“As a bribe,” Godfrid said.
“I don’t understand,” Gareth said.
“Thorfin took the book intending to use it as a partial payment to Gilbert de Clare to convince him to help us in our fight against the Irish,” Godfrid said.
Gareth kept his eyes fixed on Godfrid’s face. “Clare. The Earl of Pembroke.”
“Indeed,” Godfrid said.
“Clare has been fully embroiled in the fighting in England,” Gareth said. “He’s switched sides almost as many times as the Earl of Chester.”
Given how many times the Earl of Chester had switched sides, that was saying something. Gwen had never given any thought to the Earl of Pembroke’s allegiances, but she reminded herself that Gareth had just spent three months in the south, in lands bordering on Clare’s. He was Hywel’s right hand man and was more aware of political alliances than she was. When they were alone, politics weren’t something they often discussed—especially when the hours they’d had together were few enough as it was.
“Exactly,” Godfrid said, “which is why Ottar has turned to him. Clare has lands in Wales, but his hold on them is as tenuous as King Stephen’s hold on his kingdom. Clare has lost men and resources on a war that at the moment cannot be won, and if he did have lands in Ireland, they would make him that much more powerful and influential. Land equals wealth equals power, as you well know.”
“And the Normans can never have enough,” Gwen said.
Godfrid snorted. “No man can ever have enough, Gwen.”
Godfrid’s tale was the last thing Gwen had expected to hear. She could understand how desperate Ottar must feel to have his kingdom slipping away from him, but to bring in the Normans was folly. “Ottar should know better than to invite the Normans in. Once they achieve a foothold on Irish soil, it will be all but impossible to get them to leave.”
“That is my fear,” Godfrid said.
“What do you believe to be Ottar’s plan?” Gareth said.
“Leinster, the kingdom to the south of Dublin, is ruled by the weakest of the Irish kings,” Godfrid said. “Ottar would welcome Clare’s army into Dublin and use his men to fight outward from there.”
“The Book of Kells is a strange sort of pledge,” Gwen said. “Is Ottar even a Christian?”
“We are all Christian, of one kind or another,” Godfrid said.
Gwen supposed that King Stephen was too, and Empress Maud, and that hadn’t stopped them from tearing each other and England apart. Gwen had seen the consequences of their struggle for the English throne firsthand and wanted no part in it.
Godfrid continued, “But from what I understand, it wasn’t Ottar’s idea to take the book. Clare wanted Ottar to attack Kells, which is northwest of Dublin and outside our current range, and burn it as proof that he has the wherewithal to use Clare’s men effectively if he is given them. Clare wants to come into the middle of a war, not arrive in Dublin to discover that Ottar expects him to do all the work.”
“It sounds like a foolish idea to me,” Gwen said. “The people of Ireland, of whatever kingdom, treasure that book. All Ottar may have done is arouse the anger of the four kingdoms of Ireland. When and if Clare arrives in Dublin, he might find them fully arrayed against him.”
“That could be Clare’s plan,” Gareth said. “He wouldn’t be the first lord to incite his opponents to do battle against each other and then swoop in afterwards to find neither has the strength left to fight him.”
Godfrid growled low in his chest. “You do not comfort me.”
“I apologize, old friend,” Gareth said, “but my words weren’t meant to.”
“Do the Irish kings know of Ottar’s plans for Clare?” Gwen said.
Godfrid shook his head and shrugged at the same time. “I do not know. I only know that my father wants me to find the book and return with it to Ireland. He would stop this war before it starts.”
“What if Clare could help Dublin regain its former glory?” Gwen said.
“Ottar is headstrong and reckless,” Godfrid said. “He might lead us into battle, but I don’t believe he can lead us out again. Remember, it was he who allowed himself to be tricked by Prince Cadwaladr into coming to Wales. The man sees only what is in front of him. A king needs to see many steps ahead.”
“Getting back to Thorfin,” Gareth said, “if he has already given the book to Clare, I don’t see how I can be of help.”
“That’s just it,” Godfrid said. “It doesn’t appear that Thorfin has succeeded in his quest. We know that he sailed for Wales, but we have heard nothing from him since.”
“Would you know?” Gwen said. “Are you in Ottar’s confidence?”
“I have shamed myself by standing at his side of late. I would never have done it if my father hadn’t ordered me to so that I might spy for him in Ottar’s court.” Godfrid made a face as if he’d tasted something bitter. “I begged Ottar to allow me to come here to search for the book, though I didn’t tell him that I wanted the task because the bile in my stomach threatens to undo me.”
“What of your brother?” Gareth said.
“He obeys my father too. Ottar believes him to be outspoken at times against aspects of his plan but loyal to his cause.”
“Clare isn’t going to be happy to discover that Thorfin sailed for Wales but has not brought him the book. Depending on his own plans, he will have to choose between supporting Ottar anyway or giving up the plan entirely,” Gwen said.
“The two men Clare sent as ambassadors to Ottar’s court sailed with Thorfin and are also missing,” Godfrid said.
“Could they have had a better offer?” Gwen said. “If so, the book could be anywhere by now.”
“That’s unlikely, surely,” Gareth said. “I can see Thorfin changing his mind and using the book for his own ends, whatever they might be, but I can’t see him working with Clare’s men to betray his father.”
“Ottar agrees,” Godfrid said, “which is why I’m here.”
“I can’t believe that Ottar actually sent you,” Gwen said. “You are the son of his rival! What’s to prevent you from finding the book and presenting it to Clare yourself, to gain his help in overthrowing Ottar?”
Godfrid threw back his head and laughed. “I like how your wife thinks, Sir Gareth!” Then he shook his head. “Ottar sent his own men to Pembroke to confer with Clare. Ottar sent me here, which he hopes will keep me far away from his allies and out of trouble.” He took a long drink from the cup in front of him and wiped his mouth on the edge of his cloak. “He doesn’t know the extent of my friendship with Gwynedd.”
“How you managed to escape suspicion after the events at Abermenai is beyond me,” Gareth said, “but I am glad that you did.”
“Ottar got rich off Cadwaladr’s cattle,” Godfrid said. “He even gave me some credit for making it happen.”
“You are a crafty devil,” Gareth said.
“As are you.” Godfrid clapped a hand on Gareth’s shoulder and shook him. “I have long thought that you are the man to come to if trouble strikes. I have seen it with my own eyes.”
“I would like to help you, Godfrid. I would. But I do have the matter of Tegwen’s murder to clear up first,” Gareth said, “and I must speak to Prince Hywel before I could even begin such a quest.”
“Of course, of course,” Godfrid said. “I am also an ambassador from my father to the court of King Owain, come to celebrate Calan Gaeaf with his people.”
“And perhaps gain his help in overthrowing Ottar,” Gareth said.
Godfrid smirked. “That too.”
Chapter Seventeen
Hywel
Hywel debated whether or not to allow Ifon to offer up his own chamber to him but in the end decided to bed down in the stables with his men. He’d slept in worse places, and the stables had been cleaned in preparation for the festival. A cloak thrown over sweet-smelling fresh straw and Hywel could sleep like a baby. He missed Mari beside him, but there were times when a change of scenery did a man
good.
In addition, bedding down with men-at-arms and more common men could offer Hywel a glimpse of what kind of a lord Ifon really made. Even if this trip didn’t prove fruitful in terms of his investigation of Tegwen’s murder, his father would want to know what passed for stewardship in Rhos.
A whisper of unease curled in Hywel’s stomach as he dared to wonder what his father would think of his own stewardship of Ceredigion. The two lords he’d left in charge had been deposed from their lands by Normans and regained them only at Hywel’s hand. His departure was a kind of test for them, but Hywel feared that it might prove more of a test for him and of his judgment instead. Ifon had admitted Hywel to Bryn Euryn with more welcome than Hywel would have given his father had he come to inspect Aberystwyth.
Still, Hywel couldn’t help but think Ifon was hiding something, and he wished he’d been able to speak to the guard. But Hywel could hardly have forced Ifon to wake him when the morning should do well enough. What disturbed Hywel most was the lack of others to ask about Tegwen. Even if the residents of the castle were all new to Bryn Euryn, half the people of the cantref had come to celebrate the harvest festival with their lord. One of them had to have lived here five years ago. Surely.
But Ifon hadn’t given Hywel a single name, and Evan hadn’t found anyone to speak to either. Ruminating on the problem kept Hywel awake until most of the men in the stables were sound asleep. Somehow, he must not be asking the right questions yet.
The next morning, after a simple breakfast of mutton and bread at the high table, Ifon at last sent his steward to find the guard, a man named Madog. Hywel was using his crust to soak up the last of his gravy when the steward came rushing back, his agitation evident. He threw himself to his knees in front of Ifon and Hywel. “My lords! I have just come from the barracks. Old Madog is dead!”
Ifon had risen to his feet at the steward’s approach and now stared blankly at the steward’s downturned head.
Hywel leaned across the table to look down at the steward. “Tell us what you know.” This was Ifon’s castle, but Hywel was a prince of Gwynedd, and he was tired of being stymied at every turn.
The steward lifted his head, though he remained kneeling before them. “I don’t know anything more than I’ve said, my lords. Madog didn’t appear at breakfast, but with this crowd I didn’t notice. When Lord Ifon sent me to fetch him, I found him lying in his bunk. I went to roust him, but—he’s dead.” The steward said the last two words in a small voice.
“He must have died sometime in the night.” Ifon’s face was completely expressionless.
Hywel was having trouble deciding what exactly he should do or say. His inclination was to think that Ifon had something to do with the guard’s death, but he could hardly accuse the man of murder in his own hall. It would be dramatic certainly but not worth risking if the death truly was natural, as unlikely as that seemed at this moment.
Ifon bent toward Hywel. “My lord, I am terribly afraid that Tegwen’s killer is belatedly tying up loose ends.”
“It was my first thought,” Hywel admitted.
“This is my fault.” Ifon straightened to his full height, his jaw rigid. “He was your one witness, and now he’s dead.”
“We should not assume anything until we see him.” Hywel found it odd that he was comforting Ifon instead of accusing him of murder.
“Of course, my lord. I will come with you. Perhaps I will learn something.” Ifon turned back to the steward. “Did you leave Madog where you found him?”
“Yes, my lord,” the steward said, wide-eyed. At Ifon’s gesture, he clambered to his feet on creaking knees and led the way from the hall.
Before leaving with Hywel, Ifon lifted a hand to gain the attention of his people. Many had risen to their feet to watch the exchange on the dais. Even if those in the rear hadn’t been able to hear Ifon’s conversation with the steward, the news of Madog’s death had flown around the hall with the speed of a trapped sparrow.
“Please continue with the meal,” Ifon said. “Our old companion, Madog, has died; we will bury him before the sun sets.”
As with Tegwen, the need for Madog’s burial was pressing. Hywel had never known anyone to actually die on the day of Hallowmas, and to have matching funerals for Tegwen at Aber and Madog at Bryn Euryn was disconcerting. “The more superstitious among our people will be fearful tonight,” Hywel said to Ifon as they crossed the courtyard to the barracks.
“Will you be here or at Aber for the feast?” Ifon said.
“I must leave for Aber by noon,” Hywel said.
“You would be welcome to stay,” Ifon said.
Hywel tried to discern a sense of relief in Ifon’s voice, but all he heard was the straightforward questions of a lord who had people to see to.
“We bury our dead near the chapel at the base of the mountain,” Ifon added. “If you would consent to stay until we see Madog in the ground, I would be grateful. The grave diggers will begin work immediately.”
“Of course,” Hywel said, not sure what he was agreeing to—if anything beyond respect for an old man who had the misfortune to die at Hallowmas.
Madog had been sleeping in the barracks with dozens of other men, but while twenty had lain on the floor last night, Madog had been given a bottom bunk. He lay on his side, facing the wall. Ifon approached the body first and put a hand on his shoulder. The old guard didn’t move, not that Hywel expected him to, and after a respectful pause, Hywel moved closer and helped Ifon roll Madog onto his back.
Madog’s eyes were closed as if he were still sleeping. Hywel lifted one eyelid. The man’s eyes were rheumy, but neither bloodshot nor bulging. Nor did his face show signs that he’d been smothered in the night, which had been Hywel’s first thought. An overdose of poppy juice was his second, and Hywel leaned forward, sniffing for the sweet aroma that often lingered around the face after death. He straightened, not finding it, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the body.
“He liked his mead,” Ifon said, indicating a splotch staining Madog’s shirt.
“Who doesn’t?” Hywel sucked on his teeth. “He seems to have died in his sleep.”
“Soldiers claim to want to die in battle with their boots on, but I would choose this if I could,” Ifon said.
“Was he ill?” Hywel said.
Ifon lifted one shoulder. “He had an old man’s ailments, but none that I thought were pressing, though over the last few days, he had developed a nasty cough.”
“Would your healer have given him something to help him sleep?” Hywel said.
Ifon looked Hywel speculatively. “Are you thinking that he took—or was given—too much poppy juice?”
Hywel kept his gaze steady on Ifon’s face.
Ifon expelled a sudden snort of laughter. “You think I ordered his death? For what purpose could I possibly have done so?”
“To prevent me from questioning Madog about what he saw five years ago,” Hywel said.
“Do you think me that foolish—or desperate?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.” Though when Ifon put it that way, it made less sense than it had in Hywel’s head.
“I suppose you wouldn’t be the man I know you to be if you didn’t think I could have had a hand in Madog’s sudden death,” Ifon said, his surprise and amusement subsiding. “But surely you don’t think I killed Tegwen?”
“Did you?”
“No.” Ifon’s answer was immediate and without equivocation. He gestured towards the door of the barracks. “Please come with me. I have something to show you.”
Hywel nodded, as curious about Ifon now as he’d ever been about another man’s thoughts. All these years, Ifon had been hiding here at Bryn Euryn in obscurity, guiding his people and managing his estates with little oversight and no expectation of raising his standing. Provided Ifon had nothing to do with Tegwen’s death, after today that should change. Hywel was going to have a talk with his father. Men with Ifon’s intellect were few and far enough between;
it would be a waste to allow Ifon to languish another day in obscurity in his backwater cantref. Gwynedd could use him.
Ifon and Hywel climbed the ladder to the wall-walk above the gatehouse. The sun put in a brief appearance, playing hide and seek with the clouds that mostly covered the sky. It had rained in the night, so the ground was wet and soft, which the gravediggers would appreciate, though Hywel hoped for a dry ride home to Aber.
The tips of the wooden palisade were at chin height for both of them. Ifon pointed east over the top of them. “What do you see?”
“The sea,” Hywel said.
“Yes, my lord, the sea. But can you see the beach?”
Hywel squinted into the morning sun, holding up one hand to block the light from shining directly into his eyes. “No.” He turned to look up at the mountain behind him. “What about from the summit?”
“In good weather, you can see the beach from up there, but you can’t see individual people. Madog’s story was that he was on duty and saw the Danish boat come in to take Tegwen on board.” Ifon nodded his head at Hywel’s unasked question. “Yes, obviously someone should have wondered why he didn’t raise the alarm from the first.”
Hywel gazed over the rampart. His eyesight was excellent, but five years ago, Madog had already been an old man. Hywel would have been surprised if Madog could have distinguished individual trees two hundred yards away, much less spied a longboat out on the water.
“What about the maid who said she witnessed Tegwen’s departure?” Hywel said.
“She claimed to have seen what Madog saw, but from the village,” Ifon said.
“Would that have been possible?” Hywel said.
“Possibly.” Ifon scanned the land around Bryn Euryn, not looking at Hywel. “But I think now that my sister-in-law no more ran off with a Dane than she joined that convent.” Ifon waved a hand towards a cluster of buildings tucked together along a river winding to the northwest of Bryn Euryn. Hywel could just make out a bell tower poking above the trees.
The Fallen Princess Page 17