“My man, Barri, did this?”
Gareth and Gwen had been so focused on Meicol that they hadn’t noticed the arrival of yet another baron, this one Maurice Fitzgerald, Barri’s liege lord. Gareth rose to his feet, in part to be respectful to a ranking lord of the March, and partly because Maurice might treat him with more respect if they were looking each other in the eye. “That remains to be seen, my lord. He is being questioned as we speak.” He chose not to indicate where that questioning was taking place. “I would be grateful if you would leave this matter to me for now, as King Cadell indicated.”
Maurice grimaced. “I’m not questioning your methods. I simply want to be kept apprised of the progress of the investigation.”
“Of course, my lord,” Gareth said.
“I saw the whole thing.” Gwen straightened too, though she was many inches shorter than both men. “Barri did no more than fend off an attack from Meicol. As we told King Cadell, it was Meicol who threw the first punch—the only punch, really, since Barri never hit him at all, just shoved him a little to keep him away.”
Maurice scratched the back of his neck as he studied the body. In his early forties, he was the second son of Gerald of Windsor and Princess Nest, who was herself sister to King Cadell’s father, Gruffydd. That made Maurice and Cadell first cousins and could have explained the current alliance Maurice and his elder brother, William de Carew, had made with Cadell and Hywel. In these complicated Norman-Welsh families, however, blood wasn’t always a strong tie. Only last summer, Cadell had raided Maurice’s lands and taken his stronghold of Llanstephan from him.
But things had changed since then, not just in Gwynedd. Maurice and William were vassals of Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Pembroke, an allegiance that superseded the family’s loyalty to the King of England. From the moment Gilbert had rebelled against King Stephen a few months ago, William and Maurice had too. Because they were both opposed to Stephen’s meddling in Wales, Cadell and Gilbert had become allies, under the principle that the enemy of an enemy is a friend.
Subsequently, Cadell had given Maurice back his castle, and since everyone was now acting as if they were friends, it seemed the perfect time to bring their armies together in a joint endeavor. Although they’d put out that they were marshaling their forces to retake Chepstow Castle, Gilbert de Clare’s former holding, from King Stephen, they’d instead turned their attention to FitzWizo. That Cadell had invited Hywel to join the fun remained something of a mystery to Gareth. Hywel thought it was a way for Cadell to assess his mettle and resolve, but Gareth believed it to be more complicated than that.
Hywel was now the heir to the throne of Gwynedd and thus the future king of a rival kingdom. Nobody knew how long Hywel’s father would live. If Cadell didn’t want Hywel to attack Deheubarth as his first order of business once he became king, he was wise to court Hywel. Cadell didn’t want a war between the two kingdoms until he himself was ready for it. Hywel, in turn, didn’t either.
Gareth just hoped Meicol’s death didn’t have the power to end the truce right here in the hall within hours of the alliance’s first victory.
Losing interest in the body, Maurice turned back to Gareth and looked him up and down as if seeing him for the first time, which perhaps he was. “You are Prince Hywel’s man, yes?” But before Gareth could answer, he continued, “Why is it that Cadell entrusted you with this inquiry instead of one of his own men?”
Gareth hesitated, uncertain which question to answer first. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that, my lord. I am Gareth ap Rhys, and this is my wife, Gwen.”
Maurice continued to study Gareth. “I feel we have met before.”
“When I was younger, I was posted in Ceredigion, but I’ve—”
Maurice barked a laugh, stopping Gareth in mid-sentence. “You’re the one who thumbed his nose at Cadwaladr.” Again, before Gareth could answer the accusation, the Norman baron, eyes alight, clapped Gareth on the shoulder. “I know exactly why Cadell chose you. I’ll leave you to it then. Keep me informed.”
“Yes, my lord.” For once, it was a good thing his reputation had preceded him.
Gwen was looking at him with an amused expression. “That’s three lords who specifically asked for you to report any results to them.”
“And they all want me to do so before I tell anyone else.”
Gwen laughed under her breath. “Why do I keep thinking Cadell and Maurice know something we don’t?”
Gareth looked towards Maurice’s retreating back. The Marcher lord jerked his head at two of his men, and the three of them looked to be leaving the hall before the dessert was served. Gareth had seen it during a security pass through the kitchen: a magnificent multi-layered custard pie with a currant topping and a walnut crust. It was within Maurice’s rights to leave while the night was still young, but it made Gareth think he wasn’t enjoying this new alliance with his cousin as much as he was showing outwardly. In truth, in taking his castle and then giving it back in a magnanimous gesture, Cadell had made Maurice look the fool. That would sit well with few men, much less a man of Maurice’s lineage.
“It’s good to know you have allies even among the Normans.” Gwen’s eyes had followed his. “Cadwaladr has burned a great many bridges in his time.”
“I don’t know how many of these southerners approve of Hywel either, but at least they respect his abilities in battle,” Gareth said.
“Or if not that, his ability to choose the men to fight them.”
Gareth nodded. “The Dragons relieved FitzWizo of Wiston Castle easily.”
Gwen gave him a sad smile. “Easy in the moment is not necessarily easy in the aftermath. I see it in Evan’s eyes.” She paused. “And in yours.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Gareth said, though her not worrying was as likely to happen as snow in mid-summer.
He glanced towards where Angharad and Evan were still talking with Barri. He couldn’t see what Gwen saw. They’d all killed many men long before this. And yet, maybe Gwen wasn’t entirely wrong. Gareth had fought beside Hywel against FitzWizo’s forces, but while this battle had been a long time coming, with enormous animosity on both sides, it hadn’t been the great victory that the party tonight indicated. FitzWizo’s men had been woefully outnumbered and unprepared for the fight. The trick to lure them from Wiston had been spectacularly successful, but the actual battle had been more of a rout, with little glory on either side.
Gwen had returned to her crouch beside Meicol’s head, and since she was no longer looking at him or pursuing this line of thought, Gareth didn’t continue the conversation. Since Rhun had died, she was less likely to ask for real details of battle, and that lack made him feel relieved rather than slighted. She did want to know, but she trusted him to tell her when he was ready.
Now, she gestured to Meicol’s lips. “He vomited right before he died, Gareth. That’s not a good sign.”
Gareth lowered his voice in case anyone was near enough to hear it. “He was drunk, and he’d just fallen. A person can vomit for many reasons.”
“It doesn’t usually kill a man, though.”
Gareth nodded. “Where exactly was he sitting, Gwen?”
She pointed with her chin to a table closer than the one at which Evan and Angharad were questioning Barri. “On the end there.”
A family of five occupied that spot now, and the used cups and trenchers of previous diners had been pushed to the center of the table.
“I’ll secure his drink and his belongings. We should have done it a quarter of an hour ago.” Gareth pulled a cloth from his scrip and crossed the few feet to where the family sat. “Which of these are yours?”
The father, a man in his middle forties, eyed him uncertainly at first and then with growing concern as he rose to his feet. “We just sat down, my lord.” He pointed to two empty trenchers and a cup in front of him. “Those aren’t ours.”
“Good.” Less concerned about the food than the drink, since everybody was eating from
the same dishes and nobody else was sick, Gareth wrapped the cloth around the cup and took it away. He was using the cloth in case what was in the cup had found its way to the rim and dripped down the sides, since some poisons could be absorbed through the skin. Meicol may not have been poisoned, but it was silly to take risks at this point in the investigation. If things went like they usually did, there would be plenty of time for risk later.
Some deadly poisons were slower-acting too. King Henry had died supposedly from eating too many lampreys, which Abbot Rhys had told them was untrue and people believed only because they couldn’t bear to admit the alternative. Henry hadn’t died right away, so a food taster wouldn’t have done him any good.
Then Prince Rhys returned with a board and three eager companions, all his age. One was Llelo, Gareth and Gwen’s foster son, and another was Gilbert de Clare’s son, Richard, who was seventeen. Days before the battle with Walter FitzWizo, Richard and his father had escaped from Chepstow Castle by the skin of their teeth. Gilbert had ridden to Pembroke in order to shore up his forces there, but Richard had come here in the retinue of William de Carew, set on participating in a more immediate blow to King Stephen, no matter how minor, and to more completely sell the idea that they were about to attack Chepstow.
The young men put down the board and loaded the body onto it without any need of direction from Gareth. Then they stood, the board balanced on their shoulders. The residents of the hall had gone back to their merriment after Meicol had been pronounced dead, but now they quieted again, and as the body passed through their ranks, those who’d been sitting stood.
Gareth found himself walking beside Richard de Clare. His father was known as a great warrior, which was quite a reputation to live up to, but Richard had a bearing about him and a glint in his gray eyes that indicated the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. “Is it you who will be finding out how he died?”
“It is,” Gareth said.
Richard adjusted the board on his shoulder. “Barri isn’t a good man.”
“How so?”
“My own swordsmaster, Robert, trained him. And Meicol too as he tells it. Robert’s here tonight. You should talk to him.” He lifted his chin to point to where Robert stood with his left shoulder braced against the wall near the fire and his arms folded across his chest. He was ten years older than Gareth, tall and muscular, as befitted one of his profession. Evan had already told Gareth about the strange run-in with him at Wiston Castle, so Gareth wasn’t inclined to think well of him, but interviewing him was a different matter.
“I will speak to him after I examine Meicol’s body,” Gareth said. “Thank you, my lord.”
Richard nodded and continued walking. “Robert isn’t one to speak ill of the dead or spread untruths, but he has said some things about his time at Dinefwr that might have a bearing on the events of tonight.”
“Can give you me an example?”
Richard cleared his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable, which was exactly why Gareth had asked him to elaborate. Richard may have intended merely to be helpful, but such behavior on the part of a Marcher lord was rare in Gareth’s experience, especially one who’d grown up with intrigue from the cradle. “Barri wasn’t one to put the needs of his companions before his own. And Meicol was a drunkard.” Richard shrugged the shoulder that was not carrying the body. “I really can’t say more than that.” They exited the hall and started down the steps, and Richard used the moment to urge his companions to move faster.
Gareth didn’t press him again, though as he followed behind the body to the room in the barracks Cadell had designated, the whisper of distrust that had been wafting through the hall all evening blew by him with a little more force.
Chapter Five
Saran
Saran had seen Gwen and Gareth enter the barracks, following four boys who were carrying a body. One of the boys was Llelo, Saran’s new grandson. To her utter delight, she and Llelo had come to an understanding almost immediately upon her attachment to Meilyr. Llelo was Gwen’s foster son and Saran was Gwen’s stepmother, but grandson and grandmother the two of them would be. Almost overnight, Saran had found herself with a family to care for, and she couldn’t be happier about it.
Though Llelo and his brother, Dai, were ostensibly in the retinue of Prince Hywel’s younger brother, Cynan, they’d come with Gareth first to Dolwyddelan Castle and then to Deheubarth. They were enmeshed now in Hywel’s teulu, and it seemed likely to Saran, who’d spent a lifetime in one castle or another, that neither was ever going back to Denbigh.
It wasn’t that they hadn’t been learning what they needed to in Cynan’s company, but Prince Hywel—and thus Gareth by extension—had decided he needed every man he could trust beside him, no matter how young. To that end, he’d also brought in all of the sons of Cadifor, his foster father, in one way or another, though the eldest remained in service to King Owain as the captain of his guard. Cadifor himself remained at Aberystwyth, personally responsible for Mari’s safety and the safety of Hywel’s sons.
From the beginning, Llelo had proved himself to be thoughtful and competent, and the fact that he was Gareth’s son made him all the more trustworthy. While some not so favored might resent what they saw as premature advancement, family ties were an important bond. Hywel would be foolish not to exploit them.
Though Saran might have gone after Gareth and Gwen whether or not they were following a body, that there was a body at all meant something fairly disastrous had happened in the great hall during her short absence in the latrine. She hurried towards the barracks after them and just managed to stop herself from hurtling into the room.
By then, all of the boys but Llelo had left, and he, Gwen, and Gareth had their heads together over the body.
“Who died?”
“Come in! Come in!” Gwen, bless her sweet heart, beckoned Saran closer. “You’re just the woman we were looking for. Where have you been?”
Saran blinked, more pleased than she could say that Gwen had welcomed her. When she’d arrived at St. Kentigern’s Monastery a few months ago, she’d been surprised and overjoyed to discover Gwen not only alive but whole. Since then, Gwen, like Llelo, had included Saran in her family with hardly a break in stride. Saran had no intention of replacing Gwen’s mother, but it would have been a shame for Meilyr and Saran to spend another year alone. They’d married soon after they’d arrived at Dolwyddelan—not so much in haste, as with purpose. “My stomach hasn’t been happy for a few days.”
That got Gwen’s attention. “We think this man could have been poisoned! Are you sure you’re all right—”
Saran put up a hand. “I’m fine. As I said, it has been a few days.”
That got a different kind of attention from Gwen, who then said, her eyes widening, “You don’t think—”
“Absolutely not.”
Gwen wasn’t convinced, as evidenced by the smile that hovered on her lips.
Saran put her mouth to Gwen’s ear and spoke so the men couldn’t overhear. “I’m too old for a child, and you know it.”
“You’re forty-eight,” Gwen said flatly. “Not too old, and you know it.”
Saran huffed out a breath, anxious to change the subject. She, of all people, having tended to women since she herself had become one thirty-five years ago, should know better than to deny what God had in store for her, and acknowledge that a healer was often most blind to her own health. Still, she wouldn’t entertain the idea of a child until there was no other possible explanation. “Have you seen your father?”
“Meilyr was in the hall last I saw. Cadell asked him to sing again to distract from the untimely death.” Gareth spoke absently while removing the man’s boots and socks one at a time and dropping them to the floor. The dead man’s feet looked nothing out of the ordinary, though he had thick yellowing toenails that might have been causing him some discomfort.
Saran gestured to the body. “Who is this?”
“His name is Meicol,” Gwen said
.
“The castle healer should be here too, Gareth,” Saran said. “He will take offense if you examine the body without asking for his advice.”
Gareth scoffed under his breath. “I would, but he’s drunk.” With Gwen’s assistance, he worked to remove the dead man’s cloak and jacket.
Saran tsked through her teeth. “He’s a drunkard on his best day. I don’t know what hold he has over the king to keep him on all these years.”
Gwen looked over at Saran with a smile. “As I recall, that position was offered to you, once upon a time.”
“Ach.” Saran waved a hand dismissively. “I was happy at Carreg Cennan.”
Meilyr’s voice came from behind Saran. “I hope you’re not reconsidering your changed circumstances.”
Gareth threw up his hands in mock despair as his father-in-law appeared in the doorway. “Anyone else coming? Because we might as well leave the door open!”
Gwen patted Gareth’s arm soothingly. “We’re all family here.”
Gareth subsided, and Saran smiled at her new husband. Gwen was right, and while Gareth and Gwen had been involved in many murder investigations over the years—and Llelo too, she understood—Saran and Meilyr were no stranger to them either, if only by association. And if bonding over a dead body was a little odd for a family to do, at least they were bonding. Saran and Gwen had first become friends at Carreg Cennan during a murder investigation that had implicated Meilyr, so it was really a matter of destiny.
Since they were all here now, and the evening was growing old, Saran moved to stand beside her new son-in-law. He appeared to be avoiding removing Meicol’s breeches, so the next thing to come off was his shirt, which Gareth tugged off over his head with quick movements.
The Worthy Soldier Page 4