Maurice sat tipped back in a chair near the hearth, his hands clasped behind his head. He seemed awfully comfortable for a man who’d more often been enemy than ally to his cousin. Or he was as good as Hywel at feigning allegiance. Then Maurice’s head turned to see Hywel watching him, and he surprised Hywel by winking. Hywel coughed a laugh, knowing that whatever his thoughts were about this Norman lord, they might well be very far from the truth.
Then the door behind Hywel opened, and he turned to see Gareth, Gwen, and Hywel’s Dragons coming through it. Hywel’s eyes narrowed to see how much they looked like prisoners rather than allies, but Gareth signaled to him in their personal sign language that all was well—for now.
The front legs of Maurice’s chair hit the floor, and he stood to greet them, but Cadell was not nearly so friendly.
“You!” He focused on Gareth as he walked towards him. He’d been striding around the hall just fine for the last quarter of an hour, but he hadn’t gone five steps before his hand went to his stomach, and he wobbled.
Putting animosity aside, Hywel leapt forward and grabbed the king by the shoulders, setting him down heavily on a nearby bench before he toppled over onto the floor. “You shouldn’t even be out of bed.”
“Brother!” Likewise, Prince Rhys sprang from Gareth’s side, but when he saw Hywel had caught Cadell, he grabbed a pitcher of mead from the sideboard and poured the drink into a cup.
“I’m well enough. Recovering anyway.” Cadell made a motion as if to brush Hywel’s concerns away, but then Rhys arrived with the cup, which Cadell accepted. He cleared his throat, his voice stronger, and directed his attention again to Gareth. “Tell me what you’ve discovered.”
Gareth’s lips twisted. “Am I not under arrest?”
“Of course not,” Cadell barked. “Why would you think so?”
Gareth looked first to Rhys and then to Barri. Neither man met his eyes. Hywel wanted to know what had happened that had his captain struggling to control his temper, but instead he just nodded his head at Gareth.
Gareth gave him a wry smile and then complied: “The facts are simple on the surface. Your man, Meicol, died on this very floor of what we believe to be poison. In the course of searching his satchel, we found a suspicious vial, at the time unopened. Unfortunately, it was not the only vial, as it seems poison was introduced into the ingredients of the pie, probably through the currants, sickening many people in the hall, some to death.”
“And you’re sure the same poison was used in the hall as killed Meicol?” Cadell asked.
“Nausea and vomiting are unspecific symptoms, but this poison blisters the mouth, a side effect both Meicol and those in the hall experienced.”
“What does the healer say?”
“He’s never seen anything like it,” Gareth said. “Saran cannot at this time name it either.”
Hywel refrained from asking Cadell what poison he’d put into the wine bottle that had killed the merchant in Aberystwyth. Now was not the time to confront Cadell with it.
Cadell grunted, but his discontent was directed at the circumstances, not at Gareth, who went on. “Meanwhile, Sir Robert was murdered near midnight in the graveyard at St. Dyfi’s. He was struck on the back of the head, indicating that he never saw death coming. Either that or he’d met his killer in the graveyard and trusted him enough to turn away.”
“Is one conclusion that Meicol poisoned everyone in the hall, but mishandled the poison so he died himself?” Maurice said.
“We don’t know, my lord,” Gareth said. “A moment ago, Prince Rhys accused me of planting the vial on Meicol. Obviously, we did not do that, but you could as easily conjecture that Meicol stole the vial from whoever did poison the hall, in an attempt to stop him from poisoning anyone else—not realizing it was already too late.”
“You would think, if that were the case,” Maurice said, “he would have said something to the king—or at least to his captain.”
Gareth lifted one shoulder. “The vial was sealed. That is all I can say.”
Hywel stepped forward. “As you can see, my lords, we have theories, but no hard evidence.” He looked at Gareth. “Meicol was also beaten a few days before he died.”
Gareth nodded. “We also can’t find Sir Robert’s horse, which he was seen leading out of the church stables in the midnight hour. I have been to Sir Robert’s manor and Meicol’s dwelling.” He fixed his eyes on Cadell. “It is your man, Alban, of course, who has the most to gain from Robert’s death, but so far, I have found nothing to implicate him other than motive. There was also nothing at Meicol’s house to indicate he had knowledge of herbs or concocted potions.”
“He was a woodworker. And a good one,” Gwen said, speaking for the first time.
“I concur with Sir Gareth, as I was present throughout his investigation this afternoon.” Richard de Clare had been hanging back while his elders talked, but he came forward now, and his attitude was not conciliatory. “It was a mistake to summon him back to the castle before he was ready to return.”
Neither Maurice nor Cadell responded to Richard’s admonition, but Barri, who to Hywel’s mind should have been far more reticent, snorted his disbelief. “I’d be happy to point the finger at Meicol if it would get this over with more quickly, but I have to say, he was never a great thinker. A plot of this complexity would have been far beyond him. Though—” he tipped his head, “—bringing a man down from behind would have been within range of his abilities.”
Cadell sighed. “I would have to agree, though, of course, the man was already dead before Robert was killed.” The king closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Cadell really couldn’t be feeling well and shouldn’t have been out of bed after his close call with death last night. Hywel couldn’t suppress a tinge of admiration for him for persevering. “To be fair, it’s a hard thing to blame a man for his own murder.”
Maurice waved a hand airily. “I’m sorry I summoned you, Sir Gareth. Keep at it, if you will.”
Cadell grunted his assent. “I’m for bed.” He allowed Rhys to help him up, and then, with another man-at-arms on his other side, limped away.
While Richard moved to speak to Maurice, Hywel motioned with his head that Gwynedd should take the conversation outside. Darkness was coming on, and with Cadell off to bed, Hywel wouldn’t be expected back inside again tonight. Once in the courtyard, to the right of the main steps where he was sure they could not be overheard, he turned to Gareth. “Is that really all you have?”
“Of course not.” Gareth gave Hywel a more complete summary of finding Richard at Robert’s manor, Alban and Caron’s testimony, and their conversation with Old Nan. Then he looked away for a moment, frowning.
“What is it?” Hywel said.
“Evan looked at Meicol’s house and thought of the barn at Aber,” he said, “but that observation could equally apply to Alban’s manor. It was somewhat neglected on the outside, but spotless on the inside.”
Hywel nodded. “Which could mean Alban isn’t lazy so much as hiding something.”
“It could just be the difference between Caron’s proclivities and Alban’s,” Gwen pointed out. “As the lady of the manor, the inside is her charge.”
Llelo poked his nose into their little circle. “If I may, my lord, you’ll notice too that at neither place did we really have free rein to look at everything. Richard was at the manor, and Barri and Rhys interrupted us at Meicol’s house.” Hywel was pleased with how Llelo had grown into an upstanding young man, so much like Gareth in so many ways that Hywel usually forgot Gareth was not his natural sire.
Gareth agreed. “I think it’s worth going back to find out what we missed.” This was the grind of solving a murder. It was one thing to find a body. It was quite another to meticulously put the pieces together to discover a murderer. And in this instance, they might even have two. Hywel couldn’t believe the deaths of Sir Robert, Meicol, and the poisoning of the residents of the castle weren’t all intimately rel
ated.
So he grinned. “Good thing we’re staying down at the monastery. You can go back to Alban’s manor first thing tomorrow—and how about this time we don’t tell anyone else what you’re doing.”
Chapter Nineteen
Angharad
Angharad sat in the kitchen nook, sharing a cask of sweet mead with Evan—one that he’d brought from Gwynedd’s own stores. She didn’t see how it could be anything but difficult for the residents of Dinefwr, her among them, to eat food prepared here again. They were having to, however, and her uncle had already installed a serf to taste anything and everything that came out of the kitchen. It was standard practice for lords and kings in England, but never in Wales, where hospitality was sacrosanct.
She glanced at Evan, wondering if he was thinking the same thoughts and if he resented sitting with her instead of going off this morning with Gareth and the other Dragons. Hywel too had come to the castle, however, and Evan had said simply that someone had to come with him, and it might as well be him.
The plan of the day was to make better headway questioning the residents of the castle than they’d had time for yesterday. To that end, Evan had enlisted Angharad to help, something she was only too happy to do—and even more happy to do with Evan. He had reached that age when, in Angharad’s opinion, men grew into their own. He was sure of himself but without a need to boast about his accomplishments. He was a knight and second-in-command of the Dragons. It was obvious Prince Hywel trusted him.
The only problem was that she was having trouble not getting lost whenever she met his gaze. Those green eyes of his drew her in, and it always took a moment or two longer than it should for her to remember herself and look away.
Before sitting in the kitchen, Evan had given Angharad a summary of where they were with the investigation so far. It made her think not only was she trusted too, but that she knew as much as or maybe even more than her uncle. Still, while Angharad hadn’t participated in any investigations before, other than peripherally in Aberystwyth, she had the idea Evan hadn’t quite told her everything. It occurred to her Evan and Hywel were here to distract her uncle from the fact that Gareth wasn’t.
So she took a guess. “Gareth isn’t really just questioning the monks this morning, is he?”
Evan turned to look at her, and she felt again that he, unlike most men, was really seeing her. Most men dismissed her as a pretty face. Her uncle certainly couldn’t have cared less about her now that Rhun was dead and he couldn’t marry her off to a prince. The sons of the King of Powys were still too young for marriage, at least to her, and the older she grew, the less likely it was that an advantageous marriage could be arranged.
Before Evan could answer, however, the undercook sat heavily across from them. He sighed deeply and rested his head in one hand, elbow on the table. “I can’t believe the poisoned food came from this kitchen!”
His name was Sior, and he was a thickset man in his early thirties with red curly hair cut close to his head, the better to keep it out of his eyes and the food. He had what Angharad perceived to be a prematurely bulbous nose from excessive drinking, so she wasn’t quite as disbelieving about the unlikelihood of his food being poisoned as he. He’d been drinking too much yesterday, as he did every day, and couldn’t have been as observant as if he’d been sober. His eyes were bloodshot too, but that could have easily been from weeping and lack of sleep.
“What can you tell us about what happened last night?” Evan said, starting off with a question that was in no way meant to be accusatory.
The cook took it badly anyway. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone or anything suspicious. My own wife is ill. Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew anything?”
Gareth had done an initial questioning of the kitchen staff last night, but many had been ill, and nobody had recalled anyone they didn’t know entering the kitchen. It was time to ask about people they did know, which Angharad knew without being told would be more difficult. Gwen and Prince Hywel were interviewing other servants who were still alive, and the four of them would compare answers when they were done. This was the last servant Evan and Angharad had to question, and he was the only cook still on his feet. The castle’s servants had lost more than half their number, casualties in a war they hadn’t known they were fighting.
Evan pushed a cup of mead closer to Sior, who looked at it balefully before reaching for it and taking a sip.
“You were here all day?” Angharad said.
“You know I was, my lady. All day. All night.”
“And the cook made the pie personally?”
“Yes! Yes! I had nothing to do with it. I never do. He won’t let me touch it.”
Angharad put her hand gently over Sior’s. “We are not accusing you of any wrongdoing. You are only confirming what Grygg said.” She gestured to herself and Evan. “We too did not eat the pie and did not fall ill. We aren’t accusing Grygg either, since he would hardly have poisoned himself.”
Evan nudged Angharad with his elbow and gave her a meaningful look. She looked at him, puzzled, and then he leaned in to whisper in her ear, “That might not be true.”
She gaped at him for a moment, but then narrowed her eyes at the implications of what he’d said. She didn’t believe it.
Her expression must have said as much, because Evan cleared his throat and returned his focus to Sior. “Can you name three people who were not servants who passed through the kitchen yesterday?”
The undercook put a fist to his lips as he thought. “Lady Angharad, here, looking for mead for your uncle; Caron and Alban, escorting Old Nan—” he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “—she likes her wine, does Old Nan. She sat a while right here, chatting with Grygg while Caron and Alban went off; Saran and the healer, arguing about a remedy; and Prince Rhys, sneaking cheese and bread, like he does every day.” He shook his head. “There were a dozen others, plus all the extra help we brought in from the village.” He looked down at his cup. “Most of them are dead or ill.”
But out of the people he’d named, none were ill, herself included. Angharad folded her hands in her lap and opted for flattery. “You know Caron and Alban perhaps better than I. Can you tell me about them?”
Sior sneered. “Alban.” Then he looked hastily down at his cup, realizing how much he’d given away with that one word. The mead had loosened his tongue, and his resistance was down anyway thanks to his illness.
Angharad tried to keep her expression serene. “Why don’t you like him?”
Sior’s jaw clenched, and he didn’t look up. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
“Tell us,” Evan said.
“We aren’t accusing Alban of anything,” Angharad said soothingly. “We’re just trying to understand what might have happened. I wasn’t raised at Dinefwr, and though I’ve lived here for two years, I don’t know the history.”
“Have you heard already that the child Caron is carrying isn’t Alban’s?”
Angharad blinked. This was not a topic than would normally be discussed in front of her, an unmarried woman. Sior really must be drunk. Even Evan, who carried an air of unflappability about him and an immunity to the mischief people got up to, looked surprised. She found herself stuttering, “I had not heard that. Whose is it if not Alban’s?”
“Sir Robert’s.”
“His own niece?” Evan eased back against the wall behind them, as disappointed as she. With Sir Robert dead, such an accusation would be impossible to prove or disprove—though it did give Alban yet another motive for murder.
“They were no blood relation. She was the daughter of his wife’s brother.” Sior made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “It has to be him. Rumor has it he’s had a woman on the side for years, but he would never produce her. She has to be married.”
Angharad had heard no rumor of a woman for Sir Robert either. “That doesn’t mean his lover is Caron. You must have more evidence than that.”
“Everyone knows Caron has been un
happy with her life with Alban. He has not advanced in a way either of them wanted.”
Angharad nodded. “That I do know. He expected to be captain of the king’s guard by now.”
Sior wrinkled his nose. “This Cadfan is an outsider, not one raised or trained at Dinefwr, but it was he who was chosen as captain last year.”
“He is very ill today,” Evan said.
Sior’s eyes widened. “All the more reason to think Alban did this! In one day he gets the manor free and clear and eliminates his rival!”
Evan rubbed his chin. “We are exploring every option.”
That was a vague answer if Angharad ever heard one, and she admired Evan’s ability to speak the line with a straight face. “You really don’t like Alban, do you, Sior? Why? What’s he to you?”
Sior grumbled under his breath, but then he said, “I was undercook at the manor since I was a boy until Alban fired me. He said I stole food from him. I didn’t!” He was suddenly all outrage.
“When was this?” Evan asked.
“A few years ago.” Sior pointed with his chin to Angharad. “Before your time but after Alban came back from the war in England. It changed him, made him short of temper and secretive.”
“War can do that to a man.” Evan spoke straightforwardly, but Angharad could tell there was a tale there. Someday, she hoped to hear it. “How many men of Dinefwr went to Oxford?”
“A small army, led by Cadell. Anarawd was king at the time, and they marched off in alliance with the Fitzgeralds, in service of King Stephen, who was besieging the castle.”
Both Angharad and Evan nodded. It was the same string of allegiances that had been broken this spring: Cadell was cousin to Maurice and William, who served the Earl of Pembroke, who had been loyal to Stephen. Angharad didn’t know what Anarawd had hoped to get out of giving men to Earl Gilbert to fight in England, but land and loyalty were the coin of noblemen. The kings of Deheubarth had always been expert in calculating their worth. A year earlier, Cadwaladr of Gwynedd had made a different calculation and had joined Empress Maud, following Earl Ranulf of Chester and his father-in-law, Robert of Gloucester, to besiege Lincoln Castle.
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