Hywel turned to Gareth. “You don’t have to be here either.”
“Yes, I do. If ever you needed the support of your captains, it is now.”
“I’m fine.”
“He tried to have you murdered.”
“That is true.” Hywel gave Gareth a jerky nod and then turned to face his father, who’d just entered the courtyard through the gatehouse.
The King of Gwynedd was surrounded by his guard, among them Ithel, his captain and Cadifor’s eldest son, and Cynan, Hywel’s younger brother and the castellan of Denbigh Castle. The next oldest brother, Madoc, wasn’t here because he held Mold for Owain, and it wasn’t so long since they’d taken it that Owain felt they could leave it with a steward. The king’s eldest legitimate son, Iorwerth, now a thinly muscled seventeen-year-old man, was serving in Cynan’s train, just as Gareth’s sons, Llelo and Dai, were.
King Owain stumped up to Hywel and halted in front of him. “You ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s Madog?”
“Already inside, sir. Abbot Rhys suggested that the two of them speak privately for a moment before the conference started.” Hywel cleared his throat. “I think it was so you and he wouldn’t be left to your own devices in the courtyard again.”
Owain grunted. “I was civil last night. We’ll see about now.”
Hywel had hoped that the arrival of his father would be somewhat calming to the overall tension in the air, but that had been a faint hope. His father was as agitated as Hywel had ever seen him. That meant that Hywel himself had to be the calm one. With no help for it, he straightened his shoulders and strode into the chapter house at his father’s side.
Madog and Rhys were standing in an open space beyond which row after row of wooden benches formed an extended half-circle around this central area. There was room for two hundred men to sit, and each party had been accorded roughly half the seats, with a few extras going to monks and associates of the monastery. Hywel nodded at Father Alun, who was standing against the wall behind the lectern, from which on another day the Rule and the news of the day would be read.
Owain’s boots scraped on the stone floor as he stopped three paces from the King of Powys. “Madog.” The menace in his tone caused Rhys’s eyes to widen slightly, and though Madog didn’t betray himself by rocking back on his heels, his nostrils flared.
Hywel kicked himself for not having said something to his father when he came in about toning down his aggression, but perhaps it would have only agitated him more. Not for the first time, Hywel wished himself far away, thinking of his boys and wife at Dolwyddelan, where he’d spent far too little time of late. He also spared a thought for his castle at Aberystwyth and instantly put that thought away. He would attend to Ceredigion when he had fulfilled his duties to his father here.
As it was, Rhys put out a hand to the party from Gwynedd. “Please, if you would sit here and Powys will sit there.” He stabbed a finger to indicate where each king should sit, across from each other at the ends of a long table that took up the center of the open space, with Rhys sitting in the middle of one side, facing the audience.
Gareth leaned into Hywel. “Is this a peace conference or a courtroom?”
Hywel smiled wryly. “There’s never been much difference between them, has there? Each side presents its grievances, its counter-arguments, and its witnesses, and then the conclave decides the verdict as guided by the convener, in this case, Abbot Rhys. My father has presided over assemblies like this a thousand times, though not usually with quite so many lords in attendance.” He bumped Gareth’s shoulder with his own. “Why did you leave Cadwaladr’s service? Was it because cutting off that boy’s hand was unjust? Of course. But it was also because the boy wasn’t given his day in court as required by the law.”
By now Owain had turned to where Rhys pointed and taken the chair opposite Madog’s. Hywel was not allowed to stand behind his father, since that would block the view of the men behind him, so he chose a seat to his father’s right that would allow him to see the faces of both kings. With a suppressed groan, Gareth settled on the bench next to him, giving Hywel a pang of guilt for not sending his friend away. Still, the tension in the room had the hair on the back of Hywel’s neck standing straight up, and he couldn’t be sorry that Gareth was beside him if—when—things went bad. If the conference went on for the full two hours between now and the bell for noon prayers, he would find a way to ease Gareth’s discomfort.
Wasting no time, Rhys didn’t seat himself just yet but stood at the lectern, raised a hand, and the room quieted. “We all know why we are here. While both sides are much aggrieved, war should be the last resort of reasonable men, who should be able to sort out their differences without killing each other, as is forbidden by our Lord.”
This was shockingly plain speaking, and while some of the men on the benches around Hywel shifted uncomfortably, Hywel leaned forward, interested now more than worried.
“We pray as our Lord in heaven instructed that we might find the strength to live as Godly men.” He bent his head and began to pray, first in Latin and then in Welsh.
Hywel listened at first, but with so many people in the room, each with his own agenda and ideas about how this should go, he couldn’t help but lift his head slightly to survey the room. Every other man had his head bowed, which gave Hywel free rein to observe them. He was more glad than he could say that Rhys had forbidden the wearing of even a knife today. The prayers might be heartfelt, but the mood of the room was ugly. Rhys was right that both sides had longstanding grievances, and Madog didn’t think his were any less serious than Gwynedd’s.
Hywel was tired of war, but he understood that sometimes a king had to resort to it when an opponent wouldn’t listen to reason. That Madog had tried to murder him was still incomprehensible to Hywel. It made no political sense that he could discern, and for that reason, he had to think there was a greater issue underlying the act. He regretted how little time he’d had to explore the issue since it happened, but the key question he had to answer if his father was to come out of this conference unbowed was why Madog had seen Hywel’s death as a means to an end. And exactly what that end was.
Chapter Seventeen
Gareth
Sitting next to Hywel as the conference continued could have been more uncomfortable, though Gareth wasn’t entirely sure how—and it wasn’t just because his body ached. He’d lived in Powys for a time, and he recognized many of the men at Madog’s side, including a former employer, Bergam of Dyffryn Ceiriog. Bergam’s lands were located to the southwest of Llangollen and part of Powys, so Bergam had come to St. Asaph at Madog’s behest. Gareth had left Bergam’s employment in the same way he’d left Cadwaladr’s—under a cloud because the tasks he’d been asked to perform were impossible to stomach. The man’s spoiled son was not here, for which Gareth could only be grateful. Ten years on, Gareth was wiser, but he didn’t have faith that the man’s son would be.
For Bergam’s part, he hadn’t recognized Gareth, or if he had, he gave no sign of it as his eyes passed over him without stopping.
At first, Rhys did most of the talking, which was fine. There were few men alive who made as much sense when they spoke as Rhys. Then Gwalchmai and Meilyr sang—not war songs, but ones of peace and tranquility to soften the mood—and then the moment came for airing grievances. King Owain went first.
Somewhat laboriously, though in hindsight Gareth had seen him move with agility of late, so it had to have been a bit of an act, Owain rose to his feet. What would happen next was as much for his own barons’ benefit as for Madog’s. Owain had to prove he was a fit king.
King Owain finally reached his feet, and once he did, he stood completely upright, his chin held high and his shoulders straight. “You tried to kill my son.”
He sat down again.
His accusation was met first with shocked silence, then with disbelief that those few words were all he’d said, and then as Owain gazed impassively a
t Madog, a murmur of consternation swept through the room. Everyone had expected Owain to enumerate a variety of affronts to Gwynedd, from incursions across the border to disputes over cattle, and conclude with the attempted murder only after these others had been examined.
Petty crimes like the former could be negotiated, and even put to one side with enough talking, but the attempted murder of the edling was a crime clearly laid out in Welsh law as punishable by the payment of an enormous galanas, a life debt. It hardly mattered that Madog hadn’t succeeded, because the punishment, the sarhad, would be essentially the same. That is, it would be the same if Owain had the authority to order Madog to make such a payment, which he didn’t. These were two kings, equal in stature. With an unprosecutable crime such as this, Owain’s only other choice had been to go to war.
Gareth’s earlier comment about this being a courtroom instead of a peace conference had been dead on. It could never have been anything else, not with the attempted murder of Gwynedd’s edling at the center of the discussion.
When Cadwaladr had ordered the murder of King Anarawd of Deheubarth—and for all intents and purposes admitted to it—he should have made such a payment to Cadell, Anarawd’s brother. King Owain had forced him instead to spend most of his wealth to pay off the Danes whom he’d brought to Gwynedd, and Owain had never demanded that Cadwaladr pay Cadell anything. That debt still lay between Gwynedd and Deheubarth, and even if the fault was entirely Cadwaladr’s, not Owain’s, and Cadwaladr himself was now in exile, the debt remained. Cadell had allied himself with Cadwaladr last summer—and it could even be that Cadell wasn’t asking for sarhad because he’d colluded with Cadwaladr to kill his brother—but that didn’t mean anyone else had forgotten what he was owed.
Abbot Rhys studied Owain for a moment, his lips pressed together in a thin line. This was not a good beginning. Owain had come to the peace conference, but Rhys was feeling now that he hadn’t come in good faith. But he straightened his shoulders, acknowledging what couldn’t be changed, and turned resolutely to Madog. “Since Gwynedd has said all that it has to say, it is your turn to air your grievances.”
Beside Gareth, Hywel nodded his head, acknowledging the proper procedures were being followed: first both sides spoke of their grievances without rebuttal by the other side. Thus Madog was not obligated to respond to Owain’s charge until the time came for it, presumably during the afternoon session so that both sides could take some time to confer among themselves and develop a strategy for answering the charges against them.
Madog’s eyes were fixed on Owain, who did not look away. He rose to his feet in much the same ponderous style Owain had used and then snapped his fingers to a man standing off to one side, holding a rolled parchment. The man was short and white-haired, with hunched shoulders but bright blue eyes that blinked rapidly as he focused on Madog. Then he stepped forward and bobbed his head in a bow.
“Who are you?” Rhys said.
“Derfel, the king’s steward.”
Rhys leaned back in his chair and gestured to one of the scribes behind him. “Make a note that Derfel read the grievances.” Rhys returned his gaze to Madog’s steward. “Continue.”
In a sonorous voice, though not quite bard-like, Derfel began with a list of Madog’s titles, which seemed to go on for a full page, and then at the point Gareth began to have trouble focusing, he launched into the long list of complaints that Powys had against Gwynedd, beginning with incursions dating back to the 1130s, mostly under the auspices of Cadwallon, Owain’s deceased older brother—who in fact died fighting against Powys in 1132. The grievances ended with Gwynedd’s conquest of Mold Castle.
Throughout it all, Owain simply watched Madog, and Madog watched Owain back. Rhys was gazing down at the table in front of him, looking at nobody and appearing to be listening intently, while the scribes scribbled furiously behind him. Later, each of their versions of events would be carefully examined and a single definitive document created.
After Derfel read all this out, he paused for a moment, which caused Rhys to look up expectantly, thinking he was finished. But then Derfel lifted his chin. “Powys has one final grievance to put forth to the assembly, one that is so heinous, so misguided, that it supersedes all other grievances.”
Madog’s expression had turned smug, which made Gareth suddenly very nervous. Hywel stirred beside him and leaned in close. “Do you know what’s coming?”
“Yes, and you do too.”
Hywel sighed and spoke even more softly, “The sacking of the Wrexham monastery.”
Gareth had time only to nod before Derfel proved Hywel’s words prescient: “We charge Gwynedd with taking advantage of the anarchy in England to enrich itself at the expense not only of Powys, but of the Church! We accuse Gwynedd of sending men to raid and destroy St. Dunawd’s Monastery, southeast of Wrexham, of which King Madog has been a benefactor for many years!”
Taran, who’d been sitting on Gareth’s other side, directly behind King Owain, leaned forward and stabbed a finger in Madog’s direction, more agitated than Gareth had ever seen him. “That’s absurd—”
Rhys made a chopping motion with his hand. “This is not the time for refutation.”
Madog’s expression as he looked at Owain was triumphant. “I have a witness.” He spun around in his chair.
Rhys put out a hand to him too. “This is not the time for witnesses either—”
But two men had already entered the room, a third man held between them. The man’s face was bruised in places and his lip bloodied. He didn’t exactly struggle, but then again, he didn’t seem entirely conscious, as his eyes were unfocused, and his hands bound behind his back.
Rhys was on his feet now, looking daggers at the newcomers, but Madog was standing too, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He made an expansive gesture with one arm. “I present Rhodri ap Tudur of Corwen. He will testify that he was among the band of men who sacked the Wrexham monastery on King Owain’s orders.”
The last words rang throughout the chapter house, loud enough to overcome the uproar. Taran’s face was red up to his hairline, but he seemed struck speechless. King Owain remained in his chair, contemplating Madog and Rhodri. He’d known about the sacking, having heard the story from both Hywel and Abbot Rhys in turn. Thanks to Deiniol’s arrival, everybody at the monastery knew about it.
Rhodri’s attention remained on his boots, but Madog’s eyes were hot with passion, revenge, and glee. For once Owain’s legendary temper was dampened, however, and he sat somewhat canted in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, and his elbow on the arm of the chair. A single finger tapped his lower lip.
Hywel, too, had remained completely calm, and both he and Gareth moved out of their seats at the same time: Gareth to take Taran, who’d long since risen to his feet, by the arm and pull him away from the table at which the two kings were sitting, and Hywel to whisper in his father’s ear. King Owain listened, nodded, and then rose to his feet. Straightening his tunic with a jerk, he tipped his head to Rhys. “Gwynedd will adjourn until after Sext.”
“Agreed.” Rhys bowed to Owain and then turned with equal gravity to Madog.
Madog glared at the abbot. “Why adjourn? We have discussed nothing yet!”
King Owain arms were folded across his chest in a classic stance of disagreement and defiance. “There’s nothing to discuss. I could have told you that from the beginning.”
Rhys put out both hands, one to each king, in a soothing gesture. “Gwynedd has much to consider. They will meet with you again after a meal.” He tipped his head at the two men holding Rhodri. “Whether or not the council finds Gwynedd guilty of what you suggest, we will keep Rhodri in a cell here until such a time as he can be brought forward again to testify.”
Madog continued to glare at Owain even as he pointed at Rhodri. “That man is my prisoner!”
“He is a witness to a crime,” Abbot Rhys said. “He will be safe enough in our charge.”
Madog grunted and wav
ed a hand at his guards, who let go of Rhodri. Rhodri’s chin stuck out, and he seemed to be slightly less bleary than a moment ago, but he didn’t fight the two monks who came to take his elbows and direct him from the room. Madog watched them go, and then, eyes blazing, returned his gaze to Owain. He was doing a fine job of implying that he was truly angry for the sacking of the monastery. Perhaps he even believed Owain guilty. But Gareth couldn’t forget the image of Susanna speaking to Derwena, Rhodri’s mother, and the lone rider with nine fingers. So far in this investigation there were far too many people who knew more than they were telling.
Chapter Eighteen
Gwen
“Have you seen your sister?” Gwen decided that speaking frankly to Saran was the best way to go about finding the truth. Saran had been helpful years ago in Carreg Cennan when Gwen’s father had been accused of murder. She might find it odd that Gwen continued to involve herself in investigations, since it was an unusual occupation for a woman, but Saran was far from usual herself.
“No. Not since she left us last night.” Saran put down her knife. She was standing at the healer’s work table, chopping roots Gwen couldn’t identify from where she stood. “Have you?”
The healer had gone to see to a newborn baby and his mother, and Conall was lounging somewhere outside, as he liked to do. The man was more self-contained than almost anyone Gwen knew outside of Prince Hywel himself—and she knew him well enough to know that much of his behavior was a mask to hide what he was really feeling. She had to assume that Conall’s was too—except she didn’t know him well enough to see beneath his mask.
Gwen looked down at her feet. She wanted to tell Saran what Dai, Gareth, and Evan had seen last night. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but they stuck there. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her friend, but things were far less simple now than they’d been when she’d lived at Carreg Cennan and been trying to save her father.
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