The Renegade Merchant

by Sarah Woodbury

  “Oh, really? What of?” Gwen said.

  Flann swallowed. So far Will seemed disinclined to speak at all. “Leather.”

  Gwen nodded and returned to her own meal. Flann’s answer was a safe one, since Shrewsbury was known for its leather working, and his words might even be true. But the hairs on the back of Gareth’s neck were standing up, and he’d learned something over the years about listening to his instincts.

  They could be wrong. They were sometimes wrong, but he would lose nothing by finding out more about these two strangers to Shrewsbury, especially since Conall had been a newcomer too.

  He was marshalling his thoughts to ask more about their business when both men stood. Flann tossed a last uneaten crust of bread onto his trencher, nodded at Gareth and Gwen, and left the guest hall with Will.

  Gareth immediately bent close to Gwalchmai. “Go after them, will you? I want to know if they leave the monastery—but do not leave it with them! Return to me instead.”

  Gwalchmai’s mouth was full of food, but he swallowed quickly and nodded, his chin firming with sudden purpose. “Yes, sir!”

  “Take Tangwen with you,” Gwen said. “She’s a good excuse to be loitering in the courtyard.”

  “You have a devious mind, sister.” But Gwalchmai had a grin on his face as he scooped up his niece, who was still holding her buttered roll, and hurried out the door after the men.

  Once they’d gone, Gareth leaned back in his seat. “Did you see—”

  “—the looks they exchanged?” Gwen said. “If they meant to disguise the fact that they knew Conall, they didn’t do a very good job of it.”

  “You thought it was Conall they knew?” Gareth said. “I thought the second man, Will, paid particular attention to the sketch of the girl.”

  “Either way,” Gwen said, “those two know more than they’re saying.”

  Gareth rubbed his chin. “I don’t know how we’re going to get it out of them. I can’t compel them to talk. And John—”

  Gwen nodded without Gareth having to finish his thought. More and more often, particularly these last weeks as they’d spent nearly every waking moment together, they’d developed a habit of finishing each other’s sentences. Gwen already had his heart, so Gareth was pleased that their minds had connected so completely as well.

  “John means well, and in time he might make a good investigator, but menacing he isn’t,” Gwen said.

  And then Gwalchmai came rushing back, Tangwen on his hip with her arms around his neck. “They’ve left the monastery!”

  Gareth pushed to his feet. “Did you see which way they went?”

  “West. I followed them a little way, thinking I didn’t have time to come back here to tell you, but they’re walking slowly towards the English bridge. You might just catch them if you hurry. I’ll mind Tangwen until you return.”

  “Thank you, Gwalchmai.” Gwen started for the door. “I’m glad I wore my cloak to dinner.”

  Gareth might have objected to her assumption that she was coming with him if it wouldn’t have meant wasting his breath. It was entirely his fault that Gwen was involved in the investigation, since he had sent for her in the first place. He could hardly complain that she wanted to leave the monastery with him. Besides which, if he’d refused to take Gwen with him, he would have found Gwalchmai looking at him eagerly instead.

  He consoled himself with the idea that a married couple such as they would look more innocuous strolling through Shrewsbury than he would alone, hurrying as he would be after two English merchants as if he wanted to rob them. Men tended to look askance at a full-on Welshman wandering about after dark by himself.

  Like Gwen, Gareth had worn his cloak to the meal, since the dining room wasn’t heated, and the temperature was hardly different outside than in. The night was clear and the moon shone down. As they hurried through the monastery gatehouse and down the road to the bridge across the Severn, they could see well even without a torch. When they spied the merchants, the two men were just passing the watchman at the east gate.

  Gwen and Gareth were far enough behind that the men didn’t notice them. Nor did they turn around to see if they were being followed. Fortunately, as Gareth and Gwen came across the bridge themselves, Oswin, one of the young watchmen from the alley, arrived from a different direction, with the intent of showing the guards one of Gareth’s sketches. He looked up at Gareth’s approach, his expression brightening, and then introduced him to the guardsmen.

  “We are following two men, who just passed through here,” Gareth said. “Did you see which way they went?”

  “They headed west,” one of the guards said. “Should we stop them?”

  “No,” Gareth said. “This is simple curiosity. I think.”

  “It might be late before we return,” Gwen said. “Will you be on duty then? Will you let us pass through? We’re staying at the monastery.”

  The guard glanced at Oswin, who nodded, though Gareth wouldn’t have said that the younger man had any more authority here than the guard. “Of course, madam. The wicket gate is always available, but we must be careful about who comes in and out at night. These are troubled times.”

  “We understand your duty,” Gwen said appeasingly, though her brow furrowed.

  Gareth had also noticed that the guard had repeated the same phrase Flann had used earlier.

  Then Gareth and Gwen were off again, wending their way through the mostly deserted streets. It wasn’t that late, not quite nine in the evening, but the residents of Shrewsbury rose early to open their shops in order to take advantage of every daylight hour given them.

  They were nearing the west gate, an area that Gareth was growing more knowledgeable about, since this was near where the pool of blood had been found, when he saw the men stop forty feet away before a three-story house. It was one of those among the inner ring of houses and shops that lined the interior of the palisade, and Gareth wondered all of a sudden if it had gate access to the river. These houses weren’t backed up right to the wall, like might occur in a castle, but had yards and stables behind them that the wall enclosed.

  The men stopped before the door, below a sign showing a picture of a woman’s shoe, and spoke to a man standing in the doorway.

  “That’s the brothel!” Gwen said in a breathless whisper.

  Gareth gripped her arm tightly, just in case she had a mind to go closer. Meanwhile, Will pulled something from his pocket and showed it to the guard, who nodded, and then the two merchants entered the house. As they passed through the doorway, another man was just coming out, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he did so.

  All three men nodded at each other, not necessarily because they knew each other but out of politeness, since they were passing in a tight space, and then the newcomer left the shelter of the stoop. The road was well lit by both the moonlight and the many torches shining from the buildings along the street, so Gareth could easily see the face of the man.

  It was Luke, the skeptical watchman.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hywel

  His men could ride fifty miles in a day, but even Hywel had to concede that their horses couldn’t keep going that long. They’d come fifteen miles since sunset, which left thirty-five for tomorrow—not an unreasonable distance to cover in one day, especially with a small group of men whose horses would once again be fresh.

  Throughout the evening hours, as the miles from Mold had unrolled beneath him, Hywel’s mind had been occupied with what lay before him in Shrewsbury and what he might find there. It was as if an invisible thread was pulling him forward.

  It had been an impulsive move to leave the newly captured Mold in the hands of his brothers, as capable as Cynan and Madoc were, but Hywel had a good feeling about this trip—maybe because it was impulsive. He’d been playing the good son, the reasonable prince, for far too long. He hoped Rhun would forgive him for being himself this one time.

  Coming from Mold, they’d ridden directly south, stay
ing within the territory his father now claimed for Gwynedd. Ahead of them now was the little village of Llangollen, which nestled alongside the River Dee. Above it, on a rocky plateau twelve hundred feet above the valley floor, sat the castle of Dinas Bran. These lands were controlled not by Hywel’s father, King Owain of Gwynedd, but by King Madog of Powys. Madog was of an equally ancient lineage as Hywel, and guarded his lands of Powys as jealously as Hywel’s family did Gwynedd. He was also married to Hywel’s aunt, his father’s sister, and thus happened to be Hywel’s uncle, though not by blood.

  As Prince Cadwaladr was Hywel’s uncle by blood, and he had betrayed the family far too many times, Hywel tended to give a man’s lineage less weight than his deeds in assessing his worth. But he didn’t know this uncle well, and though Powys and Gwynedd were currently at peace, it remained to be seen whether animosity still festered below the surface in his uncle’s heart.

  On the whole, that seemed likely. Madog’s family had hated Hywel’s for far too long to have that division mended by one marriage, even if it was to Owain’s sister.

  Dinas Bran had been the seat of the kings of this region for as long as Wales had existed. Hywel pointed out the ancient earthen ramparts, which encircled and protected the wooden castle, to Cadell, who’d never been here before.

  “Are you sure coming here was wise, my lord?” Cadifor said. “We could have slept peacefully in a thicket.”

  “We could have. We probably should have. But if Madog learned of our journey afterwards, he would be rightfully angry that we hadn’t asked for his hospitality.” Hywel clicked his teeth. “Rhun would have asked for hospitality.”

  “Rhun wouldn’t have come on this journey at all.”

  His foster father spoke under his breath, and though Hywel was sure he meant for him to hear, he didn’t call Cadifor out for it. He wasn’t wrong, and they all knew it. But Hywel was right about Rhun.

  That was one of the hardest things about trying to fill his brother’s shoes: behaving like him, like an edling should, when he didn’t naturally think like him, and when his instincts were always telling him to do something different. When Rhun was alive, it had been far easier to let his elder brother be the ambassador, to give the dignified response, while Hywel went around the back and did what needed to be done.

  Rhun had relied on him to do exactly that. Hywel was struggling with how, now that he was the edling, he was going to do both.

  The approach to the castle was impressive, particularly by the light of the not quite full moon that shone down upon them. The ramparts were arranged such that any rider to the castle was required to ride along the full length of the palisade to reach the gate located on the southeast side. Unlike at Mold, it would be impossible to bring a siege engine to bear on this gate, not unless the castle was already taken—in which case using a siege engine would be pointless.

  Not for the first time, Hywel wondered at the Norman tendency to build castles on the flats and not the heights. The Normans could build all the moats and walls they chose, but nothing was ever going to change the fact that the high ground was everything in war, and, nine times out of ten, the army that held it was the victor in any battle. With their mountain castles, the Welsh had held off first the Saxons and then the Normans for nearly a thousand years. Then again, the Normans had taken England and held it for nearly eighty years with their castles built on flat lands.

  Maybe they did know something Hywel didn’t.

  Despite the fewness of their numbers, Hywel’s small company was obviously armed for war. Thus, Hywel made sure, as they rode along the pathway, that the flag of Gwynedd was clearly visible on its pike above his head, so the watchmen on the palisade could see it.

  Again, Cadifor urged his horse closer. It was he who held the spear that showed Hywel’s banner. “What did I say? Can you see the arrows trained at our backs?”

  “I don’t need to see them to know they’re there.” Hywel laughed low. “Be sure to announce us in a loud voice long before we reach the gate. The last thing my father needs is a letter from my uncle regretfully informing him of the loss of two more of his sons.”

  Cadifor nodded and, straightening in the saddle, he lifted his chin so his voice would carry. “It is Prince Hywel ap Owain, edling of Gwynedd, who seeks shelter this night from his uncle, the great Madog, King of Powys!”

  It may have been that the guards thought the riders coming towards them were messengers only because Cadifor’s words elicited a flurry of activity on the palisade, indicating to Hywel that they hadn’t been prepared to receive someone of his stature. It couldn’t be that they hadn’t seen them. The giant wooden gate swung open to admit his troop of ten, and Madog’s steward, a man named Derfel, himself caught the bridle of Hywel’s horse.

  “My lord! We believed you to be at Aber. What brings you here at this hour?”

  Hywel allowed his voice to project throughout the courtyard. “I was at Mold. We took it not five hours ago. Gwynedd now stretches from Arfon to the Dee.”

  “We are honored that you took it upon yourself to bring us this news in person,” Derfel said, with another bow.

  Hywel dismounted, pleased that Derfel was behaving in appropriately courteous manner. Hywel had never stood on ceremony when he’d come here in the past, but he hadn’t been the edling of Gwynedd then.

  As to Derfel’s misunderstanding of the reason for his journey, neither Cadifor nor Cadell contradicted him. Cadifor had been advising kings since before Hywel was born and knew when to keep his mouth shut, and for all that Cadell had not known Rhun well, he had suffered with all of Gwynedd at Rhun’s loss and then through the pursuit of Cadwaladr that followed. He’d learned, as they all had, to hold his tongue when he was unsure of another’s loyalty or intentions.

  Because there was a painful truth behind the courteous exterior: Derfel—and Madog—had every reason to distrust, if not Hywel, then his father. Although Madog had married Hywel’s Aunt Susanna, Powys and Gwynedd remained in an uneasy peace, in large part because of instances such as Mold, where Gwynedd had expanded its territory in one bold move.

  It was Chester who’d lost land this day, but Madog wouldn’t be wrong to think that it could be Powys tomorrow. Hywel’s Uncle Cadwallon had died in 1132 right here in Llangollen, fighting against his own kin at the behest of his father, King Gruffydd, whose relentless pursuit of more land and power had been legendary. Madog’s father had died that same year. While his death could not be laid at Gwynedd’s feet, rumor had it that Madog believed the long years of battle and betrayal by his kin had shortened his father’s life.

  Hywel knew this history like he knew the shape of his own hand. He knew, too, that his father had a similar thirst to spread the influence of Gwynedd across the whole of Wales. In the past, it had been Rhun at the forefront of Gwynedd’s military actions. But even as the second son, Hywel had fought in many battles in the years since he’d become a man.

  It had been Hywel, after all, whom King Owain had sent to Ceredigion to eject Cadwaladr from his lands. Now as the edling, Hywel had already fought in Meirionnydd and in Mold. His father could decide to send him to Powys next, and Hywel would obey as he always did.

  The activity continued unabated in the courtyard of the castle as Derfel attempted to quickly accommodate ten new men and horses. Hywel handed his horse off to one of his men, to be taken away and cared for in the stable, and Derfel led Hywel, Cadifor, and Cadell towards the hall.

  Unlike Mold Castle, the purpose of which was to dominate its region of Gwynedd and to control the people who lived there, Dinas Bran was a palace. Its purpose was to provide a home to far more people than simply a garrison of twenty men. The hall, adjacent living quarters, and kitchen occupied the northern third of the courtyard, but within the palisade also lay a barracks, huts for his uncle’s servants and craftsmen, a blacksmith works, and a stable. Other than being at the top of a mountain, Dinas Bran closely resembled Aber Castle or Aberffraw.

  The night air wasn’t c
old, but the light and warmth coming from the open door into the hall was inviting, and smoke rose from the hole in the center of the roof, indicating the central hearth was blazing. Hywel could smell roasting meat, and his stomach growled, reminding him that he’d consumed nothing but a few bits of dried meat and a flask of water since leaving Mold.

  “When was the last time you were here? Do you know King Madog well?” Cadell said in an undertone as they stepped through the doorway. Even at this late hour, the hall was full of his uncle’s people. The meal had ended long ago, but people remained behind, drinking and talking.

  “I stopped here on my way home from Newcastle-under-Lyme a few years ago. But I can’t say that I know my uncle well, and certainly not well enough,” Hywel said.

  Cadifor spoke from behind them. “I remind you that he fought with your Uncle Cadwaladr at Lincoln on behalf of Empress Maud five years ago and has Norman leanings.”

  Hywel made a slight motion with his chin to indicate he’d heard him. “We all need to be wary. Follow my lead, Cadell.”

  “Assuredly.” Cadell nodded his head vigorously, causing Hywel to wonder again at the impulse to ride to Shrewsbury with this least experienced of his brothers. Was it really because he felt that Cynan and Madoc deserved the reward of consolidating the hold on Mold, or was it because he didn’t want their more experienced counsel?

  But then, he had brought Cadifor, after all, and his foster father had never been one to hold his tongue when he didn’t approve of what Hywel was doing. Hywel glanced at the older man, who drew abreast as they approached Madog’s seat.

  “Your father regretted this marriage, you know,” Cadifor said.

  “I know. At the time, it wasn’t his place to object,” Hywel said.

  “That didn’t seem to stop you in the case of your sister,” Cadifor said.

  Hywel almost gave himself away by hesitating in mid-stride, but he managed to keep going and skirted the central hearth. “The match between Susanna and Madog was intended to improve relations with Powys.”