The question, of course, which Anselm had already asked, was by whom?
What was also clear to Gareth was that all Anselm cared about was the treasure. He had no feelings one way or the other about the murders. Information about them was a means to an end. It also occurred to Gareth that were Anselm to silence Barri, it would leave the spy to pursue the treasures himself, for his own gain.
Truth be told, Gareth had learned as much about Anselm in the last quarter of an hour as he’d learned about Barri.
Anselm finally seemed to accept that Barri could tell him nothing more, and he came off Barri’s back. Barri collapsed onto the grass, weeping.
Anselm turned his head and looked directly to where Gareth was hiding. “Did you get all that?”
Gareth laughed under his breath, though entirely without humor, and stepped out from behind the tree. “Yes.”
From his pocket, Gareth pulled the short length of rope he always carried, the one he could have used to measure the length of the boot print. With Barri’s confession, that was no longer necessary. Kneeling, he tied Barri’s hands behind his back and then lifted him to his feet.
Turning him, he held him by the upper arms. He had looked into the eyes of many murderers over the years, but few showed as little regret about what they’d done as Barri. He regretted being caught, certainly. He regretted losing control of the treasure. But he didn’t care a silver piece for the deaths of Sir Robert or Alban, his co-conspirator. Admittedly, Alban himself had sold out Barri earlier in the day.
“Do you know what Robert was doing here that night?”
“No.” Barri spat on the ground. “And I don’t care. It’s just my bad luck you didn’t take the bait.”
Gareth’s eyes widened briefly as he understood what Barri meant. “You planted that signet ring to make us think Robert was spying for FitzWizo.”
Barri tsked through his teeth. “Why didn’t you believe it?”
“We’re asking the questions.” Gareth had no need to explain himself or his methods to Barri. Though the truth was, with Robert dead, pursuing that lead hadn’t seemed important. It did mean that if there was a spy within Cadell’s domains, he was still out there. “How did you come by it?”
Barri’s scorn was tangible. “I pulled it off one of FitzWizo’s men. How else?” He had poured out his guts to Anselm, but now that the pain had ended, he could be disrespectful to Gareth.
“If he wasn’t a spy, why was Robert here?”
“How should I know?”
“Guess.”
“The stables at the castle are full, so he left his horse here. He’d done it all week. Alban said Robert was seeing a woman.”
“Why would Alban care who Robert saw?” Anselm said.
“If they married and had a child, Alban would lose everything.” Barri sneered. “We had more than enough gold to see us through, but Alban wanted the status and land he would get through Robert upon his death. He wanted respect.”
“So you got it for him—for all of a single day before you killed him too.” Gareth found himself sickened and disheartened. Gone were the days when men like Barri could spark a righteous anger in him. Now they just made him want to sleep for a week. “Do you know where this woman lives?”
Barri jerked his head to indicate west. “Somewhere that way. I don’t know her name. Nobody does.”
Gareth eyed his captive. A thought had just occurred to him, and he wanted to speak of it now, since he feared the moment he gave Barri to Cadell, he would lose access and control. “Were you the one who spread the rumor that Walter FitzWizo had the treasure? You’re Maurice’s man, so you could have done it easily.”
Barri had the conceit to look proud of himself, but it was Anselm who answered. “Walter FitzWizo is a supporter of King Stephen and a far more loyal one than the Fitzgeralds and the Earl of Pembroke have ever been. If the treasure had come to Wales, Wiston was a logical place to have stored it until it could be safely transported to Stephen’s treasury in London.”
Gareth nodded to himself. “And the reason it wouldn’t have been transported already is the miles of territory controlled by Earl Robert of Gloucester between here and there.”
“Indeed. It was sound logic, just not what happened to it.” Anselm began to walk away, not towards the monastery courtyard, but out the other side of the churchyard.
“Where are you going?” Gareth called after him. “This is your arrest, not mine.”
Anselm waved a hand above his head without looking back. “You heard everything he said. I don’t care to waste any more time with a murderer and thief.” Then he paused as he reached the last gravestone, finally turning his head to look at Gareth. “The treasure is out there, and I am going to find it.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Angharad
“Uncle, I would speak to you.”
When Angharad had first come to Dinefwr after the death of her father, she had been afraid of Cadell, fooled by how calm and collected he remained at all times, thinking it was the outward manifestation of a deeper wisdom.
No longer was she that girl, nor even the one who’d fallen in love with the handsome Prince of Gwynedd. Time and grief had taught her to question, to consider, and most importantly, to apply what she knew to what she saw and make her own assessment of a man’s character.
For example, she’d decided upon meeting Prince Rhys, even at thirteen, that he would grow to be a man to be reckoned with. At the moment, he was lounging on a bench against the wall, eating slices out of an apple he was carving with his belt knife. The implications of the conversation they’d just had with Sir Gareth and the traitor, Barri, meant nobody was going back to sleep easily anyway.
“What is it now?” Cadell didn’t look up from the paper he was reading. It was a deliberate ploy to intimidate her, to let her know he was a busy man and not to waste his time.
“When Prince Hywel’s men return to Aberystwyth, I would like to travel with them.”
Silence. The king continued to read, leaving Angharad standing before him. It was only with great effort that she refrained from shifting from foot to foot. After a count of ten, Cadell looked up, his expression bored. He leaned back in his chair, putting an elbow to the arm and a finger to his lips. “Who is it?”
“I-I don’t know what you mean.” It made her angry that he could see right through her and that he didn’t mind making sure she knew it.
“Just tell him, Angharad.” Rhys had finished his apple and drawled out the words. “Regardless of who it is, you should let her go, brother.”
Before Cadell could answer, someone knocked at the door, and at Cadell’s summons, entered.
It was Evan himself, though he paused on the room’s threshold, clearly somewhat taken aback by the scene before him. “I’ll return later.”
“No, no.” Rhys waved a hand airily. “Come in. This concerns you, I think.”
Cadell barked a laugh. He didn’t look angry, however, which boded well for the future. Evan stopped beside Angharad, and before he addressed himself to Cadell, he looked at her. “Are you well?”
Angharad knew this was the moment to speak of what she’d come to talk to Cadell about, but she found her words catching in her throat, so instead she nodded numbly.
Rhys, who seemed to be finding the entire scene delightful, said, “She was just inquiring of the king if he would give her permission to travel to Aberystwyth with your company when you leave.”
Through several heartbeats, Evan gazed at Rhys with a completely blank expression, and then he turned deliberately to Cadell and bowed. “I came to inquire on the same matter. If Angharad would like to come, Gwynedd would be delighted to have her.”
Cadell rested one hand on his belly and put the other to his chin, rubbing at the two days’ growth of beard he hadn’t felt well enough to shave as yet. His eyes were fixed on Angharad’s, and she lifted her chin, forcing herself not to look away.
“This is what you want?” He tipped his
head to Evan. “You’re sure you want to be a soldier’s wife?”
The occasion called for brazenness, and she didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Cadell scoffed and turned his attention to Evan. “You can support her?”
“I am a knight.”
Cadell’s lips twisted sourly, and he studied them for so long Angharad feared he would say no. But then he nodded. “Gwynedd it is.”
By comparison, getting permission from Prince Hywel was a matter of a raised eyebrow and a nod, after which Evan led Angharad out of the hall. They ended up in the shelter of the blacksmith’s works. The banked fire was warm, and they stood close to it, their only other light a torch Evan had brought from the hall and put in a sconce attached to a nearby post.
“I apologize, Angharad, for how this fell out tonight. I was trying to do the right thing in the right order, but it got turned around all wrong.” Evan blew out a breath. “I never asked you to marry me.”
Angharad’s color was high, and she was grateful Evan couldn’t see it in the relative darkness. “I only intended to wrest permission to ride with you to Aberystwyth. I never meant to hurry you or—” She swallowed hard. “I don’t want you to think my interest in you is only because I want to escape Dinefwr.”
Evan was gazing at her with those green eyes of his and with as serious an expression as she’d ever seen on his face. “So … you don’t want to marry me?”
Angharad found a joyful laugh bubbling up in her chest. “I’m quite certain you still haven’t asked me.”
“You already answered your uncle, but I have to ask again. Are you sure you want to be a soldier’s wife?”
“I was always going to be a soldier’s wife, even had I married a prince.” Best to begin with honesty, and Evan didn’t balk at the reference to Prince Rhun.
“As long as you’re sure.” From an inside pocket of his leather coat, which he wore against the rain tonight instead of full armor, he removed a small bag, and from within its depths, he pulled out a ring. It was golden and narrow, meant for a woman. “This was my mother’s.” Before Angharad realized what he intended, he went down on a knee before her and held up the ring. “Angharad. Cariad. Will you marry me?”
She gazed down at him, finding tears pricking the corners of her eyes. When she’d entered the hall for the celebratory feast, she’d had no future beyond the castle’s walls. But here she was, three days later, with her life turned upside down. Before she thought any harder about it, she bent to Evan. Because he’d made no attempt to kiss her himself, she put her hands on both sides of his face and pressed her lips to his.
She’d surprised him, but he warmed to the kiss, putting his own hand behind her neck to hold her to him while at the same time rising to his feet.
It was a life he was offering her, and though it wasn’t the one she’d at one time thought she’d have, it was one worth living.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Llelo
Llelo’s heart had leapt when his father had suggested the previous night that he be the one to ride west in search of Robert’s mysterious woman. First light hadn’t come soon enough for him, and his father had found him in the monastery stables in the murky dawn for a few last instructions.
“This is an information-seeking quest only. You are not to take risks. You are not to confront anyone or bare your sword. You understand?”
“Yes, Father.” Llelo tried to tone down his excitement and look at his father with calm eyes and a mature demeanor. But from that very first quest back at Newcastle-under-Lyme, when his parents had taken him and Dai in, he’d wanted to learn everything about this job they did. Anyone could be a soldier, but it took a great man to bring a murderer to justice—and behave in a just manner while he did it.
“I don’t think I have to impress upon you the importance of this task. I have too much to do and too little time to do it in, and I have everybody watching me. Whoever this woman is, Sir Robert kept her a secret for a reason. I will honor that choice until I have reason not to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your mother does not know I’m sending you, so don’t make me regret it.” He handed Llelo a sketch of Sir Robert. “This woman we’re looking for may not even know Robert is dead.”
Llelo sucked in a breath. “I’ll have to be the one to tell her.”
His father put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
There was hardly a question his father could have asked that could have done more to straighten Llelo’s spine. “Yes. You can count on me.”
His father’s expression softened. “You have nothing to prove, Llelo. You are my son, as surely as the child in Gwen’s belly. I am already proud of you.”
Llelo nodded jerkily and then turned to mount his horse. He did believe his father. Or at least Llelo believed that his father believed what he said—and that he would continue to love Llelo even if this unborn child was a boy. Llelo’s advantage was that he was fifteen now. A man. And the more that he behaved as one, and the more his father relied on him to do a man’s job, the more permanently he’d be established in everyone’s eyes as Gareth’s son six months from now. And six years from now. The new baby wouldn’t be a man for fourteen more years. Llelo would be nearly thirty by then, with a family of his own. He’d be a knight in his own right.
And the best chance for all of that to happen began with doing what his father needed done right now.
“One last thing.” Gareth reached up and handed Llelo a slim iron key. “It fits none of the possessions Robert brought with him. Maybe there’s a box at Alban’s house I don’t know about, but in the meantime, when you find her, maybe you’ll find what it goes to.”
Llelo took the key. “Yes, sir.”
And he was off. He rode along the road heading west, which happened to be the same one they’d traveled along to get to Dinefwr so innocently four days ago for the celebratory feast. Nobody was talking about the alliance much now, not like they had been. If his father didn’t solve these murders, it could soon be dead, the fractures caused by the deaths too great a chasm to leap across.
Bearing in mind the stories his father had told him about searching for culprits during past investigations, Llelo stopped at the first hut he came to. It was early morning still, but farmers and herders rose with the dawn, as had Llelo himself, and a young woman was drawing water from the family’s well. He dismounted and walked over to her, very conscious of the sword at his waist and trying to keep his expression sober.
She looked at him, at first absently, since she was hauling up a full bucket of water, and then with interest. His face flushed before he could stop it, and he covered up his embarrassment by grasping the rope and helping her pull up the bucket the last few feet.
“I can manage,” she said, taking the handle from him.
He wanted to be helpful, but she was determined and didn’t want his help, so he stepped back. “I don’t mean to offend.” He pulled out the sketch his father had drawn. “Do you know this man?”
The girl, who couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than he was, tipped her head to study the paper. “That’s Sir Robert.”
Llelo’s expression cleared. “You know him?”
“Of course I know him. He is one of King Cadell’s men. I have offered him water many times.”
Llelo found himself disbelieving, but he tried to keep the skepticism out of his voice. “It is my understanding that he hasn’t been to Deheubarth in some time.”
The girl frowned. “Whoever told you that wasn’t speaking the truth. I’ve seen him several times a month this whole past year. He doesn’t always stop, but he always waves.”
“He was riding from the castle?”
“Not always, though most recently he came down the road same as you.”
That could have meant he was coming from the monastery, as he’d been doing the night he was killed, but Llelo didn’t comment upon it. “When was the last time you saw him?”
<
br /> Her brow furrowed as she thought. “A week ago?” She spoke uncertainly. “He’d ridden by daily for a week, but I haven’t seen him since—” She stopped, her expression filling with horror. “Is he among those who died at the castle?”
Llelo took in a breath. “He wasn’t poisoned.” But then before her face entirely cleared with relief, he had to add, “He is dead, however. He was murdered that same night.”
Now her expression crumpled, and she put her face into her apron, not wanting Llelo to see her tears. He stood in front of her awkwardly, uncertain if he should pat her shoulder or simply ride away. He opted for clearing his throat. “I am so sorry.”
“Do you know who killed him?” she said from underneath the fabric.
“We do.”
She pulled down the apron so he could see her face again. “Good.”
Llelo moved on to the next croft and the next. The response to Sir Robert’s death was the same from everyone. Llelo’s parents had dealt with many murders over the years, and few victims had been so universally beloved. Llelo began to feel he was doing something wrong, and he hoped his father wouldn’t be too disappointed in him.
But he soldiered on. Close to a dozen farmsteads dotted the landscape within five miles of Dinefwr to the west, each family blessed with a field for their own foodstuffs, some of which would be tithed to the king, and then common pastureland for their cattle and sheep. This was rich country—far richer than Gwynedd, which was rockier. His birth father had been a wool merchant, and Llelo wasn’t so far removed from that life that he didn’t recognize the value of the coats on the sheep, which would be sheared in another month.
He had forgotten to ask the first girl where Sir Robert might be riding to along this road, and at about the tenth household, he began to realize that there was something underhanded about people’s answers. Several simply refused to say anything at all. When yet another man skated his eyes to the left, Llelo’s heart began to beat a little faster. He pressed the man, but then had to give up when he abruptly turned away towards his barn.
The Worthy Soldier Page 21