Alun glowered at Gareth. “Who are you?”
“Gareth ap Rhys.” Gareth kept his expression calm, and as he came closer, Alun’s expression faltered. For the first time, Gareth’s general appearance seemed to register.
Alun swallowed back whatever insult or (more likely) threat he’d been about to throw at Gareth and gave him a stiff bow instead. “My lord. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize who you were.”
“I am the captain of Prince Hywel’s guard,” Gareth said. “I have done nothing to your sister but tell her what has occurred.”
Alun seemed to be struggling with himself. “Can you explain, my lord?”
Gareth raised his chin, realizing what he was seeing: Alun was used to browbeating everyone he encountered, though the way he was holding Carys suggested that he genuinely cared for her. It had probably been a long time since Alun had asked anyone a polite question as he had Gareth just now.
Not one to hold a grudge, Gareth related to Alun the essential details of the finding of Gryff’s body, without mentioning the stab wound. He was still keeping that in reserve. He didn’t know how long he was going to be able to do that, or if it would help them find the murderer, but it was all he had.
Towards the end of the telling, Carys’s sister-in-law came out of the house and wrapped her arms around Carys. The two women sobbed together, and then the sister held Carys at arm’s length and looked into her face. “You always have a place with us. Isn’t that right, Alun?”
“Of course,” Alun said. Not every man would relish taking on three more mouths to feed, but to Alun’s credit, he welcomed his sister without hesitation.
“Come inside.” The woman put her arm around Carys and guided her around the hut towards the door.
Alun put his hands around his mouth and bellowed up the hill for Fychan to bring the children, which after a moment he did, having scooped up the youngest in his arms in his haste to answer the summons.
Fychan skidded to a halt at the bottom of the hill. “What is it?”
“Send the children inside,” Alun said.
Fychan obediently put the child down, and Alun urged all of them towards the house. They went willingly enough, and when they too had disappeared, Alun turned back to Fychan. “You saw Gryff’s body?”
Fychan nodded, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
“You’re sure it was Gryff?”
Again the nod.
“So he’s really dead, eh?” Alun stroked his chin and continued before Gareth had to answer that question. “I always knew he’d come to a bad end.”
“Why is that?” Gareth said.
Alun dropped his hand. “He was a layabout, that’s why.”
Gareth’s conversations with most everyone had given him that impression, first from Iolo’s disappointment in his associate, then from Carys, and finally from Alun, who proceeded to lay out Gryff’s failings more fully: he would always arrive later than he said he would; he would fail to complete an assignment by the end of the day or simply wander off halfway through; or he’d forget the details of what he’d been asked to do to the point that he became useless and it became quicker just to do the work oneself. Only Madlen hadn’t seen him as others did, and that difference made Gareth wonder yet again why Iolo had kept Gryff on and if it had been only for Madlen’s sake.
“His only value, as far as I could see,” Alun said, “was his ability to deliver messages. He would remember what had been said after hearing it once, and repeat it word for word at the other end, regardless of how much time had passed.”
“That is a useful skill,” Gareth said. “Could he be trusted not to repeat what he’d said to another?”
“As far as I could tell, he forgot the message the instant he delivered it,” Alun said. “Money meant nothing to him. A good day’s work meant nothing.”
“That makes him a difficult man to have for a brother-in-law,” Gareth said. “You must have worried a great deal about your sister.”
“He could have been a bard, you know,” Alun said. “But he threw that away too.”
“A bard? Nobody mentioned that he could sing,” Gareth said, thinking of the festival and wondering if Gryff had meant to participate.
“He could sing anything,” Alun said, “but no bard would take him on as an apprentice because he was so unreliable.”
“But you would think that he could memorize any song,” Gareth said.
“And forget it again by the next day,” Alun said, “once he’d sung it once.”
That kind of behavior was reminiscent of a man Gareth had encountered during the time he’d protected a community of nuns in Powys. One of the laborers who worked in their fields had been dropped on his head as a small child. He could be trusted with menial tasks, but spoke slowly, shied away from contact with people, and often listened without comprehension. But he had a head for numbers that defied all logic and expectation.
“I gather Gryff also drank too much?” Gareth said.
“Who told you that?” Again, Alun started talking before Gareth could answer. “The man had a hollow leg. He could drink me under the table and walk home in a straight line afterwards. I’ve never seen a man who could hold his mead like Gryff could.”
Iolo had implied exactly the opposite, but all Gareth did was make a note of that in his head and continue his questioning. “How did Gryff and Carys meet?”
“Oh,” Alun waved a hand, “he has cousins around here. He married Carys after she conceived his child. My father regretted the match, but at that point, he felt it was better that they were wed. Gryff had been working in the mine, but he hurt his back.” Alun shrugged. “I was there when the accident happened and it was genuine, but it wasn’t as if he’d ever been a hard worker in the first place.”
“When was this?” Gareth said.
“Some three years ago.” Alun screwed up his face for an instant. “It did give Gryff a fiery hatred of Prince Cadwaladr, Lord Hywel’s uncle.” Alun added this last bit of information as if Cadwaladr might be someone Gareth didn’t know.
“Really?” Gareth said. “Why is that?”
“He was working the men too hard, trying to extract ore too quickly,” Alun said. “He needed money and didn’t care what it took to get it.”
Gareth felt his face fall blank. He knew why Cadwaladr had needed money three years ago: He’d first needed to pay a retainer fee to the Danish mercenaries he’d hired to murder King Anarawd and his men, and then he’d needed to pay them off.
Alun didn’t seem to notice Gareth’s change in demeanor and continued, saying, “Gryff did odd jobs after that and was herding my sheep when he encountered the cloth trader, Iolo.”
“What did you think of his new employment?” Gareth said.
“To tell you the truth, I was relieved,” Alun said. “Gryff was a dreamer. Even herding sheep, which requires only the intelligence of a sheep half the time, was too much for him some days.”
Alun seemed genuinely upset at the loss of Gryff for Carys’s sake, but more regretful than angry or grieving on Gryff’s behalf. If grief was a reflection of love, neither Iolo nor Alun had loved Gryff. Neither man gave any indication they knew Gryff had been murdered either. Gareth wanted to see Alun’s face when he was finally told. Perhaps that moment ought to come soon.
But not yet.
“When did you last see Gryff?” Gareth said.
“Oh—” Alun tapped his chin as he thought. “It must have been the Sunday before last. He tried to visit Carys and the children when he could. The trader let him off on Sunday, and he would come if he could walk from wherever he was staying at the time.”
“Did you know he was in Aberystwyth?” Gareth said.
“I knew he was coming for the festival. He suggested we all come down for it, but—” Alun gestured helplessly around him. “I try not to leave my herds for more than half a day.”
“Aren’t you a miner too?” Gareth said.
“Not every day,” Alun said. “I sometimes pick
up work when they need an extra hand.”
Gareth knew a little of silver mining. The work took place underground in open shafts, and workers made their way down steep tunnels to where the silver was found. Usually, silver and lead were extracted together, and they had to be separated in a furnace to release the silver. It was hard work, hot and dangerous at times, and a life Gareth could be thankful every day he wasn’t born to.
Still, it was lucrative since miners were often paid in ore, which explained the size of Alun’s house and the extent of his herds. It was hard to think what Alun might have gained from Gryff’s death, especially if Gryff had finally been able to support Carys without help.
“Was Gryff usually staying in a place close enough to Goginan to walk home?” Gareth said.
“Not often,” Alun said, “Iolo ranged all through Deheubarth and Ceredigion, into Powys, and all the way to Shrewsbury. Gryff came when he could.”
“What about Carys? Would she have been willing to bring the children to Aberystwyth, even if you didn’t come with her? Surely Iolo would have allowed them to sleep wherever Gryff was staying?” Though as Gareth asked that, he realized that he hadn’t yet told Alun about Madlen. Gareth could see why Gryff would have been loath to suggest such an arrangement.
“If Carys discussed it with him, I never heard of it,” Alun said.
“Excuse me, Cousin.” Fychan stepped forward. He’d been so quiet Gareth had all but forgotten the boy was there. “Didn’t I see you a couple of days ago near St. Padarn’s monastery?”
Alun’s brow furrowed. “Did you?”
Gareth raised his eyebrows. Fychan was a sharp-eyed boy. He’d been right about Gryff, and Gareth was inclined to believe him in this too. “Were you in Aberystwyth two days ago? Did you see Gryff?”
The big man’s face grew red. Then the color seemed to take over his whole body to the point that he bore a striking resemblance to the silver furnace he occasionally worked. Gareth imagined him breathing fire. But then Alun took a deep breath, striving to calm himself. He might be a big man in Goginan, but Gareth was of a far higher rank as a knight. And they both served Prince Hywel one way or another.
“Fychan speaks the truth. I visited Aberystwyth for a few hours two days ago,” Alun said.
Two days ago Gryff was still alive. “Did you see Gryff?” Gareth said.
“I did.”
Gareth raised his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you mention it when I asked when you’d last seen him?” Gareth didn’t want to antagonize the big man, but this was a piece of information that should have come out far earlier in their conversation. Keeping secrets was the first indication of a guilty conscience.
“I forgot about it until Fychan said something. Earlier, I thought you were asking about when he’d last come here.”
“How did you get to Aberystwyth?” Gareth said. “Did you walk?”
“I have a cart and horse,” Alun said.
“You traveled two hours there and back to see Gryff?” Gareth said. “Why?”
Alun scoffed. “I didn’t travel to Aberystwyth to see Gryff. I had other business in the village. I ran into Gryff by chance. I hadn’t known he’d arrived yet or that his master had lodgings in the town.”
“What did you two talk about?” Gareth said.
“Nothing of importance, though—” Alun’s brow furrowed, “—he didn’t seem right to me. As I said, Gryff was always a dreamer, but that day he was tense, anxious even. It was noticeable enough that I asked him if he was well, but all he said was that Iolo was working him hard at the festival. He was in a hurry and didn’t want to talk.”
“What kind of hard work does a cloth merchant do?” Gareth was genuinely curious. As far as he could tell, a cloth merchant bought cloth and then sold it. He wasn’t sure where the apprentice came in, especially since Iolo had Madlen to help him.
Alun waved a hand. “Gryff did all the physical work: he put up the tent; he cared for the cart and horse; he even dug a latrine in the evening if they miscalculated how long a journey might take and had to make camp in a remote place.”
“That doesn’t sound like the work of a layabout,” Gareth said.
“It does if it took him three times longer than the average man to do the work.” Alun snorted. “I’d wager the only reason Iolo kept him on was so he didn’t have to do the work himself.”
Gareth grunted his acceptance of Alun’s reasoning. That might be a wager he would win. “What of Madlen?”
“What of her?” Alun said. “She’s Iolo’s niece, isn’t she?”
“Did Gryff ever speak of her?” Gareth said.
Alun pursed his lips. “Not that I remember, or not with any significance. She looked down on him, and such an attitude grows old after a while, even for one as easygoing as Gryff.”
Gareth swallowed, bracing himself for the wrath that he knew would come the moment he opened his mouth again. “She came to the chapel at St. Padarn’s saying she was Gryff’s wife.”
But instead of becoming angry, Alun simply gaped at him. “What? That’s absurd.”
“I tell you it’s true,” Gareth said. “We wouldn’t even have known that he had a wife in Carys—and had children too—if Fychan hadn’t come forward—” And then Gareth broke off as he carried that sentence to its logical conclusion in his mind: if Fychan hadn’t come forward, they would have buried Gryff’s body. If not for the murder investigation, that would have been the end of it. Carys would never have known what had happened to her husband.
Alun was too caught up in the news to wonder at Gareth’s unfinished sentence. He turned to Fychan, his face questioning.
Fychan bobbed a nod without needing Alun to actually ask him anything. “Sir Gareth speaks the truth.”
“That is utterly mad. Why would she say such a thing?” Alun said.
“Our assumption was that she believed herself to be Gryff’s wife,” Gareth said.
“That isn’t possible.” Alun’s voice was full of certainty.
“You don’t believe that Gryff would have led Madlen on?” Gareth said. “That he might not have told her of his wife and children?”
Alun shook his head. “No, I don’t. At the very least, if Madlen was under the protection of her uncle—as we know her to be—he would never have consented to the match without meeting his family. Besides, I just told you that Gryff asked us to come to Aberystwyth for the festival. Why would he have asked us if he was betraying Carys with Madlen?”
“I don’t know,” Gareth said, thinking of his own marriage to Gwen, which had united his family with hers, though at the time, his family consisted only of himself. “I gather you yourself have never personally met Iolo?”
Alun frowned. “Come to think on it, I haven’t. I suppose if I’d gone to the festival as Gryff had asked I finally would have.”
“Didn’t you find it odd that you never had met him before?” Gareth said.
Alun shrugged. “It was typical Gryff. Or so I thought then. But I’m starting to wonder if I knew the man as well as I thought I did.”
Chapter Thirteen
Hywel
Hywel and Rhun went first to the monastery to see to the wellbeing of Gwen, Mari, and the children. When they reached it, the women were sitting on a bench near the guesthouse with Tangwen and Gruffydd. Hywel came to a halt in front of them, crouching low to examine the stones the children had piled in the dirt.
“That has kept them occupied for the last hour,” Gwen said.
“I see that.” His fingers were itching to pick up his son, but he knew better than to disturb him when he was happy.
“How goes it with you?” Mari said.
Hywel straightened and kissed her temple. “Well enough. Though Cadwaladr sat beside me tonight.”
Mari drew in a breath. “Cadwaladr has arrived?”
Rhun laughed. “He was surrounded by enemies because Cadell is here too.”
“Neither can mean me immediate harm. Not today, anyway.” Hywel sat on the bench be
side his wife and took her hand. “This is nothing for you to worry about.”
Mari gave him an exasperated look. “If you didn’t want me to worry, you shouldn’t have said anything.”
Hywel knew that was true, but he found it impossible to keep secrets from her. He saw Gwen studying them from Mari’s other side. “What have you discovered that I don’t know about?” he said to her.
Gwen dipped her head. “I appreciate your confidence that I would have discovered anything.”
Mari elbowed Gwen in the ribs. “It seems Gryff came to the monastery on the afternoon he died.”
Hywel’s eyes lit. “He did? Why? What did he do?”
“He was looking for you, actually,” Gwen said.
Hywel’s expression turned wary. “For me?”
“Yes. We don’t know why—or rather, the gatekeeper to whom he spoke doesn’t know why or what he wanted you for.”
Hywel and Rhun exchanged a glance. “You can’t go back to that day.” Rhun said, correctly interpreting the regret on Hywel’s face. “What’s done is done, and you weren’t here.”
“Gryff offered to bring the gatekeeper his dinner, and then he left, without having found you of course.” Gwen clenched a hand into a fist and dropped it onto her thigh. “I wish we knew what he wanted.”
Hywel rubbed his chin. “That is truly the question of the hour. You learned this from the gatekeeper?”
“I did,” Gwen said. “I even questioned the cook afterwards. He remembered only that Gryff had come into the kitchen, requested the meal for Sion, waited until it was ready, and departed.”
Mari looked concerned. “Are we thinking that Gryff might have wanted access to the kitchen for some reason?”
Gwen shrugged. “In past investigations, we might have worried about poison, but we have no reason to suspect him of doing anything wrong. Gryff is the victim here.”
“Or so we have assumed, since he was the one who was stabbed,” Hywel said, “but what if the man who killed him did so in self-defense? We could be looking at this the wrong way around.”
The Unlikely Spy Page 13