“Worse, this could make Cadwaladr target you again,” Gwen said. “He tried to murder you, remember. Just because he misfired and killed Prince Rhun doesn’t change how much he still hates you.”
Gareth looked down at his wife and spoke softly. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“I know. I just—”
“You worry, and I don’t blame you for that.”
Gwen took in a breath before speaking again. “So, what do we do now?”
“We ask the questions we came to Shrewsbury to ask, and if that takes us along a path similar to the one we would have followed at John’s behest, so be it.”
Gwen looked at him curiously. “You mean about Adeline? Surely questioning townspeople about her is going to bring us close to Cadwaladr.”
“Ah, but King Owain gave us permission to pursue that line of inquiry, didn’t he?”
“He gave my father permission.”
“Yes, and since I’m his son-in-law, that’s as good as giving it to me.”
Gwen shook her head, but she was smiling. “It’s happened. You’re splitting hairs. Hywel’s way of doing things has finally rubbed off on you.”
“Hywel doesn’t split hairs; he doesn’t even accept their existence.” But Gareth smiled too. “It’s only fair, since it may be that some of my way of doing things has rubbed off on him too.”
Gwen moved closer to her husband and put her forehead briefly into his upper arm, as the only sign of affection she could allow herself in so public a place. “You’ve been a rock for him. We all know it.”
“As have you.”
Gwen pulled a long face not unlike the one the woman from the upper floor of the building had made when she discovered she couldn’t dump the contents of her basin into the alley. “I can’t see how I’m going to be much use to you among the people here. I don’t know what I was thinking. It wasn’t as if I expected the inhabitants of Shrewsbury to speak Welsh, but what’s clear is that my English just isn’t good enough to enable me talk to them.”
“We’ve been staying at the abbey, which has few Welsh monks,” Gareth said. “I think you’ll find that more people than you might expect speak Welsh. Shrewsbury is only seven miles from the border with Wales after all. And besides, with you by my side, just by your very presence, people are more likely to talk to me.”
“Why would that be?” Gwen said.
Gareth rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Gwen, didn’t you notice the way the watchmen looked at you as you came in?”
Gwen’s brow furrowed. “I suppose.” Quite honestly, her eyes had been only for Gareth, and a scruffy, bearded Englishman held no interest for her beyond her anger that they were deriding Gareth.
“You forget that you look like Adeline, who grew up here,” Gareth said. “As long as you are with me—or with your father when he starts asking questions about her—we aren’t going to have any difficulty getting people to talk to us.”
Gwen hadn’t forgotten that she looked like Adeline. She and her father had decided it would be better if she didn’t go with him to visit Tom Weaver because they hadn’t wanted to scare him by having Adeline—or Gwen looking like Adeline—suddenly appear on his doorstep. It was just that the pool of blood had temporarily driven that knowledge from her mind. “What about you? Has anyone accused you of being Cole?”
“While the story of Cole’s and Adeline’s deaths has spread far and wide,” Gareth said, “he never did look much like me. John attacked me when he saw me for the first time only because Cole was at the forefront of his mind. With my hair shorn and without a beard, I am a different person.”
Gwen’s expression turned thoughtful. “I had wondered why everyone has been so kind to me. Now I know why. It would be nice to know if she really was my sister.”
Gwen hadn’t ever met Adeline herself—she’d only seen her body—but the reminder of why they had come to Shrewsbury in the first place had her wondering how her father was getting on. He’d been cheerful last night, if a little tipsy from the good wine the abbey stocked, but she’d hadn’t had a chance to speak to him more than briefly this morning.
And now that she thought about it, one benefit to whatever gossip was flying around Shrewsbury about Gwen and Gareth was that Tom Weaver, Adeline’s father, and Roger Carter, Adeline’s betrothed, would know in advance that Gwen’s father was here too—and that sooner or later he would be coming to visit them.
“It could simply be that your father and hers are long-lost cousins,” Gareth said.
“True, but even if Father clears the path, I don’t relish the idea of walking up to Adeline’s father’s house with this face and reminding him of his dead daughter.” Gwen’s laugh was mocking. “Imagine what my father is saying right now: I might have fathered your daughter can’t be the most welcome opening.”
“Had Meilyr left before I sent word to you?” Gareth said.
“Yes,” Gwen said. “I saw him off into Shrewsbury shortly before you summoned me to the alley.”
Gareth checked the sky. “Then he would have reached Tom Weaver’s shop long since. Whatever Meilyr ended up saying to Adeline’s father, it has been said.” Gareth took Gwen’s elbow again, to begin walking down the street as it sloped towards the river.
Gwen had taken only one step, however, when the sound of running feet echoed from the alley. She exchanged a glance with Gareth, who shrugged, and together they headed back to the entrance. They reached it in time to watch the messenger—a tall, thin, young man with a shock of short blond hair—leap what remained of the pool of blood in an easy stride and then come to a halt in front of Luke.
The young man spoke urgently to the watchman, words Gwen couldn’t catch because they went by too quickly, but Gareth must have understood something of them because he hastened forward.
Although the elderly man and the young woman had moved on, the two boys stopped their game of throwing stones against a wall to listen. Gareth stepped between them and the messenger, who turned to him with a relieved expression on his face. Luke wore a cynical frown, as if whatever the messenger had just told him couldn’t possibly be true, but he didn’t openly discredit it.
“Start again, Cedric.” It seemed Gareth had met the young man already, although he wasn’t among those to whom Gwen had been introduced.
“My lord.” Cedric took in a huge breath to steady himself after the running he’d done. “I’m glad to see you here, but I was looking for John Fletcher.”
“I don’t know where he is at the moment,” Gareth said. “He went to find a witness who could tell him what might have transpired here.”
At a movement from Gwen, Cedric’s eyes tracked to her, and he did a double-take. Gwen gave him a gentle smile, acknowledging the widening of his eyes without mentioning it. In a way, it was gratifying to see, now that she was paying attention, that they hadn’t been mad to think Adeline and she looked alike.
Cedric put one hand to his chest and bowed at the waist. “My lady.” He straightened and looked again to Gareth. “Then perhaps you can help me, my lord. We’ve found another body.”
Chapter Four
Gareth
“The error would be in the use of the word ‘another’,” Gareth said as he and Gwen hustled after Cedric, who, while slightly shorter than Gareth, had even longer legs. Cedric’s rapid pace had Gareth regretting his winter cloak, which he’d put on before leaving the monastery, but now at nearly noon was causing him to sweat. They were past St. Dafydd’s Day, and the sun gave more warmth and rose higher into the sky with every day that passed. After an unusually cold winter, Gareth had feared that spring would come late. But during the journey here from Aber, spring had moved into full bloom, with green fields, flowers, and rich pastures for the sheep. “We haven’t found the first body yet—if there even is one.”
“This man was strangled, if that helps.” Cedric spoke from just ahead of Gareth, having apparently overheard his comment since Gareth had been speaking English to Gwen out of politeness
. Speaking Welsh would have been easier, but he’d traveled enough and had been on the receiving end of others resorting to their native language in his presence as a way to exclude him, that he wasn’t going to do the same to Cedric without real cause. “There is no blood on him.”
They’d left the alley and followed the street that ran all around the town along the inside of the palisade. Shrewsbury was canted at a northeasterly angle and surrounded on three sides by the Severn River, which made it resemble the shape of a flagon with a wide base and a narrow top. The castle was located in the neck and guarded the entire city behind it as it sat to the southwest in the protective curve of the river. While the city was well over a half-mile wide from bank to bank at its widest point, the land between the bends in the Severn at its narrowest, where the castle sat, was only three hundred yards wide.
Stone gatehouses, made of the same red sandstone used to build Shrewsbury Castle and Abbey, guarded bridges across the Severn in case an enemy tried to cross the river in force. Gareth could count on one hand the number of stone fortresses that had been built by Welsh kings, but the English were replacing more and more of their formerly wooden forts with stone ones. From what he understood, however, Shrewsbury Castle had been built in stone from the start—and had been one of the first stone castles in England.
For visitors, the city could be entered and exited by three gates: the Welsh gate, which faced northwest across the Severn and connected with a road that led west into Wales; the English gate, which lay on the opposite side of the town and also guarded a bridge across the Severn; and the northeastern gate by the castle, which was the only access to the town by land.
Residents of Shrewsbury could also enter and leave the town by a southern gate, which opened onto the fields that lay between the town and the curve of the river. Additionally, many homes and establishments that abutted the city’s protective palisade had private gates in them, which gave their owners immediate access to the river. Although these created giant holes in the town’s defenses, none of these exits allowed access to any land beyond the river, unless someone chose to boat or swim across it.
“You have seen the body yourself, Cedric?” Gareth said.
Cedric nodded, even as he loped along at an even faster pace. “His neck is purpled, but it doesn’t look to me as if a man’s hands did it. I couldn’t see any bruising from fingerprints. If I had to guess, I’d say the killer used rope or a fishing line to do his work.”
Gareth pressed his lips together, hiding a smile. Cedric was very earnest in his manner, and the words had spilled out of him in a rush, as if he’d been waiting for Gareth to ask him about the condition of the body. If John Fletcher wasn’t careful, he would find himself usurped by the younger man. Unlike Luke, however, who was struggling with John’s authority, resulting in an overbearing attitude, Cedric appeared to want to please and to be helpful. Gareth could use the help, especially in a strange city where he wasn’t quite welcome.
The pool of blood had been found in an alley off the river street, in the northwestern quadrant of the town. Following Cedric, they crossed the town to the south of the castle and ended up in the southeast quadrant, in the exact opposite quarter of Shrewsbury from where they’d started. As they approached this area of the town, however, Gwen’s steps slowed. The wind had shifted slightly and the vile smell of tanning leather, which was emanating from some of the buildings ahead of them, wafted strongly in their direction.
In England and Wales, the wind tended to come from the west or southwest, so the collection of skinners, tanners, glovers, and leather goods makers whose workshops and stalls made up the southeast quadrant of the city didn’t usually pollute the whole of the city. If they had, when Gareth had arrived at the west gate yesterday, he might have turned his family around right then and there.
Gwen was having a more difficult pregnancy this time than with Tangwen, and Gareth knew she struggled to keep down her breakfast most mornings. Fortunately, she was hanging onto it at the moment, even if it meant clenching her fists so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
Gareth put his head close to Gwen’s. “Breathe slowly and deeply through your mouth.”
She put the back of her hand to her nose. “They say that after a while a person can get used to any smell, but I’m not so sure about this one.”
Cedric halted in front of an inn. Like most buildings in Shrewsbury, it was made of wood, not stone, with a thatch roof that had a hole in the center to let out the smoke. It was bigger than most of the surrounding houses and workshops, and a sign out front was adorned with a drawing of what might have been the head of a horse.
“The Boar’s Head Inn,” Cedric said.
Gwen raised her eyebrows. “They should get you to do the drawing for them, Gareth. Then we’d at least know what its name is supposed to be.”
She’d spoken in Welsh and in an undertone, so Cedric, who was purely Saxon for thirteen generations, couldn’t understand her. He didn’t turn around.
“I’m sure the last thing they need is criticism of their sign,” Gareth said, though he touched her hand as he spoke so she would know he understood that she was trying to lighten the mood.
The rush mats on the floor were stained and looked as if they hadn’t been changed since before old King Henry died. The tables, benches, and stools were scarred and unpolished, and a young woman was wiping them down with a wet cloth that looked to be smearing the dirt around on the surface of the tables rather than cleaning them. This tavern’s trade was definitely of the rougher sort.
At first blush, the inn was less a place to sleep than a drinking establishment. The common room reeked of beer, the national drink of England. Fermented from grains instead of honey, which was the main ingredient in Welsh mead, the scent was unmistakably yeasty. This early in the morning, the smell—mixed as it was with the slightly muted scent of tanning leather—made Gareth gag, and he glanced concernedly to Gwen, whose face had taken on a pinched look, and who was breathing exclusively through her mouth, as he’d suggested.
Gareth sent up a prayer of thanks that he possessed enough status and relative wealth that he hadn’t had to stoop to housing his family here. Even if the abbey had been full, he could have stayed at the castle—and would have anyway had he come to England on official business for Gwynedd. If that too had been full, they would have been welcomed by a Welsh family who lived in Shrewsbury. And if all else failed, he would have chosen to stay outside the city and sleep in their tent or under the stars, as they’d done for the past week when no more hospitable circumstance presented itself, rather than stay here.
Cedric appeared not to notice the smell—but then, he’d grown up in Shrewsbury and to him the smell of tanning leather would seem normal. Fortunately the young watchman hurried them through the central room, out the back entrance, and into the courtyard behind the main building. “This way.”
Cedric fetched up at the entrance to a long low building that at first Gareth had mistaken for a stable. Upon closer inspection, it bore no real resemblance to one, other than its three separate doors, which faced into the courtyard and which Gareth had confused for horse stalls. They were revealed instead to lead to small but serviceable rooms. Each was furnished with a narrow bed and a washstand—and was far cleaner than the common room they’d just left.
Perhaps the paying guests demanded somewhat more from the proprietor in the way of amenities than the usual tavern clientele. Gareth might have been willing to house his family here after all, if not for the smell and the dead body, which was located in the last room on the right.
Gareth and Gwen gazed at the dead man for a count of five, and then Gwen said into the silence, “Cedric is right. This isn’t the body we’re looking for.”
The man had been well-built, of medium height with reddish-brown hair and beard, approximately in his late thirties. He lay before them on the floor with his hands folded on his chest and his eyes closed as if he’d already been washed and clothed for burial.
His face was bloodless, but not because he’d bled out. He was merely dead. From the wound on his neck, it was instantly clear as well, as Cedric had asserted, that he had been strangled. And given the obvious bruises and cuts on his face and hands, he’d put up a good fight for his life.
“Who found him?” Gareth said.
“I did.” A man in his late forties moved out of the far corner of the room. Of average height but stocky, he looked like he could hold his own in a fight, and his square jaw bulged as he spoke.
Gareth hadn’t noticed him earlier because the only light available came from the open doorway. Perhaps Gareth couldn’t be blamed, given that there was a dead body on the floor, but he nonetheless kicked himself for being so unobservant. That was a good way to get himself—or worse, Gwen—killed.
“And you are?” Gareth said.
“Rob Horn, the proprietor.”
Gareth gave the man a quick once over, noting that the backs of Rob’s hands were clean and unmarred and that he had no wounds showing on his face. Then Gareth crouched by the dead man’s side and touched him gently here and there, looking for a less obvious wound that might explain the puddle in the alley—just to make sure they weren’t wrong about the cause of death and that this really wasn’t the body they’d been looking for.
“He wears no purse,” he said to Gwen in an undertone, speaking in Welsh this time, regardless of whether or not it was rude or if it excluded Cedric. At other times, Gareth would have used the next hour as an opportunity to explain to Cedric how he knew what he knew, but with the innkeeper present, he felt a need to keep the discovery process of the investigation to himself for now until he knew the people involved better.
“He could have been murdered for it.” Gwen leaned in closer to Gareth, also speaking softly. “Or we were meant to think so.”
The Renegade Merchant Page 3