The Renegade Merchant

by Sarah Woodbury

  “Are you hurt at all, my lord?” Cadifor said.

  “No.” The short response was all he could manage. “You?”

  Cadifor shook his head. “They weren’t soldiers. They should have known it was over before it started.”

  John had been walking among the dead men, looking into their faces, his own pale in the torchlight and glistening with sweat and rain, but now he came over to where Hywel and Cadifor waited. “You and your men saved the day, my lord.”

  Hywel nodded.

  “It would have been less necessary if you’d simply run Martin through at the start.” Cadifor said, as willing to instruct John as he was Hywel. “You were too noble for your own good,”

  Hywel glanced to where Martin Carter’s head lolled several feet from where his body had fallen. He wished it was Cadwaladr’s head, understanding now that in the heat of the fight, he’d wanted it to be so badly that he’d made himself see it. Now that the rage had cooled, it left him shocked at how hot he’d burned.

  John was called away by one of his men, and once again, Hywel was alone with Cadifor.

  “Can you tell me what happened out there, my lord?”

  “You know what happened.”

  “You lost yourself.”

  Hywel tipped back his head, so the drops of rain could cool his face. If it hadn’t been for how slick his sword hilt had been in his hand when he was fighting, he wouldn’t have even noticed that it was still raining. “It shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let it happen. Rhun wouldn’t have let it happen.”

  Cadifor moved closer so his face was only a foot away from Hywel’s. “Look at me, son.”

  Hywel didn’t want to, but he had never been able to disobey that voice.

  “I have loved you from the moment I first held you in my arms after the death of your mother. We don’t share blood, but you are my son as much as any of the others. Your name is Hywel ap Owain. You are a warrior-poet and the edling of Gwynedd. You are not Rhun.”

  “My father—”

  Cadifor gave him a small smile and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your father needs you to be you. He’s already lost Rhun. Don’t deprive him of Hywel too.”

  Hywel stared at Cadifor. He had never thought about his role that way, and as they looked at each other, something broke loose in the back of Hywel’s mind—not his sanity, not his control—but the relentless fear of failure that had been fueling his anger all this time.

  Then Evan returned, even as Hywel was still reeling from Cadifor’s words. “There are a dozen women in there, my lord, Welsh and Irish.”

  Cadifor made a guttural sound.

  “What is the purpose of keeping them?” Hywel took a step to follow Evan. “Were they to work in the brothel?”

  “They were to be sold as slaves.” Gareth’s voice rang out from behind Hywel, and he turned to see him and Gwen halting a few feet away. They’d ridden in on Evan’s horse. Gareth’s eyes were bright, and even as Hywel watched, he dropped to the ground in an easy motion.

  “A moment ago, you were at death’s door,” Hywel said as his friend approached, after helping Gwen to dismount too. “Why didn’t you return to the monastery like I ordered?”

  “Answers weren’t to be found at the monastery.” Gareth tipped his head to indicate his left shoulder. “Gwen patched me up enough to be going on with.”

  “What answers are you talking about?” Hywel said. “Are you saying these men were slavers?”

  Gareth gestured to a man who’d accompanied them down the track but whom Hywel didn’t know. “This is Conall, who serves Diarmait mac Murchada, King of Leinster.”

  “My lord prince.” Conall stepped closer and bowed. “King Diarmait has grown concerned about the stealing of women from his lands. I tracked the raiders to Shrewsbury and attempted to insinuate myself into their operation. My hope was to lure them to Ireland so that my king could arrest them.” He spread his hands wide. “I don’t know what gave me away, but Martin there—” he jerked his head to indicate the body on the ground, “—discovered something about me that made him mistrustful. I have spent the last two days in that mill with the captive women.”

  Gwen took up the explanation. “Most of the women are not Irish, however, but Welsh.”

  Hywel’s eyes narrowed. “How is that possible? We’ve heard of no war in Wales that involved slave-taking.”

  Gwen made a murmur of assent. “Which means either these women were abducted like those from Leinster—”

  “—or their lord sold them himself,” Gareth said. “It has happened in the past, though not for a long time.”

  Conall took in a breath. “As it turns out, the answer is both.”

  Gareth gestured forward two more men, watchmen of John’s who held the arms of a woman between them. “She runs the brothel here.” He waved a hand at the two men. “You don’t have to hold her. She’s done nothing wrong as far as we know.”

  As far as we know covered a lot of ground, but Hywel simply nodded at Gareth that he should continue.

  “Jane, here, can describe the man she believes provided the funds for this undertaking, and who derives the most wealth from its success.” Gareth tipped his head to the woman. “Go on.”

  The woman was quivering before Hywel: cold, wet, and scared. The yard had turned into one great puddle, and soon even well-oiled boots would be filling with water. Hywel hadn’t put up his hood, since he was still steaming from the fight, and if his cloak hadn’t been nearly soaked through, he would have offered it to the woman.

  “The man was richly dressed—as much so as any nobleman—even Lord Ludlow,” Jane said. “Those snooty merchants in Shrewsbury who pretend to be above what we do, even as they patronize us and reap our profits, have nothing on him.” Jane made a motion as if to spit on the ground, but then caught herself at the last moment, remembering where she was and whose company she was keeping. “He wore a sword, and spoke no English.”

  “What did he look like?” Gareth said.

  Jane scoffed at that, as if what Gareth was interested in hearing was the least interesting part about the man. “Tall, fair hair going gray, a paunch he tries to hide. I never heard his real name. He only went by Gwynedd.” The woman canted her head. “Flann referred to him as the prince, though I never learned what he was supposed to be the prince of, seeing as how he was here and not in Wales.”

  Gareth turned to John. “Too bad we didn’t take any of Martin’s men alive.”

  John had been staring at the ground while the woman was talking, having pulled up his hood to protect his head from the rain, but now he looked up. “But we did.”

  “Who?”

  “The man you suspected: Flann. We took him into custody not two hours ago. It was to invite you to question him with me that I arrived at the monastery when I did, in time to ride here with Prince Hywel.”

  Hywel allowed himself a mocking laugh. He had many of his own questions answered now. That Cadwaladr knew Martin Carter went a long way towards explaining how he’d come upon Adeline, Gwen’s lookalike. “Perhaps it’s time to tell me what this is all about.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Gareth

  Gareth had a moment’s fear as they rode back through the dark to Shrewsbury that John’s guardsmen might have let Flann go, once John himself didn’t return in a timely fashion to question him. Fortunately, John’s men were better trained than that. For Gareth’s part, he felt no anger at Martin, just impatience that killing had been necessary. There was enough death in the world as it was without adding to it.

  Gareth had spent the ride back into Shrewsbury relating to Hywel, Conall, and the others everything that had happened in the last few days, after which the prince had explained how it was that he’d come to Shrewsbury with only Evan and Cadifor as companions. Imminent war with Powys didn’t make slavery in Shrewsbury a paltry matter—but it did mean that they needed to finish up their business here quickly so the prince could return to Aber and his father. Tomo
rrow, however, would have to be soon enough, and they took a moment to stop at the monastery infirmary to augment the work Gwen had done on his head and shoulder.

  The infirmarer had been horrified to learn that Gareth planned to go out again, but after Abbot Radulfus himself appeared to hear the story of what had happened at the old mill, Gareth convinced them both that questioning Flann could not wait even another hour. Leaving Gwen in the care of her father, Evan, and Hywel, Gareth made his way to the castle, accompanied by Conall, who’d also been seen to by the infirmarer.

  “Are you, by chance, acquainted with Godfrid, Prince of Dublin?” Gareth had been debating whether to ask Conall the question ever since he met him, wondering if it was politic since Dublin and Leinster were often at odds, but he decided he had nothing to lose by asking. And he was curious.

  Conall was still obviously in pain, but he managed an eye roll at Gareth’s question. The infirmarer had mentioned cracked ribs and had looked askance at the bruises along the entire length of Conall’s body. Still, he was managing to sit on a horse. “He is renowned throughout Ireland, though I have never met him. I have seen him from a distance, but since I don’t speak Danish, I am of little use as a spy in Ottar’s court.” He paused. “I gather you know him?”

  “He is a friend,” Gareth said. “I had a thought to ask if he’d approached your king for aid.”

  “In overthrowing Ottar?” Conall said. “I wouldn’t know. The man’s a pig—Ottar not Godfrid—" Conall hastily put out a hand to reassure Gareth about whom he was speaking, “but he rules with an iron fist now that Torcall is dead.”

  “Godfrid’s older brother would have things be different.”

  Conall barked a laugh. “Wouldn’t we all.”

  John greeted them as they arrived at the castle, and he led them immediately to Flann’s cell. The merchant had been pacing in front of the back wall of his prison. Shrewsbury Castle had cells in the basements of its towers, but Flann hadn’t been stored there. This was just an empty guardroom at the castle’s east gatehouse. At the time when John had arrested him, Flann had been only under suspicion.

  As Gareth opened the door, Flann swung around. “It’s about time.” But then Flann’s expression of outrage faltered and his face paled as he saw Conall following Gareth into the room. With a grin, John Fletcher came last, taking up a position with his back to the door.

  John had asked Gareth to begin the questioning with the idea that they would take turns with Flann until he told the truth. Flann’s first response would be to stonewall them or feign ignorance. They needed to get to the bottom of the intrigue here. Unlike Tom, Flann held a position of authority in Martin’s organization, and they needed him to talk.

  “What’s this?” Flann said.

  “This—” Gareth pulled out one of the stools at the table and sat, “is where you start talking.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “We know that’s not true,” Gareth said. “The question before us is the extent of your wrongdoing. Is it just slave trading, or does it extend to murder too?”

  Flann gaped at Gareth, and then his eyes tracked to Conall, who had set himself up against the side wall of the room, his arms folded across his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles.

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Flann said. “I’m a merchant!”

  Gareth slapped his hand on the table. “If that’s true, then tell us everything—about Martin and Roger Carter, about Conall here, about the girl who died, about who is involved in the trading of the Irish and Welsh women we found at the mill.”

  Flann licked his lips, his eyes tracking again to Conall.

  “Yes, we know about them because we rescued Conall,” Gareth said. “Tom Weaver named you and Will de Bernard as the London connection to the slave ring. Tom told us that Roger Carter confronted his brother, Martin, about his involvement in the slave trade. How many times did you steal women from Wales and Ireland? And how many did you take in all?”

  Tom had returned to town as well, after having been questioned at length by John, and then sent home. The weaver had been foolish and was now remorseful. With Martin dead, nobody saw any reason to punish him further. John had then sent out a warrant for the arrest of Will de Bernard, Flann’s companion, who’d disappeared after leaving Gwen and Gareth in the mill and hadn’t participated in the subsequent battle.

  Flann swallowed. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Gareth rose to his feet and took a step towards John. “What do you think about charging him with the murder of the girl in the alley? We know it was his cart that hauled her body to the river, which means it was he who killed her and threw her in. That should be enough for the sheriff when he returns. Meanwhile, he can rot in a cell.”

  John played along, “It will be Will’s and Tom’s testimony against Flann’s, and since Flann has Irish blood, it will be easy to convince the sheriff that it is they who are telling the truth, not Flann.”

  Flann’s face had drained of color. “I didn’t kill anybody! Did Will say I did to save his own skin? That traitor!”

  John sneered. “If you didn’t, then who did? Do you accuse Will?”

  “No! Nobody killed her. The girl ran away from us, and by the time we caught up with her, she’d bled to death in that alley. Fell on a broken crate, the stupid chit.”

  While it wasn’t the scenario they’d envisioned, Gareth believed him. “Who was she?”

  Flann waved a hand dismissively. “Some girl from Powys. I didn’t know her name.”

  Gareth found himself grinding his teeth, and he was very close to punching the man. He needed to know where in Powys the girls were from, but he had a few more questions to ask first. “It was you and Will, who hauled the body away and threw it in the river?”

  “We thought it would sink to the bottom. It was supposed to sink to the bottom and be carried away by the current.” Flann sounded annoyed that, even in death, the girl hadn’t done as she’d been told.

  “She was dead when she went in the water,” Conall said, somewhat absently, “that’s why she floated.”

  The longer Gareth spent in Conall’s company, the more he became convinced that the Irishman played a similar role for his king as Gareth played for Prince Hywel—though Gareth would not have been the man to impersonate a slave trader. If Hywel ever needed a liegeman to do that, he would have to find someone else.

  Flann tsked through his teeth. “As I have since realized.”

  “I need the name of the man from whom you buy slaves in Ireland,” Conall said.

  “He died,” Flann said. “That’s why we had to switch to Wales.”

  “And who was it that found you the Welshwomen?” John moved forward from the doorway.

  Flann leaned back from the table. “Oh. So that’s it.”

  Gareth didn’t know what he meant, but he wasn’t going to give Flann satisfaction by inquiring.

  Flann gave another little tsk. “What do I get if I tell you?”

  “We don’t need you to say anything more,” John said. “One of the others will tell us what we need to know.”

  “Maybe that’s true, but you want to know now.” He pointed with his chin to Gareth. “He’s practically quivering with the need for it. Why?”

  “Give. Me. A name.” John’s fists came down on the table, and he leaned on them, looming over Flann.

  Flann shook his head. “I didn’t kill anybody. Trading in slaves is a crime in England, but not a hanging offense. If I tell you who our contact was, I need you to put in a good word for me with your sheriff.”

  John’s face was a thundercloud.

  “Done,” Gareth said without asking for John’s permission. If John didn’t like it, he could take it up with Hywel later.

  “We got them from the King of Powys himself.”

  “From Madog,” Gareth said, without inflection. “Really. Why should I believe you?”

  Flann shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me
, but I tell you that he pledged to turn a blind eye to our raids as long as he got his cut of the profits.”

  John stepped back from the table and glanced at Gareth, his expression clearly saying, what more should I ask him?

  John might not know what to ask next, but Gareth certainly did. “Did you go to Dinas Bran to negotiate this deal?”

  “What? No, of course not. We worked through his intermediary, his wife’s brother.”

  “I need you to say his name,” Gareth said.

  Flann was growing impatient with the questions, the answers to which he thought should be obvious, and he waved his hand dismissively. “Cadwaladr, Prince of Gwynedd.” Flann rocked on the back legs of the stool, pleased by the reaction he was receiving for his tale. “Exiled, wasn’t he? And short of gold? What better way than slaving to make a great deal of money quickly.”

  John’s brow was heavily furrowed. “Who do you sell to?”

  Flann laughed. “Who don’t we sell to? English thanes, Norman lords, and then farther afield. Who wouldn’t want a Welsh woman to warm his bed?”

  “One who isn’t afraid of having his throat slit in his sleep.” Gareth was disgusted with Flann’s complacency and unforgiving that his men had planned the same for Gwen.

  Flann laughed again with what seemed like real amusement. He either wasn’t taking his situation seriously, or he thought he had genuine leverage. “There’s always that, though we keep them pretty quiet most of the time.”

  Gareth shook his head in puzzlement. “Conall mentioned the name of the herb you gave them. Devil’s Weed, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Flann said. “We put it in cakes, they eat it, and all the fight goes out of them. We’d run out of weed, which was another reason why we needed to get moving before the effect wore off.”

  Gareth was going to have to dunk himself in the monastery brook when this was done just to wash off the stench of Flann’s iniquity. “When were you to meet Cadwaladr next?”