Gareth leapt down the steps from the battlement at the same moment that King Owain, Rhun, and the majority of the inhabitants of Aber surged out of the great hall. Gareth jogged across the courtyard to greet the king and went down on one knee before him. “Three Danish ships approach Aber beach, my lord, but I believe Godfrid son of Torcall leads them. He raises the white flag of peace.”
King Owain made an impatient gesture indicating that Gareth should rise and then waved Rhun closer too. He put one hand on Rhun’s shoulder and the other on Gareth’s. “How many men, Gareth?”
“Two dozen, my lord. No more.”
“Do you believe their intentions are truly peaceful?” the king said.
“If it is truly Godfrid who comes, then yes, my lord,” Gareth said. It had been Godfrid who’d kept Gwen safe after Cadwaladr had abducted her and stolen her away to Dublin. Gareth would trust the man with his life. “Godfrid is not here to raid Gwynedd’s shores.”
King Owain gave him a quick nod. “Take a strong force and ride to the beach. Rhun will lead a second company around the dunes to the east. If these Danes mean us harm, the two of you will have the men to stop them.”
Rhun grinned at Gareth. “Try not to start a war before I get there.”
“Sire, if I may ask,” Gareth said, “you don’t seem surprised to learn of their approach.”
“I invited an embassage from Torcall months ago.” King Owain waved a hand carelessly, as if he communicated with the Danes of Dublin on a daily basis. “Given the time that has passed, I didn’t expect him to take me up on my invitation. The situation must be dire indeed in Dublin for him to send his son to me.” Then he grinned broadly and wheeled around, waving at his people. “Back to the hall! The wind grows chill. We will wait for our guests inside.”
Gareth tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders and wished for a scarf. He hadn’t noticed the change in the weather until the king mentioned it. Rhun clapped a hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “Kings do as they please, do they not?”
“It seems so,” Gareth said.
In all the hubbub, Gareth had lost track of Gwen, but he spied her near the gatehouse and reached her in a few strides. “I must ride to the beach.” He pulled her hood up to cover her ears. “Go inside with the king so you don’t become chilled.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gwen said, holding her cloak closed at the throat with a gloved hand. “Has Godfrid truly arrived?”
“I told the king he had, so it better be he.” Gareth glared at his wife in mock severity. “You will stay well away from him.”
Gwen leaned forward and pecked Gareth on the cheek. “Don’t be silly, husband. I chose you.”
Gareth smirked, and Gwen patted him on the chest in reassurance before departing for the hall as he’d asked. Stable boys were already working to saddle the many horses they’d need for their short ride to the beach. With so many noblemen at Aber, there was no lack of men-at-arms from whom to choose. He would meet Godfrid with the same number Godfrid himself was bringing, while Rhun would ride with two dozen more.
Gareth mounted his horse, which pranced at the head of his company, impatient to get started. Gareth patted his mount’s neck, controlling him with his knees while waiting for the rest of the troop to form up behind him.
“Hywel would have liked to have been here,” Rhun said. “He finds the Danes amusing.”
“Most Welshmen wouldn’t agree,” Gareth said.
“Oh, but they’re big and loud and full of themselves,” Rhun said. “You have to admire them.”
Rhun’s grandfather had been born in Dublin because his great-grandmother, Ragnhild, had been the daughter of Olaf of Dublin, son of King Sigtrygg Silkbeard. That kinship connected the kingdoms of Gwynedd and Dublin and meant that the raids from Dublin on Wales had been far fewer in the last forty years than in the previous hundred. It also meant that King Owain’s invitation to Godfrid to come to Aber was not without precedent.
“Do the Danes celebrate Calan Gaeaf?” Gareth said.
“Godfrid isn’t here for the holy day,” Rhun said. “He wants our help in his fight against Ottar. That’s what he wanted last year, and that’s what he wants now.”
“Is your father going to give it?” Gareth said.
“We’ll see,” Rhun said, “but I think not yet.”
Rhun’s contingent rode away first. His company would turn right at the bottom of the hill upon which Aber perched, galloping east down the road towards a track to the beach different from the one Gareth’s company would take. Gareth signaled to his men to follow on his heels. It was Gareth’s second journey to the beach that day. It seemed weeks since the finding of Tegwen’s body. That morning, he’d stood on the sand and watched the sun come up over the mountains to the east, and now he would stand at the same spot and see it sinking into the western hills.
The track upon which Gareth’s company rode petered out at the dunes. High tide had come and gone and washed away all traces of their footprints from the morning. At low tide, the Lavan Sands would stretch out across the Menai Strait, creating a dangerous but passable footpath to Anglesey. With several hours to go until that moment, however, the shallowly built Danish ships had found a passage through them and now floated a few feet off shore. As a courtesy to King Owain, Godfrid hadn’t ordered his men to pull up to the beach until given permission to do so.
Gareth looked to the west, noting the clouds gathering on the horizon and the chop on the water as it lapped at the Danish boats.
Poor weather was more normal than not for Wales this time of year, but after a beautiful day, it looked like they were in for a change in the weather with the onset of evening. Only a fisherman could tell him if the rain would last through tomorrow. Rain at Hallowmas would be a disappointment, though perhaps appropriate for Tegwen’s funeral.
Gareth signaled to his men to stop and rode alone the last yards to the water’s edge. He dismounted, dropping his horse’s reins to the sand, and held out his hand in greeting to Godfrid, who leapt from his boat. Godfrid covered the distance between them in three strides, and instead of taking Gareth’s arm, he caught him in a tremendous hug, lifting him off his feet. Gareth tried to speak, but Godfrid was squeezing the wind out of him. He coughed as Godfrid set him down.
“Good man! Good man!” Godfrid pounded Gareth on the back.
Gareth laughed, getting his breath back, and clasped Godfrid’s forearm in a more decorous greeting. Rhun was right that it was hard to resist the outrageousness of this prince of Dublin. As they stood grinning at each other, Rhun and his company appeared on the beach to the east and galloped across the sand towards them.
“What is this? Didn’t you trust me?” Godfrid said in mock dismay.
“I did.”
Godfrid bellowed his good humor and clapped his hand on Gareth’s shoulder yet again, pounding him a few inches further into the sand. “But when Danes arrive on a Welsh beach, it’s better to be cautious about their intentions, is that it?”
“You have to admit, your people have not always been friendly,” Gareth said.
“Those were the days, eh?” Godfrid rubbed his hands together as if relishing the memory. Then he strode away to catch the bridle of Rhun’s horse, and when Rhun dismounted, he gave him the same treatment he’d given Gareth. The two princes then stepped back and bowed to each other, after which Godfrid waved his men out of their boats. “We are all friends, yes?”
“Yes,” Rhun said. “My father awaits you in his hall. You are just in time for the evening meal.”
Godfrid’s eyes lit at that, and Gareth suspected that he’d timed his arrival to coincide with sunset for that very purpose. “That would be most welcome. Our boat was swamped within hours of leaving Dublin, and we’ve eaten nothing but salted meat and stale water since then. That is no food for warriors.”
At Rhun’s raised eyebrows, Godfrid guffawed and added, “Though I assure you, we are not looking for war today.”
Rhun waved his men off their
mounts, and the Welsh and Danish parties converged, communicating with each other in a mix of languages and unconcerned by whose accent was more atrocious. Godfrid’s Welsh had somehow improved since Gareth had last seen him. Gareth wished he could say the same for his Danish.
“Where is Prince Hywel?” Godfrid said as the men began walking up the beach towards the main path that would take them back to Aber Castle.
“He is not here,” Gareth said.
“The body of a royal cousin was found on the beach this morning,” Rhun said.
Godfrid frowned. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“She was murdered,” Rhun said, more bluntly than was usual for him. “Prince Hywel has departed on a quest for information regarding her disappearance and death.”
Godfrid halted abruptly in the middle of the path, and it was fortunate that the men behind them had kept their distance or one of them might have bumped his nose into Godfrid’s back. “You’re not serious?”
“Sadly, Prince Rhun is perfectly serious, and in fact—” Gareth’s brow furrowed as he considered the possibilities, “You might even be able to help us clear up a point or two.”
“How is that?” Godfrid said.
“The body was of our beloved princess, Tegwen. She was the daughter of Cadwallon, King Owain’s older brother, who died twelve years ago.”
“I have heard tales of Cadwallon. He was a mighty man.” Godfrid thumped his chest with his fist. “Much in the manner of a Dane.” Then he sobered. “Again, I am sorry for your losses.”
“Thank you,” Rhun said, “but it is the circumstances of her death and its discovery that concern us now.”
“If she was murdered as you say,” Godfrid started walking again, “then this is no time for guests such as I. We should greet your father and take our leave.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Rhun said. “We lost her a long time ago.”
Godfrid canted his head. “Now you’ve lost me.”
“Our pardon, Godfrid,” Gareth said. “Prince Rhun and I began the story at the end. You see, all these years we’d thought she’d run off with a Dane.”
By the time Godfrid, Rhun, and Gareth reached Aber Castle, they had explained the situation with Tegwen to him as fully as they could, given their imperfect understanding of each other’s languages. Godfrid seemed to be growling under his breath in Danish as he contemplated what they’d told him. While Rhun entered the great hall to make sure his father was ready to greet his guests, Godfrid put his annoyance aside to greet Gwen.
Or rather, he went to greet her but then held back at the sight of her burgeoning belly. Taking her by each of her arms, he said, “You are so beautiful.”
“Now, now.” Gareth stepped between them.
“Well done, old friend.” Godfrid clapped Gareth on the shoulder. Another few wallops from Godfrid and Gareth was going to need to see the healer.
“It is good to see you too, Godfrid,” Gwen said.
Godfrid stretched his arms out wide, taking in the bustling courtyard of the castle. “It is good to be seen and good to be here.” Then he looked down at Gwen. “But I hear we have a murder to solve.”
“I was hoping that Godfrid could help us identify this Dane who may have run off with Tegwen,” Gareth said.
Gwen looked hopefully towards Godfrid. “We are wondering now if he ever existed.”
“Five years ago, you say?” Godfrid tapped a finger to his lower lip. “I don’t know of any of my father’s men, or Ottar’s for that matter, who appeared with a Welshwoman at his side. He would have been a brave man to have stolen away a princess of Gwynedd, even if her father was dead and would never claim the throne.”
“He could have sailed east, I suppose,” Gwen said.
“Certainly, I have many relations back in Denmark,” Godfrid said. “Many favor marriage to foreign women.”
“Why would that be?” Gwen said.
Godfrid laughed. “Until they learn Danish, they don’t talk back.”
Gwen’s eyes narrowed at Godfrid. Seeing her expression, he hastily turned to Gareth. “If there was no Dane, where does that leave you?”
Gareth sighed. “With more questions than answers, dare I say as usual.”
“I am sorry that I could not have been more of a help,” Godfrid said. “My memory of five years ago might also be imperfect.”
“It was a long shot at best,” Gareth said. “The man could have been Irish or Norse besides.”
“We still have a murderer loose in Gwynedd,” Gwen said.
For the first time since he arrived, Godfrid sobered completely. “We are all murderers, Gwen, at one time or another.”
“The story grows more complicated when you add in that Bran, Tegwen’s husband, was also murdered,” Gwen said.
Godfrid’s brows lifted. “I am liking your tale less and less.”
“He died not far from where the Danes bought by Cadwaladr ambushed Anarawd,” Gareth said.
“We’re not accusing you or your people of anything,” Gwen hastened to add. “Bran died by an arrow.”
“Ah.” Godfrid nodded. “Not a Danish weapon.”
“My lord.” Rhun approached the three companions. “My father would welcome you and your men.”
“Of course. Lead on.” Godfrid gestured that Rhun should precede him.
Gwen and Gareth fell into step on either side of the huge Dane.
“The last time I was here, the king’s brother, this Cadwaladr you spoke of, was the one causing all the trouble,” Godfrid said. “What has become of him?”
“You will see him in a moment and can judge for yourself; he sits at the high table next to King Owain,” Gareth said.
Instead of scowling as Gareth felt like doing, a smile twitched at the corner of Godfrid’s mouth. “Such is the way of kings, eh? Ottar and my father dine together while secretly plotting to do each other in.”
“How is your father?” Gwen said.
“Ottar is in the ascendancy at the moment,” Godfrid said, “so my father is not very well. He broods in his hall over what might have been, and I worry for his health.”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it,” Gareth said, “to ask King Owain to go to war with you?”
“Oh no, my friend.” Godfrid put a hand on Gareth’s shoulder, more gently than before, Gareth was glad to say. “I came to see you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Hywel
Bryn Euryn, the seat of the Lord of Rhos, lay a little over ten miles to the east of Aber but fifteen miles by the high road through the standing stones at Bwlch y Ddeufaen and the fort of Caerhun. With his father and two older brothers dead, the third son, Ifon, had inherited the cantref. After Hywel’s grandfather had taken the throne of Gwynedd for the third time forty years ago, defeating the last of the Norman invaders, he’d reduced the kingdom of Rhos to a lordship. The Lord of Rhos tithed now to the King of Gwynedd. Even so, Ifon ruled over extensive lands stretching east from the Conwy River all the way to Rhuddlan.
Despite Gwen’s warning about a killer still roaming free, Hywel wasn’t worried about reaching Rhos safely, even in the dark. Any action on the part of the murderer, particularly Hywel’s death, would result in more scrutiny, not less. The killer hadn’t been quiet all these years only to panic now.
They reached Caerhun two hours after sunset, stopping briefly to rest the horses and confer with the commander, and then rode on nearly another hour before they finally picked their way up the slope to the castle of Bryn Euryn. Built below the ancient ruins that took up the crest of the hill, rising some four hundred feet above the valley floor, it was a well-fortified palace, not unlike Aber Castle, though built entirely in wood and surrounded by a wooden palisade.
Hywel hadn’t been here in years. Usually, if the Lord of Rhos and the King of Gwynedd needed to speak to one another, the Lord of Rhos came to Aber and not the other way around. But Calan Gaeaf was upon them, and while the people who lived to the west of the Conwy River flocked to
Aber, Ifon had called his own people to his seat. Hywel’s small company was admitted through the main gate, prompting a flurry of activity in the courtyard. Ifon himself came out of the hall to greet Hywel.
“My lord.” Ifon bowed from the waist. “To what do I owe this honor, especially this day, with Hallowmas so close?”
“I would speak to you in private, if I may,” Hywel said. “I leave it to you how much of my news you wish to share with your people.”
“Of course,” Ifon said, “but surely you would like to refresh yourself first after your journey?”
“This is urgent,” Hywel said, “and cannot wait.”
“This way.” Ifon gestured that Hywel and his men should dismount.
“We need shelter for only one night as we must return to Aber by tomorrow afternoon,” Hywel said. “We won’t trouble you for longer than that.”
“It is no trouble, as you well know.” Ifon’s expression showed no irony or resentment. Hywel peered at him carefully, but it seemed as if he meant what he’d said.
Hywel had hoped Ifon’s involvement in Tegwen’s death, or in Bran’s for that matter, would be immediately obvious in his manner. It wasn’t, and now Hywel had to admit to himself that it had been ridiculous to have expected it. Her loss was clearly making Hywel soft in the head. Ifon didn’t know why Hywel had come to see him, and years had passed since either murder.
Hywel had arranged in advance with Evan that he should not only see to the men but should also take on his own investigations on Hywel’s behalf, as Gareth would have done if he were here. Hywel needed Evan to question Ifon’s men, from the lowest stable boy to his first captains. If Gwen were here too, she would have been responsible for inquiring of the women of the castle. But for now, between Evan and Hywel, they would have to make do with what they could manage themselves. Hywel was a married man, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t smile at a pretty girl if he needed information from her.
Ifon led the way to the keep, and as he walked beside him, Hywel studied Ifon’s profile. Ifon was older than Hywel; he was older than Rhun too, for all that Rhun had known him reasonably well as a boy. As a youth, Hywel had never had more than a handful of conversations with any of the brothers of Rhos. Bran had always struck Hywel as too full of himself and had thought himself the smartest person in any room he entered, which naturally raised Hywel’s hackles. Ifon had faded into the background, letting his brother speak first and sometimes never speaking at all.
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