Llelo let him go, realizing he needed to come at this from a different direction, particularly if he was speaking to a woman. He’d discovered during this expedition that girls and women responded to him better than men. He would have to ask his mother about it, but he thought it was because he was young: his age made him unthreatening to women but not worthy of respect to men, despite the sword he wore belted at his waist.
The next house was down a side track from the main east-west road. The property was well-tended, if small, and a woman was trying to juggle a baby on her hip while still hanging her laundry on a line. Llelo scooped up the caterwauling baby, who was so surprised to find himself in the arms of a total stranger that he stopped crying.
“Thank you! If I put him down, he eats rocks, and my mother is tending to my sister’s child.”
“What about your husband?”
“Ach.” She motioned dismissively with a momentarily free hand. “He’s off at the castle. Seems they’ve had some trouble up there and needed an extra hand in the smithy.”
“You didn’t go with him?”
“Heavens no!” She looked at Llelo between two garments she was hanging on the line. “Poison, wasn’t it, that did them all in? He said he’d send for me when he was sure it was safe.”
Llelo smiled to himself. Prince Hywel would be pleased to learn of the distrust the poisoning had created among Cadell’s people. Llelo’s task, however, remained ahead of him. “Do you recognize this man?” He held up the sketch of Sir Robert.
The woman peered at it, catching her son’s hand as she did so, since he was trying to snatch the paper from Llelo. “That’s Sir Robert! I’ve never seen such a likeness.” She met his eyes. “Did you draw this?”
Reluctantly, he shook his head. “My father. But he’s teaching me.”
“It’s a fine skill to have. My older boy is good with his hands.” She pursed her lips. “Why are you asking about Sir Robert?”
“We are trying to retrace his steps. His woman lived near here, but I need someone to point me to the correct house.”
The woman’s brow furrowed. “Why are you asking?”
Llelo met her gaze. “Ma’am. I’m sorry to tell you, but Sir Robert is dead.”
She put her hand to her mouth, gasping a little. “No! We hadn’t heard that he was among those poisoned!”
“He wasn’t poisoned.”
Tears leaked out of the corners of the woman’s eyes, though she wasn’t overtly sobbing. “Poor Jane.”
Llelo gave her a moment while he considered how to ask without asking what he wanted to know. “Can you take me to Jane so I can tell her in person that he’s dead?”
“Of course.” She gestured down the lane, which continued past her house. “She lives another half-mile that way.” Then she put her hand to her mouth again, and her eyes widened over it. “Oh no! The babe!”
Llelo swallowed. “She’s with child?”
The woman nodded, still with her hand to her mouth. Then she heaved a deep sigh and reached for her own baby, who’d been occupying himself with the brooch on Llelo’s cloak.
“The child is Robert’s?”
Again the nod. “He was fixing to tell the king that he was marrying, but he wanted to finish out his service against the Flemings first.”
“Would you mind coming with me to see her?”
The woman sighed. “I’ll have to, I suppose. She won’t understand you otherwise.”
“Why would that be?”
“Well, you see, she’s Norman.”
Chapter Thirty
Gwen
It was a relief to know who had murdered Sir Robert and Alban, but it made Gwen sick to think that Barri might have been in the graveyard not to confess to Evan but to kill him. It was the only sensible reason that he’d asked Evan to meet him there. When she’d said as much to Gareth, he’d just stared at her. Apparently the thought hadn’t occurred to either of the men. No matter how many times the threats against them were pointed out, she could never convince either her husband or his friends they were really in danger.
Meanwhile, the issue of the poisoning and the poisoner remained unresolved, and Gwen was unsatisfied with their progress. Questioning the residents of the castle had not achieved much—certainly not the identity of the culprit. Thus, the next course of action was to go through everything again.
The men had been called in to speak to King Cadell. Although he’d been walked through Barri’s confession last night, he had insisted on going over it all again this morning, this time in the presence of the Fitzgeralds and Richard. Up until now, Cadell had been a man of relatively even keel, but when Gwen had passed by the doorway on her way to check in with Saran, it sounded like a chair had hit the wall of Cadell’s private audience chamber. He was revealing his distant kinship with King Owain.
For once, she was glad that the men from Deheubarth didn’t consider a woman important enough to be present. Evan, meanwhile, was occupied with Angharad and her preparations to leave Dinefwr for good. As a woman in love herself, Gwen had itched for years to find a woman for Evan. It was even better, though, that he’d found someone on his own, and Gwen was particularly pleased she would have a new friend and companion in Angharad.
“What are we looking for exactly?” Saran tossed another blanket towards a large pile forming in the middle of the barracks common room. Other women were rolling up pallets and scrubbing down tables and chairs. Not everyone had recovered from their sickness yet, but enough were on their feet to return the room to its original purpose.
“Some clue or indication of who might have poisoned the pie. We’re really to the point where we just want a list of names of people who could have.”
“Well, for starters, where did the poison come from? As I said over Meicol’s body, it isn’t as if processing poison can be done in any kitchen. Besides which, the plant has to be grown first.”
“I knew I came to you for a reason,” Gwen said. “Obviously, there are gardens in every household from here to Gwynedd. The murderer could also have bought the poison and transported it here. In that case, we will never find the source, but if he didn’t—”
“Exactly,” Saran said. “But if he didn’t, then the poison was grown locally, and we should look for it. It is a rare plant. Not to boast, but if it were one of the common ones, I would know it.”
Their first stop was at the castle’s kitchen garden. Like Old Nan’s garden, Gwen had already given it a cursory going over, but the whole point of the day was to go over everything again. The garden’s position on the south side of the castle made the most of whatever sunshine managed to make it through the twelve months of clouds that were the weather in Wales.
Gwen followed Saran through the rows, but this garden was entirely devoted to vegetables. The garden outside the castle walls was accessed through the postern gate, and it proved not to be any more informative. Not only was monkshood entirely absent (a relief in a way), but so were hemlock, foxglove, and wisteria. In fact, lack of abundant herbs for healing (or flavoring food) was some indication as to why the castle’s healer was so bad at his job.
“Where is the healer, anyway?” Gwen asked Saran, having returned to the courtyard of the castle.
“He remains ill.” Saran shrugged. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. He is quite fat, and the pie did look delicious.”
Gwen couldn’t help but laugh.
“That is unkind, I know.” Saran patted Gwen’s shoulder. “You might think I wanted his job, which I don’t!”
Their next step was to ride the short distance down the hill to the monastery. Abbot Mathew was just arriving at the castle as they were leaving, and though he gave Gwen a piercing look, she merely sketched a wave. If he’d been Abbot Rhys from St. Kentigern’s, she would have valued his participation in whatever they were doing, but they were in Deheubarth, and she didn’t know him well—and didn’t know if she could trust him. It was a mutual loss.
The monastery’s kitchen
garden was located to the west of the church, though far closer to the main buildings than the barn in which they’d met yesterday to discuss the gold coins. Gwen stepped into the herbalist’s hut and sniffed the air, finding herself immediately comfortable. The sentiment was even more true of Saran—who greeted the elderly monk with an embrace.
“You look fine, my dear.” Siawn was his name, and he beamed at her. “Marriage suits you.”
Siawn himself seemed to be well suited by his profession. His face was weathered from so many years spent in his garden, his stomach somewhat rotund as befitted his age, and his eyes were bright. They gleamed, in fact, with interest and intelligence.
Saran introduced Gwen, prompting Siawn to take her hands. “I wasn’t here for the dreadful goings on up at the castle as I was tending to several sick children over the hill a ways.” He lowered his head and gave her a piercing look. “But my abbot mentioned you to me when I returned home this morning. He thinks very highly of your husband.” Then the monk bustled straight for the door. “Let me show you my garden.”
Walled only on the north side, which was where the most delicate plants were grown, the garden was like the others in that it made the most of whatever sun was available. Brother Siawn led them along a path, pointing out his prized plants, and ended up in the northwestern corner where the brick wall met a thick shrub. A chest-high wooden fence surrounded a plot of land, fifteen feet on a side, setting off this small portion of the garden from the rest.
Siawn gestured with his head to the fenced area. “Medicinals grow here.” He canted his head. “And poisons.”
With Siawn’s permission, Saran opened the gate. Gwen remained outside. The two healers didn’t need her ignorance interfering with their work and the space was small enough that she would probably just get in Saran’s way. Instead, she leaned against the fence and watched them move among the plants, talking softly to each other.
“Looking for clues, are we?” Anselm’s voice came low in Gwen’s ear.
Gwen spun around, instantly angry that he had snuck up on her and wanting to smack that sneer off his lips.
He knew it too, because he took two hasty steps back and spread his hands wide. “I mean you no harm. I’m just doing my job, same as you—though, if our jobs are the same, yours is an unseemly one for a woman.”
“This is the woman who uncovered your plot in St. Asaph, so don’t mock.” Gwen knew that she should keep her mouth shut and not rise to his bait, but she couldn’t help herself. She was terribly annoyed that it had been Anselm who’d coaxed—or tortured, if Gareth’s description was accurate—the truth out of Barri. Not that Barri deserved her sympathy, given that he’d killed two people.
“What are we doing here?” Anselm lifted his chin to point to Saran and Siawn. Saran was still bent among the plants, but Siawn was giving Anselm something of a beady eye.
“We aren’t doing anything,” Gwen said.
Anselm scoffed at Gwen’s obstructionist attitude. “I will rephrase. Why are you watching them grub among the plants?”
Gwen frowned. “The man who poisoned your lord is still out there. Nobody should be pretending the danger is over.”
Anselm snorted. “You are reading too much into this. The food had gone off. That is all.”
Gwen found her breath steadying. “How can you think that?”
He shrugged. “Even if everyone was poisoned, what good does finding the plant do you? Anyone could have crept in here and taken it.”
“Not just anyone would know how to prepare it, however,” Gwen said.
“I heard you don’t even know what plant you’re looking for.” Anselm’s lips twisted in disdain.
“If you care so little for the source of the poison, what are you doing here with us? I thought you had gone off seeking the treasure.”
Anselm looked away, appearing somewhat discomfited for the first time that Gwen had seen.
Gwen’s eyes widened. “You thought we were here for the treasure! Did you think we’d found it buried in the garden?” She laughed mockingly. “Not doing too well on your own, are you?”
“It is somewhere,” Anselm said stiffly. “It is only a matter of time until I find it, but you aren’t in a cooperative mood today. I will take my leave.” He gave her a short bow, one she couldn’t interpret as anything but mocking, and departed.
Gwen tapped her knuckle to her upper lip as she watched him go. If she never saw him again it would be too soon, but she probably wasn’t that lucky. Still …
“You know, Saran,” Gwen said over her shoulder, “for all that Anselm is a snake, he does have a point. Barri moved freely within the monastery grounds.”
Siawn came to the little gate. “I assure you no treasure is buried in my garden.” He gestured expansively to include the whole of the space. “The earth is full of new plants, and I haven’t turned the soil in weeks.”
Gwen swept her gaze around the garden to see that Siawn was right. He had new plantings of all kinds, but no plot had just been turned over. She chewed on her lower lip, recalling the visit to Old Nan. “What might you plant from seed during the first week in June?”
Siawn was still at the gate, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. “Late season carrots and peas, perhaps? April and May are the best time for planting, and I’ve done all of mine already. If you’ve waited until June, you will need to get the seeds in the ground immediately to give them the most time in the summer sun and hope you haven’t started too late.”
Gwen thanked the monk, but she didn’t say what she was thinking. The treasure had caused enough deaths so far. There was no reason to endanger Siawn with more knowledge than he needed to have. In fact, the more she thought about it, the less she wanted to speak of what was in her mind to anyone but Gareth.
Saran had finished her inspection and came to stand beside the monk. “You grow an amazing variety of plants, Siawn.”
He beamed. “No doubt the sin of pride will be my undoing, but I have some of the best specimens in all of Deheubarth, though Old Nan’s garden runs a close second.”
“What does she have that you don’t?” Gwen said.
“She grows more flowers than I do, of course, and her roses—” He shook his head, marveling. “She also has the finest specimen of Lady Laurel I’ve ever seen. It only grows in the mountains usually.”
“Lady Laurel?” Saran gazed across the fence at Gwen.
“Is something wrong?” Gwen said.
“Lady Laurel is also called Daphne, Gwen. I’ve never seen the plant myself, but I’ve heard of it.”
Siawn nodded sagely. “Even a twig would be dangerous for you, my dear Gwen. Its bark causes miscarriage. If ingested fresh, a single berry can blister the mouth and cause vomiting and death.”
Gwen found herself gasping. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
Siawn blinked. “I-I only arrived home today.” The monk looked from one woman to the other. “There are so many poisons, I didn’t think to privilege one over another.”
“The people who were poisoned had blistered mouths, Siawn,” Saran said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He swallowed. “Does it help if I tell you that just touching it can cause rashes and weeping sores?”
That caused Gwen to draw in a breath too. “May the Lord have mercy on us!”
“What was that?” Siawn said.
“It doesn’t matter.” Gwen motioned to Saran and Siawn. “Come with me!”
They had no time to lose.
But as they reached the monastery courtyard, Gwen discovered that the events of the day had overtaken her. As she rounded the corner, she was faced with a host of men, including King Cadell, Prince Hywel, and her husband. Gwen’s eyes widened. She had completely forgotten about the funeral for everyone who’d died.
The Dragons were all here too, and they’d spread out around the courtyard in such a way as to appear randomly dispersed, but they weren’t fooling Gwen for an instant. They were on guard,
as always. Hywel and Gareth were near the church steps, in a circle that included Cadell and the Fitzgeralds. Everyone was dressed formally except for Gwen.
Embarrassed to still be wearing her third-best dress, she found Evan near the corner of the church, not far from the cemetery gate. “How long before the funeral?”
“It starts at noon, Gwen.”
She glanced upwards, checking the location of the sun, which was high in the sky. “I need Gareth.”
Evan looked down at her, his interest sharpening. “Why?” He’d been watching the lords desultorily, bored with the proceedings as were all the Dragons. They seemed to have two ways of being: action and sloth, motion and no motion, with hardly anything in between.
Gwen pursed her lips, not answering in part because she didn’t know what exactly she should say without talking to Hywel or Gareth first. She trusted the Dragons with her life, but she’d reconsidered her suspicions of where she might find the treasure and was halfway to convincing herself that her idea was absurd. It was offensive to even think Meleri or Old Nan had anything to do with any of this.
On the other hand, both were vulnerable women in their own way. Perhaps Meicol had convinced them to help him steal the treasure, bury it in the garden, and then poison the castle as a distraction…
Her thoughts stopped there, since it was Meicol who’d ended up dead.
Chapter Thirty-one
Gareth
Gareth held his tongue. It would do no good to castigate Gwen for going off on her own (even with Saran) while he was busy with King Cadell. It was a topic for another day, after all this was over. She had accused him of being cavalier with his safety, and here she and Saran had done exactly the same thing. The last two days, Llelo had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on his mother, but Gareth had sent him off on an errand, leaving Gwen unprotected. So really, this was all Gareth’s fault.
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