The Renegade Merchant

by Sarah Woodbury

  Once Earl Ranulf’s spies had reported the landing, Ranulf had taken Stephen’s occupation with Henry as an opportunity to march an army of his own across England to besiege Lincoln Castle, which King Stephen had taken from him earlier in the war, back when Ranulf was playing both sides against the middle.

  Hywel had lost track of how many times Ranulf had shifted his support from Maud to Stephen and back again in the last ten years. Now, however, Ranulf had forsworn all allegiance to any side but his own. If Earl Robert, Empress Maud’s general and half-brother, hadn’t been weakened by illness, Ranulf might have found himself fighting both Stephen’s forces and Maud’s at the same time. As it was, both sides appeared to have decided to treat him like a particularly annoying gnat, to be swatted at but not squashed.

  Not yet, anyway.

  In turn, Hywel, who’d simply been waiting to attack Mold until the ending of the peace between Gwynedd and Chester, had force-marched his own men across Gwynedd. They’d crossed the Clwyd Mountains yesterday, learned that many of the castle’s defenders had been called away east, and decided not to wait another day to take the castle. Because they weren’t quite at the end of the four-month peace period, Hywel hadn’t notified Lord Morgan of his presence—though surely he knew of it by now—and the only men in his company were those he’d brought from Aber. It seemed somehow fitting, since it was their hearts that had been broken.

  They’d assembled the siege engine, the pieces of which they’d hauled from Denbigh in carts, and begun the assault, knowing that this evening’s descending sun would be shining in the defenders’ eyes.

  And, at last, he had a victory to share with his father.

  Cynan came forward to hold the horse’s bridle while Hywel dismounted in the courtyard of the castle. Cynan’s younger brother, Madoc, was there too. The two brothers were built similarly—squat and muscular—but with opposite coloring, Cynan being light to Madoc’s dark.

  Once Hywel was on the ground, Cynan tipped his head to indicate the English soldiers, who were all that was left of the garrison, standing off to one side. “What should we do with them, brother?”

  “Strip them of their gear and send them home to Chester on foot,” Hywel said, without even stopping to think about his answer. He’d taken the castle, which was what he’d wanted and needed. Killing men who’d surrendered was unnecessary in this instance.

  In addition, Ranulf had left only twenty men behind to garrison Mold. The eight who’d fallen were just the latest casualties in the ongoing war. If Hywel guessed right, from the look of the dozen men before him, Ranulf had left these few here because they were his least competent soldiers—the oldest and the youngest, the unfit for duty or the drunk. None of the men were worth ransoming, and they would cost Hywel more to feed than they’d be worth in ransom, even if Ranulf would consider it.

  “What are our losses?” Hywel asked Cynan.

  “Four, my lord.” Cynan couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Four. Bards will sing of this day for generations to come.”

  Hywel smiled too. “I will sing of it myself.”

  But then Cynan’s brow furrowed, and he lowered his voice. “There is one thing, Hywel. I am loath to mar our victory, but Madoc found something in the castellan’s quarters I think you should see.”

  “No gold, I assume,” Hywel said.

  Cynan shook his head. “We didn’t expect it. Ranulf stripped Mold of everything valuable before he took his men east. No, it isn’t that.” He still hesitated, whatever was bothering him held on the tip of his tongue.

  Hywel knew his brother better than he had four months ago. For the whole of Hywel’s life, he and Rhun had been natural allies. While they’d been different in some ways as two brothers could be, they had also been born two years apart to the same mother. They’d been blood brothers in fact and life, and for Hywel the loss of Rhun had affected him as if he’d cut off his right hand and left it on the ground at the ambush site.

  These other brothers—Cynan, Madoc, and Cadell—though relatively close in age to Hywel, hadn’t been part of his life until recently. He was far closer to his foster brothers—seven of them—the sons of his foster father, Cadifor. Some of them were also here, called to Hywel’s side since Rhun’s death. Initially, Hywel had sent for them because he couldn’t bear to let any brother out of his sight, and then afterwards, he’d used them with intent.

  Hywel, who had spent his life sniffing out intrigue among his father’s enemies could smell it now among his allies. They saw weakness in the king, and even if King Owain had loosened hold on his mind and the reins of Gwynedd, Hywel himself was by no means willing to let go.

  Hywel and Cynan had ridden together to oust their uncle from his lands in Meirionnydd, and then—unable to bear the silence at Aber—Hywel had ridden south to Ceredigion to see Mari and his children and to bring them north with him when he returned, installing them at Rhun’s former castle of Dolwyddelan. Throughout, Cynan had never left his side.

  He wasn’t Rhun, but he was doing his level best to be the brother Hywel needed. Despite Hywel’s grief and an underlying resentment of anyone who tried to fill Rhun’s shoes, Hywel was grateful.

  Hywel himself was trying to do the same thing for his father, and he knew that he too was failing.

  “Spit it out, Cynan.”

  “It is a letter from the Sheriff of Shrewsbury to King Stephen.” Madoc stepped forward from where he’d been talking to Cadifor. “Ranulf appears to have intercepted it—and very recently. It’s dated this month.”

  Hywel held out a hand to take the paper Madoc presented, even as the grave expressions on all three of the men who faced him had him feeling very wary. He looked down at the paper. To his dismay, his eyes swam with tears. He blinked them back. Hywel didn’t know if Madoc saw his distress, but he continued to speak, telling Hywel what was in the letter so he didn’t have to read it.

  “It says that Cadwaladr was seen in the vicinity of Shrewsbury on St. Dafydd’s Day, though the sheriff calls it the first of March. He describes in detail the events of last November and asks for guidance as to how he should proceed, since he doesn’t know if the king intends to shelter Cadwaladr or return him to Gwynedd for justice.”

  Hywel’s eyes had cleared as Madoc had been talking, and he was able to read the words for himself. Hywel’s comprehension of written English wasn’t good, but this had been written in Latin.

  He looked up. “How far is it to Shrewsbury from here?”

  “Fifty miles by road,” Cynan said. “But surely you’re not thinking of going? The men are tired.”

  “The men may be tired, and deservedly so. But I am not—and I shouldn’t take an army into England anyway,” Hywel said, making an instant decision. “You and Madoc need to stay and consolidate our victory. I will ride with Cadell and a handful of men. We can make better time that way.”

  His brothers now looked so concernedly at Hywel, it was almost comical. Hywel tried to suppress his smile at the sight.

  Then Cadifor stepped forward. “My lord, I offer my services.”

  Now Hywel smirked, whatever anxiety he’d felt earlier at the mention of Cadwaladr completely dissipated at the sight of his foster father’s craggy but earnest face. “I accept your offer—but not from anyone else.” He looked with fondness at his family, warmth overtaking the anger for once. It was such a foreign emotion that he almost didn’t recognize it for the love it was. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll bring ten men, including Evan and Gruffydd, just in case. Besides, Gareth is in Shrewsbury, remember? He knows how to keep me in line.”

  Cynan’s expression actually cleared a little at the reminder, and now Hywel really did laugh out loud. They trusted Gareth more than they did him, as well they might. His brothers had probably spent some time every day during the last four months on their knees, thanking God that Hywel hadn’t yet behaved rashly in his desire to bring his uncle to justice.

  As much as Hywel would have liked to have done exactly that, his fa
mily was wrong in thinking that he couldn’t contain his anger. He was a realist, and he knew that he was hampered by two inconvenient truths. The first was that he didn’t know exactly where his uncle was and was having difficulty finding out. Cadwaladr didn’t appear to be anywhere in Wales; Hywel’s Danish spy, Erik, had found no sign of him so far in Dublin or Ireland; and Hywel’s spy network in the March and England was sadly deficient.

  And secondly, his father was at peace with both King Stephen of England and Robert of Gloucester. If Cadwaladr had sought sanctuary with either party, despite Hywel’s personal desires, he had sense enough not to jeopardize that peace with ill-considered action.

  Like a cat stalking his prey or a snake lurking in the grass, Hywel could bide his time, waiting for the opportune moment. And then he would strike.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gareth

  “This was in his bag?” Gwen turned the coin over in her fingers.

  “It was,” Gareth said, “which immediately begs the question—why didn’t Conall use the coin or take the bag with him after he murdered Roger? He cleaned the room, so why leave the bag?”

  “It isn’t the obvious answer,” Gwen said, “but it’s been what I’ve been thinking: what if Conall didn’t kill Roger?”

  “Then he shouldn’t know that Roger is dead,” John said, “which means he should have come back for his bag.”

  “Maybe he returned to the inn while we were there, and one of the workers told him what had happened. He preferred to abandon his possessions rather than face watchmen in a strange town who would be suspicious of any stranger.”

  “John and I questioned the workers,” Gareth said, with a glance at John, who nodded. “None had seen Conall since yesterday morning when he left the inn.”

  “Then I have no answer.” Gwen held up the coin. “But at least we have a place to start asking questions.”

  “Where would that be?” Gareth said, though he had a sinking feeling he knew what his wife was going to say next.

  “The brothel,” Gwen said, as if it was obvious.

  John jeered. “You? In a brothel?”

  Gareth put a heavy hand on John’s shoulder, hoping to get him to tone down his outrage. After they’d found the coin, John had expressed astonishment to Gareth that he would even consider allowing Gwen to accompany them. Had they been in Wales, Gareth would have taken her with him as a matter of course. But then, had they been in Wales, they wouldn’t have been investigating a brothel either.

  The lack of brothels wasn’t because men were any more virtuous in Wales, but because families tended to be more closely tied together among themselves and to their lord. It was a rare woman who could fall through the cracks like these whores must have done. Because of those connections, and the way everybody knew so much about everybody else, Gareth was having a hard time picturing any family—or any girl—so desperate that a father would think selling her to a brothel was the only option. Or, furthermore, would be allowed to.

  Even the camp followers who’d traveled with the army last year didn’t sell themselves in the same way. Most had men with whom they were associated, even if they hadn’t married them. And since illegitimacy was no disgrace in Wales, a child wouldn’t be rejected by his father just because he was a bastard.

  John still looked amused and horrified at the same time, but at Gwen’s sudden fierce look, Gareth said in a gentle voice, “It is the one place in the entirety of Shrewsbury you cannot go.”

  “Why not?” Gwen said.

  “You are a lady, the wife of a knight, even if you are Welsh,” John said. “Surely you can see how uncomfortable your presence would make everyone feel.”

  Gwen made an exasperated sound. “You can’t be serious. I investigate murder!”

  “Not in any of Shrewsbury’s brothels,” John said.

  Gwen was still looking daggers at the deputy sheriff, but Gareth had questioned John about this before, and it seemed there was no arguing with him. So instead, he tried to deflect them both. “You’re saying that there’s more than one brothel in Shrewsbury?”

  John rolled his eyes. “And she can’t enter any of them.”

  Gareth shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. Shrewsbury is a market town, with a charter from the king. All commerce is controlled, which means the brothels are under the authority of the town council. They have strict hours of operation, and only single men are supposed to frequent them. So … technically, I’m not supposed to enter one either.”

  “Are those rules enforced?” Gwen said.

  “They are supposed to be enforced by the Council,” John said, his expression clearing as they moved on from the more delicate subject of Gwen’s participation, “not by the castle, which would become involved only if lawbreaking occurred.”

  “Like, for example, murder,” Gwen said.

  John made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “The Council is mindful of the need to contain what goes on in the brothels and to enforce certain restrictions. If it passes ordinances that are too restrictive, however, the proprietor might simply close the business and open it somewhere else, out of the Council’s reach.”

  Gareth nodded. “It is my understanding that in other places brothel owners have been known to move beyond the limits of the town. Wales is only seven miles away, and laws there are very different.”

  “Has money exchanged hands, then, between the owner of this brothel and the Council or the sheriff?” Gwen said.

  Gareth had been thinking that such an exchange might be more normal than not, but at the shocked look on John’s face, he realized that wasn’t the case.

  “Of course not!” John said. “What do you take us for here?”

  Gwen put out an appeasing hand. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry, but I felt I had to ask, and by your reaction, I’m glad I did.”

  For a moment John looked as if he was going to stalk away and not accept Gwen’s apology. This conversation had started badly, and Gareth didn’t want it to end badly too. He clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. “What Gwen just did is what we do when we interview people during an investigation. Your unguarded response—angry as it was—revealed the truth far more than a considered straight denial ever could have done.”

  John settled back on his heels, his expression clearing. He even managed a laugh. “That was well done.” He bowed to Gwen. “Remind me to let you interrogate all my suspects before I let my men at them.”

  Gwen laughed. “See—this is why you need to include me when you visit the brothel.”

  “To continue—” John took in a breath, seemingly determined to ignore Gwen’s quip, “—laws outside of Shrewsbury are very different and enforced differently. The sheriff’s writ runs through the whole of Shropshire, but he is under the authority of the Earl of Ludlow, who has no mind to prevent any legal commerce in his lands, as long as the businesses pay tax to him.”

  “Brothels are allowed in most places, as long as upstanding citizens can continue to pretend they don’t exist,” Gareth said. “If a brothel is prosperous, I could even see the earl encouraging the proprietor to move it from Shrewsbury, from which he receives no taxes, to the countryside.”

  “One here already has.” John gestured to the coin still in Gwen’s hand. “This coin grants admittance to two brothels: the one I told you about by the west gate, and also to one to the west of Shrewsbury, both owned by the same people. The one outside the town is called The Dancing Girl.” Then his brow furrowed. “Come to think on it, the one in town isn’t far from where we found the pool of blood.”

  “Nothing in Shrewsbury is far from that pool of blood,” Gareth said.

  John shrugged. “The brothel outside the town is less convenient for patrons. But, as you say, it has the benefit of being beyond the council’s jurisdiction.”

  “And this coin could be used to enter either of them?” Gareth said.

  John nodded. “Conall still had it, though, so he may never have visited either one.”
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  “Or he could have bought it for a repeat visit.” Gareth held out his hand to Gwen, who gave the coin back to him, though clearly with some reluctance. “We won’t know until we show his picture around and ask.”

  “I still don’t see why I can’t come with you.” Gwen’s hands were on her hips. “Do you really think the women who work there are going to talk to you more than they would talk to me?”

  Gareth studied his wife before answering. John was horrified at the thought of her visiting a brothel, which for all his explanations, Gareth thought was more a gut response rather than a rational assertion. Gwen was a married woman, soon to be the mother of two children. John knew she investigated murders and, surely, whatever went on in a brothel was no worse than standing over Roger’s dead body this morning. Still, John was determined to prevent her from coming with them, whether or not he was justified in doing so, and Gareth didn’t feel he was in a position to overrule him.

  “I don’t know,” Gareth said, finally. “John is right that whores tend to avoid respectable women because they feel they are being judged.”

  Gwen wrinkled her nose at him. “Which they usually are.”

  “In which case, speaking to a man would be more normal for them,” John said, looking pleased with this sudden conclusion. “For now, let Gareth and me do this. If our luck fails us, I promise I will consider other options.”

  “We should go right now,” Gareth said. “The trail will never be warmer than it is at this moment.”

  But before John could agree or Gwen could protest further at being left out of the investigation, Cedric appeared, his expression grave, loped towards them from the gatehouse, and came to a panting halt in front of John.

  Gareth bent his head, knowing what was coming.

  “We found the body of a woman in the river.”

  John raised his eyebrows at Gareth and Gwen. They both shrugged as their only response and started towards the gatehouse.