Hywel, as host, was required to maintain his seat for far longer than he otherwise might have. Fortunately, an hour after sunset, Hywel’s steward appeared in the rear doorway to the hall and sent a boy to Hywel’s side. At the message, Hywel rose from his seat, and Rhun rose to go to the door with him. By then, the formal aspect of the feast had broken up and most of the seats at the high table were empty, as their various occupants had moved to other locations in the hall. Most of the women had left.
The steward was waiting for them in the courtyard of the castle. With the sun finally having set into the sea, a cooler breeze wafted past Rhun. The hall had been stifling in comparison, but such were the high spirits of most everybody involved that nobody minded. Rhun was also pleased to see that the problem with the latrines had been sufficiently addressed. He could smell sea air, wood smoke, and the verdant scents of a warm August evening.
“What is it?” Hywel said to his steward, a capable man named Morgan whom Taran had found for him.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your meal, but a messenger has come from Prior Rhys asking for more men to guard the monastery. He also sent this for your eyes only.” Morgan handed a piece of paper to Hywel. “I already sent the men.”
Rhun peered over his brother’s shoulder to read the letter, understanding immediately why the prior had written down what he wanted to say to Hywel rather than trusting the whole of the message to another man to relay verbally. The letter told of a possible other wife for Gryff, and that Gareth had gone to fetch her. Prior Rhys also explained why Gareth was concerned for the safety of Mari and Gwen.
“Thank you for sending the guards,” Hywel said. “I myself will go now to inspect the grounds and speak to my wife.”
“Could there be some trouble along the lines of which we spoke earlier—” Morgan hesitated.
“Not yet. Not here, but I understand Prior Rhys’s concern.” Hywel turned to Rhun. “Will you come?”
“Of course.” Then Rhun scowled at his brother. “You really shouldn’t have exaggerated my past role in your investigations to Cadell. I have been of very little use, and you know it.”
“You sell yourself short. I rely on you.” Hywel turned back to Morgan. “More people have come to the festival than I anticipated, and I am wary about having Cadwaladr and Cadell in the same hall. I need you to watch them more closely than ever.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You weren’t there in the hall to hear Cadell speak.” Hywel related the conversation with Cadell to Morgan, whose expression grew even more concerned.
“It wasn’t a declaration of war, but Cadell certainly resents Gwynedd,” Rhun said.
“We also need to be more careful about our guests,” Hywel said. “I’m not suggesting that anyone be searched or made aware of my concerns, but even the kitchen staff need to be on their guard for suspicious behavior. One murder is quite enough for the week.”
“I will see to it,” Morgan said.
“Meanwhile, Rhun and I need our horses saddled. We’ll ride to the monastery now.”
“And then to the northeast?” Morgan said.
“Indeed,” Hywel said.
“Northeast?” Rhun said as Morgan turned away.
“Cadwaladr brought more men with him,” Hywel said. “Fifty cavalry. I want to see them with my own eyes.”
Rhun stared at his brother. “I was going to tell you at the first opportunity that Cadell left fifty men hidden in the woods to the south of Aberystwyth.”
It was Hywel’s turn to stare at Rhun. “Who told you that? Angharad?”
Rhun nodded.
“So we’re surrounded, though not by numbers I would normally fear.”
“I share your puzzlement,” Rhun said.
“I need Gareth back, except something tells me this murder can’t wait either.” Hywel sighed and looked down at the ground. “I must have been mad to think this festival was a good idea.”
“It was a good idea,” Rhun said immediately. “It still is.”
Hywel shook his head, but Rhun cut him off before he could speak again. “At the very least, you can view it as a chance to flush out your enemies.”
Hywel’s head came up at that.
Rhun nodded to see it. “Don’t you think King Cadell sees this week as an opportunity? He isn’t here for the music, I can assure you. He’s here to evaluate the state of your domain, the nature of your rule, and to assess your defenses.”
Hywel was nodding slowly. “Already we have learned that Cadwaladr and Cadell brought small armies with them. I haven’t forced them to act, but they have acted anyway.”
“Now, the question before us is if they are working together,” Rhun said.
“I shudder to think.” For the first time in a week, Hywel genuinely smiled. He clapped a hand on Rhun’s shoulder. “You have brought me back to myself. A spy I am and always will be. I was a fool to ever forget it.”
“What’s astonishing to me is that I’ve been thinking like you,” Rhun said. “As I sat at the table tonight, looking around the room and contemplating what I’d learned today, I realized that I was distrusting the motives of every single person I’d met.”
“Except for Angharad,” Hywel said.
“Except—” Rhun broke off, gazing into his brother’s face and reviewing Angharad’s words to him in his head. He had to acknowledge that it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility for Cadell and Angharad to be working together. Cadell could have meant to incite anger in Hywel and Rhun so that Angharad could come in as a balm to assuage Rhun’s fears. Or, at the very least, to imply—as she had done—that she could be trusted where her uncle could not.
Hywel smirked at the look of surprise on Rhun’s face. “You really are beginning to learn, brother.”
Chapter Twelve
Gareth
Fychan was not a talkative traveling companion. In fact, the boy seemed to regret having opened his mouth in the first place and was now making up for his lapse by a studied muteness. Even so, five miles wasn’t far to travel on a fresh and rested horse—even mostly uphill, since Goginan lay at the base of the mountains and was the site of a silver and lead mine, an important source of income for Hywel.
Because of the trade to and from Aberystwyth, the road upon which they traveled was well maintained, and as Gareth had hoped, they reached the village while it was still twilight. Fychan guided them to the home of Gryff’s (other) wife, Carys. As Gareth dismounted, she was sitting on a stool outside her house, watching two small children playing in the dirt. One was the age of Tangwen, and the second was a year or two older.
At the sight of Gareth and Fychan coming towards her, Carys stood, her brow furrowing. Recognizing Gareth’s station by his sword, gear, and fine horse, she bobbed a curtsey. “What brings you to Goginan, my lord?” Then before Gareth could answer, Carys looked past him to Fychan, and her eyes widened. “Fychan! You were a boy last I saw you! Look how you’ve grown.”
Fychan smiled sheepishly and turned bright red. “Cousin Carys.”
Carys put her hands on his upper arms and kissed each of his cheeks in turn. “I heard you’d turned to the Church.”
“Yes, Cousin.” Fychan managed to disentangle himself from Carys, and he gestured to Gareth. “This is Sir Gareth, captain of Prince Hywel’s teulu. We have come—” Fychan broke off at the raised eyebrow from Gareth, flushing again. The boy really didn’t want to be the one to send this pleasant conversation into the terrible turn it was about to take.
Gareth took a step towards Carys, one of the sketches he’d made in his hand. “May I ask, is this your husband?” He tried to keep his face calm and his demeanor unthreatening. He wanted a truthful answer from Carys, given without fear of what might come next.
Carys took the paper, her eyes widening again as she examined the picture. “Yes! Yes, that’s my Gryff.” She looked up. It was only then that the muscles around her lips tightened as she realized that something might be amiss—that this might be mo
re than a pleasant social call. “Why are you asking me this?”
Gareth tipped his head to Fychan, pointing towards the two small children. Fychan understood instantly what Gareth needed from him. He swooped down upon the children, tickling them and herding them a dozen yards farther away from their mother. Then Gareth took in a quick breath and let it out, bracing himself for the task that had brought him all this way. “I’m sorry to tell you, Carys, but this man, if he is your husband, is dead.”
Carys gasped, put her hand to her mouth, and staggered a few steps back. She would have fallen if Gareth hadn’t caught her. “No! No!” She shook her head back and forth rhythmically.
This initial moment when a loved one learned about a death was always the worst part for Gareth. He tried not to rush it, to be gentle in the telling, and when he’d managed to get the words out, he always felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. For the person being told, however, it was only the beginning of the hard times.
“Sit here while I get you some water.” Gareth guided Carys back to her stool and then disappeared inside the darkened house. He was looking for the cup and the pitcher of water. It was resting on the sideboard, as it must be in every Welsh house he had ever entered, ready for the refreshment of a guest. He poured water into the cup and brought it back to Carys. “Drink.”
She took a sip, and Gareth crouched in front of her. “Do you think you could answer a few questions?”
Carys nodded, hiccupping a little and wiping at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her free hand. Her blond hair was pulled away from her face, though tendrils had come loose and framed it. Far more than before he’d told her of Gryff’s death, she looked very young—no more than eighteen to Gareth’s eyes. Too young to have suffered this loss.
“I’m sorry to have to ask this, but when did you last see your husband?”
Carys took another sip from the cup. Her attention was fixed on a patch of dirt somewhere to the right of Gareth’s foot. “Days ago,” she said, and now her voice came out dull and lifeless. The reality of her future was beginning to set in. “He was supposed to visit this coming Sunday.”
That was in three days’ time.
“Why was it that Gryff was absent? He was employed by …” Gareth left the question hanging on purpose, hoping Carys would finish it. Given her present state, he needed to lead her along, but he didn’t want to supply her with the actual answers.
“By that cloth trader he met,” Carys said. “He could never settle on any one thing, could my Gryff, but he always worked. We always had food to eat.” Tears leaked out of her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
Gareth glanced beside the cottage, where an extensive garden lay. It faced southwest, where it would be warmed by every ray of sun it could soak up. He suspected that the garden was her doing, and a large part of the food they ate came from her efforts, even with two small children to raise.
“Did the cloth trader pay Gryff well?” Gareth said.
“He paid better than any work Gryff had ever done,” Carys said. “Gryff worked in the silver mine until he hurt his back. Then he did odd jobs for the blacksmith. He was herding sheep for my brother when he encountered the trader—Iolo was his name—stuck in the mud. He helped him out, and then one thing led to another.” Carys put her head into her hands. “I can’t believe he’s dead!”
She wept, and Gareth allowed her to do so. He rose to his feet and stretched his back, waiting for her tears to slow and considering what question he should ask her next, if he was going to be able to ask her any more questions at all. Her grief seemed genuine. When he’d told her of Gryff’s death, she’d responded in a way that looked completely natural to Gareth—and he had experience in such matters. He’d told more wives than he liked to recall that they’d become widows. He found it hard to believe that Carys had murdered her husband, though he reminded himself to keep an open mind. There was no telling the lengths to which a betrayed woman might go to get her revenge.
Then Carys cut herself off abruptly and looked up from her hands. Since Gareth was now standing, she had to look up a little higher than she had before, and he took a step back so she didn’t have to crane her neck. “How did Gryff die?”
Gareth had been wondering when they’d get to that. “He was found in the millpond not far from the monastery at Llanbadarn Fawr.”
Carys blinked back a fresh onslaught of tears, her eyes wide as she gaped at him. “What? You mean he drowned? My Gryff? No.” She was back to the rhythmic headshaking. “That’s not possible. Not my Gryff.”
“It could have happened if he’d drunk too much,” Gareth said, trying out Iolo’s suggestion. “If he couldn’t swim—”
“He could swim!” Carys glared at Gareth.
Gareth looked carefully at her. “You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. He taught me.” She gestured to her children. “My older boy is only three, and he already swims like a fish. Gryff believed it was never too early to teach a child who lived by a river to swim.”
Gareth didn’t disagree, and her certainty made up his mind for him. “If we could beg lodging from you tonight, would you come with me in the morning to Aberystwyth? At the very least, I am sure you would like to see your husband into his grave.”
Carys sobbed aloud at the mention of Gryff’s funeral, her momentary anger forgotten and her grief renewed. But she nodded her agreement as well.
“Is there someone close by who can watch the children in your absence?” Gareth said.
“My sis-sister-in-law,” Carys said, gasping out a sob in the middle of the word. Then she moaned. “I must speak to my brother. He never liked Gryff.”
Gareth filed that piece of information away for future examination and bit his lip. He had more to tell Carys, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant for her to hear. It wouldn’t be worse than the news of her husband’s death, but it would add insult to the injury. “I regret to say that I have more news that you won’t want to hear, but I think it’s better to tell you all of it now than for you to discover it tomorrow.”
At first he didn’t think Carys had heard him because she continued to weep, hunched over with her face in her hands. Then she quieted, and although she didn’t look up, her voice came sharply. “What is it?”
He cleared his throat, finding it awkward to speak to the top of her head. “Another woman has come forward claiming to be Gryff’s wife.”
Carys jerked, almost falling off her stool. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” He must have apologized to Carys six times already and might have to do it six more. “That’s how we learned his name. The woman came into the chapel where he had been laid out and told us she was his wife. We discovered that you were his wife too only because Fychan is a brother at St. Padarn’s and recognized Gryff’s face when they brought him in.”
Carys had been pale from weeping, but now the rest of the color drained from her face, leaving it pasty and drawn. “Who-who is this woman?”
“Her name is Madlen. She is Iolo’s niece.”
“No!” Carys stood up so suddenly that she startled Gareth, who took a surprised step backwards. Carys brushed past him without another word and set off down the hill towards a cluster of houses below hers that lay nearer to the river.
Gareth went after her. She was distraught, and he was worried about what she might do. She said she could swim, but she wouldn’t be the first widow who tried to drown the pain that she couldn’t master. Because his legs were longer and he wasn’t crying, Gareth caught up with her after fifty feet or so. He tugged on her arm for her to stop and came around in front so she couldn’t keep walking. “Where are you going?”
“To see my brother!” Carys wrenched away from Gareth, shoving at him with both her hands to his chest, and took off again.
She didn’t hurt him, of course, being half his size, but she was quicker than he expected, and she got away from him. At least he knew now that she wasn’t heading for the river but for
the closest house. It was larger and sturdier than hers, with a new roof and possibly three rooms inside.
“Alun! Alun!” Carys wailed the name as she approached the house.
The front door was on the other side of the building, facing south and away from Gareth, so he didn’t see the man until he came around the side of his house. He caught Carys in his arms as she barreled into him. “What is it, Carys?”
Before she could answer through her sobs, Alun looked past her to Gareth, standing on the pathway that led up to Carys’s house. “What have you done?”
Gareth put up both hands in what he hoped was an unthreatening manner and began to walk towards the pair. Gareth was a knight and could fight if he had to, but he had no interest in pulling out his sword to protect himself from a grieving widow and her brother. Alun, if Gareth had heard the name right, was the size of an ox with a neck at least as thick as Gareth’s thigh. “I am the bearer of bad news, that is all.”
“What bad news?” Alun looked down to the top of Carys’s head.
“Gryff is dead!” Carys said between sobs. “He was found in the millpond in Llanbadarn Fawr.”
Alun’s face turned deep red. “I’ll—” But whatever he was going to say or do was lost in the outpouring of tears coming from Carys and the army of children who surged around the corner of Alun’s house, engulfing him and Carys and moving on up the hill. Gareth turned to see Fychan standing at the top with Carys’s two little ones, who would now be growing up without their father.
Fychan looked helplessly down at Gareth and the sobbing Carys. “What do you want me to do?”
“Carry on minding the children. We’re not finished here.” Gareth waved a hand at Fychan, who bowed his acceptance, and then Gareth walked the rest of the way down the hill to where Carys and her brother stood.
The Unlikely Spy Page 12