The Worthy Soldier

by Sarah Woodbury

  Llelo popped out of the woods. “We found him.”

  “Is he—” Barri’s eyes went wide.

  Llelo nodded. “I’m sorry. He’s dead.”

  After that, Llelo volunteered to be the one to return to the castle and notify King Cadell of Alban’s death, and Barri went with him as part of his duty to Lord Maurice. Evan let him go, unable to keep him. The rest of them took Alban back to the monastery to lie next to Sir Robert. Both the monks whose job it was to prepare the bodies and the gravediggers had worked nonstop for two days getting ready for the funeral, which would take place tomorrow. Truthfully, those who’d died the first night at the castle should have been in the ground by today, but the abbot had decided out of respect for the dead that he could put it off for one more day until those who had lived—particularly the king—were well enough to attend.

  Evan stood in the doorway of the little room off the cloister, watching Gareth examine yet another body. As he watched, he found Barri’s accusation of Anselm replaying over and over again in his head. He had half a mind to speak to Barri further, as he’d requested, before he told Gareth anything about it. If Anselm had something to do with any of this, Gareth would be furious. Though Gareth wasn’t hot-tempered normally, premature words or actions would do nobody any good. And they might break apart this fragile alliance of lords.

  But then Gareth glanced up at him and asked, perceptive as always, “What’s wrong other than the obvious?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Gareth tipped his head to Alban. “He was your friend.”

  Evan pushed away from the doorframe. “Not so much. I didn’t know any of these men half as well as I thought I did.”

  “Men grow up. They change.”

  “Do they?” Evan said. “Does anyone ever really change?”

  “Some do.”

  Evan turned to find Abbot Mathew behind him, and he moved out of the doorway to let him in. Vespers had come and gone, so Mathew should have been in bed, seeing as how dawn came early this time of year. “Someone who allows Christ into his heart can become someone different than the man he was before.”

  Gareth pulled the sheet over Alban’s head, calling an end to his examination. They’d known as soon as they’d seen the body what had killed him: his head had been smashed in, much as Sir Robert’s had been, a similarity that was impossible not to remark upon. His neck was also broken, however, so it was possible his horse had spooked and dragged him through the woods to where they found him, some fifty yards off the road. Otherwise, they were looking at foul play again.

  “Most don’t change, however.” Gareth moved closer. “Most people fundamentally don’t want to.”

  Abbot Mathew gently turned back the sheet to expose Alban’s face. “He was a good man.”

  “Was he?” Gareth said. “How many would agree?”

  The comment prompted Mathew to look at Gareth with some intensity. “I admit he was prideful and arrogant.” He waved a hand at Evan and Gareth. “It’s hard to find a soldier who isn’t. But he loved his wife, and he did his best. He turned a blind eye to the sins of others.”

  Evan took a chance. “Like Caron’s?”

  Mathew froze. “Why would you say that?”

  Gareth melted backwards towards the wall, out of the torchlight, such that when Abbot Mathew turned around, it might even have seemed that he and Evan were alone.

  “We have heard from several sources that Caron has had relations with other men,” Evan said.

  “If that is true, it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Some say the child she bears is not Alban’s; others that her infidelity began with her eldest.”

  Mathew shook his head with vigor. “No. You have been misled.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

  Evan tried to speak matter-of-factly to ease Mathew’s apparent uncomfortableness with the conversation. “This is what we do. We ask questions, and sometimes we don’t like the answers.”

  Abbot Mathew’s brow remained furrowed. “While it’s true Caron was pregnant when she married Alban, the child is his.” He sighed. “They’re hardly the first couple to have their first child eight months after their wedding. There’s no mystery here, and I don’t know why you’ve heard differently.”

  Gareth straightened from his position against the wall. “We have heard three different stories from three different people about Caron’s lack of fidelity to Alban.”

  “How pure are the motives of those who speak thusly?” Abbot Mathew said somewhat tartly.

  That gave Evan a moment’s pause, and he frowned, realizing that all three stories had been told specifically to him. Was it because he was a known quantity to the people of Dinefwr and they trusted him, or because they knew him and thought he could be easily deceived?

  “Alban had fired the undercook, who resented the loss,” Gareth said, “and Cadfan had been promoted to captain of King Cadell’s guard over Alban.”

  “And Barri—” Evan pursed his lips, trying to think what Barri had to gain by casting doubt on Caron and Alban. He felt a pang of guilt at his own role in the accusation. Perhaps Barri wouldn’t have said anything at all if Evan hadn’t brought it up.

  “Alban suggested Barri as a man from whom we’d find answers,” Gareth said. “Perhaps Barri is seeking to distract us.”

  “A man’s reputation is all, even more so when he is dead and cannot defend himself.” Father Mathew shook his head. “This is a bad business, my sons. I am praying every hour that you bring it to its conclusion quickly.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Gareth

  After Abbot Mathew left, Evan explained more about what Barri had told him, little as that was, and his vague accusation of Anselm. It was Barri’s words, coupled with the bits and pieces they’d acquired along the way, that had given Evan the knowledge to question Mathew, and for that Gareth was grateful. He did lament the foul layer that seemed to underlie Dinefwr, much of it just below the level of villainy. Unfounded accusations and gossip appeared to be a way of life.

  It made him wonder if there was something unusually wrong with the moral fiber of the people here. Was it due to a general disregard for right and wrong that started at the top with the king, or was Aber no different, and Gareth was so used to encompassing the misdeeds of the people of Gwynedd that he couldn’t see it? He was, however, perfectly happy to indict Anselm, sight unseen, for everything that had happened at Dinefwr. Unfortunately, if he was to do so in the presence of King Cadell, he needed more than Barri’s word.

  “Where did Barri say he would meet you?” Gareth said.

  “Here at the monastery.” Evan frowned. “I didn’t think too much about the specific spot.”

  “Let’s have a look around, shall we?” Gareth grabbed a torch from a sconce outside the church door and walked across the courtyard with it. Evan had a lantern of his own, and he followed Gareth towards the graveyard. Sir Robert had met his killer there, and despite that fact, it was still a good place to meet someone after hours.

  Gareth took a few steps past the gate and slotted his torch into another sconce by the entrance.

  Evan handed Gareth the lantern and then crossed his arms and leaned against the post. “I’ll wait here. That way I can see anyone who comes through the main entrance or out of the cloister.” The rain had let up, and he pushed back his hood. “I know you’ve been wanting to have another look at the cemetery when nobody else was about.”

  Gareth lowered the lantern to a few inches above the grass. When he’d been murdered, Sir Robert had fallen between two gravestones, surprised from behind by his attacker. Gareth began to circle the area, not necessarily looking for anything specific, but looking for something—anything—that would give him a perspective on the killer. With both Robert and Alban dead, plus the poisoning, the death toll had risen to such a height that he was surprised Cadell hadn’t picked a man out of the crowd and hanged hi
m just to be seen to be doing something.

  Of course, that didn’t appear to be the way he worked. Gareth had to respect him for his patience, though that didn’t lessen the pressure on Gareth himself to find answers where up to now he’d found none.

  The graveyard was in the form of a triangle, since the road that ran by the church didn’t run exactly north to south but off at an angle, and the church itself had been oriented east to west. An oak tree the builders had chosen not to cut down took up the far western corner, with enough room between the trunk and the wall for a man to fit, were that man looking to hide. It was as good a place as any to start, and Gareth moved behind the tree, bending to shine the lantern deep within the grass, hoping to see footprints or a token to indicate a man had stood there.

  “I wouldn’t have said it was a nice night to be standing in a graveyard.” The voice was Anselm’s, and he wasn’t talking to Gareth, hidden as he was behind the tree, but to Evan. If the fact that Anselm was in the graveyard at such a late hour wasn’t bad enough, the second question, following hard on the heels of the first statement, raised Gareth’s hackles. “Are you alone?”

  “I’m here to meet someone,” Evan said.

  “Is that so.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Not you, obviously,” Evan said.

  Gareth doused the lantern and eased further behind the tree as silently as he could while still making sure he could see Evan and Anselm. He’d kept the lantern low to the ground because he’d been looking for boot prints, a fact for which he was grateful now since the grass and the tree had hid the light from Anselm’s eyes. There had definitely been boot prints in the earth too, making him think his guess about where the killer had stood was right. If not for Anselm’s arrival, he would have taken a measurement, but instead he stayed still and listened.

  Anselm looked right and left. “I don’t see anyone.”

  Evan eased into a more ready stance, even to the point of dropping his left hand to his sword. “He’s late.”

  Anselm spread his hands wide. “There’s no need for that. I am not your enemy.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Your prince allies with my king. Thus, we are allies ourselves. Who are you waiting for?”

  Gareth noted Anselm’s habit of tagging a question onto the end of an otherwise innocuous string of thoughts. It was an interesting technique for catching a suspect unawares.

  And, with a start, Gareth realized that’s exactly how Anselm was treating Evan—as if he was a suspect and someone to interrogate.

  Evan, who may or may not have realized himself what was happening, answered calmly enough. “Barri.”

  “Maurice’s man. Why?”

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

  Gareth swallowed down a laugh. If the shaking of Anselm’s shoulders was an indication, he was amused too, but what he said next was not so amusing. “Then perhaps you won’t be pleased to hear that I saw him taking the western road not a quarter of an hour ago.”

  Evan frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “As I reached the bottom of the castle hill, I saw Barri riding past on the main road, coming from the east. He kept going, however, so if you were thinking to meet him tonight, I suspect it will be a lengthy wait.”

  Evan looked at Anselm for a long moment. He held himself so still Gareth wasn’t sure he was even breathing. Anselm’s back was to Gareth, so he took a chance and showed himself for a heartbeat, signaling to Evan that he should go. Evan made no sign of recognition that Gareth could see from this distance. But then he scoffed, turned on his heel, and stalked away, back through the gate. At first his footsteps resounded on the cobbles of the courtyard, and then they faded away.

  Gareth himself moved back into hiding the instant Evan departed, retreating behind the tree and barely daring to breathe.

  Anselm stood silent for a moment, letting Evan get out of sight, and then he shoved the gate closed, turned, and began to walk deeper into the graveyard, towards the several dozen newly dug graves that men had spent all day digging in preparation for the funeral tomorrow. He passed Gareth’s position, though still fifty feet and many gravestones away from him, and then finally stopped, facing away from Gareth, his hands on his hips. “I know you’re here. You can come out now.”

  Gareth didn’t move.

  A few heartbeats later, he was glad he hadn’t. Barri himself straightened from where he’d been hiding behind a stone crypt. He came out slowly, almost haltingly, while Anselm waited for him, still amused. Fortunately, the distance and angle between their two hiding places meant Barri couldn’t have seen Gareth when he’d shown himself to Evan.

  “What game are you playing?” Barri said.

  Anselm scoffed. And then, before Barri knew what was happening, the spy had swept Barri’s legs out from under him, landing him face first in the grass. With his knee in Barri’s back, Anselm pulled on Barri by his ponytail, lifting his head and chest off the ground, and put a knife to his throat. It was a series of moves Gareth had never seen done so well—and so quickly Gareth himself had hardly been able to keep up with the steps.

  “You might want to save your thanks until after you tell me what I want to know. Where’s the treasure?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Try again.” Anselm jerked harder on the ponytail. For a small man, he had a startling ability to be menacing. “You are at the heart of this. You killed Sir Robert, and then you killed Alban. Why?”

  “I didn’t! I didn’t!”

  “It had to be you. There’s nobody else it could be.”

  Barri was trying desperately to hold his neck away from the knife, but Anselm gave no quarter. He tugged once, and Barri screamed. From where Gareth crouched, he couldn’t see what Anselm had done, but whatever it was, it had been painful. If Barri had been Gareth’s own man, he would have intervened, but he didn’t trust either of these men.

  “I have no problem slicing your throat and leaving you to bleed out right here.”

  Barri screamed again and then with gasping breaths said, “All right! All right! I killed Alban. But he’s to blame for Sir Robert’s death.”

  Anselm didn’t ease up. “Keep talking.”

  “We did have the treasure, stored in the cellar of Alban’s shed, just like Sir Gareth thought. We’ve been quietly selling it, a piece at a time, for years.”

  “How did you come by it?”

  “We were both at Oxford, on Stephen’s behalf. We caught Maud’s men after they sneaked the treasure across the river. They were supposed to take back roads and meet Maud at Devizes. She got away, but the treasure couldn’t move as quickly.”

  “Surely the two of you didn’t do all this yourselves?”

  Barri didn’t answer immediately, but then the scream came again. Gareth couldn’t see from where he crouched what Anselm was doing to Barri, but it was enough to keep him talking. Barri was in genuine fear for his life. Even if Cadell chose the Norman punishment of hanging over the Welsh practice of sarhad—payment to the victim’s family—death later was better than death now by Anselm’s hand.

  “Not at first.” Barri’s voice trembled. “We-we killed everyone else in our company.”

  “That sounds like you, not Alban.”

  “It was my idea,” Barri said sulkily. “Alban went along with it because of the gold.”

  “Why were you not caught?”

  Barri’s voice came a little stronger, now that he was speaking the truth. “It was such chaos and confusion after the battle that once the men who helped us were dead, it was easy to hide the treasure and return to our respective companies. A bleeding head wound can explain a day’s absence.”

  “What was Sir Robert’s role? Was he there that day?”

  “No. But somehow Cadell and Maurice learned the treasure hadn’t made it to Devizes and had come to Wales instead.” The words tumbled over themselves. “They began to openly look for it, and Robert was getting too close!”

 
; “What about Alban?”

  “He was losing his nerve. Those men from Gwynedd don’t back off for anyone. I knew Alban was going to betray me, so I followed Robert to the church and killed him before Alban could tell him the truth.”

  “Why not just kill Alban then and save yourself the trouble?”

  “Alban is never alone. Besides, if Alban died, Robert might return to his manor. I couldn’t risk him searching the property. Of course, while I was in the graveyard here, someone was moving the treasure from the cellar.”

  “Who?” The question came with a jerk of Barri’s head.

  “I don’t know!”

  Evan had spoken of Barri as clever and secretive, and his plan had been just that. It was disconcerting that he and Alban had managed to keep it a secret all this time, right under King Cadell’s nose.

  “What about Meicol?” Anselm said.

  “I don’t—I don’t know anything about why he died.”

  Anselm didn’t believe him, and more screams erupted from Barri but no more answers. The rain had started to fall again, and the water and blood ran together down Barri’s neck.

  “Where is the treasure now?”

  “I told you the truth!” Barri was sobbing. “Don’t you think I would tell you if I knew? It was in the cellar of the shed, and then it wasn’t. Someone moved it, but I don’t know who. Neither did Alban.”

  “So say you! What if he lied to you? You’ve killed him, and now we’ll never find it!”

  In that moment, Gareth really thought Anselm was going to slit Barri’s throat. Throughout the interrogation, Gareth had been watching Anselm’s face more than Barri’s, and it was terrifying in its coldness and certainty. He could have been whitewashing a house, so little did what he was doing to Barri affect him. And still, Gareth had to admit that without Barri’s confession, they might never have discovered the truth about the murders or that the treasure had been moved on the night of the celebration.