At low tide, one could also walk across the Menai Strait from Gwynedd to Anglesey before the tide turned, and that was a much farther distance. Gareth would rather take a boat during the slack water at high tide. Less risky, to his mind. But then, he wasn’t a huge admirer of the sea, not like these Danes.
“Why do they fear being discovered?” Gwen asked. “That’s one of the pieces that’s odd to me.”
Since Jon had collected Sitric, Conall had been the one translating for Holm in a low tone, and now the sheriff, the Danish symbol of authority at the table, harrumphed. “We have no objection to men training.”
Sitric looked down at his hands, and when he spoke, his words were a cross between contrite and sulky. “Men join because it’s secret. They think they’re getting something they can’t get anywhere else. It’s like a guild, except for warriors.”
Now it was Conall’s turn to harrumph. “It’s more fun when it’s secret, isn’t it?”
Jon sat back in his chair, his eyes on his underling. “Stop sniveling over there. So you participate in a fighting club. Why does our discovery of it turn you inside out? Did you have anything to do with Harald’s death?”
“No!” Finally Sitric shed his mask of reticence and shame. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“Then what?” Jon asked.
Sitric was still standing, and now he put his hands on his hips, finally exhibiting a posture that wasn’t submissive, just an indication that he was thinking. “It started out as training, but over the last months, since the death of Ottar, the atmosphere has changed.”
Gareth waited for Sitric to embellish, which he didn’t, so he prompted, “It’s different now how?”
“I don’t know when it changed, but the meetings are less about training and more about fighting now. The fighters have assumed names and wear masks so nobody knows their identities. There’s gambling involved.”
Gwen pursed her lips. “Iona didn’t mention gambling.”
“She went to only one fight. She might not have realized everything that was going on.”
“Training was the original intent,” Gareth said. “Am I the only one seeing the irony that there now seems to be a profit motive?”
“Gambling.” Gwen shook her head. “One of the three original vices.”
“Three?” Llelo looked at her quizzically.
“Gambling, alcohol, and prostitution. They are pitfalls for any individual but for the mercantile-minded, they are weaknesses to be exploited. There’s a great deal of money to be made in all three.”
Conall was looking at her with laughter in his eyes. “Do you have Danish blood in you somewhere? They’ll make a merchant of you yet!”
Gwen scoffed. “I didn’t say I was going to exploit them! Only that others do. And in this case, if the foreman—or someone else—has organized gambling on the winners of these fights, that could be a motive for murder if Harald was supposed to lose a fight, for example, and he won instead.”
Cadoc leaned forward, his focus on Sitric again. “Was there ever a monk who fought in the ring?”
“A monk? No, I don’t think so. Really, if that had been the case, I would have mentioned it sooner.” Sitric shook his head as if the very idea was ridiculous. But then he stopped and thought again. “But—” his face paled.
Everyone looked at him expectantly.
Sitric swallowed hard. “I have seen the one they call the Templar.”
Chapter Twenty
Day Two
Gwen
“I am having a hard time envisioning Harald pretending to be a Templar and fighting other men,” Gwen said. “Is he really the man Sitric saw in the ring?”
“We won’t know until we are able to attend and see for ourselves,” Gareth said. “Harald was injured. He’d been fighting someone.”
Gwen supposed that was true, though the whole idea of a Templar had always been a strange one to her. Monks weren’t supposed to fight. That was the entire point of them. Maybe this was something she could discuss with Abbot Rhys.
Though the questions around Harald’s death continued, and it appeared as if all of Dublin now thought Harald killed himself, the bishop steadfastly refused to believe it, and thus Harald was getting a proper burial. That was all he was getting, however: a graveside service on holy ground.
Other than Gareth and Gwen, the only other attendees were a handful of monks and priests and Harald’s mother, who sobbed throughout the proceedings. Afterwards, the group dispersed with almost unseemly haste. Bishop Gregory, who’d performed the brief service personally, gestured Gareth and Gwen closer. Arnulf hovered in the background. Gwen found it hard to look at him.
Once they knew who he was, they’d gone through Arnulf’s responses to the questions Gareth had put to him word for word as best as they could remember. Few answers had been outright lies, instead being along the lines of I don’t know what else I can tell you and I really couldn’t say, which Arnulf had said at least twice. In retrospect, it was hard to tell the difference between actual ignorance and lies of omission. Often that wasn’t made clear until after the fact.
“Any progress?” Bishop Gregory said.
“We are making progress.” Gareth visibly wavered. He surely wasn’t going to speak openly about their plans in the churchyard, not with Arnulf listening. He could lie to put Arnulf at ease, but he couldn’t lie to a bishop.
Gwen squeezed his arm. “What my husband is trying to convey is that we will find answers. He fears, however, you are not going to like them.”
“Are these answers leading to the belief that Harald should not be buried in holy ground?”
Gareth shook his head. “They are not. Not so far.”
Bishop Gregory’s expression lightened. “I told you to seek out the truth, wherever it took you. Do that, and I am content.”
They went their separate ways, the bishop and Arnulf back to the cloister and Gareth and Gwen to the churchyard entrance, having learned nothing of interest at the funeral, in large part because so few people showed up—though a negative was still an answer of some kind. Llelo was hovering in the gateway, waiting for them, with a look on his face that implied urgency.
Gwen found her mouth turning down in anticipation of bad news. “What is it?”
“Prince Hywel requests your presence at the palace.”
Gwen checked the sky. “It’s almost suppertime anyway. We were just coming.”
“You should know before we get there that representatives from Connaught have come.” Llelo’s long strides ate up the short distance to the palace gate.
Despite the urgency, Gwen halted in the middle of the lane. “Sent by the High King?”
“Sort of.” Llelo laughed, though without amusement. It was another sign he was growing up. “Men who support Donnell O’Connor came first, followed within the hour by Rory O’Connor himself, who says he is representing the High King at Godfrid and Cait’s wedding.”
“Hywel told me they were supposed to be coming,” Gareth said. “I apologize for not mentioning it.”
“I thought Rory and King Diarmait hated each other,” Gwen said.
Gareth took Gwen’s hand, and they started walking again. “Since Ottar’s death, they have reconciled against Donnell, Rory’s brother, who is attempting to gather the other kings of Ireland to him in hopes of bolstering his claim to the High Kingship upon their father’s death. This includes Meath and Brega, whom Dublin fought in the spring, as well as Breifne and its king, Tiernan O'Rourke.”
Gwen put out her lip. “I thought O’Rourke was Rory’s ally?”
“Fifteen years ago O’Rourke led the raids against Leinster in which Rory participated, as a representative of his father.” To his credit, Gareth’s tone was matter-of-fact, rather than patient with the way she needed to be reminded of what he’d already told her—and what appeared to be such familiar history to him he could recite it at will. “The needs of recent events have superseded old grudges, at least for now. Remember, only
a few months ago Donnell tried to arrange for the death of Brodar and Rory. Any enemy of Donnell is now a friend of Rory and vice versa.”
“Thus making Brodar, as King of Dublin, and Diarmait, as King of Leinster, potential allies instead of enemies.” Gwen nodded. “But for Rory to come all this way in person to attend Cait and Godfrid’s wedding ...” Her voice trailed off as she thought about all the different things it could imply.
“It means something is afoot,” Gareth said.
Once at the great hall, Llelo stepped aside to allow his parents to precede him. As Gareth entered, Gwen could feel a slight stirring amongst the men nearest the door. Regardless of their allegiance, to a man, they nodded a greeting or bowed their heads as he passed.
Gareth wasn’t a prince, but he was the steward to the Prince of Gwynedd—and more than that, in the two days they’d been in Dublin, his reputation continued to precede him. He was Gareth the Welshman, as if there could be only one.
Hywel’s Dragons had a similar reputation. As she and Gareth advanced down the hall towards the high table, she noted them scattered around the room. Gruffydd stood against the wall behind Hywel’s chair, literally watching his back, but the rest were there to watch, wait, and protect.
She caught sight of Dai, near the back of the hall, still in his shirt and breeches, with neither cloak nor jacket, in case anyone at the palace was also going to be at the fight the next night.
Gwen was pleased to see how he’d matured just in the two days they’d been in Dublin. His facility with languages was to be envied and admired. Given the rapidity with which he learned, he might be completely fluent in both Gaelic and Danish by the end of the day. She didn’t understand how it was possible for him to be this way, but she could certainly appreciate that he was.
Gwen turned off before she reached the front of the hall. It wasn’t her place to approach the high table, and she would rather not call attention to herself. Cait and her mother were sitting at what amounted to a woman’s table in the front rank. While Gareth said his greetings, speaking French on the assumption that it was the language the most people at the high table would understand, Gwen took a seat at the far end of the women’s table, closest to the wall but adjacent to where Cait sat facing the high table.
“Everything all right here?” Gwen hadn’t missed much in terms of a meal, since servants were just beginning to enter the hall with laden trays.
Cait gestured for a servant to pour Gwen a cup of mead. “Nobody has drawn a sword yet.”
Gwen took a sip. “The thinking being, if nobody dies during this meal, it will be a triumph?”
Cait’s mother, Dorte, snorted into her cup of mead and then came up laughing openly. She’d been so dainty and elegant up until now, that Gwen found herself staring at her.
Dorte put the back of her hand to her mouth. “Pardon me, my sweet. That was so unexpected. I’m going to tell my brother what you said. He will laugh too, a release he desperately needs about now.” She eyed the high table, prompting everyone else to look in that direction as well.
Gwen guessed that the dark-haired newcomer next to Diarmait was Rory O’Connor. He sat on the opposite end of the table from the other two newcomers, who were the representatives from Donnell.
She leaned towards Cait. “How do you feel about Rory coming to your wedding?”
“It isn’t as awkward as it would have been if Donnell were sitting there. Uncle Diarmait at one point wanted me to marry him.” She scoffed under her breath. “As if I could.”
“Sometimes we don’t have a choice, my dear.” Dorte put her hand over her daughter’s.
“That wasn’t a slight to you, Mother,” Cait said. “Diarmait is your brother. You needed to do what he said.”
“And you don’t?” Dorte’s brow arched. “When he spoke to me of your alliance with Godfrid, he implied it was his idea.”
Now Cait herself snorted into her cup of mead. “I let him think so.”
Dorte wasn’t capable of actually grinning, but her smile was a little broader than before. “You are learning, daughter.”
A few years earlier, Gwen wouldn’t have understood that exchange, even having grown up at court. But her marriage to Gareth and their life of investigating murder had taught her a thing or two about royal politics. She glanced at Dorte. “May I ask how it is you speak such beautiful French? I’m afraid mine is awkward by comparison.”
“Of course I will tell you. It’s a sad story, really. For many years, Leinster has sought to break the power of the O’Connors. The kings of Leinster, most recently my brother, have sought an alliance with Normans in your country. Learning French as children was an attempt to impress our possible allies with our sophistication. And thus it spread among the other royal households of Ireland.” She lifted one shoulder in a dainty shrug. “It didn’t work, but I have found the language useful at times. As have Conall and Cait.”
“I’m not sorry you learned French, but I can’t say I think much of Leinster aligning with any Norman.” Gwen spoke matter-of-factly, but her true feelings leaned far more towards outright horror. “In fact, I think it would be a grave mistake. Once they arrive, it is nearly impossible to get them to leave. We know that well in Gwynedd, and even more so in the southern kingdoms of Wales.”
Dorte shrugged again. “That may be. It is hard to see how anyone could be worse than the O’Connors.”
Gwen bent her head, not knowing how to explain properly to someone who hadn’t lived with Normans. Then again, if Dorte had lived with Normans, she would be as horrified as Gwen. Things could easily be worse, but it was likely that until the Normans came, the Irish wouldn’t know what ‘worse’ was. Gwen didn’t argue, however. As a woman, Dorte very likely had little influence or say in the matter anyway. Diarmait would do what he thought necessary, what kept him in power, regardless of the possible cost. It appeared to be a trait of kings.
For now, Rory O’Connor was an ally, and Leinster and Dublin were safe from any Norman invasion.
Gareth’s greetings appeared to have been acceptable, because he was given leave to stand behind Hywel’s chair with Gruffydd. But instead of staying on the dais, he spoke briefly with the Dragon captain and then sidled away along the wall to eventually fetch up next to Gwen once again. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I know why we were summoned, and it wasn’t because Rory is here. Come with me.”
Gwen looked up to see a grim look on her husband’s face.
“Make your apologies.” He brushed his lips past her ear. “Someone else is dead.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Day Two
Gareth
Gareth should have known it was a foolish hope to think they could get away with only one dead body in this investigation.
Unlike Harald, whose expression in death was serene, this man had died in pain, with hugely swollen lips, puffy eyes, and a bloody froth around his mouth. He hadn’t died here, since he lay with arms above his head, indicating he’d been carried into the storage room off the kitchen—to hide him, it seemed, once someone ran to tell a higher authority what had happened.
Though Gareth crouched beside the body, Gwen sensibly remained near the door, seeing no need to approach too closely. Shelves lined the walls of the room on all sides, laden with stacks of serving dishes, cups, carafes, trays, and the like. As a result, with him, Gwen, Conall, and Jon present, the room was very crowded. Llelo and Dai were keeping watch on the other side of the door, undoubtedly with ears perked in order to hear what was going on inside.
“Just tell me what happened.” Gareth looked from Conall to Jon. “And for the love of St. Seiriol, tell me why everyone in the hall is still eating the food, the consumption of which has just killed this man!”
“The food in the hall is not tainted,” Jon said soothingly. “King Brodar’s food taster sampled it all, and he remains well. King Diarmait himself was adamant that none of the guests become aware someone had died. Right now, he and Brodar are the only ones at
the high table who know.”
“If all is well, how is this man dead?” Gareth said.
Conall made a gesture with one hand, telling Jon he would talk. “Let me start at the beginning: you are correct to be concerned, but not for the reasons you think. Yes, a half-hour ago, Banan collapsed by the dishes waiting to be carried to the high table. He is King Diarmait’s food taster, but even had the entire high table eaten what killed Banan, only King Diarmait would have died. That’s why the meal is continuing as usual. Again, King Brodar’s food taster had already eaten of everything to be served with no ill effects.”
He took a breath. “My family cannot eat shellfish without becoming violently ill. Aversion usually manifests in childhood, initially with less severe symptoms such as a rash and itching in the mouth after consumption. Subsequent meals, however, can mean death. Diarmait’s brother died when the same knife used to open an oyster was used to cut his vegetables. One of my great-uncles died after he took a long sniff over a pot where a mixed fish and oyster stew was cooking. Banan was King Diarmait’s food taster because he also suffered from the malady, having had his first reaction to a prawn, as did Diarmait, as a child.”
“I hope the king paid him well,” Jon said dryly.
“He did.” Conall toed the heel of the man’s boot. “Not that it does him any good now. His family, however, will be provided for.”
“What about you?” Gwen looked Conall up and down.
“Of my mother’s children, only I am afflicted.”
Gareth’s breath caught in his throat. “You could have died too!”
“Believe me, I am aware.”
Gareth studied their friend. “You’re sure nobody else is in danger? Dorte and Cait are just in the hall!”
“And they are happily eating without ill effect.”
Gareth couldn’t stop staring at Conall, and at first Conall almost glared back—before relenting. “I supervised the cutting of fresh meat for my uncle with a newly scrubbed knife and sampled the food meant for their table. Even if everyone at the high table was so afflicted, nothing they eat tonight will hurt them.”
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