Rhun gave a short laugh and shook his head. “I’m getting rusty, Gareth. That’s all.”
“I don’t understand.”
Prince Rhun’s eyes skated to Prior Rhys for a heartbeat and then came back to Gareth. “In Gwynedd, of late the people have been looking to me for leadership. Some have been treating me like I’m already king. It isn’t—” the prince paused, thinking, “—good for me.”
Gareth took in a deep breath through his nose and let it out, embarrassed at the way he’d dressed Rhun down, even though he was right. He gave Rhun a bow. The prince usually had more sense, but Gareth could understand how stifling it must be to have guards accompany him everywhere he went, and how it might not be good for him to be treated like a prince all the time, even if he was one.
“It won’t happen again,” Rhun said, “so you don’t have to tell my brother.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gareth said.
“Have you spoken to my brother recently?” Rhun said.
“I was with him for much of the day, but he sent me to the monastery saying he had some business at the castle,” Gareth said. “His brow was furrowed as he left.”
“He has many concerns, especially since our father should have arrived already and isn’t here,” Prince Rhun said. “I will find him after we’re done here and share the load.”
Hywel had acquired a great number of worries since he’d taken over the rule of Ceredigion. Both Prince Rhun and Gareth had spent much of the summer trying to lift some of those burdens, the greatest of which, truth be told, was the festival and of Hywel’s own making. Hywel had conceived the idea at the beginning of the summer, and it had consumed him ever since. He wanted it to be perfect; he wanted to impress his father; he wanted to be remembered.
Hywel’s other worries—namely the security of Ceredigion and its people—were ongoing. But once he’d opened his heart to his father two years ago and received advice and assistance, much of his anxiety had been lifted from him. Mari’s steady influence—and the birth of his son—had gone a long way towards keeping him on an even keel in every other way too.
Gareth bowed again to Rhun and turned back to his wife. “Why don’t you talk me through what you know about this death.”
Gwen swept aside some stray locks that had come loose from the bindings holding back her hair and gestured to Prior Rhys. “I wasn’t the one to find the body. Prior Rhys came to the guest house to find you and got me instead.”
Gareth transferred his gaze to Prior Rhys, glad to change the subject back to the task at hand. “So you found the body?”
“No,” Prior Rhys said.
“A laborer did,” Rhun said. “We have already questioned and dismissed him.”
Gareth held back a sarcastic request for someone to tell him what was going on before the body in question rotted behind them. Fortunately, it lay in the shade at the water’s edge. It wouldn’t matter if it took a little more time before they transported it inside.
Gareth tipped his head in Prince Rhun’s direction. “My lord, perhaps you could begin by saying how you became involved. Why were you at the mill?” He didn’t add without your guards, deciding he’d already said enough on that score.
“I was returning to the castle after finishing an errand for my brother—nothing important, just a message to one of his overseers—when a boy raced down the road towards me, waving his arms with a story about finding a body in the millpond. I turned in, of course, and saw Prior Rhys’s horse cropping grass by the mill entrance.”
“Why were you here, Prior Rhys?” Gareth said.
“I was visiting the mill because the prior of St. Padarn’s asked me to inspect it.”
“Inspect it? Why is that?” Gareth said.
“While I came to Aberystwyth on behalf of my abbot to confer about a spiritual matter, when Prior Pedr learned that I was the prior of St. Kentigern’s, he asked for my advice on the running of St. Padarn’s.”
The arcane point of doctrine in question was one about which Gareth, fortunately, cared nothing. It didn’t appear that Rhys thought it was important either, but he was under orders and was obeying them. Gareth was happy to leave matters of the Church to the Church. And he thought the prior of St. Padarn’s was showing remarkably good sense in employing Prior Rhys in more practical matters while he was here.
“It is a rare man who can ask for assistance, and an even rarer one who is as open to new information,” Gareth said.
Rhys bowed his head. “Both of which I have found Prior Pedr to be.”
Being open to new information was a quality that Prior Rhys had proven himself to possess in large measure, to Gareth’s benefit. A former soldier and spy, Prior Rhys had a checkered past which he’d put behind him—mostly successfully—since he’d given his life over to the Church.
“I dismounted and walked to the water,” Prince Rhun said, continuing his story, “and there was the body, just as the boy had said.”
“Where was it when you saw it, my lord?” Gareth said.
“Bobbing in the shallows on the eastern end of the pond. It had been caught up in an eddy,” Rhun said. “While Prior Rhys rode for the monastery to find you, the boy and I rounded up men to retrieve the body from the water. We have so far kept whatever we have learned to ourselves.”
Then Prince Rhun related his interview with the miller, and Gwen and Prior Rhys described what they’d found by the edge of the pond. Gareth listened intently to all three before finally crouching beside the body himself. He’d learned over the years that more eyes were better than fewer, and he was glad they’d done what they could to preserve the scene until either he or Hywel could arrive. Gwen knew exactly what to do, of course. He was pleased that Prior Rhys and Prince Rhun had learned as well.
With a wave of his hand, Gareth suggested that the two monks wait in a cooler spot under a tree, and then he looked at the prince. “I appreciate your discretion, my lord. The fewer people who know the details of an investigation, the better.”
“That is as Gwen said,” Rhun said. “Your thanks should be given to her and to Prior Rhys.”
“Don’t listen to him, Gareth,” Gwen said. “The prince has been nothing but helpful.”
Rhun ignored the accolade. “What do you see?”
Gareth surveyed the body, pleased that Gwen had gotten it right again. Not only was it clear the man didn’t drown, but the stab wound that Gwen had pointed out was unmistakable. He raised the hem of the dead man’s shirt to examine it, but what he saw had him tsking through his teeth. “He knew his killer.”
“I agree. When we find out the man’s name,” Gwen said, “we should be able to limit the suspects to those he knew.”
Prince Rhun bent forward, his hands on his knees. “Why are you so sure of that? In the dark, two strangers might speak to one another and stand close enough for one to stab the other.”
“That might be true in a crowd,” Gareth said, “but would it be true when they’re beside the millpond in the dark of night?”
Gwen swung her hands in a two-foot circle around her body. “How often do you allow someone to move into this space, my lord?”
Prince Rhun frowned. “I would allow a woman to come that close.”
“But a man?” Gwen said.
“Other than my brother, only when I greet him,” Rhun said.
“For which you use your right hand.” Gwen pointed at the wound. “No man could die from that wound while greeting another. The angle is impossible if struck with the knife in the left hand.”
“Besides which,” Prior Rhys said, “if one stranger intends to kill another, he would know that he would find it hard to get close. He would have sprung upon him, surprising him if he could.”
Rhun sucked on his teeth. “All right. You’ve convinced me. He knew his killer.”
Gareth laughed. “We’d better be correct about this, Gwen, or we’ll never live it down.”
Gwen crouched beside Gareth, laughing under her breath too. Having his w
ife so close jumbled Gareth’s thoughts for a moment. Almost absently, he traced the wound with one finger. Then, in a rush, what he was seeing came into focus. His brow furrowed. “That looks similar to—” He leaned in to examine the wound more closely and found Gwen gripping his wrist. He glanced at her, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly.
He sat back, a chill running up and down his spine.
Chapter Five
Gareth
Gareth stood, and as he helped Gwen to her feet, his fingers entwined with hers, both of them holding on tight.
“We should move the body inside.” Gareth turned to Prior Rhys. “Is it customary here to place a body in the chapel or somewhere else?”
“They have a small room off the nave set aside for it,” Rhys said.
“Good,” Gareth said. “It will be far cooler inside than out here. As it is, he’ll have to be put in the ground by the end of the day tomorrow at the very latest. It’s just too hot.”
“Probably before,” Gwen said.
“Hopefully, we’ll know his name before then,” Prince Rhun said.
“We’ll do our best,” Gwen said.
“Surely someone will have missed him,” Gareth said, “but at the very least, I can draw his face.”
“That’s a good idea.” Gwen nodded approvingly. “Any loved one will find him unpleasant to look upon as he is now. Better to show them the image instead.”
Gareth went to his saddlebag and removed paper and charcoal. With quick movements, he sketched a rough image of the dead man’s face, trying to draw him as he would have been in life, not bloodless and cold from the water as he was now.
Meanwhile, Prior Rhys beckoned the two monks out of the shade. With Prior Rhys and Prince Rhun assisting, they loaded the body into the largest of the handcarts waiting by the entrance to the mill. Gareth finished his drawing and returned to Gwen’s side.
After the men heaved the body into the cart, Gwen pointed to the man’s face. Despite the movement required to lift and load him, no pink foam trickled out of the corner of his mouth. “He really was dead when he went into the water.”
“You thought you’d made a mistake?” Gareth said.
Gwen shrugged. “Sometimes it feels like all we have are guesses. I’m comforted when they appear to be good ones.”
“What are you talking about?” Rhun said, ever curious.
“When a man drowns, he spits up the water he took into his lungs, even after death,” Gwen said. “This man is missing that telltale sign, once again confirming our initial supposition.”
While Gareth stowed the picture of the dead man in the bag with his paper and charcoal, Gwen said, “Give me a moment,” and hurried away towards the mill, disappearing inside.
Everyone stopped, looking after her and uncertain as to what she was doing. Then she returned with a bundle of cloth in her arms, which turned out to be several large bags used for carrying grain.
“None of us wore cloaks today so we have nothing to cover him with, but we don’t want him on display as we travel down the road,” she said.
“That was thoughtful of you,” Prior Rhys said. “Thank you.” And between the two of them, they laid the sacks over the body to cover it completely.
Gareth signaled to the monks to start pulling the cart. Prince Rhun and Prior Rhys tugged on the bridles of their horses, but like Gareth, neither man mounted, choosing to walk behind the cart with Gwen. The monks got the cart rolling, and the companions began the half-mile walk back to the monastery.
As they walked, Gareth could just hear the sound of music coming up from the festival grounds on the other side of the river. Music came more clearly from travelers moving along the road, whether from a bard warming up his voice and his fingers on his instrument, or spectators singing the latest ballad they’d heard. Regardless, each person turned his or her head as the cart passed, peering curiously into the bed to see what had prompted such a somber walk by three monks, a knight and his lady, and a prince.
Most of the looks—and many bows—were directed at Rhun, who acknowledged them without fanfare.
“Gwen, it might be a good idea not to discuss any of this with Mari,” Gareth said.
Gwen and Mari had rooms in the guest house because Mari’s quarters at the castle, approximately a mile and a half away from the monastery as the crow flies, were less than adequate to her current needs. She was pregnant again and sicker even than with her first child. Six months after Tangwen’s birth, Mari had been delivered of a healthy boy whom she and Hywel had named Gruffydd after Hywel’s grandfather. Thankfully—and despite the difficult pregnancy—Gruffydd had been born without complications and was now a very active one year old.
But Mari’s pregnancy meant that she could bear neither the press of humanity at the castle nor the smell. The latrine, in particular, wasn’t functioning as it should, and Mari had found the stench unbearable every time she walked outside, prompting her to lose whatever was in her stomach. Prince Hywel had arranged for Gwen to stay with her at the monastery guest house until the heat wave passed, the festival was over, the latrine was redesigned and fixed, and/or Mari managed to get her pregnancy sickness under control.
It would have been more appropriate for Mari to stay at the local convent, but that was no longer possible. Although Alice, Prince Cadwaladr’s wife, had given birth to their daughter there three years ago, it had been in serious decline since before the 1136 war and had failed the previous year. None of the interventions implemented by either Cadwaladr or Hywel—or the sisters’ order—had managed to turn the tide, and the last nun had died last Christmas feast. With Hywel’s permission, the monks had taken over the lands the convent had controlled, including the mill and pond on the Rheidol River.
“Oh, I know,” Gwen said. “I wish I could do something for her other than hold the basin and look after Gruffydd. At least we have her eating on a regular schedule now. I’m hoping that the worst of her sickness will soon be over.”
“Speaking of Gruffydd, where’s Tangwen?” Gareth said, trying to make the question sound casual. He would not want to imply, even obliquely, that she’d mislaid their daughter.
Gwen smiled. “She fell asleep moments before Prior Rhys arrived.” Gwen checked the position of the sun in the sky. “I would hope she might still be asleep, but you know Tangwen.”
Gareth did. He adored their daughter, but she had never been an easy sleeper and fought it at every turn, as if by sleeping she might miss something important. If her desire to stay awake left her cheerful instead of petulant, they could have let her be. As it was, some days Gareth might pace in circles with Tangwen for an hour to get her to sleep, only to have her wake the moment he laid her on her pallet.
The first time he’d seen Mari set Gruffydd on the bed and tuck a blanket around him, Gareth had laughed at the absurdity of her expectation that the boy would close his eyes and fall asleep on his own. But then he had. If Gareth hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he wouldn’t have believed it possible.
And sure enough, as they turned in to pass through the monastery gatehouse, Elspeth was just coming out of the guesthouse with Tangwen on her hip. The daughter of Gareth’s steward, Elspeth was buxom and blonde, and if she wasn’t currently living in a monastery, she would have had men circling her constantly to court her. Her father hoped that a year or two as Tangwen’s nanny, under Gwen’s sober influence, might steady her and prepare her for adult life. Gareth didn’t have much hope of that and might have picked out a man for her to marry already if he didn’t selfishly want her to continue as Tangwen’s nanny for a little while longer at least.
Elspeth set the child down, and Tangwen dashed across the courtyard towards Gwen, who moved forward to intercept her. With a mop of curly brown hair and brown eyes, Tangwen was the most beautiful little girl in Wales. She was also only eighteen months old, and Gareth was glad when Gwen scooped her up before she reached the cart. She was a little young to be introduced to her first murdered man.
Tangwen waved to him over her mother’s shoulder, and Gareth called to her from across the courtyard. “Cariad, Papa has work to do. I will find you later.”
That seemed to mollify Tangwen, though sending up a wail of frustration would have been equally usual for her. As it was, she had no choice but to go with her mother, who carried her around the corner of the guesthouse a moment later.
Sion, the gatekeeper, had come out of the gatehouse to see who’d entered, and Prior Rhys hustled forward to meet the hosteler, who’d poked his head out of the chapter house. He’d probably been watching for guests to come through the gatehouse, not for a cart with a body in it. Several carts already parked in the courtyard implied that even more travelers had arrived for the festival. Gareth had no idea where they were going to put them all, but no matter the press of people, presumably the chapel would remain free of guests.
He had been hoping to take Tangwen to see some of the performances this afternoon, and Prince Hywel himself would perform tomorrow night. The whole event would conclude the day after that with performances by the finalists and the presentation of awards and prizes.
The festival was taking place in and around a large pavilion in the field below the castle. A small fair and market had grown up beside it. Gareth had counted no fewer than four dressmakers present, one of whom he hoped he could arrange for Gwen to visit. He’d like to commission a new dress as a gift to her.
Various contests were also occurring on the many stages set up around the field. In addition to musicians of every type (among them genuine bards like Meilyr, Gwen’s father), dancers, jugglers, and actors had come to perform.
“Is that-is that him?” The hosteler gaped at the shrouded body in the back of the cart.
Gareth took the hosteler’s words to mean that their arrival wasn’t as unexpected as he’d originally thought. Sion bent to whisper in the man’s ear, and he ran off.
“What did you say to him?” Prince Rhun said.
“I told him to stop gawking and fetch the prior,” Sion said.
The Unlikely Spy Page 4