“Your abbot and your prior, and the two monks who took him from the millpond.” Gwen made a rueful face. “And maybe all the diners in the hall, though they’re still guessing.”
“A secret stops being a secret when two people know about it,” Sion said.
“This has reached the ears of far more than two,” Gwen said, “but we can still try.”
Sion bent at the waist. “I will say nothing to anyone else until you give me leave.”
“Thank you,” Gwen said. “May I ask if Gryff said anything else to you or did anything else while he was here? Anything at all, no matter how unimportant it might have seemed at the time?”
“Nothing.”
“So, you’re saying he came, he asked for Prince Hywel, and he left,” Gwen said.
Sion’s brow furrowed. “Well, not exactly. He did do one thing. As it was near the dinner hour, he asked if he could bring my meal to me. Of course I was grateful, and I said so.”
Gwen contemplated the gatekeeper, wondering if Gryff’s action could have been a kindness only, or if his offer had been rooted in another purpose. “That was kind of him.” She wished Gareth were here because he might have seen what she was missing.
“He appeared to be a thoughtful young man. He would have made a fine monk,” Sion said.
Gwen smiled gently. “He was married.”
He shrugged. “In the old days that didn’t matter.”
Sion couldn’t possibly have remembered those ‘old days’, back before the Normans came to Britain, but Gwen wasn’t going to argue with him. And maybe Gryff would have made a good monk—if he hadn’t been married to two women. She didn’t tell Sion that. He’d learn it soon enough.
“And then what did Gryff do?”
“After he delivered the food, he left. I never saw him again.” Sion shook his head sadly. “Such a nice young man to be so troubled.”
Gwen looked towards the chapel where Gryff lay. “Troubled appears to be one word to describe him. Clearly there was more to him than we have discovered so far.”
Chapter Eleven
Rhun
Rhun returned to the castle to find that not only had his Uncle Cadwaladr arrived, but so had King Cadell of Deheubarth with his niece Angharad, coming to the festival a day late, along with all their retainers and household staff. While King Cadell had brought his own tents and pavilions rather than try to squeeze into the already overfull castle, both he and Cadwaladr had deigned to dine with Hywel in the hall for the evening meal, which was just getting underway when Rhun arrived. Hywel had left both front and back doors open to catch whatever breeze might pass through the hall.
Hywel had also saved a place for him next to Angharad, whose shy smile at Rhun’s approach made his heart thump uncomfortably in his chest. Maiden that she was, she wore her long, dark hair down her back and held away from her face by a blue mantle the same color as her eyes. Her long lashes pointed demurely downwards as he found a seat beside her. But then he caught a flash from her eyes—something along the lines of assessment and curiosity—and he suppressed a smile. Cadell was dangling her in front of him like bait for a particularly large fish, but he was already well and truly hooked.
“Prince Rhun,” Cadell said from his prime seat to the right of Hywel. Cadwaladr sat on Hywel’s other side, making this dinner one of the most awkward occasions in living memory. “Prince Hywel tells me that a man has been found dead in the millpond?”
Rhun checked Angharad’s face, which turned to meet his, her curiosity openly evident now, and then he looked past her to meet Cadell’s gaze. “Yes, my lord.”
“And you are assisting in the investigation as to how he arrived there?”
“Yes.”
“Is that usual?” Cadell said.
Rhun caught the look Hywel shot him from beyond Cadell. Unfortunately, Rhun wasn’t sure how he was supposed to interpret it—as discouraging or encouraging—so he soldiered on as best he could. “Thankfully, I can’t say that men die in such a fashion very often in my brother’s domain.”
“Surely the death of a peasant is hardly the concern of the Lord of Ceredigion,” Cadell said.
Angharad stiffened beside him and looked down at her trencher. She didn’t say anything, however, and it was as if she’d withdrawn inside herself.
“I would disagree, my lord.” Rhun glanced at Angharad again before looking to the King of Deheubarth. “If a lord believes the death of any of his people—man, woman, or child—is beneath his concern, by what right does he call himself a lord?”
Cadell looked gravely at Rhun for a moment and then reached for his goblet. “Well said, Prince Rhun.”
Rhun’s face reddened, first at Cadell’s suggestion that Gryff’s death was of no consequence, and then at the realization that the king didn’t agree with what he’d just said. Cadell had been testing him. Rhun didn’t think he’d been found wanting, but rather that Cadell thought him soft with honor.
Hywel’s hand had been resting on the table by his cup, and he clenched it into a fist before removing it to his lap. “When we have been visited in the past by curious events, my brother has been helpful in unearthing the truth. My father trusts him in all things.”
“That is good to know,” Cadell said.
With something akin to horror, Rhun realized that Hywel and Cadell weren’t talking about this current death, but about the death three years ago of Cadell’s brother, Anarawd. It was a wonder that Cadell could remain in his seat, knowing that Cadwaladr, the man who’d ordered the ambush of Anarawd and all his men, sat on the other side of Hywel, chewing unconcernedly on a piece of mutton.
Only now did Rhun understand the look Hywel had given him. It had said, tread carefully. “With the festival underway and many strangers in Aberystwyth, it seems particularly important that the matter of this man’s death be laid to rest quickly,” Rhun said into the silence that had fallen on the high table.
Hywel shot him a quick smile. Rhun had finally said something right. At the same time, Rhun felt awkward about taking even a thimbleful of credit for Hywel’s accomplishments. His brother didn’t appear to want Cadell to know of his own role in their father’s affairs. Rhun would have to corner him about that later, but in the meantime, it wasn’t a lie to say that he had helped Hywel in the past. Since the finding of Gryff’s body, he’d certainly received an education from Gwen and Gareth.
“My brother, of course, assists my father in Gwynedd’s affairs at all levels,” Hywel said. “He came to Ceredigion because I had need of his wisdom in various matters, and it’s a lucky accident that he’s here to assist me in this too.”
Now Hywel was stretching the truth. “Nonsense, Hywel has—” Rhun stopped at the look of horror on Hywel’s face, one Rhun hoped only he had seen. He coughed, took a drink of mead, and waved a hand dismissively. “Ah … nothing.”
That wasn’t what he’d been about to say, of course. He’d been about to say, Hywel doesn’t need me and has both Ceredigion, and this investigation, well in hand. Which was stupid of him. It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to or about Anarawd’s death. But this was the King of Deheubarth, the domains of which had once stretched as far as this very castle. His discontent was usually masked, but it was nonetheless well known.
Regardless of the polite face he showed Hywel and King Owain, everyone knew that Cadell deeply resented Gwynedd’s annexation of Ceredigion. After the 1136 war King Gruffydd, Rhun’s grandfather, had given it to Cadwaladr, but he’d mismanaged it so badly that Hywel was still cleaning up after him three years on. After Cadwaladr arranged for Anarawd’s death, Cadell had argued that Ceredigion should return to him. Instead, Rhun’s father had given it to Hywel.
Some had whispered that Cadell might have colluded with Cadwaladr to bring about Anarawd’s murder, though Cadwaladr had never gone so far as to sell out Cadell to save his own skin. Which would have been very like him. To Rhun’s mind, there could be only two reasons for this: one, Cadell hadn’t be
en involved; or two, he had been involved, and three years ago Cadwaladr had valued their future relationship over forcing Cadell to take some of the blame. Cadwaladr had been interested—forever and always— only in helping himself.
Rhun decided it was time to change the subject. “What news from the south? I congratulate you on your conquests of Carmarthen and Llanstephan.”
Cadell bent his neck graciously. “It has been a good summer. Before long, we will drive the Normans from our land once and for all.”
That was going to be quite a task, though one everyone at the table was heartily in favor of. It was easier said than done, however. It had been eighty years since the Normans first landed on the shores of England. They had launched their invasion of Wales almost immediately thereafter, supposedly provoked by attacks by Gruffydd ap Llywelyn. He’d been a ruler of all Wales, though hated by Rhun and the people of Gwynedd for usurping the throne from the House of Aberffraw, Rhun’s ancestors.
Still, the truth then had been the same as now: Norman lords chipped away at Welsh territory whenever they could. They’d gained almost the whole of it during the lifetime of Rhun’s grandfather, only to have the Welsh rise up and beat them back again. King Owain, Rhun’s father, was the strongest king among all the kingdoms of Wales, and he kept a constant and watchful eye on his eastern border. Every victory against the Normans—even by a somewhat distrusted ally such as Cadell—was a cause for celebration.
“King Cadell and I have been discussing the wars in the east as well,” Hywel said. “Earl Ranulf of Chester remains a prisoner of the king, but it seems that negotiations are underway for his release.”
“That man has switched sides so many times, it’s a wonder that any side in this quarrel might trust him again,” Rhun said.
The quarrel in question was between Stephen, the dead King Henry’s nephew, and King Henry’s daughter, Maud. Although King Henry had secured the promise of all his barons to support Maud’s claim to the throne, upon Henry’s death, Stephen had crossed the English Channel and been crowned king before Maud had set foot in England. It helped that one of Stephen’s brothers was the Bishop of Winchester and had been the one to do the crowning.
England had been at war ever since, a prize half torn apart by the maneuvering of these two Norman rulers. What the Saxons, the conquered inhabitants of England, actually thought of who ruled them, Rhun didn’t know. The Welsh had never minded when a man married a foreigner. Rhun’s own mother was Irish. But Rhun felt himself to be wholly Welsh, and to his mind, any Welshman who tolerated Norman rule was not a man at all.
“Agreed. But if Earl Ranulf goes free, he will still be powerful,” Hywel said. “Both sides will want him on their side, though we all know that the only side he truly cares for is his own.”
Since Rhun had last spoken with Earl Ranulf two years ago, the earl had abandoned Empress Maud for King Stephen, and then almost immediately quarreled with Stephen’s supporters, who’d accused him of plotting against the king’s life. Stephen had subsequently thrown Ranulf into prison, where he rotted to this day. No matter what promises he made to Stephen in order to secure his release, he would remain a threat—possibly to both sides.
“That is all one has to remember about Ranulf,” King Cadell said. “King Stephen will release him, but if he does, he should watch his back. Ranulf will renew his allegiance to Maud, and the fighting will start yet again. Mark my words.”
“I mark them.” Rhun raised his goblet to King Cadell. “Before Stephen imprisoned him, Ranulf was planning a campaign against my father and trying to gather support from the other Norman barons for the campaign. Once free, I have no doubt he will look to our borders, with or without the support of Earl Robert of Gloucester.” Earl Robert, the bastard son of King Henry, was Maud’s half-brother and her chief supporter and general in this war.
“I will be interested to hear how it goes for your father in the east in the coming months,” Cadell said.
Rhun set down his goblet, taking care not to upset it. It was a move matched by Hywel. While Cadell returned to his meal, seemingly unaware—or feigning unawareness—of the significance of what he’d just said, Rhun could not dismiss the words so easily. Cadell was telling Rhun and Hywel that if Ranulf made war on Gwynedd, he would sit to one side and watch. He would not come if King Owain called him. Gwynedd and Deheubarth were still ostensibly allied, but Cadell was stating clearly that war on Gwynedd’s borders was of no concern to him.
Rhun and Hywel looked at each other. It was as if the lines between them and Cadell had been drawn in the air around them. With Cadwaladr still sitting beyond Hywel at the table, they were literally surrounded by enemies.
Angharad made a slight movement under the table with her hand, almost touching Rhun’s leg but drawing back at the last instant. Rhun caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. If he hadn’t been so finely tuned to his surroundings, taking in every cleared throat, every ducked head, he might have missed it. He reached out and caught her hand instead.
They sat together through a dozen heartbeats as the tension at the table eased, and everyone started breathing again. Neither Rhun nor Angharad acknowledged the other or the fact that Rhun still held her hand under the table. Then, finally, Angharad turned her head slightly towards Rhun and spoke in a low voice. “Do not think I share my uncle’s hatred of all things Gwynedd.”
Rhun glanced past her to Cadell to see if he was paying attention to his niece, but at that moment he pushed back his chair to stand and move down to the far end of the table to speak to another of Hywel’s guests. Rhun’s eyes narrowed to see it, thinking of all the ways the evening could play out because of what Cadell had said. Rhun’s mind didn’t often contemplate plots and subterfuge, but he knew betrayal was of constant concern to his father—and for good reason.
He turned to look fully at Angharad. “Do you not?”
“Cadell has no sons.” Her eyes moved to her plate, and she looked very hard at it rather than at him.
“You mean he has no one to watch his back as Hywel and I watch our father’s,” Rhun said. She might also be telling him that if he married her, he might have a claim to the throne of Deheubarth. But to think that was definitely getting ahead of himself.
“My uncle is following a dangerous path. When he took Llanstephan, he challenged his own uncle, Maurice, who held the castle for King Stephen. Uncle Cadell is not in as secure a position as he would have you believe.” Angharad was telling Rhun what he needed to hear. “The truth is, he cannot afford to help your father hold off the Earl of Chester. He cannot leave the south, even for a good cause.”
Hywel might have said that anytime anyone promised the truth, very often what came out was anything but the truth. But Angharad’s assertions coincided with Rhun’s own assessment of Cadell’s situation. Rather than confess his weakness in order to use it as an excuse (and a legitimate one) not to fight, Cadell had chosen to brazen it out, knowing that Hywel would never dream to challenge a guest, no matter how bold the provocation.
Rhun put his head close to hers. “Be very careful, Angharad. I would not have you speak so plainly if it means rousing your uncle’s ire.” He squeezed Angharad’s hand and let it go.
“You need to know what he plans,” Angharad said. “He wants Ceredigion.”
“We have known that for some time. Don’t trouble yourself over the matter.”
“He doesn’t care how he gets it.” Angharad’s attention was still mostly on her plate, but she shot him another look, and this time he saw fear in her eyes. “He has brought men with him.”
Rhun’s stomach clenched. “What?”
Angharad’s mouth barely moved as she spoke. “He has another fifty cavalry, in addition to those who camp with us on the festival grounds. He left them off the road to the south of Aberystwyth.”
Rhun felt again for her hand. “If you need anything—anything at all—you come to me. I can keep you safe.”
Angharad eased out a breath. “Thank
you.”
Rhun would have given anything to take Angharad out of the hall immediately. He could have housed her with Gwen and Mari at the monastery. But such an act, more than anything else he could have done short of pulling out his sword right there and then and challenging Cadell directly, would have violated the pledge of hospitality Hywel had given Cadell. It would also have been tantamount to eloping with her. On the whole, Rhun wasn’t opposed to the idea, but he hadn’t discussed marriage with her yet, and a few squeezed hands did not amount to a lifelong promise. Hywel might think nothing of sneaking around with whomever caught his eye, but if any conversation should be plainly spoken, it was when a man asked a woman to marry him.
Still, elopement was not without precedent between Gwynedd and Deheubarth. For a moment, Rhun amused himself contemplating the parallels and possibilities. When Rhun’s aunt Gwenllian was fifteen years old, she eloped with King Cadell’s father, Gruffydd. Anarawd and Cadell were the sons of a previous marriage, so there was no blood relationship between Rhun and Cadell, but custom called them cousins.
It was Gwenllian’s death, in fact, that had prompted Gwynedd to get involved in Deheubarth in the first place. The Normans had hung Gwenllian from the battlements when she’d defended her castle in her husband’s absence. Ironically, Gruffydd had been in Gwynedd, arranging for Rhun’s father and Cadwaladr to come to Deheubarth to help him defend Ceredigion.
Besides, it wasn’t so much propriety that demanded Rhun sit on his hands, but a desire not to ruin Hywel’s festival. Cadell might have fifty hidden men, but he hadn’t turned them on Hywel, and now that Rhun knew about them, he and Hywel could devise a strategy for addressing the problem.
Rhun also didn’t have any indication that Angharad was, in fact, in danger from her uncle. And within a few moments of the end of their conversation, her chaperone signaled that Angharad should retire with her women to her tent, leaving her uncle to continue his revelry. The longer Rhun spent with King Cadell, the more the king’s manner irritated him. It seemed to Rhun that he kept looking around the hall, measuring it with his eyes as if he was evaluating where he’d put his tapestries when he moved in.
The Unlikely Spy Page 11