Prior Rhys regarded her, his face impassive, allowing a silence to fall between them that Gwen hesitated to fill. Then a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “A host of questions passed through my mind just now, chief among them being ‘why?’—which, after consideration, should have been obvious. I might ask, however, ‘why you?’”
“Because this is what I do,” Gwen said, and then hastened to add, “What Gareth and I do, I mean.”
“You examine dead bodies?” Prior Rhys said, and now he was almost laughing in his incredulity. “I did wonder what prompted the prince to include you among his delegation to Newcastle.”
“Believe me, I wondered it myself,” Gwen said. “Gareth might have prodded him a bit.”
“And this has been going on for how long?” Prior Rhys said.
Gwen lifted one shoulder. “A while. As a younger son, Prince Hywel has often been called upon to …” Her voice trailed off as she reconsidered what she’d been about to say. The role that Prince Hywel played in his father’s rule was perhaps not something that she should share with someone she barely knew, even if Gareth trusted him.
“Ah.” Prior Rhys nodded. “His tasks include some of the less savory, shall we say?”
Gwen sighed in relief. Prior Rhys had understood without her having to articulate it. No wonder Gareth thought so highly of him. She gave the prior a quick nod. “It has always been that way, ever since Prince Hywel became a man.”
“And you assist him?” The amusement was back.
“Prince Hywel and I grew up together,” Gwen said. “Intrigue is ever-present in a royal court. One day, Prince Hywel asked me to help him, and it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
“And then once you started, it seemed impossible to stop, even as a married woman.”
“Especially as a married woman.” Gwen laughed. “You do remember I’m married to Sir Gareth, do you not?”
Prior Rhys laughed too and bowed his head. “Your logic is impeccable, my dear. Surely, though, you didn’t start out examining dead bodies?”
“I am a bard’s daughter and traveled the length of Wales for much of my life, following the music. At first, all I did was keep my eyes and ears open and report to Prince Hywel what I learned.”
“At first …” Prior Rhys continued to suppress laughter. “And when did Gareth become a part of this?”
“He’s been a member of Prince Hywel’s teulu for nearly five years,” Gwen said. “He and I were married this last December.”
“Gareth is a lucky man,” Prior Rhys said.
Gwen grinned. “I think so!” She stepped towards David’s body. “Has anyone touched him beyond what was necessary to move him?”
“No,” Prior Rhys said.
Gwen studied the dead man’s face. She hadn’t really looked at him when he’d been on the ground. He was older than she’d thought at first, with lines around his eyes and on his forehead from a lifetime spent outdoors. She picked up one of his hands, noting the age spots and the loose skin. She revised her estimation of his age even higher, past forty at least, maybe even to an age equal with the prior.
She glanced up at Prior Rhys. He was gazing at her with a bemused expression. Gwen gave him a quick smile back and returned to her task, moving to the bottom of the table and tugging at one of David’s boots. She struggled a bit as she tried to get it off; the dead man couldn’t flex his ankles to help her. She was just opening her mouth to ask for Prior Rhys’s help when he cleared his throat and said, “Would you mind if I stepped out for a moment?”
Gwen suppressed her surprise. “Not at all.”
As Prior Rhys exited the room, Gwen wondered if he was squeamish but decided this was unlikely, given that the man had been a warrior before he became a monk.
Gwen finally wrestled David’s boots off of him. He’d hidden nothing inside them, nor did he have a knife strapped to either calf. Gwen ran her hands along his tunic and cloak, looking for a purse or a pocket in which he might have hidden something out of the ordinary. She found nothing there either, and nothing in his scrip beyond two coins. Many men kept their most precious possessions with them at all times, but it didn’t seem that David had.
Time was passing, and still Prior Rhys didn’t return. Gwen resigned herself to attempting to remove what of the man’s clothing she could, though she would leave his complete denuding to Gareth. Most of the time, she didn’t concern herself with what was proper, but she had her limits, even as a married woman. At a minimum, she wasn’t strong enough to flip the body over, and Gareth would want to get a closer look at that knife wound. Alard had taken the murder weapon with him, but if there was anything unusual about the cut, Gareth might be able to match the blade when they found it.
She unpinned the brooch that held David’s cloak closed at his neck and tugged at the fabric, trying to pull it out from under him. It was then that she noticed a ragged interior seam running down one side of the cloak. Someone had picked it out and then sewn it back together unevenly. Something hard and round had caught—or been placed—within it. Taking out her belt knife, Gwen picked at the threads that held the seam together. It was a matter of a few moments’ work, and when the ends came loose, a single polished green stone dropped into her hand.
Gwen looked at it, stunned. She’d been looking for something unusual within David’s clothing, but this went far beyond her wildest notion of what she might have found. She put away her belt knife and poked at the stone with one finger, turning it around in her palm. She was having trouble comprehending the fact that she was looking at an emerald. To possess such a gem, even a small chip like this, put David far above his normal station. It defied all rational belief that he could have owned it legitimately.
Her heart began to beat faster, and she clenched her fist around the stone. It was so precious, she felt she was holding a flaming piece of charcoal in her hand. She fumbled with the strings on her purse, finally got them untied, and dropped the gem inside.
Before she could cinch the strings tight and tie them, however, the door latch rattled. In dealing with the stone, Gwen had forgotten about Prior Rhys. Her first instinct was to hide the bag, but as she gazed down at David’s body, hesitating, she acknowledged that deception had never been her strong point. At the same time, telling Prior Rhys the truth wasn’t an option, not before she talked to Gareth and Prince Hywel. She swallowed hard. At any moment, Rhys would ask her if she’d found anything interesting, and she needed to have an answer that he would believe.
But then a man who wasn’t Prior Rhys flung his arm around her neck and pulled her to him. She was so surprised, she didn’t even shriek—and then she couldn’t shriek.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” His was a voice she didn’t recognize, low, almost guttural, speaking French as one who’d been born to it. The man held her while she struggled to breathe, keeping a pressure on her neck that was almost gentle—and all the more terrifying for all that.
Gwen knew she should do something—say something. At the very least, she should try to scream, but when she opened her mouth, no sound came out. Her feet had frozen to the floor, and it felt as if her head was no longer attached to her body. Blackness swam before her eyes, and then—
Chapter Six
Gareth
As Gwen left the hall with Evan, a messenger arrived for Amaury with the news that his men had found indications of Alard’s presence along the Lyme Brook. Relieved, Amaury took his leave to see to his men, with the promise that if Gareth would just wait for him, they could investigate together as soon as he returned. Amaury asked politely, but it wasn’t as if Gareth had a choice in the matter. He was in a foreign land, in a foreign castle. He couldn’t question the residents of Newcastle on his own.
Gareth was glad, nonetheless, to finally have something constructive to do. He collected Gruffydd, who’d waited for him on the steps to the keep, and then both men met Evan as he hastened towards them across the bailey from the chapel.
“Where’s Gwen?” Gareth said at Evan’s approach.
“With the prior,” Evan said.
“Good.”
Evan eyed him. “You’re not finding it difficult to control your new wife, are you?”
Gareth laughed, not at all offended. That Evan felt comfortable jesting on such an issue was testament to their friendship. “The man who tries to control Gwen is a man destined for frustration. No … if she’s with the prior, that means she can have a look at David’s body. We need that to happen before any more time passes. I want to have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”
“And before one of these Normans gets to him first. They would think nothing of stripping him down and hiding anything of interest from us.” Evan paused. “Did you tell Amaury what she was doing?”
“He noticed that she’d gone, and Gruffydd told him that she’d decided to sit with Prior Rhys,” Gareth said. “If I neglected to mention that she planned to examine the body while she was at it, you can hardly blame me.”
“He wouldn’t understand,” Evan said.
“Who would?” Gareth said. “It’s better to ask forgiveness from Earl Robert if she finds something useful, than permission from Amaury to inspect him, which he might well deny.”
They reached the spot where they’d left the horses. Gareth ruffled the hair of the boy who’d watched over them. “Much obliged, Ifor.”
The boy ducked his head and relinquished the reins of Gareth’s horse. The stables here were full, so they’d arranged for Ifor, a stable boy from Aber, to stay with their mounts. Little had they known that murder had been in the offing and how long their initial visit to the castle would take.
“This way, my lord.” One of Amaury’s men gestured that Gareth should follow him.
Amaury and the soldier who’d brought the message met Gareth, Evan, and Gruffydd at the gatehouse. At Amaury’s nod, the messenger urged his horse into a trot and led them through the open gate. Once on the road that passed in front of the castle, the man turned east. Gareth glanced west, in the direction of the Welsh encampment. If Gwen had been with him, he might even have turned that way to ensure her safety before he continued on with Amaury. But he knew Gwen wouldn’t have liked it, and he supposed she was safe enough with Prior Rhys.
A quarter of a mile from the castle, the gatehouse to the friary appeared on Gareth’s left. Both the Lyme Brook and the road to London bisected the Friary grounds, which encompassed lands to the north and south of the road. Amaury rode by the entrance without a glance. Another half-mile on, the small company left the road for the woods that lined the Lyme Brook. Another hundred yards and the scout pulled up in a small clearing.
Gareth swallowed down a grunt of disgust. A man lay face-up on the ground, blood pooling beneath him, though he’d been killed long enough ago for much of the blood to have soaked into the ground. A horse cropped the grass nearby. They all dismounted, careful to step lightly as they approached the body.
“At least one other horse was tethered in the clearing.” The scout pointed to hoof prints set deep in the soft earth under a nearby tree. “It’s gone now.”
“I can see that.” Amaury said.
The man looked down at his feet. Woe to the underling who wasted Sir Amaury’s time with obvious truths. Gareth caught Evan’s eye and nodded. Evan elbowed Gruffydd, and the two Welshmen headed towards the river. The man who’d spoken followed, along with three more of Amaury’s men who’d been waiting by the body for further orders.
Gareth and Amaury contemplated the dead man. Like David, the deceased was twenty years older than Gareth, though from a distance, his blond hair would have hidden the gray at his temples. He’d pulled back his hair and tied it at the nape of his neck with a leather thong, which had since come loose, the ends trailing in the dirt on which he lay.
Gareth crouched beside the body and turned the man’s head towards the sky with one finger at his bearded jaw. The man’s eyes were closed in death, and Gareth wondered who had closed them—the killer or one of Amaury’s soldiers, unable to bear his stare. The killer had stabbed the man’s heart, indicating that they’d fought face-to-face.
“Just what we need. Another dead man.” Amaury ran his hand through his hair and then dropped his arm in a gesture of frustration.
“A dead body is one thing. Murder another.” Gareth felt Amaury’s concentration and glanced up at the Norman knight. “You know him, too, of course.”
“His name was John,” Amaury said.
Gareth licked his lips, debating whether to ask straightforwardly for more information or if it would be better to draw Amaury out gradually. Gareth decided to take the long way around, to see if Amaury would volunteer what Gareth wanted to know. “He knew his attacker.”
“For him to get that close, he had to,” Amaury said.
Gareth waited through five heartbeats and then said, “The killer took the knife.”
“Perhaps it could identify him,” Amaury said.
That Amaury wouldn’t say outright that John was dead because Alard killed him presented Gareth with a dilemma. Amaury appeared reluctant to admit the possibility. It would be an assumption at this point, and assumptions were nothing without proof. Still, Gareth decided it needed to be said. “This looks like Alard’s work.”
Amaury sighed. “My men will comb the countryside for him.”
Gareth straightened, studying his surroundings. The trees were fully leafed, and here in the shade beside the river, the ground remained damp even when the sun was out.
“Over here, Sir Gareth!” Evan didn’t leave off Gareth’s title as he might have done had they been alone.
Gareth turned to Amaury. “He’s found something.” Without waiting to see if Amaury would come with him, Gareth crossed the clearing to where Evan and Gruffydd had entered the woods. Thirty feet on, he reached the two men. Evan crouched near some footprints on the bank, while Gruffydd hovered near a cluster of reeds growing at the water’s edge.
“What have you found?” Gareth said.
“Two sets of footprints.” Evan pointed to the thick mud that bordered the brook.
The print of a boot was sunk deep into the soil, indicating that a man had come out of the water there. Then Gruffydd showed Gareth several damaged reeds, as if something—or someone—large and heavy had passed through them.
The second pair of prints faced the brook, indicating that the man coming out of the water had been greeted by a second man, who’d perhaps grasped his arm to help him from the brook. Following Evan’s pointing finger, Gareth traced the path of the departing sets of footprints as they headed back to the clearing. They followed a different path through the undergrowth than the one Gareth had just taken.
“We’ve got more, Sir Gareth,” Gruffydd said. “Look at this.”
Amaury had followed Gareth from the clearing, and now he peered over Gareth’s shoulder as they looked at the spot on the ground that Gruffydd indicated. “I would say that’s blood.” Amaury waggled a finger at the dark patches speckling the leaves of several plants beside the trail.
“Indeed. Someone is wounded. If it’s Alard, it indicates that David may have fought back.” Gareth turned his head to look at the riverbank. “If I read the signs right, Alard left the brook here. A man greeted him—”
Gareth broke off his sentence without finishing it and ran back to the clearing. John lay as they’d left him, with a lone guard standing over the body. Gareth crouched and ran a finger along the bottom of John’s boot. His finger didn’t come away clean, but it wasn’t coated in mud either.
Just to be sure, he tugged off John’s boot and brought it back to the riverside. Crouching, he placed it in the first print Evan had found, the one belonging to the man who’d gone for a swim. Unsurprisingly, his boot didn’t fit the print.
Then Gareth placed the boot into the second print, fully expecting it to fit, only to find that John’s boot was two fingers’ width larger.
Amaury had watched Gareth’s antics
with interest and now leaned in. “Could the print have shrunk?”
“The sun doesn’t shine in here. The mud should have preserved the boot’s shape perfectly. If anything, the print should be wider than the wearer’s actual boot and deceive us into thinking it’s John’s.” Gareth straightened and surveyed the water’s edge. “So Alard met a third man, who was not John; I don’t have enough information yet to say how John fits into this story, other than to say that it is likely that either Alard, or the one who met him, killed him.”
The four men moved back to the clearing. Unfortunately, the boot prints around John’s body had been smeared and jumbled by all the activity, and it was impossible to link a particular print to the man who had killed him. “My bet is on the third man from the wall walk,” Amaury said.
“Provided the one who came out of the water was actually Alard,” Gareth said.
Amaury shot Gareth a puzzled look.
“I’m not rejecting my earlier supposition that Alard killed John,” Gareth explained, “but the additional boot prints and the overall complexity of this investigation have given me renewed resolve not to assume anything.”
Amaury’s expression cleared. “Oh, I see. We have prints and blood, but nothing suggests that either is tied to Alard, except that he went into the water at Newcastle, and someone came out of the brook here.” He pursed his lips. “It is well not to assume. Thank you.”
“We all have assumptions, and sometimes those assumptions prove true, but with two murders now, I think it might be best if we take it one step at a time and focus on what we know,” Gareth said. “The more we learn, the more we can explain, until the murderer reveals himself without us having had to assume anything.”
Amaury gazed towards the river, though Gareth didn’t think he was really seeing it. He was silent through a dozen heartbeats and then said, “May I have a moment of your time, Sir Gareth?”
The Fourth Horseman Page 4