The Fallen Princess

by Sarah Woodbury

  “Then what do you think happened?” Hywel said. “If Madog’s story wasn’t true, why did he tell it?”

  “It could only be because someone made him or even that he had a hand in her disappearance,” Ifon said. “Until today, I told myself that Tegwen ran off with another man because my brother was a fool not to see what he had. Madog’s story was full of holes, but I wanted to believe it.”

  “And now?”

  Ifon let out a long breath through his nose. “Now I question if Madog died by chance or was murdered, and I wonder where my brother was when Tegwen died.”

  Ifon gave Hywel a deep bow and turned away, stepping down the ladder first. Once at the bottom Hywel turned to face Ifon, who’d waited for him. “You didn’t have to tell me the truth. You could have sent me on my way with all my questions unanswered.”

  “But you would have come back with even more, my lord,” Ifon said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “All of Gwynedd knows that you always catch your man,” Ifon said.

  Hywel just managed to hide his smirk. That was a reputation he would gladly embrace.

  “My lord! My lord!” A squat man with a full beard came around the corner of the keep. He puffed up to Ifon and bowed deeply. “I am so sorry, my lord. I just heard the news.”

  Ifon raised the man up. “Of Madog’s death, you mean?”

  “Yes, my lord,” he said. “It’s all my fault.”

  “I’m listening.” Ifon’s voice had turned cold.

  Nobody could miss Ifon’s tone, and the healer put out a trembling hand towards his lord before bringing it back to his side an instant later. “Madog had been coughing, with great pains in his chest. I had given him poppy juice three nights running to quiet it.”

  “You’re the castle’s healer,” Hywel said.

  “Yes, my lord.” The man ducked his head, not looking into either lord’s eyes.

  “You gave him some last night?” Ifon said. “At what hour?”

  “It must have been close to midnight,” the healer said.

  Ifon sent a sharp glance at Hywel. That was hours after Ifon had told Hywel that Madog was already asleep. And well after Ifon had informed the hall of Tegwen’s death.

  “That’s not all.” The healer hurried on as if anxious to get the full story into the open as quickly as possible, which he probably was. “I checked my stores just now and the larger vial from which I’d poured his smaller dose is missing.” He wrung his hands in front of him. “I slept in the herb hut all night. I don’t see how anyone could have come in and taken it.”

  “Then what’s your explanation for its absence?” Hywel said.

  “I think—I think Madog took the vial himself before he left, in a moment when I’d turned away and wouldn’t see him.”

  Comprehension was dawning on Hywel. He glanced at Ifon, who pointed at one of his men. “Check around Madog’s bed—I’m guessing under it—for a vial. It would have held poppy juice.”

  The man ran off.

  Ifon turned to Hywel. “If he took it—”

  “If he took his own life rather than submit to my questions—”

  Ifon put a hand on Hywel’s arm. “Please, don’t say any more, my lord.”

  Then the soldier Ifon had sent into the barracks returned, bringing with him the vial in question. Ifon sniffed it and gave it to the healer, who took it, nodding. “This is it.” He peered inside. “It’s empty. No man could survive such a dose.”

  Ifon caught the healer’s upper arm in a strong grip. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

  They stared at each other through several heartbeats, and then the healer nodded. “Of course, my lord. The original dose I gave him must have confused him. He was an old man and must have taken the rest by mistake.”

  Hywel clasped his hands behind his back. His throat was thick around all the words he wasn’t going to say.

  “Exactly.” Ifon dismissed the healer, gave Hywel a long look, and then took a step towards the great hall. “Come, my lord.”

  But Hywel put out a hand to stop him. “I’m sorry, Ifon, but I have yet another question I must ask you.”

  Ifon stiffened, but he turned back. “There’s more?”

  “Regarding your brother’s death,” Hywel said. “Please tell me what you know of it.”

  Ifon opened his mouth, closed it, and then said, “Do you think Tegwen’s death and Bran’s could be related?” Relief crossed his face. “If that were true, then Bran could be absolved of Tegwen’s death.”

  “I can’t know until I start asking questions,” Hywel said. “As far as I am aware, nobody investigated the ambush that killed your brother.”

  “He died two years after Tegwen ran off—” Ifon stopped and then gave Hywel a rueful smile. “I’m used to saying that.” He gazed over Hywel’s shoulder towards the gatehouse, but Hywel didn’t think he was seeing it. “For what reason might someone have killed both of them?”

  “I can’t answer that yet, but I have to consider it,” Hywel said. “At the very least, knowing who killed Bran could lead me to who killed Tegwen and vice versa. Obviously, Bran didn’t shoot himself. What of his enemies?”

  Ifon gave a tsk of disgust. “My brother was a hard man, as you know. He angered many a man from here to Powys. It could have been anyone who held a grudge. We are all archers here.”

  “Even you?” Hywel held his breath. There couldn’t be a greater violation of the law of hospitality than to accuse a man of murder in his own castle—for the second time within the hour.

  Ifon regarded Hywel for a moment. “I didn’t kill my brother.” He made a broad gesture to include all of Bryn Euryn. “I wouldn’t be the first man to envy his brother’s holdings, but I have my own lands and my own people in eastern Rhos. As the third son, I would have had to kill three people—my father and my two elder brothers—to inherit. I never dreamed of it; I never wanted it.”

  Cadwaladr could lie with a sincerity to which Hywel had grown accustomed over the years, but Ifon’s frankness and steady gaze had Hywel believing him despite his misgivings. “Then who did?”

  Ifon shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

  Both silent, they walked side by side across the courtyard until, out of the corner of his eye, Hywel saw Evan appear in the doorway to the stables and lift one finger.

  “Excuse me,” Hywel said.

  Ifon nodded and continued towards the hall door, which a guard opened for him.

  “I apologize, my lord, but I didn’t want to shout to gain your attention.” Evan’s face colored as Hywel approached him. Hywel knew he was referring to the lifted finger, though he should have known better by now than to think that Hywel would be bothered by the gesture. Hywel demanded that his men treat him with respect, but he didn’t have patience for obeisance for its own sake.

  “Never mind that. What is it?” Hywel said.

  “I have been inquiring of Ifon’s men—gently, I assure you—as to their knowledge and feelings about their former lord, Bran,” Evan said.

  “I’m glad to know you’re working on our second murder,” Hywel said. “I just accused Ifon of murdering not only the guard but his brother too—and he still treated me with courtesy. I don’t know if I can ask him for more. Not today.”

  “What of the guard?” Evan said.

  “He is dead, possibly by his own hand. Whether it was by accident or to avoid my questions, I can’t tell you,” Hywel said.

  “The former would be a strange coincidence,” Evan said.

  Hywel’s jaw tightened. “I have no further avenue to pursue in this regard, and I have no interest in preventing a long-suffering servant to be refused burial in consecrated ground.”

  Evan took in a breath. “The men here tell me that Bran was not a pleasant man to work for. But that word is still mostly hearsay.”

  “Like every other piece of evidence,” Hywel said. “How so in this instance?”

  “Of the twent
y men in Bran’s teulu, only three remain at Bryn Euryn.”

  Hywel rubbed his chin. “Ifon said something about that to me last night. Discomfort in being guarded by another man’s former men, I think.”

  “The transition from Lord Cynan to Bran was troubled, or so two of the fellows tell it,” Evan said. “Bran found places for most of his father’s men elsewhere, as did Ifon when he assumed the lordship. From what those here tell me, the men who served Bran are scattered about Wales, some as far south as Gwent.”

  “What of the remaining three?” Hywel said.

  “Two were no more than boys at the time, sons of lesser lords who joined Bran’s ranks a few weeks before he died. The third is an older fellow who begged to remain at Bryn Euryn,” Evan said.

  “You spoke with all three of them?” Hywel said.

  Evan nodded. “Do you want me to find them for you?”

  “Not right now,” Hywel said. “I trust that you learned what you could from them.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Evan stood a little straighter.

  Hywel was itching to talk to Bran’s men, but Evan was coming along as a lieutenant, and Hywel didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm or make him think he didn’t trust him. “I want to know about Bran’s visits home to Bryn Euryn and Aber that spring and about the ambush two years later. Did you ask them about those times?”

  “I did, my lord,” Evan said. “The two boys were present only for the ambush, and all they could do was describe to me the flurry of rearing horses and frightened men. Half of Bran’s men charged into the forest after the archer while the two boys were among those who stayed in the road, huddled over Bran’s body.”

  “Was that the first time either of them had been under any kind of assault?” Hywel said.

  “So I understand, my lord.” Evan’s lips twitched. “From the shame in their eyes, I imagine they lost their breakfast in the process.”

  Hywel heaved a sigh. “And the old man?”

  “He was reluctant to speak ill of the dead, as he put it, but Bran was not faithful to his wife, nor a dedicated captain to King Owain in Powys.”

  “That is what we expected to hear, isn’t it?” Hywel said.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Hywel hadn’t told Evan about Bran’s liaison with Gwladys, but his information upheld Lady Alice’s story.

  “We still must wonder: how did Tegwen get to Aber with nobody noticing?”

  Evan shook his head.

  “What’s more, although the head wound makes me think her murderer killed her in anger, the burial and the subsequent cover-up seem more calculated. Why did she die when she did?”

  “Could the murderer have been afraid of something Tegwen knew—or something she’d seen?” Evan said.

  “I don’t know.” Hywel shook his head. “Why do I get the feeling that with every hour that passes we are getting further from Tegwen’s killer?”

  “Further sounds better to me.” Evan gave an involuntary shiver. “The murderer has remained hidden for five years. But with Tegwen’s body coming to light, and Madog’s death besides, what is to prevent him from killing again in order to keep his secrets?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gareth

  Gareth lay on the pallet he shared with Gwen, listening to her easy breathing. His mind churned with all the pieces of the puzzle they were trying to put together. It was only now that he remembered that he had neither returned to Wena’s hut to look for more clues nor had made a concerted effort to find Brychan among the crowd at Aber. Godfrid’s arrival and his story of the Book of Kells had put both concerns completely from his mind.

  Dawn was still some time off, but Gareth rose from the pallet, unable to lie still any longer. He glanced up at the big bed to make sure Mari remained asleep and tiptoed to the door. Gwen rolled onto her side, murmuring in her sleep. He thought he saw a gleam which could have been her eyes opening, but then she closed them again, and he went out the door.

  The manor house in which they were staying consisted of four rooms on two floors, each built around a central stair that was more of a ladder. The sole purpose of the manor was to accommodate the overflow of visitors from the castle. Since the manor was built outside the castle walls, it was vulnerable if an opposing army was ever to attack Aber, so it was unadorned, consisting of nothing more than the eight rooms. Gareth didn’t think he had a war to worry about today. The border with Powys was quiet, and the Earl of Chester had his hands full maintaining his own lands without trying to push into Gwynedd.

  Coming down stairs from the front door, Gareth almost stumbled over the turnips piled on the steps. With Hallowmas that night, the people had been getting ready for days. Before sunset, the turnips would be hollowed out and candles lit within them to guide the souls of the dead who had trouble finding their way to the next world. From the furor in the hall yesterday, it seemed many feared that Tegwen would be among them.

  She would be buried in a few hours, which King Owain hoped would ease the people’s anxiety. Gareth wasn’t sure King Owain would even wait for Hywel to return. The needs of the dead today superseded those of the living. Hywel hated funerals anyway, and even if the investigation hadn’t been urgent, Gareth wouldn’t have put it past Hywel to visit Bryn Euryn simply to avoid Tegwen’s interment.

  Gareth hated funerals too, though what was there to enjoy about them, really? This was one he couldn’t avoid attending, but he could occupy himself in the meantime. The sooner he figured out who had murdered Tegwen and Bran, the sooner he could begin the search for the Book of Kells. While far too many of the people who had known Tegwen were already dead, he had a castle full of people to talk to today. He needed to find the one man who might know more than he was currently saying: maybe not because he was deliberately hiding something, but because he might not realize that bits of what he did know could be important.

  King Owain’s longtime friend and steward, Taran, bobbed to the top of Gareth’s list.

  The king himself would still be asleep, presumably with Cristina, though one never knew, but Taran was an early riser. He was often up with the dawn even in the summer. He’d been awake when Gwen had come to him the previous morning; he would be awake now. Gareth found him, as he thought he might, hard at work in King Owain’s office off the great hall, going over the castle accounts.

  Gareth knocked on the doorframe, since the door itself was halfway ajar, and Taran looked up. The smile that flashed across his face at the sight of Gareth turned wary within a single heartbeat. “Hello, Gareth. Please tell me you aren’t here to inform me of another death.”

  “No, sir,” Gareth said.

  “I’m delighted to see you then.” Taran pointed to the chair opposite his own on the other side of his table. “How may I help you?”

  “I want to tell you everything that I know so far about Tegwen’s disappearance and death—and Bran’s for that matter, which is very little—and ask that you speak to me of what you remember of that time.”

  “We do have ourselves a puzzle, don’t we?” Taran rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and clasped his hands in front of his lips. “King Owain is greatly troubled by his niece’s death. I will help you in any way I can.”

  Gareth took a moment to collect his thoughts and then said, “It is my understanding that you were here and not in Powys at the time of Tegwen’s disappearance.”

  A distant look came into Taran’s eyes. “That is correct. The King had gathered his nobles to him, and though I rode with him in the first forays, I returned to Aber after only a few weeks.”

  “Why was that?”

  Taran coughed, his expression reluctant. “He was having … domestic troubles and needed someone he trusted here at Aber.”

  “He wanted you to keep an eye on Gwladys,” Gareth said.

  Taran’s expression cleared. “How did you know?”

  “I would prefer not to reveal that,” Gareth said, “not unless I must.”

  “Of course, of course.
” Taran rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Well, if it helps, I was here when Tegwen ran away—died, I suppose—but I don’t know how that helps you.”

  Gareth looked curiously at the old steward. “You loved Tegwen.” Gwen had told him of Taran’s emotional reaction to her death. “I can hear it in your voice when you say her name.”

  “She was a sweet little thing, growing up,” Taran said.

  “Were you in support of her marriage to Bran?” Gareth said, not that it mattered now, but he was curious, given what they’d learned of Tegwen’s husband.

  “He was a second son but a lord of Rhos nonetheless. He wasn’t my first choice, but I didn’t know what I know now—or what I learned of him after her marriage.” Taran’s jaw firmed at the memory.

  “He didn’t love her,” Gareth said. “Did he hurt her?”

  Taran pointed a finger at Gareth. “I never saw bruises, which is why I didn’t intervene in their relationship. He ignored her, certainly, and as a result, she retreated to her own world. She wouldn’t leave him; she denied any wrongdoing on his part. She was a simple girl at heart. I know that she married him under duress, having fallen in love with that man-at-arms, Brychan, but it was my impression that she grew to love her husband and turned to drink because he didn’t share her love.” Taran’s shoulders lifted and then fell in resignation. “It’s not an uncommon story.”

  “When was the last time you saw Bran?” Gareth said.

  Taran raised his brows. “Why do you ask?”

  Now it was Gareth’s turn to shrug. “It may be that he had something to do with her death.”

  “Really?” Taran said. “I’m disappointed, then, that I can’t tell you when I saw him. Not before Tegwen disappeared, certainly.”

  “My informant believes that Bran and Gwladys met each other in Wena’s hut during their affair, which ended before Tegwen’s disappearance. Bran knew this area well enough to know about the hut, and given that Tegwen’s body was found at the hut …” Gareth’s voice trailed off at the look of astonishment on Taran’s face. “What?”