With a wave of his hand, Hywel sent Gruffydd and Steffan on their way, finding himself filled with a sense of equanimity. He could trust both men, and that trust was not to be undervalued, which was why he’d given each man a coin in the first place. When a man was well-paid, he was less likely to resent the wealth of another and certainly less likely to be bought by an enemy. Even the newer men to Hywel’s service would be confirmed in their belief in Hywel’s loyalty to them—and reward him with their own.
“I suggest you gather Cadell, Rhys, Maurice, and Richard together so you can tell them about what you’ve found all at the same time,” Gwen said.
Hywel swung around to find her looking at him with smiling eyes.
“How mischievous of you, my dear,” he said.
“Mischievous?” Llelo asked. “Why?”
Gareth guffawed and answered for Hywel. “Because if Hywel tells Maurice and Richard about the treasure at the same time he tells Cadell, then it can’t be kept a secret. Knowledge that more may be out there will untune the harp, as my father-in-law says. It will create discord and put every man against the other.”
It had been some time since Hywel had knowingly caused trouble for others. At least in this instance, it wasn’t entirely for his own amusement, though he had no regrets about discomfiting Cadell. More importantly, Gruffydd was right that it was only a matter of time until Cadell turned his attention on Ceredigion. The alliance to attack Wiston was an interlude only. War was coming. By keeping the coins, Hywel deprived Cadell of great wealth—a wealth that might have one day been used to attack Ceredigion.
Now, Hywel would be able to use that same wealth to defend it.
Chapter Twenty-four
Dinefwr Castle
February 1143
Gareth
Four years ago …
“My father should have chosen Rhun for this task.” Hywel stood with his hands on his hips, staring out the window of his chamber.
Gareth had known from the first moment that King Owain had asked Hywel to go to Deheubarth that Hywel resented the duty. In fact, this was the third time in as many days that Hywel had proclaimed Rhun as more suited to the task than himself.
“But he didn’t, my lord. Your father is suspicious of Anarawd and his motives, and he thinks you will be less trusting and drive a harder bargain than Rhun will.” Gareth sat with his long legs stretched out in front of him, his chair tipped back against the wall, and his arms folded across his chest.
They’d been waiting for nearly an hour for King Anarawd to see them, which didn’t bode well for the final negotiations regarding Anarawd’s marriage to Hywel’s sister. If all went well, the wedding would take place in six months’ time. From the look on Hywel’s face, however, he’d prefer the six months were six years. Or maybe never.
Gareth didn’t know what was going on in his lord’s head, and while it was completely like Hywel to be secretive, it wasn’t like him to be secretive with Gareth. Gareth had given up trying to pry what was bothering Hywel out of him, however. His lord would tell him—or he wouldn’t—in his own time.
Hywel brought down his head. “It is true I am less trusting than Rhun, but if my father was so suspicious of Anarawd, it makes me wonder why he agreed to this marriage in the first place.”
“He is the King of Deheubarth and an important ally. Besides, your sister is in favor of the marriage.”
“She wants to be a queen.” Hywel scoffed. “She is a child.”
“Elen is your favorite sister. You want what is best for her, but since you can’t dissuade your father from this wedding, you will drive as hard a bargain as you can.” Gareth indicated the half-closed doorway behind Hywel that led to Hywel’s bedchamber. “Did the girl you bedded last night give you any useful information?”
“No.” Hywel eyed his captain suspiciously. Gareth made sure to look innocently back. “She was lovely, but not bright.”
A knock came at the door, and then one of Hywel’s soldiers poked his head into the room. “A messenger has ridden into the castle from the east, my lord. I thought you would want to know.”
“You are right. I do.”
Hywel was out the door before Gareth had dropped the chair’s front legs to the floor. A messenger from the east meant one thing: news about the war between King Stephen and Empress Maud. The fighting between these two royal cousins had been going on for four years. For the most part, anarchy in England had not spilled over into Gwynedd, but there were many more Normans here in the south, and the kings of Deheubarth had been constantly at war with them.
Mostly, in Gareth’s experience, the lords of Wales supported whichever side was losing because unrest and chaos in England meant they were left to themselves. Anarawd was supporting Stephen at this moment because here in southern Wales, Robert of Gloucester, Maud’s brother, was in close confrontation with Stephen’s ally, Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Pembroke. Anarawd’s brother, Cadell, had taken a host of men from Deheubarth in support of Clare, and thus King Stephen, who, last Gareth had heard, had settled in for a long siege of Empress Maud’s castle at Oxford.
Now Gareth hustled after Hywel, as anxious as his lord to hear the outcome of that battle. There was no point in complaining that it had taken nearly six weeks to hear any news. The roads into Wales had been made impassable with snow and ice—and then runoff—since the Christmas feast.
Once in the great hall, he pulled up just within earshot of King Anarawd, who’d been holding court around the fire from an ornate chair. He rose to his feet at the sight of the messenger coming towards him. The man’s cheeks were wind-chapped, though the weather was finally warming and the snow was gone.
“My lord, I have news from England.”
Anarawd motioned with his head that the messenger should follow him into his receiving room. On occasion, a lord wished to hear news in private before disseminating it to the residents of the castle, and this appeared to be one of those times. Without asking permission, Hywel followed—and thus so did Gareth.
The only other person Anarawd was allowing to hear the news was his steward, who carefully shut the door to close the room off from the great hall.
The messenger bowed before speaking in a strangely squeaky voice. “King Stephen has taken Oxford, my lord.”
“And Empress Maud?” the king said.
“She escaped.”
Anarawd pursed his lips. “When?”
“At Christmas.”
Anarawd took in a breath and turned towards his chair, which, like in the great hall, was placed close to the fire blazing brightly in the hearth. “My brother?”
“Sends his regards. He is coming.” And before the king could sit, the messenger put out a hand. “There is more, my lord.”
Anarawd raised his eyebrows, but didn’t speak or make any other motion to tell the messenger to continue. The man understood anyway, and as Gareth watched the exchange, he understood why King Owain had agreed to marry his daughter to the King of Deheubarth: Anarawd was a force to be reckoned with. He ruled with a strong hand, didn’t suffer fools, and expected to be obeyed without having to actually give commands. He might even be a good king.
“My lord, your brother asks me to inform you that Maud’s treasury did not make it to Devizes with her, and rumor says it entered Wales.”
* * * * *
That lost treasure was at the forefront of Gareth’s mind as he stood with Hywel in the very same receiving room where they’d faced Anarawd four years ago. Gareth was not a very good liar, but Hywel was excellent at it, so it was fortunate he was doing all the talking.
Richard, who’d deferred his departure because of Sir Robert’s death, prowled around the room, glancing every so often at Hywel and Gareth. Maurice Fitzgerald stood by his brother, William, who had risen from his bed and seemed in better health than Cadell. The two brothers looked much alike, with dark hair that could have been Norman or Welsh, long noses, pointed chins, and pale skin. It was easy to see their kinship to Cadell
, though the king’s hair was lighter in color—and further along towards going gray.
Gareth had always thought Cadell looked nothing like his brother, Anarawd, but as he sat in his great chair by the fire, his fist to his chin, he very much resembled the dead king. He held the three coins Hywel had given him, turning them over and over in his fingers.
Maurice stepped closer to Cadell and held out his hand to his cousin. Mutely, Cadell relinquished one of the coins. Gareth didn’t know what kind of response he’d expected from Cadell, but silence definitely wasn’t it. Then again, silence was exactly what Anarawd had given the messenger four years ago when he’d announced in this very room that Maud’s treasure might have come to Wales.
There must have been something about the coins that demanded the owner continually touch them, because Maurice began rolling his coin between his fingers in imitation of Cadell. Gold had been driving men mad for as long as there had been men. Greed was an ugly emotion—but it was also one of the best motives for murder Gareth knew, and he saw it in the faces of the lords before him.
Only Rhys, who was turned away towards the window, showed no such interest beyond a cursory glance at the coins his half-brother held. As always, there were undercurrents here Gareth didn’t understand, and it seemed to him, as with Anarawd and his messenger, that the men in the room were speaking to each other without words, and Gareth wasn’t privy to their silent language.
He cleared his throat. So far he’d done nothing but bow, leaving the narrative to Hywel. Nobody had mentioned Gruffydd, who’d returned to Aberystwyth with Steffan and thus couldn’t be produced, or Llelo, who had actually dug up the coins. The less these lords knew about the specific circumstances of the find, the better.
Maurice and Cadell exchanged another long look, one that again Gareth couldn’t interpret, except that it was meaningful. Hywel shifted from one foot to the other. The silence was becoming awkward, and the longer it went on, the clearer it became to Gareth that these lords had something to hide. They had been astonished to learn the coins had been found in Alban’s shed, but the idea of a treasure in Deheubarth was not a surprise to any of them.
Then the door to the receiving room opened, a boot scraped in the doorway, and Gareth turned to see who had entered. If looks were arrows, between Hywel and him, Anselm would have had several sticking out of his chest. Cadell’s spy lifted his hand slightly, as if in greeting, even though they were glaring at him. Then, half-sheepishly, half-amused, he sauntered his way to Cadell’s chair. With his short stature, unmuscled form, and sharp mind, Anselm had made a credible prior, which was why Gareth hadn’t questioned his identity until it was too late.
At Anselm’s arrival, Cadell’s eyes flicked to the men from Gwynedd for an instant—so quickly Gareth almost missed it—and then he sighed and motioned that Anselm should speak. “I didn’t expect you to return so soon.”
“I heard about what happened here and came as soon as I could.”
Gareth found himself suddenly furious—at Anselm, of course, but also at Cadell, at these arrogant southern lords, and at himself for being duped by them—and his hands clenched into fists. Meleri—and Gwen before her—had said she could see his anger in his body, so he knew he was giving himself away. He forced himself to relax and breathe more easily.
Beside him, Hywel stirred and flicked out a hand. Gareth subsided further. Hywel was smiling that smile of his that many saw as amused but Gareth knew to be predatory. Fortunately, Gareth himself managed to clear his emotions from his face, if not his body, by the time Cadell answered Anselm. “I assure you it wasn’t necessary. As you can see, we have the best investigator in Wales among us.”
Anselm’s eyes brightened as he looked at Gareth. No longer remotely embarrassed, the amusement had won out. “So I see.” He turned back to the king. “And yet, I bring news you will want to hear.” He gestured to the two coins in Cadell’s hand. “And I see this is a timely moment for it.” His hands clasped behind his back, Anselm said, “For many years I have been tracking rumors of a treasure.”
Gareth’s hands itched to throttle the spy for his arrogance and insolence, and he didn’t trust himself to speak.
But Hywel canted his head. “Empress Maud lost it after Oxford.”
That got Anselm’s attention, and his eyes narrowed. He didn’t look quite so pleased with himself as he had a moment ago, a fact which gave Gareth no end of satisfaction. “How did you hear of it?”
Cadell sighed and answered for Hywel. “Prince Hywel and Sir Gareth were here when I sent my brother word of it. Anarawd swore the messenger to secrecy.” He pinned Hywel with his gaze. “My brother hoped Gwynedd would be equally discreet.”
“We were,” Hywel said softly. This prince of Gwynedd didn’t get angry often, but Gareth could hear the wrath in his lord’s voice, even if nobody else knew it was there. This alliance had started out as good politics, and Hywel had gone into it with his eyes open. The fight against Walter FitzWizo couldn’t have gone better, but if accord with Anselm was a required part of the pact, the men of Gwynedd weren’t going to be so amenable to Deheubarth’s wishes as they’d been up until now.
Anselm, being a spy, was more perceptive than Maurice or Cadell, and he pressed his lips together for a moment before facing his king again. “As you know, we had thought the treasure might be in FitzWizo’s keeping.”
Maurice and William behaved as if this wasn’t news to them. No lord looked directly at Hywel or Gareth—which Gareth had to think was deliberate. Then he spied Rhys out of the corner of his eye. For once, he’d been completely silent, a skill Gareth hadn’t thought the boy knew, and he’d allowed everyone else to forget he was there. He was watching everyone, however, having positioned himself in such a way that he was in the shadows, but could see the faces of his brother and cousins.
Half an eye on him, Gareth took a chance. “That’s what Sir Robert was looking for, of course, in Wiston’s keep.”
William rose up onto his toes and settled back down again. “Of course.”
A mutual sigh seemed to pass around the room. If Cadell believed Gareth had figured this all out earlier, rather than after Anselm’s arrival, Gareth wouldn’t be sorry. At times it was useful to be underestimated, but today wasn’t one of them.
In addition, any niggling sense of guilt he might have had about giving these lords only the three coins instead of the whole bag was gone. Hywel’s supposed allies had been searching for the treasure while keeping him in the dark about their motives. And it was clear they’d had every intention, if they found it, of keeping it for themselves. If the Dragons hadn’t found the coins and given a few of them to Cadell, Gareth and Hywel would never have learned anything about Cadell’s quest for the treasure at all.
King Cadell looked at Gareth. “Where is Alban now?”
“He should be here. One of my men saw him mount his horse and ride from the manor. He said he was headed to the castle. With Cadfan ill, leadership of your teulu falls to Alban.”
“Find him now.” Cadell grimaced as a pain in his stomach, which up until now had let him be, overtook him. “And get me some answers.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Gwen
It was evening now, and the hall was warm, though not uncomfortably so. Gwen put the back of her hand to her mouth to cover a yawn she couldn’t swallow down. She was glad her father had made do with Hywel as a singing partner and let her stay at her table. She could tell Meilyr was feeling Gwalchmai’s absence keenly, which was probably good for both of them, and she hoped her brother was getting on well with all of the responsibility of entertaining King Owain.
Gareth had led a search for Alban throughout the castle but hadn’t found him anywhere, and nobody had seen him that day. Once Gareth reported this, Cadell asked Prince Rhys to take a company of men to Alban’s house to bring him to Dinefwr for questioning, forcibly if necessary. From what little Gwen had seen of Alban, she knew him to be talkative and not by nature one to disguise his
emotions or thoughts. She hoped—for his sake and theirs—that he wouldn’t hide the truth of his involvement in whatever was happening here.
If she had been allowed in Cadell’s receiving room, she would have suggested they bring Caron in too. Her behavior needed a closer look: Gwen had questions about the multiple accusations that she had betrayed Alban with another man, her fighting with Alban, and what, in fact, she had been doing with Meicol that had prompted first Cadfan and then Alban to beat him for it.
At the same time, Gwen didn’t see how the accusations of infidelity could be true. Even if she was irritated with Alban much of the time, Caron was proud of her station as Robert’s niece and pleased to be lady of the manor. She hadn’t shown she was as unhappy with his lack of advancement as everyone else seemed to be. Gwen wondered if the common disrespect for Alban had come first, or if it had come after he’d failed to be accorded the rank he’d aspired to and the one everyone had assumed would one day be his.
“May I sit down?” Anselm, of all people, was standing opposite her and indicating that he wanted to sit at their table.
Gwen despised the man to such an extent that she had to prevent herself from shuddering at the sight of him. He was a snake on a different level from almost anyone she had ever met. While Prince Cadwaladr was amoral and self-absorbed, he justified his actions to himself and didn’t think of himself as a villain. By contrast, Anselm was clear-eyed and calculated about what he did: he was doing evil, and he knew it.
“Of course.” Gareth gestured that Anselm should pull out the bench. Since Gwen and Gareth had arrived at the table first, they were sitting with their backs to the wall, and Gwen felt a vindictive pleasure in knowing that if Anselm was to sit, his back would be to the door. No man—warrior or spy—liked that.
“I know you don’t like me or trust me.” Anselm settled onto the bench with a casualness that was extremely irksome. He had changed from his traveling clothes, which had been mud-spattered and common, into a green tunic of fine weave, and his undershirt was embroidered at the collar and on the sleeves, as on a woman’s gown. His boots were knee-high and polished until they shone, which Gwen could see because his breeches were tucked into them like a Norman’s might be. All the more reason not to like or trust him.
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