The Irish Bride

by Sarah Woodbury

  Gareth scoffed. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

  Conall still thought he did, and thought, when it came to it, that Gareth wouldn’t be able to condemn an innocent man—not that Cadwaladr was innocent. He would go to the gallows one day because his impulses would lead him to it, as inevitably as Conall now believed Donnell would die for his crimes against Leinster and Dublin, if not by Conall’s hand, then by Brodar’s or Diarmait’s.

  Conall just had to furnish them with the weapon.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Day Two

  Gwen

  Dai and Llelo had brought Banan to the palace’s laying out room, which had the laundry on one side and the chapel on the other, so it was convenient for both. It wasn’t as airy as the room designed for that purpose at Christ’s Church, but it had doors that opened in the front and back, which, were it day, would have let in light. As it was, they had brought lanterns, two of which hung above the body, and a third which had been placed on a nearby table.

  Gwen had been happy not to stand over Harald’s body, but this time she had questions she wanted answered for herself. As Gwen stepped into the room, having returned from nursing Taran and getting both children to bed, Llelo looked up from where he was braced against the wall in a corner. Prince Hywel, interestingly, was in the opposite corner, both men with their arms folded across their chests and an almost identical contemplative expression on their faces.

  “Why are you here?” she said to Prince Hywel, perhaps more abruptly than she could have.

  He didn’t take offense. “A man was murdered by food intended for the high table—food intended for the king, my ally. I have to be here.”

  “King Diarmait is an ally now?”

  “I certainly hope so,” Hywel said.

  Gwen stepped closer. “Are things that bad at home? You really think you’re going to need him?”

  “After my grandfather lost his throne to Norman invaders, he retreated to Ireland three times. If I need an army of fighting men, Diarmait has one, and he’s more at the ready today than Brodar.”

  Gwen let it go. Even in adulthood, both married with children by other people, she and Hywel had an abiding friendship that went to the very core of both of them. She could say things to him nobody else could, but she was also aware of the differences in their stations and preferred to use her influence sparingly. To his great credit, Gareth understood without being jealous.

  “What did I miss in the hall?” Gareth asked.

  “After the meal, King Brodar finally announced that Banan had been killed in an attempt to murder King Diarmait,” Hywel said. “He made it sound like it was a question of mistaken identity rather than because of what he’d eaten.”

  Gwen thought back to her jest with Cait and Dorte about surviving the night without a death and felt a little abashed. “What did Rory say?”

  “He expressed shock, horror, and innocence.” Hywel shrugged. “Rory is the son of the High King. He can say and do what he likes. And Donnell’s representatives are hardly better. They know their safety is guaranteed. I expect we’ll get nothing from any of them.”

  “We need to determine by what means the shellfish poison was introduced.” Gareth stood at the head of the table, looking into the dead man’s face. “Nobody in the kitchen could tell us which dish was tainted. How are we to discover it, since the only people who could tell us—King Diarmait and Conall—would die in the process?”

  Gareth’s question had been designed for Llelo to answer, and he obliged. “Is there anything in Banan’s mouth?”

  Obediently, Gareth leaned forward and pried open Banan’s mouth. It was too soon for rigor, but Banan’s face was so swollen, the tissues didn’t want to move. As it turned out, Banan did genuinely still have food tucked into his cheek.

  Gareth frowned. “I’m seeing pastry.”

  “From the pie as the cook suggested?” Llelo put his head next to his father’s. “Could the poison have acted so quickly that he never spit out the food that killed him?” He looked up at Gwen and Hywel. “Has anyone ever seen someone die from poison that fast?”

  Hywel uncrossed his arms, interested too. “It wasn’t really poison, though, was it? Shellfish aren’t deadly to anyone but members of Conall’s family.”

  Gwen wished her stepmother, Saran, was with them. As a healer, she might have had something to add. Before coming over, Gwen had collected her journal that detailed the investigations she and Gareth had conducted, along with those she’d heard of. She set it on a nearby table and started flipping through the pages.

  Then, with her finger on a line, she read out what Bristol’s healer, who otherwise was a useless drunkard, had told her: “There is an uncommon condition resulting from the sting of a bee where within the space of a few moments the victim’s heart begins to beat too fast, his throat closes, his face swells, he develops a rash all over his body, he faints, and then dies.” She stopped reading, her finger still on the words. “That describes exactly what we’re looking at here.”

  “What’s the relationship between a bee sting and eating shellfish?” Llelo asked.

  For a moment nobody in the room spoke, and then Gwen said slowly, “They both introduce something into the body that the body reacts badly to.”

  Hywel snorted. “Badly is the word.”

  Gareth’s eyes narrowed as he thought. “Once I met a man who said every time he drank milk or ate cheese he experienced diarrhea. I didn’t believe him at first, since I’d never heard of it, but he insisted. It obviously isn’t the same reaction as we see here, but it is still a reaction.”

  Earlier, Jon’s expression at the idea of not eating fish had been typically Danish; now, Llelo’s at not eating cheese was hilariously similar. No Welshman could survive a winter without milk and cheese. “Dai won’t eat apples because he claims they make his mouth itch and his throat close.”

  That prompted his parents to look up sharply. “I didn’t know that!” Gwen said.

  Llelo shrugged. “He just doesn’t eat apples.” He gestured to Banan’s body. “They don’t do that to him!”

  Gareth rubbed his chin. “But you could see how they might if he ate enough of them or—”

  “Or if his body hated them as much as Banan’s body hated shellfish,” Gwen said, finishing the sentence for him.

  Hywel’s arms were folded across his chest again as he gazed into Banan’s face. Gareth had tried to close the dead man’s eyes, but the lids had receded into his head so far he couldn’t. Since she arrived, Gwen had been trying not to look at the body at all, so grotesque had it become in death, but now she forced herself to do so. “What are you thinking, Hywel?”

  Hywel gave a low laugh. “I’m thinking King Diarmait better find himself a new food taster—sooner rather than later.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Day Three

  Cait

  The next morning, while most of her companions were consumed with the whys and wherefores of the poisoning of her uncle’s food taster, Cait had remembered the appointment they’d made with Holm to go through the books and other gear Harald had left at his mother’s house. Given the crisis at the palace, rather than assist in the work himself, Holm had dropped off a trunk full of books and relics with Gwen and Cait at Godfrid’s house and left. He’d been polite about it, but she could see he believed pursuit of the poisoner was far more important and interesting.

  Gwen picked up a stack of loosely bound papers from the trunk and set it on the empty table before her. “Everybody is going to forget about Harald now.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Cait glanced at her new friend. “We won’t.”

  Now Gwen lifted out a book. “Harald was dressed as a knight and had wounds from fighting. He had the coin. He was involved.” She laid three more books on the table and then put another stack of papers beside them.

  The smell of old leather wafted over them. While the leather works, located to the north of the Liff
ey and thus outside the city, were a blight on the nose if one approached too closely, the smell of leather itself was pleasant—and to Cait comforting. She’d learned to read very young, and it was one of the activities Conall had enjoyed sharing with her.

  Then Gwen paused, her head down, having crouched once again to the trunk. Cait noticed and rounded the table to look into the trunk with her. Taking out the last books, Gwen revealed a lower level within the trunk containing a dozen weapons, from slim knives to darts, along with a genuine sword, this one in even poorer condition than the one Harald had died holding, with a rusted blade and a worn leather wrap on the hilt.

  “Holm didn’t mention these,” Gwen said.

  Cait gave a little laugh. “He saw books, and his eyes glazed over.”

  “Harald seems to have been somewhat obsessed with Dublin’s martial past.”

  Cait straightened and returned to the books on the table. Several were quite old, and thus not written by Harald, but two were in Harald’s own handwriting: one a work-in-progress translating the Bible into Danish, as Holm had said. The second was a chronicle, with dates and events.

  She flipped quickly through the pages. “It’s a record of Harald’s life.”

  Gwen looked up from one of the leather folios. “Can you read it?”

  She nodded. “My Danish is perhaps not as good as it could be, but it improves daily. It should be good enough for this.”

  Gwen returned to what she was doing, though Cait could feel her eyes glancing every now and then towards her. Over the next hour, the servants came and went, bringing food and drink for both of them, though if Cait ate and drank, she hardly noticed. She read in fascination—and also, as time went on, with a bit of acid in her belly. Harald seemed overly interested in himself and his own doings. He even recorded what he ate every day, though at the monastery, it seemed hardly to vary from day to day, even when he transferred from the monastery in Ribe to Dublin.

  He was quite frank about his grief at the loss of his brother, but very excited to have returned to Dublin. He documented the start of the Danish translation of the Bible, and then, in June, she encountered the first entry which referenced something other than the daily routine of a monk in the scriptorium: I have today begun to see that my life cannot continue as it has been.

  In the subsequent entries, coming daily over the course of the summer, Harald related his submersion deeper and deeper into a world of legend. He attended his first fight and then began training. Though she could only guess at what his voice might have sounded like, she could almost hear his excitement coming through the pages. He was learning to fight. He was becoming the man he thought he should always have been.

  He regretted the death of his brother but felt he was honoring his memory. He detailed his growing relationship with Arnulf, who shared Harald’s secret passion for fighting, though Cait never got the sense they actually enjoyed each other’s company. Arnulf had been tasked with bringing communion to the elderly throughout Dublin, and the pair used visiting Harald’s mother as a way to sneak away to practice. They found an abandoned warehouse by the docks and were soon joined by others. They never wore their church garb to these sessions nor used their real names, relying upon the desire of everyone to keep what they were doing a secret to protect themselves.

  Then, on the twentieth of July, came the first mention of Bishop Gregory: The bishop seeks to unite the Danish church with the Irish. He cannot. It would be a betrayal of our ancestors.

  Cait gave a little gasp at the boldness of the statement, at which point Gwen, who had long since given up on the books and was nursing Taran in the chair Godfrid had provided for her, met Cait’s eyes.

  “I was wondering when you’d come back to me. The journal is obviously fascinating.”

  “I have many pages still to read, but listen to this.” Cait translated what Harald had written.

  Gwen pointed to the table. “I didn’t want to disturb your concentration, but look at the top paper in the folio on the left.”

  Cait did as she bid. The top of the paper had been torn off, but the rest of the paper showed quote after quote from the Bible, all written in Danish. With the paper in her hand, she turned to look at Gwen. “I read this as possible Danish translations of Latin passages from the book of Luke.”

  “The quote we found in his room was from Luke.”

  “And the top of this paper is torn.”

  “You can even see a bit of ink if you look closely, as if something was written and incompletely torn away.”

  “Like the quote in his room.”

  Gwen canted her head. “If we do, in fact, know now where it came from, the question remains why that quote? I would ask now too if Harald himself left it there as a message or if someone left it there for him—someone who knew about his books and his writing at his mother’s house?” She paused. “Perhaps the man who killed him.”

  “Arnulf?”

  Gwen shrugged one shoulder. “After Gareth is done using him to paint the bigger picture, probably he ought to ask him about this too.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Day Three

  Gareth

  Gareth had known from the start that his day would be completely taken up by the events of the previous evening. He’d stayed up what felt like half the night (though it was really only until midnight) examining the body and then had slept past the dawn long enough to feel a little ill about it. He’d needed the sleep, however, and after a hearty breakfast without too much fish in it and a nice chunk of cheese, he and Godfrid returned to the palace.

  As they approached the gate, the look on Godfrid’s face was grim. “If you were to remark on the way the streets are eerily quiet today, I would have to agree.”

  “What are the people afraid of?”

  “I don’t know,” Godfrid said. “A poisoner is a devil you can’t defend against. It does no good to post extra men on the wall-walk and in the streets. He is by nature invisible.”

  “But we post the guards anyway.” Gareth sighed. “A show of force is sometimes necessary. We need the people to feel safe.”

  Jon met them halfway across the courtyard to the great hall. His eyes had black circles under them, indicating he’d slept far less than Gareth.

  Godfrid immediately put a hand on his shoulder. “You are relieved. Get to bed. That’s an order. We need you fresh tonight.”

  Jon’s mouth formed to say, “What’s tonight?” But then his brain caught up, and his expression hardened as he remembered the fighting ring. “You should know, my lord, that the question we have been most asked is if the death of Harald and the poisoning of Banan are related. I’ve told everyone every time that inquiries are proceeding.”

  Godfrid sighed. “People want answers. It’s understandable. Now, go.”

  Jon went, and Godfrid and Gareth continued into the great hall. While the streets of Dublin were subdued, as Godfrid had remarked, the great hall was packed to the rafters with diners.

  “Is this a show of solidarity and faith, or are people really that trusting about what comes out of the palace kitchen?” Gareth asked.

  “My brother told them they were not in danger from the food. It appears they believe him. I’m certain those in the kitchen were up most of the night too, preparing the food for today and making sure it isn’t tainted. Gareth—” Godfrid turned to him, “—the wedding is tomorrow!”

  “You will be at the church on time, and you will marry Cait. All this—” Gareth swept out a hand to encompass the room, “—is not enough to stop it.”

  Godfrid nodded, seemingly mollified. And it was true. All it took to be married were banns read in advance, which had been done, and a priest to bless them. They could do it in a field if they had to. The point was to be bonded in the eyes of God and men. The rest of it—the guests, the feast, the gifts—were trappings. Lovely trappings to be sure, but unnecessary to the main point.

  Gwen had come to Gareth with little besides the clothes on her back. She�
��d brought him a family, however—something he never thought he’d have again—which was worth far more to him than a patch of land or silver. With Hywel’s largesse, he had far more than a patch now too. And it was Gwen who’d been most instrumental in helping him achieve everything he’d accomplished in the last five years.

  Godfrid detoured to the front of the hall to speak to his brother and King Diarmait, leaving Gareth to head for the kitchen, initially alone, but then Prince Hywel intercepted him. Gareth didn’t bother to dissuade him. He needed a translator, and if it couldn’t be Godfrid or Jon, he was happy to settle for his lord.

  “You actually look rested,” Hywel said by way of a greeting.

  “I admit to sleeping longer than I intended,” Gareth said. “Are you sure you have time to help with this? I am grateful, to be sure, but don’t feel obligated if you have other duties.”

  “I am here for a wedding scheduled for tomorrow. Diarmait is determined it will happen, but he isn’t very pleasant to be around just now. The sooner we complete this investigation, the happier everyone will be.”

  “Where are the Dragons?”

  Hywel lifted one shoulder. “They are being Dragons. Cadoc has gone off with Iago to scout the land north of the Liffey. They dragged Steffan with them to prevent him from drinking too much and then regaling anyone who could understand him with stories of one false exploit after another.”

  In addition to having a rare facility with knives, Steffan was a storyteller. After music, the next best thing in the evening was getting him to tell a story, either from legend or about himself, often made up on the spot. To have had him on their ship had definitely made the journey across the Irish Sea more pleasant. As soon as they’d learned about the possibility of attending the fighting ring, since Steffan was the Dragon who’d interacted least with the Dubliners, he’d been held back in the hopes of at least one of them remaining somewhat anonymous.