“I don’t know, girl,” her father said. “I don’t know how I got into the pantry. I remember only bits and pieces of yesterday afternoon and evening.” Meilyr’s brow furrowed, and then he shook his head. “I have a memory of making music during the evening meal … unless that was the day before? But after that … I don’t remember anything that happened until the cook screamed in my ear and I saw Collen dead at my feet.”
Gwen bit her lip. “You were supposed to meet me in the herbalist’s hut after we sang in the hall for Lord Cadfael. I practiced by myself until well past moonrise because you never came.”
Meilyr gazed down at his feet. “Could I have stopped for a quick drink in private?”
Gwen suppressed the groan that formed in her chest. Her father certainly could have done that, though she’d hoped that he’d put those days behind him. At the same time, she was pleased that even in his decrepit state, he was aware enough of the hold drink had over him to ask the question of himself before she could.
“You never saw Collen?” she said.
Meilyr’s eyes shifted to the left, just like Gwalchmai’s did when he lied to her, even as her father shook his head and said, “No.”
Gwen glared at him. “You did see him. When?”
Meilyr scrubbed at his graying hair. He had been allowed to wash the blood from his hands before they put him in the cell. “You have no right to question me, Gwen. I didn’t kill the man. That’s all you need to know.”
Gwen was afraid that her father still didn’t seem to understand the seriousness of his situation, nor understand that if he was convicted of murder, his children would suffer too. “It’s not me you have to convince,” Gwen said. “It’s Gruffydd, Robert, and Lord Cadfael.”
“They are all good men,” Meilyr said.
Gwen felt her temper rising. “Good men? If any one of them believes you murdered Collen, as it seems both Gruffydd and Robert already do, Lord Cadfael could hang you! What will happen to Gwalchmai and me, then?”
“Cadfael won’t hang me. Why would he?”
“Because you killed Collen!”
Meilyr shook his head. “I don’t know why you’re talking about a hanging. At the most, the galanas I am required to pay will be more than we can afford.”
Gwen shook her head, a deep unease in her bones. “We’re in the south, Father, not in Gwynedd. Even if King Anarawd is in the ascendency now, the Normans have a strong hold here. We don’t know if Lord Cadfael will abide by the old laws.” Payment of galanas from the murderer to the victim’s family was the traditional Welsh method of punishing a murderer. Punishment by dismemberment and death was a Norman innovation, though one that some Welsh lords were employing despite the law.
“Don’t talk that way,” Meilyr said.
“Don’t you understand how bad this looks?” Gwen said. “Remember what happened to Gareth!”
At the mention of Gareth’s name, the tension between Gwen and her father filled the room to the point that Gwen could almost see it. Her father sat still, just looking at Gwen. She stared at her feet. She’d sworn she wouldn’t say Gareth’s name, ever again, even if she’d thought about him every day since she was sixteen years old.
Her first love—and her only one—Gareth had been a man-at-arms in the service of Prince Cadwaladr, ruler of Ceredigion. Gareth had wanted to marry Gwen but had been dismissed from Cadwaladr’s service before he could. His single act of disobedience—the refusal to cut off the hand of a young thief—had reverberated through all their lives. Cadwaladr had been angry, impetuous, and unreasonable, and Gwen feared that in respect to her father, Cadfael might be the same.
Meilyr cleared his throat. “Just because I don’t remember what passed during the evening, doesn’t mean Lord Cadfael will think I killed my old friend.”
“Robert certainly thinks you did, and he will testify to Lord Cadfael to that effect,” Gwen said.
Meilyr rubbed at his chin. “Somebody wants it to look like I did it.”
“But why?”
Meilyr snorted. “So it doesn’t look like they did it, of course.” Meilyr’s voice was all patience, as if Gwen had the intelligence of Dai, the castle’s resident imbecile who hauled the slops from the kitchen and cleaned the latrine.
“But why you?” Gwen said.
“I don’t know.”
“You made it so easy for the killer. You walked right into his trap.”
Meilyr snorted, though whether at Gwen or in agreement with her, Gwen didn’t know. She closed her eyes, trying to rein in her temper. She shouldn’t have shouted at her father, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. Thankfully, he hadn’t felt the need to slap her down just now.
“You must speak to Gruffydd,” Gwen said. “He’s very certain that you killed Collen, but if you tell him about your loss of memory, it might introduce a morsel of doubt.”
Meilyr leaned back against the wall. “He won’t listen to me, not unless someone else comes forward to support what I have to say.”
Gwen eyed him. “Father, despite your denials, are you worried that you might have killed Collen?”
Meilyr shrugged.
“Why would you think that of yourself, even if you were drunk?” Gwen said.
“He and I had a slight disagreement yesterday,” Meilyr said.
So that was what he’d been hiding. “The disagreement was serious enough to make you want to kill him?” Gwen said.
Meilyr tipped his head back and forth to say maybe. “Not when I’m sober.”
“A disagreement over what?” Gwen said. “You’ve always liked Collen.”
“Which is why I didn’t want to tell you or Gruffydd what passed between us,” Meilyr said. “He and I discussed the formation of a business relationship, since I travel through Wales as much as he does.”
Gwen’s eyes narrowed. “This business relationship would have involved what, exactly?”
Meilyr tsked through his teeth. “He proposed that I might carry an item or two for him from one place to the next, at which point he’d collect it and pay me for my time.”
Gwen didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of items?” she said, and then she bit her lip when she recognized from the impassivity in her father’s face what he meant. “Collen was talking about stolen items! He wanted you to smuggle valuables out of a castle for him! As a bard, nobody would suspect you, and then he would meet you later to collect what he’d stolen.”
Meilyr canted his head. “As you say.”
Gwen shook her head in disbelief. “Did you agree?”
“Obviously not,” Meilyr said. “I thought about it, though not for long. It simply wouldn’t have been worth the risk, not with Gwalchmai’s voice being what it is.”
Gwen nodded. Gwalchmai’s voice was going to be their entry into any hall in any cantref for many years to come. His soprano already rivaled that of the finest singers in Wales. In a few years his voice would change, true, but with his knowledge of music and poetry, instilled by her father who was himself a poet and scholar, Gwalchmai could become one of the most revered bards of his generation. That, at least, was her father’s plan. He had stopped over-drinking because of that promise. He would do nothing to jeopardize it.
“What about the mead?” Gwen said.
Meilyr shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember drinking any.”
“What do you mean, you don’t remember?” Gwen said, her voice rising again. “You clearly had a great deal of it.”
Meilyr opened his mouth, perhaps to deny her words, but then he closed it and shifted awkwardly on his bench. “I did not mean to imbibe.”
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t remember.”
Gwen felt like ripping out her hair and knew that she was going to ruin the most civil conversation she’d had with her father in months, even if it was about murder. “You know that on bad days you can’t even have one sip without falling into drunkenness. And look. That’s exactly what you’ve done.”
A knock came at the door before her father could answer, and Gwen turned away in relief. Saran, the herbalist, poked her head into the room. “You asked to see me, Gwen?”
Saran was of middle-age, comfortably-figured, and as far as Gwen knew, had never married. Her coal-black hair was braided and coiled in a rope around her head. Gwen had seen it down once. It fell almost to her ankles.
Gwen ran to the door and took both of Saran’s hands in hers. “Yes! Thank you for coming!” She pulled Saran into the cell and once again, the guard shut the door behind them.
“Hello, Meilyr.” Saran stopped in front of the bard, who lifted his head. He’d been coherent while he’d conversed with Gwen, but his eyes were still bleary.
“Hello, Saran.”
“What have you got yourself into this time?” Saran put her fingers underneath Meilyr’s chin and turned his head from side to side. “You don’t look well.”
“I had too much to drink,” Meilyr said.
Gwen was surprised that he admitted it, but he seemed comfortable in Saran’s presence.
“Hmmm … it’s something else, I think,” Saran said.
“What do you mean?” Gwen stepped closer.
Saran leaned in and sniffed before turning to Gwen. “Do you smell that?”
Gwen felt awkward standing so close to her father and sniffing at him, but she did as Saran asked. “Yes. I …” Gwen thought a moment. “Edain said he smelled something sweet or nutty on Collen’s breeches earlier, before they took him from the pantry.”
Saran nodded. “It’s not drink, Meilyr, though you certainly had plenty of that, too. Or at least your clothing did.”
“Then what is it?” Meilyr said.
“It’s an old recipe, from the east,” Saran said. “A skilled herbalist pours it into a sponge and holds it under a patient’s nostrils, to ease their pain and help them to sleep.”
“What is in it?” Gwen said.
“It’s an infusion of poppy, mandrake, hemlock, and ivy,” Saran said.
Gwen’s heart beat a little faster. “Such a concoction can’t be easy to acquire.”
“I wouldn’t have said so,” Saran said.
“But you think someone could have used it on my father?”
“It would certainly explain Meilyr’s deep sleep,” Saran said. “Even a drunkard should notice when a man is murdered at his feet.”
“I’m not a drunkard!” Meilyr said.
Saran bent to look into Meilyr’s face. “You are. I’ve kept my eye on you and even if you’ve been sober most of this winter, if you are going to live through tomorrow and help that boy of yours become everything you hope he does, you need to admit it. And drink only water.”
Meilry made a disgusted noise in his throat, but then said, “You’re right. I know—” He clenched his knees so hard that his knuckles turned white. “I hate water.”
Saran shook her head. “Did you kill Collen?”
“No.” Meilyr’s voice was stronger again.
Saran muttered something that included the words “men” and “stubborn” as she looked down on Meilyr’s bowed head. Then Saran spoke louder: “Elements of this crime seemed to have been well-planned, in that your father was deliberately dosed with this infusion and put into the pantry. But other aspects, like the strangling of Collen are that of impulse. Surely there are cleaner ways to kill a man.”
“At the same time, it’s hard to imagine a method more effective than a harp string,” Gwen said.
Again, the muttering, before Saran raised her voice. “True. Though I could tell you better.”
Gwen didn’t dare ask about that knowledge. A skilled herbalist, by definition, was the most trusted—and the most dangerous—person in any community.
“Will you go to Gruffydd with this?” Gwen said.
Saran glanced at Gwen. “I will, but it won’t be enough.”
The pit of sickness in Gwen’s stomach threatened to become permanent. “It won’t?”
Saran straightened, patted Meilyr on the shoulder, and then took Gwen’s arm. “Come with me.” Saran prodded Gwen to the door, knocked on it, and when the guard opened it, hurried Gwen through it and out of the barracks. Saran halted and turned to Gwen, her eyes full of regret. “It will not be enough that I bring my suspicions to Gruffydd. There is too much evidence weighing against your father for Lord Cadfael to release him on my word.”
“Wha—what do you mean?” Tears formed in Gwen’s eyes.
“Cariad, why are you crying?”
“B—b—because my father has been accused of murder.” Gwen brushed away the tears with the back of her hands.
Saran’s gentleness gave way to impatience. She stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for Gwen to regain control. Gwen struggled not to cry for another dozen heartbeats and then managed a shaky smile.
“That’s better,” Saran said. “Now. We know that Gruffydd and Robert have already made up their minds about your father, correct?”
Gwen nodded, not daring to speak lest Saran’s exasperation overflowed again.
“Has Gruffydd tried to trace your father’s movements last night? Has he talked to anyone at all?”
“Not that I know,” Gwen said.
Saran gave a sharp nod. “Then I guess it is up to you.”
“What?” Gwen said. “How could it be up to me?”
“I’ve watched you for three months, now,” Saran said, “moping about, pining after that Gareth of yours.”
“I’m not pin—”
“You are, and it’s time you stopped. He’s not coming back and you need to manage your own life instead of hoping that someone else is always going to be there to take care of you. What will you do if your father is convicted of Collen’s murder? How will you care for your brother? Where will you go?”
“I don’t know—”
“Exactly. You don’t know. But you could know. You could have a plan. And maybe while you’re thinking of one, you could find out something that will help your father. You have a mind. Use it!”
Gwen’s mouth opened and closed. She didn’t know what to say. “I do use it—”
“When you first arrived, months ago, I offered to teach you about herbs, to give you a useful skill for when you weren’t at the beck and call of your father and brother. What did I get from you?” Saran went on without waiting for Gwen’s response. “Nothing! A shrug at most.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m a bard’s daughter—”
“You’ll be a murderer’s daughter if you’re not careful,” Saran said.
Gwen stood gazing at Saran with her fists to her lips and her mouth open. She dropped her hands to her sides. “I didn’t think—”
“Well, start thinking!” Saran spun on her heel and marched away
All Gwen could do was stare after her.
Chapter Three
“Young lady,” Robert said. “Your father murdered a man. Lord Cadfael cannot let such an act go unpunished.” Robert stood before Gwen, his brows furrowed and his lips turned down. He wore his gray hair close cut and he ran a hand through it as if to imply that he couldn’t believe Gwen had the temerity to question him.
Gwen couldn’t quite believe it either. “I know that the murderer must be punished. But my father didn’t kill anyone.”
Gruffydd had been standing beside the steward and now bent at the waist to bring his face down to Gwen’s level so he could look into her eyes. It was better than Robert looking down his nose at her. “Meilyr killed Collen, Gwen. We found him next to the body.”
“My father has no marks on him, even if he did have blood on his hands,” Gwen said. “How could he have slit Collen’s throat so easily? Collen was half again my father’s size.”
This was true. Gwen was neither tall nor short, but her father was of less than average height, only a few inches taller than Gwen. In his middle years, his body had grown soft and he’d developed something of a paunch, which he tried to hide beneath his ge
nerously cut tunic. Collen, by comparison, was fitter. Even though he was closer in age to Meilyr than to Gwen, he didn’t look it. Or hadn’t.
“Men have been known to show great strength when angered,” Gruffydd said. “He would have attacked Collen from behind. Upon Collen’s death, the body would have fallen just as it did and your father’s clothing would have remained clean.”
Gwen bit her lip. She was hoping to find an additional argument that would prompt Gruffydd to admit some measure of doubt, so then she could have saved the more powerful reasoning for last. As it was … “I know that my father was found with the body, and that the harp string belongs to him. He even had blood on his hands, but Saran says that there’s more to it than that.”
“How so?” Lord Cadfael had been sitting at one end of the high table, observing their conversation without participating in it. Gwen had been careful not to involve him. She didn’t want to draw the wrath of either Robert or Gruffydd by going over his head to his lord. Given the direction the conversation had taken, however, it might be unavoidable.
“Because he was dosed with a potion. Did you not notice a strange smell about him?” Gwen’s eyes were on Gruffydd as she spoke.
Gruffydd breathed deeply through his nose, as a man might do whose patience is sorely tried. “I did not. What of this smell?”
“It comes from a potion from the east that will put a man into a deep sleep with a few sniffs,” Gwen said.
“I find that unlikely.” Robert adjusted his fine, deep green tunic with a jerk. As steward for Lord Cadfael, he was a wealthy man in his own right and dressed accordingly.
Gwen gazed at Robert and then back to Gruffydd, her own patience stretched to the limit. “Let’s say he was dosed with it. Where could the murderer have gotten such a rare potion?”
Gruffydd shrugged. “I respect Saran’s wisdom, but with the mead your father had consumed …”
Robert rocked back and forth on the balls on his feet. “He was very drunk.”
“That is exactly my point, my lords.” Gwen forced herself to moderate her tone before it rose. It was all very well and good for Saran to chastise Gwen for not actively trying to help her father, but it was quite another to get these men to listen to her. But then, she was a girl, and Robert was Cadfael’s right hand man, while Gruffydd ruled the garrison. Why should they listen to her?
The Bard's Daughter (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery) Page 2