“We don’t,” Gwen said.
Anselm wobbled his hand back and forth as Normans did to imply doubt. “I was serving my lord as he asked me to. You do the same every day.”
“My job doesn’t require me to deceive everyone around me,” Gareth said.
Anselm snorted and leaned back a bit. He’d been leaning forward, his elbows on the table, in a behavior meant to imply intimacy and that the three of them were co-conspirators. Now he abandoned the pretense and slapped his hand once on his thigh. “Fine. I have been ordered to tell you what I know.”
“We’re listening.” Gareth was delightfully unforgiving.
Anselm rolled his eyes, prompting stifled laughter from Gwen. She hadn’t wanted to show any emotion, but Anselm was so obviously frustrated by their obstinacy, and they just as determined to keep it up.
Unfortunately, her laughter prompted him to grin. “As you know, Empress Maud’s treasure went missing after the siege of Oxford. We always suspected it might have come to Wales, but more specific rumors surfaced earlier this year that made us sure of it. King Cadell sent me in pursuit of them.”
“That can’t be why you were in St. Asaph,” Gwen said. “St. Kentigern’s monastery was never rich.”
“No,” Anselm said shortly. “Hardly. My duties are many and varied. Inquiry into the whereabouts of the treasure was just one of my pursuits. Rumor said it had come north. Some even reported Earl Ranulf had it, which was how he was funding his wars against Gwynedd and King Stephen.”
Gareth grunted. “You weren’t wrong to be concerned. Ranulf is unpredictable on his best day, and we have all wondered if he was stripping his treasury in his quest to maintain his independence.”
“I was also on the trail of Prince Cadwaladr.” Anselm looked at them with dark eyes. “King Cadell is concerned about what he might do next—or what he might convince King Stephen to do, if it is true he has sought refuge in the English court.”
“We all have been concerned,” Gwen said.
“It may be, however, that he has gone to Bristol,” Anselm said.
Their heads came up at that. “Earl Robert would not harbor him, not with what he knows about his exploits,” Gareth said.
“In the past, Earl Robert would not have, but he is ill, and his son—” Anselm paused, “—well, you know.”
“We do,” Gareth said.
“We understand Earl Robert has a wasting disease,” Gwen said.
Gareth sighed. “He is a good man. He would have preferred to die on his feet.”
“Wouldn’t we all.” Anselm took a drink of mead from the cup in front of him. He’d brought it with him, as Gwen and Gareth had brought theirs, tapped from a new barrel in Cadell’s cellar over which one of Hywel’s men was standing guard. Trust in Dinefwr’s kitchen was still a long way off.
Gwen could see why Anselm was so good at his job. He was endeavoring to warm them to him, and she was succumbing to his charms, listening and talking to him as if she didn’t hate him. It was irksome to find herself manipulated so easily. She hardened her chin. “What does any of this have to do with the treasure?”
“As we know, Robert’s son, William, is not the man his father is. He cares little for who wears the crown and much more about his own position in whatever regime ultimately wins this war. He knows Maud’s claim to the throne of England will be much weakened once his father dies. He is secretly currying favor with King Stephen behind his father’s back.”
“You can hardly blame him,” Gareth said. “Many men joined Maud’s cause for Earl Robert’s sake rather than for hers. Nobody likes her.”
“That is an understatement. She’s arrogant and vindictive,” Anselm said. “There is even rumor that she sees her defeat on the horizon and will soon return to France.”
“That will embolden Stephen,” Gareth said. “I can see why William might be worried about his future.”
Anselm canted his head. “And then there is Maud’s son, Henry. He is cast more in the vein of Robert himself. He could be king—and a good one. As evidenced by his invasion a few months ago, he is not ready to give up.”
Gwen’s eyes widened as she realized what Anselm was saying. “Is William thinking that by reacquiring the treasure he might buy his way into Henry’s court?”
Anselm looked at Gareth, his eyes twinkling. “She’s a clever one, isn’t she?”
“I’m right here,” Gwen said, relieved in a way to be irritated again.
Then she felt Gareth’s hand on her thigh, and she subsided.
Gareth, meanwhile, was looking directly at Anselm. “Such a gift could fund Henry’s military campaigns, as he is ever short of money.”
“It could.”
“Are you surmising, with all this talk of politics, that William of Gloucester has had a hand in the murders here?” Gareth said.
For once, Anselm showed uncertainty, and he shrugged. “Everything I’ve told you so far is my understanding of the current political situation in England. We have Ranulf doing his best to carve out a kingdom for himself in the north, Earl Robert holding much of the west, and King Stephen centered in London. If these coins you found are really part of the vast treasure that was lost, the discovery of the rest of the wealth will change the balance of power in the whole country.” He leaned forward again. “Don’t you understand yet? Everyone is seeking it.”
Gwen forced herself not to think of the bag of gold coins making its way even now to Aberystwyth in Gruffydd’s saddle bag. She didn’t dare show anything on her face except interest in Anselm’s story, and she prayed she was a good enough spy after all these years not to give anything away she didn’t mean to.
Gareth was doing the same, though he still had a hand on Gwen’s thigh. “If the treasure was really in Alban’s shed, we will squeeze him until we find out where he moved it to. That’s the easy part.”
Anselm harrumphed. “I am not so sure. He can’t have been working alone, and he may not readily give up his partners, not if he thinks he can stall us or if there’s any chance of keeping any part of it for himself.”
“Meicol and Sir Robert are dead,” Gwen said. “He could have killed them to keep the secret.”
Anselm shook his head. “I know Alban. He might have murdered Sir Robert, but he wouldn’t have poisoned the pie, and he certainly isn’t a master thinker. My sources say the treasure was initially in the charge of a woman Maud trusted. She took it out of Oxford, and then it disappeared without a trace.”
“A woman? By herself?” Gareth said.
“The treasure was guarded by men, of course,” Anselm said. “I have tracked the rumor from Oxford to Chepstow to Chester to here. The only thing that is clear is that none of the men who might have been involved in its capture made it home again.”
“They could have been killed in the fighting with Stephen,” Gwen said. “Maybe there never was a treasure.”
Anselm looked at her intently. “It is your husband who found the coins.”
Gwen’s lips twisted. She had to grant him that.
“Could Caron be this woman we seek?” Anselm said.
“I was thinking earlier that she has to be involved,” Gwen said, “but she was never Maud’s maid.”
“I didn’t say maid,” Anselm corrected. “The woman was high born, a lady-in-waiting.”
Gareth scoffed. “Those aren’t exactly thick on the ground in Deheubarth.”
“Caron was Sir Robert’s niece, but she has never left Deheubarth,” Gwen said. “She has birthed five children!”
“That is a problem.” Anselm tapped a finger to his lips. “And then there’s FitzWizo’s spy, whomever he might be.”
Gareth paused in the act of drinking from his cup. “You know of one for certain?”
“His existence is why Cadell was so careful to keep secret his plans for Wiston. That he was successful tells me the spy is not as highly placed as he’d feared.”
Gwen shot a look at her husband. “In other words, that spy wasn’t
Sir Robert or anyone else in Cadell’s inner circle.”
Gareth gestured with his cup to draw their attention to the main door to the hall. “Prince Rhys is back.”
Anselm turned on this bench to look where Gareth indicated. The young prince strode through the doorway. He was in full armor, his left hand resting on his sword and his helmet tucked into his right elbow. His face was uncharacteristically grim, however, and at the sight of it, Gareth rose to his feet.
Rhys saw him and detoured towards him rather than heading straight to the receiving room at the back of the hall. Cadell was still too ill to sit on the dais, which was occupied at the moment only by the Fitzgerald brothers and a few of their men. Unsurprisingly, most everyone had chosen to eat sparingly tonight, and the benches were more than half empty.
Rhys came to a halt at the end of their table. “He wasn’t there, and Caron is indisposed, vomiting continually, so she could not be questioned, other than to say she didn’t know where her husband was. She claims he rode to the castle.”
Anselm slammed a fist onto the tabletop, revealing an underlying temper Gwen hadn’t known was there. “He’s fled, then.”
Rhys shook his head. “I wouldn’t say so, Anselm. While we were there, his horse arrived back at the manor. It still wore a saddle, but it was riderless.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Evan
One of the sayings Evan remembered well from his time under Sir Robert’s tutelage was the adage that motion was almost always better than no motion. It was a style of fighting he taught to all of his students, one that relied on quick, consistent thinking and action.
The basis of all sword fighting was a series of movements so prescribed it formed a ritual at times in its precision. Each swordsmaster took the same basic framework and embellished and added to the steps. Each had signature moves a keen observer might recognize as the foundation of his students’ style—and know who had taught them just by watching. Some might promote a cool stillness followed by sharp, quick movements before a return to stillness. Others preferred pure aggression, and still others considered wasted any move that wasn’t meant to kill.
Sir Robert had constructed a system to bring down an opponent that went three or four moves beyond what might be necessary if victory was quick, but he had pounded into Evan’s head that thinking three moves in advance wasn’t enough. He wanted six, and he wanted his students to be able to complete all six without stopping. His students were to be relentless.
And as Evan rode away from Dinefwr Castle yet again, it occurred to him that whether or not he was physically moving, the idea applied equally to murder investigations. It was, in fact, Gareth’s hallmark too. Evan wondered if someone looking at him, if he knew Gareth, would recognize Gareth’s training in him.
He glanced up at the sky. Clouds had begun to move in over the course of the evening, and he put out a hand as the first drops of rain fell. He instantly stopped feeling sorry for Angharad, who’d been left behind. He had given little thought over the course of his life to the lot of women, but he found himself missing her and said as much to Gareth, who was riding beside him.
Gareth chuckled. “Those are words I’d almost given up hope of ever hearing you say.”
Even more oddly, Evan was completely unembarrassed. “I’m surprised myself.” He frowned as he turned to his friend. “Do you think she’ll have me?”
Gareth’s eyes were bright. “It isn’t Angharad I’d be worried about. It’s whether her uncle will let her go, and to Gwynedd yet again.”
“I’m going to have to beard the lion in his den, aren’t I?”
“I’d say so. And you’d better do it before you talk to Angharad.”
“How?”
Gareth laughed and shook his head. “Best walk straight up to him and ask him.”
They had come down the hill from Dinefwr, following in reverse the path Alban might have taken from his manor. It was only three miles, and the way was straight, as Evan knew well by now, but there were many side tracks to hide a fallen man if his horse had spooked and thrown him.
Before they’d left the castle, Hywel had urged King Cadell to send only a handful of men, in addition to the Dragons, to look for Alban, but the king wasn’t viewing this quest to find Alban as a search party so much as a manhunt. He wanted Alban in his custody, and he didn’t care how much of any crime scene got trampled in the process.
Evan motioned to the remaining three Dragons. With Gruffydd gone, command had fallen to him. “The three of you stick to Prince Hywel like a burr. Don’t let him out of your sight even for an instant. Llelo and I will ride with Gareth.”
Gareth scoffed. “This worrying about me has gone a little too far, don’t you think?”
“Alban’s horse came back riderless. His absence could be the result of an accident, but I don’t like the odds of him coming to harm the very day he’s questioned about his activities. Mark my words, this is going to turn out to be another murder. Nobody is riding alone in these woods, least of all you, the man charged with finding the killer.” Evan snorted. “We haven’t forgotten, even if you have, the incident at Aber when you almost died in a ravine. Gwen would have my head if I let anything happen to you.”
“Let them guard you, Gareth.” Hywel grinned. “It will be good for you to have a taste of what my life is like all the time.”
Gareth’s chin had a stubborn set to it, but he didn’t argue anymore. Evan was right, and they all knew it, even Gareth.
“We’ll go this way.” Gareth jerked his head to indicate a path to the north of the road.
The track was one Evan had not yet ridden along, but once they’d followed it a hundred feet or so, they heard voices up ahead. Then they rounded a bend and found Barri and two of Lord Maurice’s men standing in the middle of the road, having dismounted from their horses. They were arguing.
From a distance, Evan wasn’t able to make out what they were saying—just that they’d raised their voices—and at the sight of the newcomers coming towards them, the three men stopped talking.
Gareth’s horse danced a bit as he reined in. “What seems to be the trouble?”
The rain was coming down harder now, and the torch Llelo carried flickered mightily in the rising wind. It was made of oil-soaked cloth, however, so it wouldn’t go out unless they doused it in the river or stamped it out in mud. He had a second one strapped behind him on his saddle bag for when this one expended its fuel.
One of Maurice’s men, Henry, whom Evan knew, spoke first. “We found something, my lord, though Barri thinks it’s nothing.” He augmented his last comment with a sour look at Barri.
“Show me.” Gareth dismounted and tossed his reins to Evan, seemingly intending, despite Evan’s lecture of moments ago, to head off alone with men not of his own faction.
Evan tipped his head to Llelo, telling him to go with Gareth and Maurice’s men. Evan himself wanted to stay with Barri, who showed no sign of entering the woods and towards whom Evan had been feeling more and more distrustful with each passing day.
“We found some crushed leaves and blood.” Henry pointed to the ground. “I think these tracks could be from a body being dragged.” He headed off, followed by Gareth, Llelo, and the second of Maurice’s men. Barri remained in the path, reins in one hand and a torch in the other, looking more disgruntled by the moment.
Evan dismounted too, but instead of following Gareth, he halted in front of Barri. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on,” Barri said. “All this suspicion and hate circulating through the men is making me more ill than a castle full of poison ever could. Alban didn’t do anything wrong, and I don’t like that he’s being treated as if he did.”
“Gold was found in his shed.”
Barri tsked through his teeth. “That could have been there for years. It’s undoubtedly Sir Robert’s.”
“Who’s conveniently dead and can’t tell us anything,” Evan said. “How well did you know Alban?”
Barri gave him a baleful look. “I hadn’t seen him in two years before our recent alliance.” He frowned at Evan. “Did someone say otherwise?”
“Who’s the father of Caron’s child?”
Barri looked first discomfited and then alarmed. He leaned in to Evan and spoke in a voice so low it barely carried the few inches between them. “How did you know about that? Nobody knows about that.”
“You obviously knew.”
“Who told you?” Barri urged. “Was it Anselm?”
That came from out of nowhere, but was perhaps one of the most disconcerting things Barri could have said. “I can’t say.”
Barri snorted his disgust and kicked at a rock in the road. “It serves no purpose to speak of it. It was a long time ago, and Caron has always been Sir Robert’s heir anyway. Why does it matter that she bore his child?”
Suddenly Evan felt he’d lost the thread of the conversation. If Caron was newly pregnant with Sir Robert’s child, relations between them had not taken place a long time ago. Barri was talking about something else entirely. Evan decided to take a leaf from Gareth’s book and remain silent, in hopes that Barri would be made so uncomfortable that eventually he had to speak.
Meanwhile, Barri paced around the narrow cart track, not looking at Evan, until finally he grabbed his arm and yanked him closer. “All of this is Anselm’s doing. If something happens to me, you remember that!” And at Evan’s nod, he added, “I will tell you everything, but not here.” Voices could be heard coming back to them. “Meet me at the monastery when we’re done.”
With these words, it occurred to Evan that Barri trusted him, even thought of him as a friend, and he had a pang of guilt that Barri might have thought more highly of him all these years than he’d ever thought of Barri.
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