The Irish Bride

by Sarah Woodbury

  Gareth could only agree with that. “Where did the note come from?”

  “Harald and I had been discussing the translation of the Bible into Danish he’d been working on. He had asked me to help him with some passages, so I knew where to find the paper. On the way back from speaking to you, I stopped by Harald’s mother’s house, tore the bit from the top of the paper, and left before his mother returned from the market. It seems I should have taken the whole paper and burned it. Bad luck, I guess.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought a priest would believe in luck, bad or otherwise,” Conall said, though in an undertone.

  If he heard, Arnulf ignored him, lost in his own story and misery. “It was the best I could do on short notice. Vigo hoped the note would stop the investigation before it started and thought it was better to have Harald condemned than for the bishop to find out about the fighting ring.” His shoulders fell. “Not that he didn’t find out anyway. Vigo was furious with me for not forcing Harald to remove his gear before we parted.” Then he snorted, mustering a bit of righteousness. “It was Vigo’s own fault for making Harald so angry. Normally we left our gear with him between bouts rather than trying to find a good hiding place in our rooms.”

  “It was you who spread the rumors, though,” Conall said, pressing the point. “Despite the bishop’s determination to keep the cause of Harald’s death a secret, you made sure it was known, to the point that it got back to his own mother that same day.”

  Arnulf’s eyes were on the ground again. “Yes.”

  “And Vigo?” Gareth said. “By now you must have realized Harald was right, and yet you attempted to cover up what Vigo had done—and was doing.”

  Arnulf still didn’t look up, and his shoulders hunched again.

  “You wanted to protect yourself and your position that badly?”

  “I was in too deep.”

  Gareth suddenly put a few more pieces together. “You were in debt to Vigo, weren’t you? Maybe not just for the armor. Had you been gambling on the fights? And losing?”

  Arnulf nodded dully. Then he put his face into his arms and began to weep. “I wish I could take it all back. I wish I’d helped my friend.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Day Four

  Gwen

  Gwen had her arms wrapped around her son, refusing to let him go. He was taller than she was, but she weighed more. She hadn’t known Dai was in real danger and, in a way, that made her need to hug him even more fierce.

  Still, Dai’s gentle pats on the back eventually encouraged her to release him, and she loosened her hold. He was past the age where her love embarrassed him, and these days he could even say I love you back to her. Now, even though she’d let him go, he brought her into the circle of his arm again. “I’m all right, Mam.”

  “They could easily have done to you what they did to Steffan.”

  At her words, they both turned to look at the Dragon in question, who was sitting on a bench, being seen to by Tod, the healer’s apprentice, who himself was being assisted by Aron.

  Once he’d dragged Steffan into the house, Vigo had pulled two of the fingernails from Steffan’s left hand, demanding Steffan tell him what he knew. Steffan had refused, of course—and refused even to let him know he really did understand what he was saying to him. He’d been aided by the fact that he’d passed out briefly after Vigo had ripped off the second nail.

  Setting fire to the house had the beneficial side effect of leading the search party right to them. They’d been mounting Vigo’s horses, in preparation for returning to Dublin, when their friends arrived.

  They’d entered Dublin in the gray light of morning, before the city was truly stirring, and since Vigo had ridden in thrown over a horse, with a sack over his head and a cloth binding his mouth, nobody outside their small circle knew they had a son of the high king locked up in their shed. The question remained what to do with him.

  Gareth had Goff and Arnulf continuing to consider the error of their ways in side-by-side penitent cells within Christ’s Church. It seemed the best way to prevent news of what really happened north of the Liffey from spreading throughout Dublin—and worse, reaching the ears of either Rory O’Connor, who was camped with his men to the west of the city, or Donnell, wherever he might be.

  Rory had to know by now that something untoward had happened in the night that had required the king to leave the city. Cait had done an impressive job deflecting King Diarmait’s questions, implying it was merely a training exercise that had taken the Brodar outside the city so early in the morning.

  “On the day of his brother’s wedding?” Diarmait had asked.

  Cait had merely shrugged and offered him a shellfish-free breakfast.

  “I’m really fine.” Steffan held up his hand. “I confess to have never been so afraid in my life as when he brought out the pliers. I thought he was going to remove one of my fingers whole—or take my eye.”

  Cadoc dropped a hand on his shoulder. “We would have been too late to stop him. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s my fault for getting caught. It’s embarrassing, really.”

  “You were caught because Vigo recognized you as a Dragon,” Dai said. “There was nothing you could have done about that except not go—and at the time you didn’t know you’d be recognized.”

  Steffan growled. “No way I wasn’t going.”

  Gruffydd grinned. “Tod here will bandage you up, and you can tell the girls you were bitten by a wolf before you killed it.”

  Steffan’s eyes lit. “I had to let him have my left hand so I could strangle him with my right.”

  Cadoc sighed dramatically. “It also means you probably won the bet, though young Dai here could argue he gave you a good run for your money.”

  Gwen lifted her head at that. “What bet?”

  The faces of all the Dragons bore an identical sheepish expression. After a quick glance at the others, Gruffydd flicked out his fingers. “We wagered on which one of us would be of most service to the investigation. Too bad we can’t pay Steffan his winnings in fingernails.”

  It was a macabre jest, but everyone laughed. Gwen, however, turned to her boys, her eyes troubled. “That was closer than I like to see my sons to real danger.”

  Atypically, Dai didn’t brush off the concern. “I was scared, Mam. I really was.” Then his brow furrowed. “But I didn’t let it stop me from doing what had to be done.”

  Evan walked over and looked Dai in the eye. “Iago tells me it was you who captured Vigo.”

  Dai allowed himself a pleased look. “Iago knocked him out. I’m glad I didn’t realize he had pulled out Steffan’s fingernails himself or I might have been angrier and done something stupid.”

  “I don’t believe you would have, but credit to you for wondering that about yourself.” Evan tipped his head towards the door. “Go get cleaned up. All of us must. And pretend like nothing is in any way amiss!”

  As it turned out, that was easier than Gwen had thought it might be. The sight of Cait in her wedding dress was enough to dispel everything else from her mind. And when Cait walked into the churchyard an hour later, the look of stunned surprise on Godfrid’s face told everyone he couldn’t think of anything but his bride either.

  Godfrid had insisted Gareth stand up with him, in addition to Conall and Brodar, so both Gareth and Gwen stood at the church door with them. Taran had fallen asleep in Dai’s arms, and Llelo had swung Tangwen onto his shoulders so she could see above the heads of everyone in the crowd, even the tallest Danes.

  Even Steffan had come, though his hand was bandaged, and Aron and Iago hovered over him. His hand would heal, but their attentiveness was because torture couldn’t—and shouldn’t—be so easily dismissed. With everyone at the church, Brodar had sent his own men to guard Vigo in the shed, hoping that having guards around Godfrid’s home wouldn’t be viewed as odd, given that he was getting married today.

  Church bells rang above their heads, and the street and churchyard were
packed with citizens of Dublin. On the arm of King Diarmait, Cait progressed along a woven reed mat to the church door, where Godfrid and Bishop Gregory waited.

  Although the Danes themselves were not known for their musical talents, they appreciated song and, after gory and tragic battle sagas, love songs were among the most commonly sung. Gwen and Hywel moved together to one side of the steps, and everyone turned to look at them. Hywel leaned down and hummed the starting note in Gwen’s ear, since he had perfect pitch and could always get it exactly right, and they began:

  As far as the wind dries,

  and the rain moistens,

  and the sun revolves,

  and the sea encircles,

  and the earth extends

  By the truth of Heaven,

  I am yours,

  Name what thou wilt.

  And I will grant it

  For my heart warms unto thee ...

  There was no applause after the singing, but Dorte was weeping, so Gwen knew she’d done her job. She returned to her family, finding herself alive in that particular way a performance that went well could make her. Hywel’s eyes too were alight, and she suspected he, at least, would be called upon to sing again in the hall at the celebratory feast—and would be happy to oblige.

  The ceremony itself was short, conducted half in Latin, which Gwen understood, with key moments in Danish, which she didn’t. What was supposed to happen, however, did, and when Godfrid put his ring on Cait’s finger, Gwen found tears welling up in her own eyes. She wished Gareth was beside her because she could have clasped his hand, remembering their own wedding nearly five years ago.

  Then the church doors opened and the entire company entered for the nuptial mass. Gwen herself was delighted about the marriage, of course, but she couldn’t help thinking of Harald and his journal, protesting the loss of Danish sovereignty, which Godfrid’s marriage to Cait only solidified. The church itself was full of summer flowers, sweet scented and full of light, a fine counterpoint to the darkness of the last few days.

  Now that Cait and Godfrid were married, Gareth too was surplus to requirements. Leaving Brodar, Conall, Rory O’Connor, and King Diarmait to kneel and stand with Cait and Godfrid, Gareth appeared at Gwen’s side, just about the point that Taran, who’d been asleep, started to fuss. Once she relieved Dai of his burden, and Gareth took Tangwen from Llelo, the four of them slipped out a side door into the churchyard.

  “Too many people in too small a space,” Gwen said.

  “If both of you weren’t so sweet, I wouldn’t have put it past you to have pinched Taran to make him fuss,” Gareth said, “just so you could leave early.”

  “I would never do that!” But Gwen was smiling as they navigated through the crowd of citizens who didn’t fit in the church but still wanted to wait to greet their new princess, and down a deserted side street. If any residents of Dublin weren’t at the church, palace, or lining the road between the two, they were staying inside.

  Godfrid’s house lay in the opposite direction, west of Christ’s Church. But as soon as they were within sight of it, Gareth put out a hand to stop Gwen, and then tugged her and the children towards a nearby alley. “Something’s wrong. The guards are gone.”

  Gwen clutched Tangwen’s hand, and the three of them waited as Gareth walked through the gate, into Godfrid’s yard, and into the house. The wall around the complex was only three feet high, designed to keep children and pigs inside, not to deter intruders.

  After what felt like an hour, but likely was really a fraction of that time, Gareth returned. “I don’t know how or why, but Vigo is gone.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Day Four

  Gareth

  The post-wedding feast was winding down, even as it had spilled into the streets. Brodar had opened his stores, and the mead flowed freely to one and all. Holm and his men were already being kept more than busy. It was the reason the wedding and feast had taken place early in the day rather than in the evening. Many Danes were belligerent on a good day, but darkness and drink made them mean.

  Godfrid and Cait had long since disappeared to Godfrid’s house. To give the newlyweds privacy, an hour ago, Gareth had sent Gwen and the children to sleep at Conall’s home, escorted by Dai and Llelo, who were told to stay to guard the door, just in case.

  “You don’t look happy.” Hywel descended from the high table and settled on the bench opposite Gareth.

  Gareth lifted a cup of mead to him in a silent tribute. “Do you know why?”

  “Of course.” Hywel took a sip from his own goblet he’d brought with him. “You don’t like the fact that King Brodar arranged for Vigo to be sent to Ottar’s father on the Isle of Man without consulting you.”

  That was the entirety of Gareth’s problem in a nutshell. “Did you know in advance what Brodar was going to do?”

  “No. I wouldn’t keep something like that from you, even if Brodar wanted me to. But I can’t say I’m surprised. You shouldn’t be either.”

  “I know. He’s the King of Dublin and can do what he likes. I shouldn’t allow it to upset me.”

  “You like wrapping up an investigation and tying off the ends. You can’t do that here.”

  “I investigated at Bishop Gregory’s request. I found Harald’s murderer. Why can’t I be satisfied with that?”

  Hywel took another sip of his mead, savoring it on his tongue before swallowing. “Because you care about justice.” It wasn’t a question. “And you’re right that Vigo should be punished, maybe even hanged, since he killed not only Ottar in battle but the servants who poisoned Banan. Brodar asked me to assure you Vigo has only punishment in store for him at the hands of Ottar’s father.”

  Gareth managed a snort of mocking laughter. “Vigo did like to get his hands dirty, I can say that for him.”

  “Did you hear what he said when Godfrid pulled out the gag?” Hywel looked up from his cup to meet Gareth’s eyes. “No, you wouldn’t have understood since it was in Danish: if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

  “It would have been nice to have witnesses attest to that fact at a trial. He’ll never get one now.”

  “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Hywel said. “He wouldn’t have no matter to whom Brodar gave him. Welsh law doesn’t apply here. If Brodar gave Vigo back to Donnell or his father, they’d let him go immediately, probably with a pat on the head and a thanks, and he would continue to wreak havoc on Donnell’s behalf, just not in Dublin or Leinster. If Brodar gave him to Rory, he would have been tortured and killed, just for the fun of it. If he gave him to Diarmait, he could be used as leverage against the High King and all of his sons. And even if Brodar kept him himself, a trial would still have been out of the question.”

  “When you state it so plainly, I feel naïve. I wouldn’t have been happy with any of those choices, even Diarmait, who, as Brodar’s liege lord, would be the natural choice.” Gareth’s chin was in his hands, feeling more morose than ever.

  “Vigo did try to kill him,” Hywel said, with a wry smile.

  “So I imagine he isn’t happy either.”

  “Not very,” Hywel said, though he didn’t sound concerned by it.

  “What happened to our fear that the High King would retaliate against Dublin or Leinster for harming his son?”

  “Rory knows the truth now. Brodar showed him the warrant and allowed him to speak to Vigo. It would have been one thing if Donnell had succeeded killing his brother, but now ... the High King objects more to failure than to murder. Besides, you have to admit Brodar’s solution is ingenious. Vigo will disappear into the dungeon of the one person who has the greatest claim on his life, and who will hate him most, once he learns he should. Even Diarmait cannot argue with sending Vigo to the Isle of Man. Vigo stabbed Ottar in the back. He said so himself, in front of witnesses. Ottar’s father does have the greatest claim.”

  “You’re right. I see it too.” Gareth took a long drink and set down his cup, feeling a
bit better about how the day had gone.

  Hywel put a hand on Gareth’s arm. “Be content. We have done our duty here. More than that, we have showed all of Dublin that Gwynedd stands with their king and prince, now and always. And we have showed Leinster we can be trusted.”

  “You want Diarmait to turn to us instead of Pembroke, if he needs help against his allies, don’t you?”

  “I don’t relish losing Welshmen in a foreign war, but neither do I want to see either Leinster or Dublin fall to a Norman army. When Diarmait betrothed Caitriona to Godfrid, Diarmait gained a larger family than he realized.”

  Gareth settled back in his seat, his eyes on the high table, more at ease in this moment than he’d been since they’d arrived in Dublin. Then he looked back to his prince and grinned. “Just as long as Gwen is never again called upon to cross the Irish Sea.”

  “Never that.” Hywel laughed. “Caitriona and Godfrid will just have to come to us.”

  The End

  Thank you for sticking with The Gareth & Gwen Medieval Mysteries for twelve books!

  Never fear, there will be more mysteries with Gareth & Gwen, but my next project is a new mystery series I can’t wait to share with you, set in historical 1284 (no time travel, if you were wondering!).

  Stay tuned for the preorder which should be available within the next few weeks!

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  Crouchback

  The Welsh Guard Mysteries

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  As a newly-widowed lady-in-waiting to the very pregnant Queen Eleanor of England, Catrin never expected to return to Wales again. She definitely was unprepared to be confronted with murder when she got there—or to find herself face-to-face with Rhys, the childhood friend she lost twenty years ago. Rhys had never intended to return home either, but a lifetime of war has deposited him right back where he started—impoverished and owing service to Catrin’s older brother.