Llelo risked asking one more question. “Were any missing from duty today?”
“Yes.” Harold was back to frowning, though this time not at Llelo. “The garrison is large, so I call out their names. We were missing only one this morning: George, whose grandfather died yesterday—not at the castle,” he hastened to add. “He’s been ailing and was almost eighty. He lived in the town with George’s sister ...” His voice trailed off.
Llelo looked at him curiously. “Is there something else?”
“This past hour, I did a circuit of the walls, reassuring the men. Aelfric wasn’t at his post, and nobody could tell me where he’d gone, though I know for certain he was here at the morning meeting.”
If Aelfric had been at the meeting, he wasn’t on the battlement tipping off the stone. But if Llelo had learned anything during his years as his father’s apprentice, it was to record every detail and make sense of them later. “Please let me know if you find him, Sir Harold.”
“He couldn’t have had anything to do with Sir Aubrey’s death,” Harold protested.
Llelo looked directly at him. “But he could know something or someone who does—and for some reason may not want to tell us.”
“Because he’s protecting a villain?” Harold grimaced. “I admit he never has been the most reliable of my men.”
A bell tolled above them in the gatehouse, echoing others more distant. Harold looked up at the sound. “I have my own duties to attend to.” He put his heels together and bowed slightly at the waist in Hamelin’s direction. “My lord.” He departed.
“Means, motive, and opportunity,” Hamelin said.
Llelo turned to him. “What was that?” He’d heard those words strung together before, though in Welsh and coming, if he remembered correctly, from Evan.
“It just occurred to me that a murderer needs each of these three things in order to kill someone. He to has to have the ability to murder, a reason to do so, and a chance to commit a crime. In a way it’s a blessing that we can eliminate all the guards, because that’s a large number of people to question. It can’t be Sir Harold either, whatever we think of his methods.” Hamelin’s expression turned thoughtful. “Who knew that Bristol Castle had so many undercurrents within it? How could I have been so unobservant? Why does nobody tell me these things?”
“The line between nobleman and servant is sharp and deep, but murder cuts across all groups and classes. I should warn you that it exposes secrets too. Look what we have discovered about both Harold and Aubrey that in the course of our normal lives we would have had no business knowing. And I assure you, what we’ve learned so far is only the beginning.”
Chapter Nine
Gwen
Eventually Mabel’s sobs lessened, at which point her lady-in-waiting returned, bringing another cup of wine. After some coaxing, Gwen convinced Mabel to drink it.
Like Mabel, this servant was in her middle forties, though unlike Mabel, her hair remained a rich brown, a match to her eyes which watched Gwen appraisingly. High-ranking noblewomen surrounded themselves with women of a slightly lower station. Often they were either unmarried maids or widows.
“I’m Eva,” the woman said, meeting Gwen’s gaze. “Can you help me get her to her chamber and bed?”
“Of course.”
The weeping had made Mabel more human and softer, but not so much so that she didn’t raise her head to complain to Gwen again: “Your presence at Bristol is wholly unnecessary. I will speak to my nephew about it.”
“As you wish, of course,” Gwen said, mindful of what she’d said to Llelo earlier that morning about not rising to anyone’s bait and hoping he was faring better than she. She looked at Eva over the top of Mabel’s head and was heartened by Eva’s apologetic and rueful expression.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, madam,” Eva said.
But Mabel turned to look at Eva. “And where were you this morning when I needed you?”
“I was seeing to your breakfast, my lady.”
Lady Mabel harrumphed. “Seeing to that Robert Fitzharding, I expect.”
Eva’s face flushed, prompting Gwen to look quickly down at her toes. Lady Mabel’s comment had hit the center of the target.
Mabel’s face was blotchy from crying, but she managed a sniff. “You are forgiven, and we will speak no more of it.”
Once Mabel was settled in her bed, Eva moved with Gwen towards the doorway. “Thank you for your assistance. She needed a woman’s shoulder to cry on, and for some reason, she refuses to show weakness in front of me.”
Gwen canted her head, hoping for more, and Eva obliged. “My husband died two years ago. He was many years older than I, so it was not as surprising a death as Earl Robert’s. Lady Mabel knows it was not a love match, so she believes I don’t understand her loss. But nobody can reach my age without losing someone.” She studied Gwen. “I see you have as well.”
“My mother, at my brother’s birth.”
They were in the doorway, and Gwen could tell that Eva was ready for her to leave, but she hesitated, not wanting to lose the moment of intimacy. “Do you know anything about these deaths?”
Eva pressed her lips together for a moment before speaking. “Nothing that will help you. The maidservant and valet lived belowstairs, and we didn’t mingle. Sir Aubrey was a fine man. I had hoped in time—” She broke off, shaking her head.
“You knew him well?”
“Of course. We often sat together in the hall of an evening, and for a while we were drawn together in mutual loss.” At Gwen’s questioning look, she added, “His wife died earlier this spring.”
“You hoped to marry him?”
“Oh no! You misunderstand me.”
Gwen bent her head. “My apologies.”
At first, Gwen thought the problem was that it had been too bold a question, but then Eva said, “I know you didn’t misunderstand my lady’s barb about Robert. He and I are courting, but given the mourning throughout the castle, we felt that it was inappropriate to be seen together in public until several more months had passed. I was thinking of introducing Sir Aubrey to my sister.”
Gwen smiled gently. “I apologize for prying.” She met Eva’s gaze and saw a flicker, deep down, of something more—an emotion that she quickly suppressed. Lady Mabel wasn’t the only woman whose heart was troubled today. So Gwen took a chance and pressed Eva’s hand for a moment. “I’m sorry also for your loss.”
“Earl Robert was a great friend.” Something eased a bit around Eva’s eyes. “I must see to my lady.”
“Of course.” Gwen stepped back so Eva could shut the door to the chamber.
Alone in the corridor, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. She was exhausted; it was well past noon, and she’d gone without her noonday meal on a day on which a man had died; and they had three other deaths to investigate. And still, she stayed where she was, doing none of the things she should, particularly rescuing Gareth from caring for Taran for too long. She tipped her head, listening for any wailing in the distance, no matter how faint, indicating he wanted to nurse again, and heard nothing. Maybe she still had a little time.
Mabel’s room was located two floors above and on the opposite side of the keep from the great hall, which made it a quieter spot than almost any other room in the castle. Earl Robert’s chambers now belonged to William, the new earl, but these were currently occupied by the prince. That fact may have contributed to William’s decision to take himself elsewhere rather than witness his place usurped, even by the possible future King of England. William had to have resented his father’s birth, bastard to old King Henry, knowing that, had things fallen differently, William himself would have been king instead of his cousin.
There was a difference, too, between the lot of a firstborn son, like Henry or William, and a son who had an inheritance thrust upon him, like Hywel. Rhun, Hywel’s elder brother, had been a remarkable man and would have made a great King of Gwynedd, but a second son who never
imagined he would rule, who labored in the shadow of his older brother, sometimes brought something special to the role. King Owain had been such a son. Gwen had never met William, but she suspected he was less like Roger, the only brother she’d met, and more like Prince Henry: an eldest son groomed to rule and taught to be protective of his rights and privileges.
That left Roger, the younger second son, in an uncertain position. It was he to whom Gwen wanted to speak, if she could find him. And then, as if on command, Charles came up the stairs. At the sight of Gwen, his face took on an expression of concern. “All is not well?”
“Lady Mabel has retired,” Gwen said. “I was hoping you could point me to where I might find Lord Roger.”
“In the chapel, my lady.” He paused. “Might I be of assistance?”
“Not to me, thank you, but you might ask Eva if Lady Mabel needs anything.”
Charles bent his head in a bow. “Of course.” He hurried past her towards Lady Mabel’s door.
For Gwen’s part, as Charles had promised, she found Roger settled on a bench in the middle of the chapel. He was the only person present, and she made sure the leather sole of her shoe scraped loudly on the threshold as she entered.
He didn’t turn around, but still said, “You may come in, Gwen.”
Surprised and more than a little disconcerted that he recognized her without looking at her, she came forward to sit on a bench opposite him, though facing the altar and the stained glass rose window above it. “How did you know it was I?”
“Your footfalls are surprisingly heavy for such a small person, and I noted your passing with my mother earlier. Thank you, by the way, for caring for her.”
Gwen was uncertain what the correct response should be beyond, “You’re welcome.”
“How may I help you?”
“These deaths—”
“Ah, yes. My cousin’s suspicions have been confirmed, do you think?”
“That’s what we are here to find out.” Gwen wasn’t sure what to make of Roger’s droll tone. He was very young, younger than she was, but he spoke with the voice of a much older man. Normans grew up quickly, forced to do so by their education and training, even if convention dictated that manhood began at twenty-one. Admittedly, the rule was routinely overlooked or outright ignored, especially in those who were worthy of a man’s responsibilities earlier.
Hamelin had given her a similar impression, though he didn’t seem to be as quick-witted as Roger. In fact, now that she thought about it, Roger shared some of the same characteristics as Prince Rhys of Deheubarth, also a younger son. Though, on short acquaintance, Gwen liked Rhys much better. Roger was less sincere, with a far sharper tongue, to the point of being cunning or shrewd. If Hywel had been raised with less laughter, he might have become like this man.
“You don’t believe he’s right?” Gwen asked.
Roger gave her a withering look, the implication being that the very act of speaking to her at all was a gift, but that he wouldn’t bestow it any longer if she continued to be so daft. “My cousin carries a great weight on his shoulders. Sometimes he is prone to ... extravagances.”
Gwen stared at him, shocked by this frank admission. Roger was the prince’s steward and by rights should be the most loyal of his companions.
“Why do you think my cousin summoned you?”
Gwen thought back to the conversation with Henry. He claimed Earl Robert had spoken of Gareth often. And since Roger had been so rude to her, she decided she wasn’t ready to answer directly. “You genuinely don’t know?”
Instead of showing offense, Roger laughed. “Your skills as an investigator are renowned throughout Britain, and you saved my cousin’s life three years ago. Yes, that is why. But I worry that there’s another reason, which Henry has not confided in me. I cannot lose his confidence.” He lifted his chin to point at Gwen. “What say you?”
Gwen forced herself not to swallow hard and decided again to be honest. “He called for us because we do not serve anyone here.”
“Because you are Welsh? Surely not.” Roger’s scorn was plain.
“More than that, we stand outside any lord’s purview.”
Roger grunted, for once not arguing. “Henry is not blind to the way this war between his mother and Stephen has torn England apart. It has divided families, pitting father against son and brother against brother. It’s been wasteful and bloody. Do you know how many unauthorized castles have been built in the last eight years?” He didn’t pause for Gwen to respond but went on as if she had. “At least a hundred.” Roger frowned. “You have confirmed my fears. Henry doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t trust anyone here.”
Gwen again found herself in the strange position of comforting a member of this noble family. “Perhaps it is more that he wanted someone who wasn’t beholden to him? He sees the value of independent intelligence.”
“Few lords would agree.” Roger was morose now.
Gwen didn’t add that her own lord valued independent thought and rewarded those who spoke truth, despite risk of censure.
Heavy boots sounded in the corridor outside the chapel.
“Go.” Roger made a quick motion with his hand, shooing Gwen towards a narrow staircase that led to a gallery above the chapel for the private worship of the lord or his lady when even the keep’s chapel was too exposed and a lord needed complete peace to pray.
Roger was used to being the authority and giving orders, and Gwen responded to him accordingly, without really thinking about it. Even though she was deeply offended—as well as fascinated and appalled—by his manner, she obeyed, hastening up the steps. Roger didn’t want to be seen with her, that was for certain.
She reached the top step to find herself in a little alcove that was hidden from the view of anyone below, and scurried forward to take a quick look down the adjacent passage. It led to an upstairs corridor.
Then she returned to the alcove, her ears perked and listening, and peered around the pillar. The chapel was lit only by the candles on the altar and whatever light was coming through the rose window, so it was dim at the back. She couldn’t mistake the shape of Robert Fitzharding, however, when he strode into the room as if born to rule it.
Roger stood up to face Fitzharding, straightening his tunic with a jerk, and giving no indication that Gwen was still present ... except for the flicking out of his right forefinger, just once. She wasn’t sure if his intent was to order her to leave entirely or simply a warning to remain quiet. At this point, she wasn’t going to leave, but she did shrink back, pressing herself to the wall of the corridor. She wasn’t worried about being able to hear what they were about to say below her, since the acoustics in the chapel were excellent, and voices echoed. The Normans didn’t have music in their souls like Welshmen did, but they did know how to construct a room for singing.
“You did the right thing to send for me,” Fitzharding began.
“I hope it isn’t too late, Robert. Henry respects you. He’ll listen to you. You must go to him and stop this madness. My father must be rolling over in his grave.”
“I have met the investigators. Welsh.” If Fitzharding hadn’t been in a chapel, Gwen had the sense he might have spat on the ground. “What could Henry be thinking?”
“They saved his life three years ago.”
Fitzharding didn’t respond out loud to that, and Gwen was tempted to peer around the corner. She imagined he was sneering, but without being able to watch his face and motions, she couldn’t tell clearly what he was thinking, and she could be wrong. His French might be saying one thing and his face another.
“As it is,” Roger said without giving Gwen further insight into what Fitzharding’s actual response had been, “they appear well on their way to poking their noses into everybody’s business. And now the woman, Gwen, has found favor with my mother.”
Is that what she’d done? Gwen almost guffawed at the characterization. If that was favor, she would hate to see censure.
Fitzharding m
ade a sound of disgust. “It is unconscionable that she would take advantage of a grieving widow.”
“Advantage or not, she was just here, by all appearances prepared to ask me questions.”
“Did you answer?”
“Of course not! I sent her away.”
Gwen felt her eyes widen at this bit of subterfuge, because Roger had to know that she hadn’t left. He had to. Didn’t he?
“Good.” The sound of someone—Fitzharding, she presumed—sitting heavily on one of the benches echoed in the chapel. “It would be a mistake to allow such people to act above their station.”
Gwen would have loved to reveal herself, if only to wipe away the superior smirk that she just knew was on Fitzharding’s face. Despite her best efforts to remain serene, he raised her hackles. But while he didn’t like Welshmen, it didn’t make him a murderer.
Now the heavy tread of a man’s boots echoed on the floor, and Gwen risked a peek around the corner, thinking that someone new had come in, but it was only Roger, who’d started to pace. His head remained down so he didn’t see her, and Fitzharding’s back was to the alcove.
“The problem, Robert, is that with Sir Aubrey’s death, I’m beginning to have doubts. These accidents aren’t looking so much like accidents anymore. What if someone did murder my father? What if Henry is right?”
“He isn’t.” Fitzharding had a deep voice. If he’d been a bard he might have been a bass. And then, more softly—“You really are worried, aren’t you?”
Roger may have nodded, which Gwen couldn’t see, since she’d withdrawn her head again, and then Fitzharding added, “If foul play is taking place in the castle, it should not be these outsiders who see to it. Henry should have appointed me and my men to oversee such an all-encompassing investigation. It makes no sense he brought in interlopers from Gwynedd. The Welsh should never be so encouraged.”
If Gwen heard one more disparaging comment about her people she was going to hit something. Almost worse was how casual everyone was about it—as if the idea that all Welsh people were lazy, insubordinate, good-for-nothing cretins was a matter of common knowledge.
The Favored Son Page 9
