it earlier this afternoon.”

  Cadoc let out a hmm. “Suicide is one possibility, but a death that looks like suicide provides a convenient avenue for a killer to escape.”

  Jon waggled his head in a noncommittal way. “Harald’s brother did serve Ottar faithfully.”

  Cadoc had heard that too from Gareth. “The sword Harald died with was not only much-used but well-made. It could have been his brother’s, and your prince is sending Holm to find that out from Harald’s mother tomorrow. But I don’t see why we should wait to discover who crafted it. Any ideas?”

  “I haven’t seen it yet, but I might be able to answer you after I see it. And if we were to bring it to the castle armorer, he would know more. If the armorer here didn’t do the work himself, he should know the name of the man who did.”

  “I will speak to Gareth.”

  “And I to Godfrid.”

  Cadoc smiled as he took a long drink of his mead. Maybe he’d bring Dai along too.

  Chapter Ten

  Day Two

  Gareth

  The routine was very familiar, and the only good thing about having to interview a passel of churchmen this morning was that Gareth could start early because the bishop had assured him his community woke at first light in order to begin the day with prayer and song. Gareth himself had woken just before dawn and gone to roust Llelo. But when the young man came up from his pallet with heavy-lidded eyes and his hair standing on end, Gareth thought better of the plan and shooed him back to bed. Llelo had lain back down and instantly fallen asleep again.

  Gareth suspected he wouldn’t even remember being woken and would then accuse Gareth of working without him.

  Gareth was working without him, but young men of Llelo’s age needed an absurd amount of sleep, which Gareth remembered from his own youth. Llelo had been the one to find both the coin and the paper yesterday. He could rest on his laurels for a morning.

  Conall met Gareth a half-step from the church gate. “Thought you’d start without me, eh?”

  “I knew you’d come.” Gareth shot him a grin. “You couldn’t stay away any more than I could.”

  “The celebrations last night were delightful, but it has been a few months since I had something I could sink my teeth into,” Conall admitted. “Being the ambassador from Leinster was fraught with peril and intrigue up until the war with Meath. Since then ...” His voice trailed off.

  “Sunshine and roses?” Gareth said. “A little too tame for an accomplished spy such as yourself?”

  Conall shot him a mocking look. “You know me too well.”

  “I’m sure there are other courts to which your king could send you. We would welcome your presence in Gwynedd.”

  “Isn’t Gwynedd almost as tame as Dublin now that Cadwaladr has departed for France?”

  Gareth barked a laugh. “You forget we still have Queen Cristina.”

  Conall’s face fell. “That woman frightens me.”

  “Me as well! Why do you think my prince hasn’t returned to Aber in nearly a year? His stepmother has given King Owain two sons. For a time it appeared he might put her aside, having become frustrated by her moods and temper. But he dotes on his boys, and she has used that to her advantage. Both boys were gravely ill this summer and the king and queen reconciled over their sickbeds. These days she is nothing but sweet to King Owain.” Gareth’s lip curled. “I heard all about it from the king’s steward, Taran.”

  “It happens. You can’t be sorry King Owain is happy.”

  Gareth closed the metal gate to the churchyard a little too forcefully, so it clanged. “Cristina has learned not to drip poison against Hywel in the king’s ear. He left her before because of it, but I fear for what she plots in secret. She wants one of her sons on the throne when the time comes. Thankfully, with both boys still toddlers, that is many years away.”

  “Household intrigue is bread and butter to an Irishman.” Conall shook his head. “Wives plotting against wives, sons against sons. The High King’s household is a den of intrigue. O’Connor had his own son blinded!”

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that in Gwynedd,” Gareth said dryly.

  “You know I will be there if Hywel needs me. As will Godfrid. You or he has only to ask.”

  “Hywel regrets he wasn’t here for Godfrid—but we didn’t know we were needed because you didn’t ask!”

  “My king was there, and that was probably better,” Conall said. “Dublin has come to the aid of Gwynedd in the past, and we are all family in the end, but sometimes it’s best to keep things close to home.”

  Gareth had to admit—not even grudgingly—that it was true. If King Owain died in the next ten years, Cristina could do nothing against Hywel because her sons were too young to rule or to have a significant claim to the throne. A challenge could come from Iorwerth, as the eldest legitimate son of Owain’s deceased first wife, since he was already above the age of manhood. He was not one to foster disunity or intrigue, however, and his best friend was Gwalchmai, Gwen’s brother.

  Still, as Gareth had said to Conall, if Owain lived longer, until Cristina’s sons were in their late teens or twenties, it would be a different story. But they would ford that river when they came to it.

  Bishop Gregory had again assigned his personal secretary, Arnulf, the young priest from the day before, to lead them around the monastery. Because of Conall’s observations about possible tension between the priests and the monks, Gareth didn’t ask for Madyn, the cellarer, or even Abbot James, whom he’d liked on first acquaintance. As monks, both could have given him insight into the community, and Madyn’s Welsh might have been helpful.

  But Bishop Gregory was a priest, acting for now as the abbot of a monastery, and Gareth didn’t want to get involved in whatever was going
on between the two factions. He would take Arnulf to start and move on to Madyn, if it became possible, or difficulties arose. Although Arnulf was young, he spoke Danish and French (as well as, likely, Latin). Gareth was fluent in French, as was Conall, so they should be able to muddle through for now.

  As Gareth had noticed from the very first meeting when Arnulf had run all the way from Christ’s Church to the dock, he was a well-set-up young man in his middle twenties, a bit stocky but not short. He appeared to be more muscular than the average priest, though, before dealing with Harald’s death, Gareth wouldn’t have said that meant much. He had the characteristic lump on the third finger of his right hand that indicated he spent a great deal of time holding a pen. That wouldn’t be unexpected, since he directly served Bishop Gregory, who likely had a great number of letters and documents he needed written every week.

  Given that Arnulf wasn’t far off in age from Harald, as they walked to their first stop, the scriptorium, Gareth decided to start the questioning with him. “Did you know Harald?”

  Arnulf gave him a startled look. “You’re asking me? Why?”

  Gareth was surprised that he was surprised, and immediately his attention sharpened, though he made sure not to let Arnulf know it. Answering a question with another question was an instinctive reaction when a person had something to hide. So instead, he merely turned a hand upward. “You are a member of this community, as he was, and approximately the same age.”

  “He was a monk.”

  “And you are a priest. Does that mean you didn’t interact?”

  “I apologize.” Arnulf seemed to realize he had come across as somewhat combative because he swallowed and started again. “Of course I knew Harald. I know the name and face of every monk and priest at Christ’s Church. I don’t know that I can tell you anything more about Harald than that.”