A Gareth & Gwen Medieval Mystery
The Unexpected Ally
by
Sarah Woodbury
Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Woodbury
www.sarahwoodbury.com
The Unexpected Ally
March 1147. Assassination, espionage, betrayal. King Owain has ridden east to confront King Madog of Powys with the attempt on the life of his son. Rhys, now abbot of St. Kentigern’s monastery, hopes for peace and calls both Madog and Owain to the negotiating table. Peace, however, is the last thing on Madog’s mind. Recalcitrant, self-righteous, and angry, he sees King Owain’s recent weakness as his opportunity and knows that Owain’s own barons are circling like wolves, waiting for the chance to overthrow him.
With the throne of Gwynedd in the balance, Abbot Rhys is desperate to broker a deal. And when the body of a royal spy is found within hours of King Owain’s arrival at St. Asaph’s, it is up to Gareth and Gwen to find the killer before the wrong man is hanged—and a country lost.
The Unexpected Ally is the eighth Gareth & Gwen Medieval Mystery.
The Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mysteries:
The Bard’s Daughter (prequel novella)
The Good Knight
The Uninvited Guest
The Fourth Horseman
The Fallen Princess
The Unlikely Spy
The Lost Brother
The Renegade Merchant
The Unexpected Ally
The After Cilmeri Series:
Daughter of Time (prequel)
Footsteps in Time
Winds of Time (novella)
Prince of Time
Crossroads in Time
Children of Time
Exiles in Time
Castaways in Time
Ashes of Time
Warden of Time
Guardians of Time
Masters of Time
The Lion of Wales series:
Cold My Heart
The Oaken Door
Of Men and Dragons
A Long Cloud
Frost Against the Hilt
The Last Pendragon Saga:
The Last Pendragon
The Pendragon’s Blade
Song of the Pendragon
The Pendragon’s Quest
The Pendragon’s Champions
Rise of the Pendragon
The Pendragon’s Challenge
The Paradisi Chronicles:
Erase Me Not
www.sarahwoodbury.com
To Anna
for being there
Cast of Characters
Owain Gwynedd – King of Gwynedd (North Wales)
Cadwaladr – Owain’s younger brother, former Lord of Ceredigion
Cadwallon – Owain’s older brother (deceased)
Madog—King of Powys
Susanna—Queen of Powys, sister to Owain Gwynedd
Llywelyn—Prince of Powys
Rhun – Prince of Gwynedd (deceased)
Hywel – Prince of Gwynedd (illegitimate)
Cynan – Prince of Gwynedd (illegitimate)
Madoc – Prince of Gwynedd (illegitimate)
Iorwerth – Prince of Gwynedd (legitimate)
Cadifor—Hywel’s foster father
Gwen – Gareth’s wife, a spy for Hywel
Gareth – Gwen’s husband, captain of Hywel’s guard
Tangwen – daughter of Gareth and Gwen
Meilyr – Gwen’s father
Gwalchmai – Gwen’s brother
Evan – Gareth’s friend
Gruffydd – Rhun’s former captain
Rhys — Abbot of St. Kentigern’s Monastery
Anselm – Prior of St. Kentigern’s Monastery
Lwc – Abbot Rhys’s Secretary
Conall — agent of the King of Leinster
Chapter One
St. Kentigern’s Monastery, St. Asaph
March 1147
Gwen
Abbot Rhys, formerly the prior of St. Kentigern’s monastery but recently elected to abbot, was dressed for the weather in heavy robes, cloak, and black boots. Before becoming a monk, Rhys had been a soldier and a spy for King Henry and Empress Maud. He had also been associated with several investigations Gareth and Gwen had been involved in over the years.
When Rhys had greeted them last night, Gwen had noted the way the gray had taken over what a few years before had been predominantly brown hair, and that his beard was almost completely white. His brown eyes were just as thoughtful and kind as ever, however. Rhys had been leaning against the top rail of a paddock, adjacent to one of the monastery barns, but at the sight of Gareth and Gwen coming towards him in the predawn rain, he threw back his hood, and his face lit with genuine affection.
“I’m glad you’re here, though I regret the need.”
Gareth lifted his (good) shoulder in a half-shrug and pushed back his hood too. “We’re staying in your guesthouse. We might as well be of service.”
The thin man standing next to Rhys wasn’t nearly as welcoming. As Rhys and Gareth gripped forearms, the man tugged on the abbot’s sleeve, a motion Rhys ignored at first, but then as the man did it again, he turned to listen. “Abbot Rhys, surely it isn’t proper for a woman to be here under these circumstances.”
“It’s all right.” Gwen gestured to the young monk in his early twenties whom Abbot Rhys had sent to collect them. “As Brother Lwc can attest, I was already awake.”
When the man made to protest again, Rhys put a hand on his upper arm. “All is well, Anselm. Lady Gwen has my countenance.”
Now that Rhys had named the man, Gwen knew who he was: this was Prior Anselm, the man who’d replaced Rhys when he’d been elected abbot. Because Anselm had not risen from his bed last night to greet them when they’d arrived, Rhys now hastily introduced them to each other. Anselm was hardly taller than Gwen herself and had a nose too long for his face.
Gwen tried not to take offense at Anselm’s objections. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t encountered men like him before, and she was here only because Rhys himself had asked for her. At Rhys’s calming words, Anselm subsided, though his expression remained skeptical, and he looked at Gwen through narrowed eyes. But since Gwen had earned the right to stand at Gareth’s side, she decided she could be charitable. Nobody liked having their strongly held opinions ignored.
“Where’s the dead man?” Gareth spoke matter-of-factly.
“Over here. I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to be pleasant.” Rhys pulled open the gate to the paddock. The ground was mucky under their feet, churned by hooves and made worse by the rain. They’d had fine weather in Shrewsbury a week ago, but they had known that it couldn’t last.
A water trough, eight feet long, three feet wide, and two feet deep, big enough to allow several cows to drink at once, was positioned on the western side of the enclosure. Lwc raised his torch, and Gwen put the back of her hand to her mouth at the sight of what the torch illumined: a man lay at the bottom of the trough. He was fully submerged in the water and very dead.
The thick piece of buttered bread Gwen had purloined from the guesthouse kitchen earlier that morning lurched in her stomach. It was only a quarter of an hour ago that she’d been returning to her room when Lwc had halted at the top of the stairs, gawping at the sight of her, and asked her to wake Gareth and come with him. Fortunately, Gwen had dressed completely upon rising, not wanting to disturb the sensibilities of any stray monk who might be wandering the guesthouse at that hour. All the monks should have been asleep in their dormitory, taking advantage of whatever time they had left before they were obligated to rise for Lauds, the monastery’s dawn prayers.
At the time, Gwen had recognized Lwc because he had brought the travelers bread and wine the previ
ous night, before showing them to their rooms.
“God be praised that you’re already awake.” Lwc had halted in front of her. “Abbot Rhys sent me to find you and your husband.”
“Someone is dead?”
The young monk’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
Gwen chose not to explain that there seemed to be no end to the variety of ways she and Gareth could be informed of a murder. And yet, every time was exactly the same, which was how she’d known the reason for the summons before Lwc had even opened his mouth. “Is it a monk?”
Lwc had shaken his head. “A stranger.”
Gwen had fully expected to be shown a body in yet another new and awkwardly gruesome position—one perhaps she and Gareth hadn’t encountered before. In a way, that would have been normal. What was far more surprising was not only how tidy and unfussy the scene appeared—if the man hadn’t been underwater, he could have been sleeping—but that Gwen knew him. More than that, she and Gareth had suspected him of murder last summer. As she stared down at Erik, a half-Welsh/half-Danish soldier-spy, who’d mostly recently been spying for Prince Hywel, Gwen had to wonder who could possibly have sneaked up on such a large man and killed him.
Even though Lwc had seen the dead man earlier, before Abbot Rhys had sent him to fetch Gareth and Gwen, he gave a low groan of discomfort and ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. The torchlight hardly cut through the murk and the rain, but its light was enough to show that Lwc’s face was paler than it had been. Two weeks ago, before Gwen and Gareth had ridden to Shrewsbury and become embroiled in an investigation there, Gwen would have reminded herself that a dead man wasn’t a sight to get used to. Now she knew that for her own protection, the more quickly she was able to treat the dead with detachment, the better.
King Owain’s company had arrived at the monastery only a few hours before, having suffered through a torrential downpour for the whole journey from Caerhun, where’d they’d spent the previous night. St. Asaph was some fifteen miles as the crow flies short of Denbigh Castle, King Owain’s ultimate destination and his stronghold in eastern Gwynedd. It was from there that the king had launched his assault on Mold Castle last winter, and it was from there that he intended to counter the might of Dinas Bran, the seat of King Madog of Powys.
Or rather, that had been the plan until Abbot Rhys had insisted that he had a say in the matter. Not surprisingly, given his former profession as a spy, Rhys had learned of the events surrounding the current hostility between Gwynedd and Powys and felt it was his duty to intervene. He’d asked for both Madog, King of Powys, and Owain, King of Gwynedd, to meet at St. Asaph to discuss their differences before resorting to violence. The two kings were brothers-in-law, after all, and Rhys was concerned about his flock, the people of this region, across whose lands the war would be fought.
When Gareth and Gwen arrived after midnight with King Owain’s party, they were wet, cold, and exhausted, but pleased to have a comfortable place to stay after so many days on the road. They had changed into dry clothes before falling asleep on pallets the monks had spread across the floor for them. Thus, when Gwen had gone to wake Gareth at Lwc’s request, albeit reluctantly, all he’d had to do was scoop up his sword, boots, and cloak, which had dried before the fire during the night, and leave the room with her.
As he’d entered the corridor in front of her, however, Gwen had noted the pinpoint of blood seeping through his shirt. He’d been stabbed in the left shoulder a week ago in Shrewsbury when he and Gwen had been captured by a band of slavers and held captive in an old mill. The blood was a healthy color, and so far the wound hadn’t festered. She was almost daring to hope that it would heal well—if he was able to rest it. To investigate a murder was the last thing he needed right now.
But Abbot Rhys probably didn’t know about Gareth’s injury—she certainly hadn’t told him of it in their brief meeting last night—and Gareth would never do so if someone didn’t press him. She also knew that Rhys wouldn’t have summoned Gareth if he wasn’t truly needed. The sight of Erik dead in the trough verified Rhys’s need.
“Suicide, clearly.”
Gwen’s head came up at Anselm’s words, and she quickly rearranged her expression so the surprise—and the completely inappropriate laughter that bubbled up in her throat—didn’t show.
“Excuse me?” Gareth said.
Anselm gestured towards Erik’s body, his expression a mix of condescension and satisfaction at his own intelligence. “That’s the only plausible explanation. Few men could be strong enough to hold down such a large man, and nobody drowns accidently in a trough only three feet deep. He has to have killed himself.”
Gwen’s eyes went to Abbot Rhys’s face before she quickly looked away lest either openly show their disbelief.
Gareth was the first to attempt a counter suggestion. “Perhaps he was simply drunk, fell in the trough, and didn’t have the wherewithal to rise.”
Anselm canted his head. “I commend you on your charity, Sir Gareth, and thank you for your suggestion. It is always better to think the best of everyone and not jump to the worst conclusion.” He bowed grandly in Gareth’s direction.
Gwen blinked again, still at a loss for words. She’d already been thinking that Anselm looked a bit like a shrew, and now his supercilious expression was firmly entrenched in her mind, and she feared she would never dislodge it.
Abbot Rhys raised a hand, cutting through the companions’ stark incredulity and Anselm’s self-satisfaction. “Thank you, Prior Anselm, for your thoughts. If you would do me a personal favor and return to the monastery to see to your brothers, I would be most grateful.” He glanced to the sky for a moment, checking the condition of the light.
In the short time Gareth and Gwen had been talking to Rhys and Anselm, some of the darkness had lifted, though with the heavy cloud cover and rain, it was hard to tell exactly how far off dawn really was. Sometimes when Gwen was up early tending to Tangwen, her daughter, or taking a few moments to herself before the rest of her family woke, she liked to go outside as the sun rose. Even when clouds covered the sky as they did this morning, she would close her eyes and breathe—and it was almost as if she could feel the moment the sun lifted above the horizon.
There wasn’t time for that today, even if Gwen could have benefited from the peacefulness of such a moment. The needs of the dead took precedence, as they always did. Or rather—it wasn’t the needs of the dead that required seeing to, but those of the people left behind, who might suffer because of what the living had done. The dead suffered no more.
“In particular,” Abbot Rhys continued, “I will need you to ease the minds of many of the younger novices, since it will be impossible to keep what has happened here from them. It would also serve me well if you would lead our dawn prayers. I suspect that the loss of this young man will occupy much of my attention this morning.”
“As you wish, Father.” Anselm might have spoken his conclusions about suicide with assurance, but at least he didn’t insist on standing outside in the rain any longer than necessary, and he definitely looked pleased to have been asked to lead the service in the abbot’s absence. He canted his head again in what Gwen assumed he meant to be an accommodating manner, turned away without complaint, and started back down the path to the monastery proper.
Then Rhys turned to Lwc. “Perhaps you could arrange for a cart to move this poor soul. We’ll need at least two men to lift him.” He glanced towards Erik again. “Maybe three.”
“Of course, Father.” Lwc handed his torch to Gareth before following Anselm at something of a faster pace. He would be heading towards the dormitory where the monks slept. That left Rhys alone with Gareth and Gwen.
They watched Lwc go until he was out of earshot, and then Rhys smiled apologetically and pointed with his chin in the direction his brothers had gone. “Prior Anselm is newly appointed to his post at the request of the bishop. Up until now, I have found him less than reliable under pressure, so I am pleas
ed with how well he comported himself this morning.”
Gwen managed to suppress an unladylike snort of laughter at Rhys’s words. The intervention of the bishop explained a great deal, since Gwen couldn’t imagine that Rhys would have chosen Anselm as his second-in-command if he’d had a true say in the matter. She looked down at the ground to hide her amusement. The hard rain of the night had left puddles everywhere, and Gwen’s fresh dress was soaked to mid-calf. She sighed and hoped that yesterday’s dress would be dry by the time she returned to the guesthouse.
Gareth was still talking to Abbot Rhys. “The variety of God’s creation is boundless, Father. I’m sure the bishop saw in Anselm some redeeming characteristics that are less clear to the rest of us mortals.”
Rhys’s eyes brightened, and he reached out to Gareth’s left shoulder, meaning to show affection as one old soldier to another, but Gareth took a quick step back before Rhys could touch him. Rhys arrested his hand in midair, the unasked question of why Gareth didn’t want to be touched plain on his face.
Gareth gave the abbot a rueful look. “I was stabbed last week, and I cannot deny that my shoulder hurts when anyone touches it.”
“Gareth!” Rhys turned to Gwen. “My dear, you should have said!”
“I would have said something when we arrived, but Gareth doesn’t want me talking about it, even though I know how much his injuries are hurting him.”
Gareth looked daggers at Gwen, but she smiled beatifically up at him, and added, “He was hit hard on the head too.”
Rolling his eyes, Gareth turned back to Rhys. “I’m healing well. The knife hardly penetrated.”
“Not for lack of trying, Father,” Gwen said, not willing to let Gareth underplay his pain. “Gareth’s left shoulder blade stopped the knife, but the blade cut through the muscle, and the wound bleeds easily if he moves too much.”
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