The Lost Brother Page 4

  “I do.” Rhun contemplated Gwen and Gareth for another few heartbeats, and then he nodded his consent.

  Gwen gave a small sigh of relief. Father Alun had been right to come to King Owain’s headquarters, since he was the new ruler of the region, but control of that lordship remained precarious. If King Owain was going to rule in fact as well as name, he needed to be seen doing so. And that meant solving a murder in his lands.

  Gareth held out a hand to Godfrid. “It was good to see you. Hopefully Gwen and I can clear this matter up quickly and return before the assault on Mold begins.”

  “But—” said Godfrid.

  Gwen almost laughed at the look of consternation on his face, which was mirrored in Hywel’s and Rhun’s expressions as well. The part about Gareth and Gwen going alone hadn’t sunk in until this moment. All three had been involved in Gareth’s and Gwen’s murder investigations at one time or another, and each man wanted to come on this journey. She could appreciate the tug of intrigue and discovery, though she herself wasn’t looking forward to examining the dead body of a possible sister.

  But then Rhun gave way to the necessities of his station and said, “Be careful.”

  Hywel sighed and punched Godfrid’s upper arm. “This time we’ll have to leave them to it, old friend.”

  Though his eyes remained on Gareth and Gwen, assessing them, Godfrid grunted his assent. “At a minimum, a conference with the king shouldn’t wait.”

  “I agree, Godfrid,” Rhun said. “While my father hasn’t been receiving visitors today, perhaps he will make an exception for you.”

  “He is unwell?” Hywel stepped closer to Rhun.

  “So much so that he admitted it.” Rhun tipped his head to Godfrid, indicating that the Dane should come with him.

  His brow furrowed in concern, Godfrid patted Gareth’s shoulder, nodded at Gwen, and followed Rhun into the monastery, leaving Hywel with Gareth and Gwen.

  “I don’t like hearing that your father is ill,” Gwen said.

  “Neither do I, but you’ll have to leave him to Rhun and me for now.” Like Godfrid’s, Hywel’s face showed worry. “I suspect you understand what is happening here as well as I, but I’m going to spell it out for you anyway, just to be clear: you are to solve this murder in the name of the king while at the same time keeping your ear low to the ground. Our scouts have not reported a withdrawal from the region around Mold, which they should have if it were true.”

  “Maybe this just happened,” Gwen said.

  “Prince Cadwaladr’s men have had the duty these past few days,” Gareth said, though he looked down at the ground as he said it, not meeting Hywel’s eyes.

  Prince Cadwaladr, King Owain’s younger brother, had arrived on the border with Chester before King Owain’s forces last summer, having hastily departed Ceredigion in advance of the king. Gwen and Gareth had met during a time when Gwen’s father sang in Cadwaladr’s hall, and Gareth had served him as a man-at-arms. Both had left Cadwaladr’s court years ago—in Gwen’s case because she went where her father went, and in Gareth’s for refusing what he believed to be a dishonorable order. Gwen and Gareth had caught the wayward prince out in wrongdoing several times since then.

  “I know,” Hywel said.

  “I don’t like leaving you under these circumstances,” Gareth said.

  “I trust no one more than you two to get to the bottom of this,” Hywel said, “but it would be good if you could hurry.”

  Chapter Four

  Gwen

  “I will send a query to Lord Goronwy’s men on the chance they know more about Ranulf’s movements than Cadwaladr’s men have reported,” Hywel said.

  “Where is Lord Goronwy camped?” Gwen said.

  “Farther south,” Hywel said, “beyond Cadwaladr’s forces and alongside some of the other lords from eastern Gwynedd.”

  Gareth nodded. “Meanwhile, Gwen and I will question the people we meet.” He paused. “Some may not like it.”

  “My father rules these lands,” Hywel said, “and if Earl Ranulf wants to take them back, my father is prepared to meet him. Father would prefer to avoid the necessity, however. Our focus is on Mold Castle, not on the little villages and hamlets between here and there. We aren’t interested in fighting hand-to-hand and house-to-house.”

  “We understand,” Gwen said. “You want us to go to Cilcain to solve this murder and spread goodwill, while at the same time spying out the lay of the land. You’d prefer, also, that we don’t call attention to ourselves such that one of Earl Ranulf’s informers hears of it and tells him where we are.”

  Hywel studied her a moment. “This is an old tune for you, Gwen. You should know it by heart by now.”

  Gwen just managed to refrain from making a face at him like she might have done had they still been ten and twelve. Or even nineteen and twenty-one. He was right, of course. She’d spied for him before she’d investigated murders for him, though this wouldn’t be the first time one task had blended with another.

  Gareth was chewing on his lower lip. “Now that you agree, I’m having second thoughts. I hate to leave the men and you so close to the time for real battle.”

  “Evan is here, and while he is not you, he will do for now. You need to go,” Hywel said. “I would send only you, Gareth, if this dead girl wasn’t possibly Gwen’s sister or relation.”

  “I need to go with Gareth,” Gwen said.

  “I know,” Hywel said. “I won’t bar you from seeing her into the ground with a proper burial.”

  “Besides, as a couple, we will cause less comment,” Gwen said. “Now that I think about it, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for Gareth to travel as a common man.”

  Gareth put a hand on the hilt of his sword, which stuck out from underneath his cloak. “I will not sneak around like a thief. Either I’m representing King Owain and the rule of law, or I’m not.”

  “You are,” Hywel said. “Wear your sword.”

  “We’ll try not to get caught between opposing forces,” Gwen said, a smile on her lips. “Or get you caught between them.”

  Hywel pointed a finger at her. “That isn’t amusing. If you come upon Earl Ranulf’s forces, you turn and run.”

  “What if we can’t run?” Gareth said.

  “You are a knight and my father’s representative. You speak for me.”

  Gareth bowed, acknowledging the burden Hywel had placed on him, though truthfully, he carried that burden every day.

  Hywel touched Gwen’s shoulder briefly. He didn’t speak, but she saw concern and love there, and then the prince grasped Gareth’s forearm. “Good luck.”

  Gwen and Gareth mounted their horses to follow the priest, who’d watched their conversation from his perch on his mule.

  “How far is it to Cilcain?” Gwen said as she began to follow the priest down a different pathway from the one on which Gwen and Gareth had ridden to the monastery. Instead of heading north, back towards the camp, they rode south. The trail here was slightly narrower than the one from the camp—understandable since that road had experienced an upswing in traffic in recent weeks—but still well-trodden.

  The ground had been churned up during the spell of rainy weather they’d had, but the ruts had dried today in the colder air, becoming more rigid and easier to stumble over. Tree branches overhung the road as well, and Gwen kept having either to swerve to avoid them or to duck under them.

  “A little more than three miles as the crow flies, but we need to take the pass that runs south of Arthur’s mountain, so it will take a little longer. Thanks to King Owain, Gwynedd now runs to within a mile of Mold. We breathe easier under Welsh rule.”

  “Which puts the border of Wales how far from Cilcain?” Gwen said.

  “Another three miles east,” Father Alun said. “I know your prince is concerned for your safety, but even when Earl Ranulf’s forces controlled the area, they never bothered us. You will be perfectly safe.”

  Father Alun might be only trying to comfort her because she was a woman, but it never paid to be complacent, especially when one lived on the border between two warring lords. And while on first acquaintance Gwen had liked Father Alun, all of a sudden he seemed more self-satisfied than he ought to for someone who’d found a murdered woman in his graveyard. Godfrid could be right about the misinformation and the trap.

  Still, Father Alun had said his parish was poor, and Gwen consoled herself with the reminder that Ranulf of Chester wanted to rule these people too. Sacking a village that tithed to you, whether or not the inhabitants were Welsh, wasn’t a good way to ensure that the people continued to obey.

  The journey required nearly two hours of riding, in large part due to the slow pace set by Father Alun’s mule. A horse couldn’t run at a gallop for long, but if they’d at least been able to ride more quickly than at a walk, they could have reached the chapel in half the time. On another day, the delay between learning of the existence of a dead girl who looked like her and seeing her body might have set Gwen’s teeth on edge. But she was perfectly willing to put off what lay ahead of her as long as possible.

  During the first part of the journey, the hills which rose up on either side of them and the thick woods that surrounded the road sheltered the riders from the cold wind. But once they reached the open fields that characterized the land east of the Clwyd Mountains, the road widened, which Gwen preferred, but the wind picked up too, screaming down the valley towards them from the north.

  Gwen cinched her hood closed under her chin, such that the only part of her body that showed was her face. She was sure her nose was red, though with the light starting to fade as the end of the day neared, soon nobody would be able to tell. The close of autumn in Gwynedd meant that they had less daylight every day, until by the time of the winter solstice, the days were hardly more than seven hours long.

  Here in late November, that date was rapidly approaching. It wasn’t any wonder that King Owain wanted to move on Mold in the next week rather than continue to fight through the long winter months in the dark and the cold. Victory by Christmas sounded wonderful to Gwen too.

  As the road continued to descend into the lush valley, green even at this time of year, they approached the village of Cilcain from the west. Villages were few and far between in most of Wales, but in eastern Gwynedd, they were more common because the most prevalent livelihood for the people was farming rather than herding. When people were able to live in one place year round, communities were more likely to spring up. The village of Cilcain consisted of three dozen houses clustered around a central green.

  A small tavern, which was hardly more than a few wooden benches and tables set outside someone’s home, occupied pride of place at the entrance to the village. Its benches were full tonight, and as Gwen and the others passed by, every single head in the place turned towards them to watch their progress down the road.

  Father Alun raised his hand to the crowd and gave an extra nod to the tavern keeper, who came to stand in the doorway to the hut, the light from the fire behind him making him little more than a silhouette in front of it.

  Cilcain didn’t have an inn, which weren’t common in Wales anyway. They hadn’t passed one on the road either. With no castle nearby, she and Gareth would have to beg for a bed tonight from Father Alun or one of his parishioners.

  From the tavern, the road led Gwen, Gareth, and Father Alun past the southern side of the green to a crossroads, at which point they turned north, effectively passing through the bulk of the village in order to reach the chapel, which was located on the north side of Cilcain. Along the way, women and children came out to inspect them.

  Gareth had fallen back a length or two, his intent expression one he wore when he was carefully studying his surroundings. In particular, he would be committing the faces of the villagers to memory and taking note of any who looked quickly away as he passed or disappeared from among the onlookers before he could make them out.

  Gwen settled back into her saddle and lifted a hand shyly to several women as she passed by. Father Alun gestured to a little chapel fifty yards ahead of them, and his mule, sensing home, picked up speed such that he outpaced her horse’s walk.

  “So much for being discreet,” Gareth said from his new position on her left side, having caught up to her again. “Any spy of Ranulf’s can see for himself that a Welsh knight from Gwynedd has come to Cilcain.”

  “At least their glances aren’t resentful,” Gwen said.

  “The people here are Welsh,” Gareth said. “Let’s hope they know it, and nobody is running right now to the Earl of Chester to tell him we’re here.”

  Far too knowledgeable about intrigue and treachery to wonder why someone might report their presence, Gwen looked down at her hands as they once more clenched the reins. The answer would be for the usual reasons: because the spy was paid to do so, or because he believed in his cause. And she had to admit that if she lived in Cilcain, and Ranulf had sent his knights to the village, she would have been the first to tell Hywel of it if she could. Loyalty and treason were two sides of the same coin.

  “It might not be just for the money,” Gareth said, reading her thoughts. “People here have lived under Norman rule more often than Welsh for the last hundred years. Some will have done better for themselves because of it. Some might truly believe the Normans bring order, or even that they are the future and to fight them is only to put off the inevitable while making things worse for themselves in the process.”

  “I don’t want to live in a world where Norman rule is inevitable,” Gwen said.

  “God and King Owain willing, Gwen, you never will.”

  They left the main road to follow a northerly track, just wide enough for one cart, and halted in a grassy clearing in front of the main gate that led to the west side of the church. Like every chapel in Wales—and maybe all of Christendom—the nave was oriented on an east-west axis, with the door on the western end of the church and the altar on the east. This was so the morning sun, if and when it broke through the cloud cover and shone through the eastern window, could fill the church with light from behind the altar.

  Graves were dotted here and there in the grass on the north side of the church, and were even more numerous farther back, under the trees, which, as Father Alun had said, appeared to have grown up since the people in those graves had been buried. There were so many tombstones within her line of sight that Gwen quickly recalculated the age of the church. It was newly white-washed, which had given her the mistaken impression that it had been built recently.

  Gareth dismounted and surveyed the little church. “When they come, our men will march right through Cilcain.”

  Gwen dropped to the ground too. “I saw that gleam in Rhun’s eyes too when Father Alun mentioned the pulling back of Ranulf’s forces.”

  Gareth nodded. “I don’t know when it will happen, but it could be as soon as tomorrow or the next day. King Owain will move our camp forward, past Cilcain, but not close enough to Mold to be seen. And then he will attempt to circle the town and castle completely.”

  “Can you take the castle?” Gwen said.

  “Honestly?” Gareth said. “Yes. It’s an earth and bailey castle, built in wood, not stone. We can take it.”

  “You could simply burn it down,” Gwen said.

  “We could,” Gareth said, “but King Owain wants it for its strategic importance. He’ll burn it if he has to, rather than leaving it for Ranulf to refortify, but he’d prefer to take it intact. If we hold Mold, we have a good chance of controlling the eastern lands all the way from the Conwy River to the Dee. Even right up to the gates of Chester. Gwynedd hasn’t had that kind of reach since King Gruffydd’s time.”

  “I heard you mention Prince Cadwaladr’s forces,” Gwen said in a tentative voice. It went without saying that Gwen neither respected Prince Cadwaladr nor trusted him. She didn’t want to know what he’d been doing since she’d last seen him because she cared about his wellbeing, but because she cared about Gareth’s. As far as she was concerned, even when he was on King Owain’s side, he was a danger to her, Gareth, and everyone she loved.

  “You knew he was here, Gwen.” Gareth was speaking so low his words barely reached her. “He’s made Ruthin Castle his base, in the same way that King Owain has fortified Denbigh.”

  “But the king is staying at the monastery, not at his castle,” Gwen said.

  “Denbigh isn’t in a forward enough position for King Owain’s tastes. Riding back and forth from the encampment to the castle takes too much time, and he doesn’t have any other castles closer to Mold. That’s one of the reasons he wants Mold.” Gareth canted his head. “By contrast, Cadwaladr prefers to lead from behind. I actually haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  Father Alun, who had dismounted and approached without Gwen noticing, cleared his throat in what Gwen interpreted to be a subtle protest against the aspersions cast on Cadwaladr’s character. Gwen thought—hoped—he’d only heard the last few sentences Gareth had spoken, because any discussion of King Owain’s strategy had been intended for her ears, not his.

  Gareth faced the priest. “I apologize, Father, if I offended you by speaking of the king’s brother in that way.”

  Father Alun raised his hand. “It is good counsel never to speak ill of anyone, especially a prince, but do not fear that I am judging you. Your reputation has preceded you. Prior Rhys of St. Kentigern’s monastery in St. Asaph is a friend of mine.”

  Gwen let out a breath. Father Alun didn’t have to say more. If he and Prior Rhys had discussed the politics of Gwynedd, Rhys would have told him of some of the more heinous crimes Cadwaladr had committed over the years, many of which hadn’t been made common knowledge among the populace, but which Prior Rhys knew about from Gareth.

  And if he knew of Gareth, than he knew of her too. Some priests were uncomfortable around a woman who investigated death, but Father Alun had taken her presence at a murder investigation far more in stride than he had her resemblance to the dead woman. In fact, now that Gwen thought about it, he hadn’t balked at all when Prince Rhun had instructed both her and Gareth to return to Cilcain with him to look at the dead body. It was refreshing, really, not to have to justify her presence.