“What I don’t like,” Gareth said, “is that Deiniol’s monastery and yours have lost wealth—his more than yours obviously.”
Gwen was tapping a finger to her lips as she thought. “Deiniol’s monastery was robbed and burned outright.”
“My immediate thought is to agree that these are two very different circumstances,” Rhys said, “and that they could not possibly be perpetrated by the same men.”
Conall, who had so far remained completely silent, spoke for the first time. “That’s the kind of coincidence we don’t like.”
Rhys nodded. “I agree, thus the notion that what is happening here is part of a larger tapestry.”
“How long has it been since you did an accounting of the treasury?” Gareth said.
“Five days. I reconcile the ledger with all the items once a month, though the schedule isn’t necessarily that rigidly regular. It is an unseemly task for a monk, but somebody has to do it.”
“Were you alone?” Gwen said.
There was a pause. And when Rhys didn’t answer immediately, Gareth leaned forward, gazing at him intently. “Father?”
Rhys made a motion with his head implying that he didn’t want to say, but knew that he must. “It is always the abbot and the prior who do the accounting, along with a third monk, chosen at random. In keeping with the traditions established by my predecessor, I never choose the same man twice.”
Gareth’s eyes narrowed as he thought. “So the men involved were you, Prior Anselm, even though he must have just arrived—”
“He’d been here only two days,” Rhys said.
“And a third man. Who?” Gareth said.
Rhys scratched the top of his head, clearly still reluctant to say, but as Gwen, Gareth, and Conall looked at him, he gave a sharp nod. “Brother Mathonwy, the milkman.”
Gareth rocked back in his chair. “That changes everything.”
Rhys sighed. “You’ll have to talk to him again.”
Gareth looked over at Conall, asking with his eyes if Conall was ready for another visit to the barn. The Irishman nodded and then looked at Rhys. “Does anyone else know about the missing items?”
“Since I sent Brother Fidelus back earlier in such haste, by now most of the monastery will know something is amiss,” Rhys said. “They don’t know exactly what is wrong, however.”
“Not even Prior Anselm?” Gwen said.
Rhys shook his head. “But with Erik’s death, the theft and rediscovery of his body, and the condition in which it was found, rumors are swirling around the monastery. In fact—” he rose to his feet, “Vespers is upon us and I must see to my flock. Many of them have spent their entire lives in the monastery and do not have the emotional ballast to accommodate these events.”
A knock came at the door, and at Rhys’s call of “Come!” Brother Lwc opened it and poked in his head. His eyes were wide, excited by the news he had to share. “Father Abbot. King Madog of Powys has come.”
Chapter Twelve
Hywel
Hywel had thought he’d understood how angry, hurt, and fearful Gwen had been after his uncle had abducted her to Ireland. Now, as he stood beside Gareth and stared down from the top of the gatehouse tower upon the King of Powys in the monastery courtyard, his stomach tied in knots, he realized that he hadn’t understood at all. Not really.
This man tried to kill me! Hywel had faced death in the past. He’d fought in many battles, and he and his uncle, Cadwaladr, hated each other with a passion that was hard to measure. But this betrayal was unlike those others. Madog had violated the sacred oath of hospitality that was the backbone of every interaction between Welshmen.
Thankfully, simply having that thought pass through his head was enough to put Hywel’s mind to work again. The fact that Madog could betray not only his alliance with Gwynedd but the very basis of Welsh society suggested that Madog had been spending so much time with Normans of late that he had forgotten who he was.
Hywel’s eyes narrowed as he studied his uncle. The King of Powys was of middle height with the growing girth of middle age. He had neither mustache nor beard and wore his dark but graying curly hair somewhat long and loose. He had dressed as the king he was in a fur-lined cloak and highly polished knee-high boots, but he also wore the full regalia of a Powysian knight: armor, sword, and all.
“How am I to dine at the same table as Madog? How are Father and I to sit across from him tomorrow at the conference?”
“The same way men in your position always have,” Gareth said, “with grace, and because you have to.”
“I hate him. I almost hate him more than Cadwaladr, though that’s probably going too far.”
“I know.”
As Madog dismounted in the courtyard of the monastery, he was greeted by Abbot Rhys. Unfortunately, seeing as how he was only allowed to watch the formalities from the top of the gatehouse, Hywel was too far away to hear what was being said. Hywel’s father had delayed returning to the monastery so he wouldn’t be tempted to do exactly what Hywel was doing. In fact, his father had chosen to remove himself from St. Kentigern’s guesthouse rather than sleep in the same building as Madog, should the Powysian king choose to stay at the monastery. As loath as Hywel was to sleep anywhere near Madog ever again, he had decided to stay. It was an act of defiance and a refusal to be intimidated.
Hywel’s Aunt Susanna had ridden with Madog, along with their son, Llywelyn, whom Hywel had bested in his escape from Dinas Bran. Small, blonde, and slender, Susanna was a few years younger than her husband. Without her help, Hywel could not have escaped from Dinas Bran, but the solicitous way Madog helped her from her horse implied that he didn’t know the role she had played. She was in an impossible position—torn between loyalty to her brother, the King of Gwynedd, and her husband, the King of Powys. Hywel wondered if the true hand behind the peace conference was actually hers more than Abbot Rhys’s.
He shook his head. “How does he do it?”
“Who?”
“Abbot Rhys. He’s speaking to Madog as if he trusts him and his motives. It’s exactly the same way he spoke to my father this morning.”
“Rhys is one of those men with the ability to perfectly understand another’s position and convey it without any of the hearers being aware that he doesn’t share that opinion,” Gareth said. “It isn’t that he doesn’t have one, but his purpose here is to come to a peaceful solution to the current dispute between Gwynedd and Powys—even if only for a time. To do that, he has to be trusted by both sides, and that can’t happen if Madog thinks Rhys is on our side.”
“It makes him impossible to read,” Hywel said. “Looking at him now, I’m wondering if he believes that the marauders could have been from Gwynedd.”
“He was a spy. That’s his job. As abbot, those skills are put to daily use. He governs a hundred men, is seen as the source of wisdom for an entire cantref, and is now in a position to broker peace between kings.”
“About that.” Hywel made a hmm sound deep in his throat. Then he glanced around the wall-walk and even went so far as to step into the stairwell behind them to make sure they were alone. Then he came back to Gareth. “I never told you that after Newcastle-under-Lyme, I came to see him.”
Gareth rubbed his chin as he studied Hywel, who noted the wariness that had suddenly come over his friend. “Why did you do that?”
“Because I had questions about the role he’d played in our adventure there, and I needed to ask them.”
“Did he answer?”
“Yes.”
Gareth just looked at Hywel, quietly waiting.
“Rhys was a spy for Empress Maud, but before that, he worked for Geoffrey of Anjou, her husband.”
Gareth raised his eyebrows. “I did not know that.”
“In the course of our conversation, Rhys told me that King Henry did not die from eating too many lampreys. He was murdered at the behest of Geoffrey of Anjou, Empress Maud’s husband.”
Gareth took in a breath. “Who
else knows that he knows?”
“A handful of men at most, all spies.”
“You say Geoffrey was responsible, not Maud?”
“According to Rhys, it was done without her knowledge.”
Gareth rubbed his chin. “That wouldn’t matter if the truth about Henry’s death became known. Stephen’s claim to the throne would be instantly validated. Nobody would believe in her innocence, and nobody would allow her to take the throne over the dead body of her predecessor.”
“No, they would not.”
“It would end the war.” Gareth barked a laugh. “Your father wouldn’t be happy about that. It is only the war in England that is preventing every Norman in England and the king from turning his attention to Wales, thinking we’ve been a thorn in England’s side for too long.”
“Especially if Cadwaladr gives them reason to fight. The end of the war would mean that he finally gets what he wants.”
“Your father’s head on a pike.” Gareth made a guttural sound deep in his throat.
Hywel frowned. “More immediately, in the wake of Erik’s murder, I’m concerned about Rhys’s personal safety. With him rising to his current status, he is no longer living a retiring life. Someone at some point might remember who he once was and worry about his conscience. He should never have accepted such an elevated position, knowing what he knows and the secrets he’s keeping.”
Gareth swore. “My God, the man’s a danger to himself—but good luck convincing him of that.”
Hywel put out a hand. “There’s more, Gareth. I must speak to you of Cadoc, the archer Rhys vouched for and we accepted into our company after Newcastle.”
“What about him? He’s your best archer bar none.”
“He was Rhys’s assassin when he worked for Maud.”
Gareth whistled low. “So that’s his story. Why are you telling me this now?”
Hywel pointed into the courtyard with his chin. “Look at Madog.”
Gareth’s expression hardened. “You’re not thinking of assassinating Madog, are you? Promise me you wouldn’t violate Rhys’s trust that way!”
“No, that isn’t what I meant. Cadoc is the best archer I have, and he has proven himself worthy these last three years. I was thinking that he might serve me now as Erik did.”
Gareth snorted. “As long as you don’t tell him that serving you got Erik killed.”
Down in the courtyard, Rhys was now speaking to Llywelyn while Madog was conferring with his captain. Gareth kept his eyes fixed on them, but Hywel didn’t think he was really seeing them, which proved to be the case a moment later when his friend added, “I’ve been thinking about what you said back in the guesthouse—about finding your own men, your own allies. Now that you’ve brought up Cadoc, I’d like to … suggest a venture.”
“What kind of venture?”
“You have your teulu, as befitting a prince of Gwynedd, but I’d like to separate out another small force of men who aren’t noblemen or knights and train them specially.”
“Train them how?” Hywel kept his eyes on his captain.
“Quite frankly, to be—” Gareth seemed to be having trouble articulating his thoughts.
“Killers? Spies?”
Gareth let out a burst of air. “Yes and no. I wasn’t thinking so much of them being like Erik, but more akin to what Rhys was for Geoffrey and Maud. Part of an elite force—a small group of men who can infiltrate a castle, or rescue a hostage, or—”
“Or win a war before it starts.”
Gareth nodded.
Every now and then Gareth, who because of his strong sense of rightness many thought to be the most predictable of men, surprised even Hywel with the way his mind worked.
“Yes.”
Gareth blinked. “Yes? Just like that?”
Hywel nodded. “Would you have Cadoc as their leader?”
“I was thinking of Gruffydd, Rhun’s former captain.”
“He might view it as a come down from his former station.”
Gareth shook his head. “He has already fallen as far as a man can fall short of losing his own life. He will see it as the opportunity it is.”
Hywel was more glad than he could say—or would say—to have Gareth standing at his right shoulder again. The trip to Shrewsbury had seemed necessary at the time, but Hywel needed Gareth’s clear vision and common sense—Gareth’s and Gwen’s. Hywel might be just selfish enough to ensure that any attempts to go off on their own in the foreseeable future were curtailed.
“I also need to speak to you of what we’ve discovered about Erik,” Gareth said.
“I hear the body is returned.”
“Yes, but not in the condition in which it was originally found. His stomach was cut open.”
Hywel was aghast. “Why?”
“We fear he was killed because his assailant knew he was working for you. All of his belongings were taken, and we are wondering if the killer could have been hoping to acquire a token that you gave to Erik.”
The conversation had distracted Hywel from his hatred of Madog, but now his stomach twisted again. “I did give him a ring. I didn’t think of it before. You haven’t found it?”
“No, my lord. What does it look like?”
“Gold, stamped with my crest.” Hywel stared unseeing over the battlement. What a stranger could be doing with Hywel’s signet ring, pretending to be his agent, didn’t bear thinking about. And yet, he would have to think about it—and worse, he’d have to tell his father of the danger.
Then, as if Gareth could read Hywel’s thoughts, he tipped his head towards the other side of the battlement. “Here comes your father for the evening mass. You should be at his side when he enters the courtyard.”
Hywel gave a jerky nod and took the stairs from the gatehouse tower down to the gate. He strode out of the monastery without a backward glance and caught his father’s bridle the moment that he reined in.
“He’s here?” King Owain said by way of a greeting.
Hywel nodded. “With Susanna and young Llywelyn.”
His father took in a long breath through his nose and let it out. Then he dismounted, landing on his feet in front of his son. “Are you ready for this?”
Hywel simply looked at his father for a heartbeat.
Owain nodded and took another deep breath. “I know. I’ve lost one son this year already, and he meant to deprive me of another. I can’t think about it, Hywel, because if I do, I will be unable to speak with him.”
Hywel tipped his head. “We don’t have to do this. We could still walk away.”
“No.” Owain sighed. “I promised Susanna and Abbot Rhys that I would try. Besides, my counselors tell me that fewer of my barons have turned up than I might wish. If we fight Madog, it won’t be with the full strength of Gwynedd.”
“We aren’t the only ones who are watching and waiting,” Hywel said with a bit of acid in his mouth. “To answer your question, Father: Yes, I am ready. As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“It isn’t her fault that my father gave her to Madog,” Owain said, as an aside as they walked together underneath the gatehouse tower. “She paid the price for our need for peace. I will not begrudge her the right to keep it.”
As they entered the courtyard, Hywel acknowledged that this was why his father was a great king. He had an army at his back—not as large a one as they might have wished, but big enough—and he was able to turn away from war because not only was it the right thing to do for his family, but it might be the right thing to do for Wales. They had taken Mold Castle finally, as some outlet for their grief at the loss of Rhun. An attack on Powys would have given them a similar feeling of vengeance—but vengeance could take a king only so far—and it wasn’t wise to rule with vengeance in mind. It was far better to be strategic, as they’d discussed on the way to the encampment.
Hywel had lurked at his father’s side, usually a few paces behind Rhun, his whole life. He’d learned rudimentary strategy before he was ten years old simpl
y by watching what his father did. He fully intended to keep watching and learning as long as his father was willing to teach him.
“I will follow your lead, Father.”
Chapter Thirteen
Gareth
Gareth had been neglecting his duties to Hywel for some time now, ever since he’d left his company to journey to Shrewsbury. That Prince Hywel had wanted Gareth to go and that the journey had resulted in news about Cadwaladr’s whereabouts had been all to the good—and one of the purposes of the trip—but he was the captain of Hywel’s guard, and he had men to see to.
He was worried, in particular, that some might have started to resent his elevation when so many of his duties had to be borne by others in his absence, and now because he was injured. To that end, with Evan at his side, he left Hywel and the king to their awkward reunion with Madog and his family, and began a circuit of the monastery grounds, starting at the back in the northeast corner, to the east of the rear gate. The rain had momentarily stopped, and some of the clouds had cleared, revealing a patchwork of stars.
“Did Erik’s body tell you anything?” Evan said.
Gareth suppressed the frown that formed on his lips at the memory of Erik’s mutilated body. He sighed. “Someone held him down in the trough below the water level. Whether he died from strangulation or from drowning, I can’t say for sure unless I cut him open even more than the men who stole him already did.”
What Gareth didn’t feel like talking about—and was more information than Evan needed—was that he’d pressed down on Erik’s chest and the characteristic pink foam that formed in a man’s lungs when he drowned had come up. Still, Gareth had seen the same pink foam in strangulations. On a certain level, it didn’t matter which method had killed Erik, only that he was dead.
As they walked their inspection circuit, the first man they came upon was the least expected. Gruffydd had been the captain of Prince Rhun’s teulu; he was a knight and a landowner in his own right. He had a wife and child Gareth had never met, and the loss of Rhun had meant that he and many of the men he’d led had been folded into Prince Hywel’s retinue, while others had been added to King Owain’s. Teulu was the Welsh word for family, and in this context it meant exactly that. Thus, Gruffydd had lost a portion of his family, his lord, and a large dose of his authority in one go. It was why Gareth had proposed giving him the task of leading Hywel’s special force. Even with his changed status, however, sentry duty was not among his usual chores.
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