His friends were holding their breaths, and Gwen still held his arm. The love in her face almost undid him more than the sight of Cadwaladr. Gareth’s vision blurred, and instead of shouting or punching or strangling Cadwaladr with his bare hands, he took in a great, shuddering breath. “Forgive me, Aron.”
Everyone eased off their ready stances.
Gareth had thought he’d see pity in their eyes as he apologized again, but Gruffydd said, speaking for everyone, “Cadwaladr is a rabid dog who should have been put down long ago. We all know it, and every one of us would help you do it, even though we ourselves might be imprisoned or killed for the offense. But you know our lord’s mind. If anyone has the right to Cadwaladr’s life, it is Hywel.”
The thought of what Prince Hywel would be feeling were he here with them calmed Gareth further and made him intensely thankful that his prince remained at Aberystwyth. The sight of Cadwaladr had almost driven Gareth mad. Hywel might have more self-control, but he’d fought long and hard for internal sanity—if not peace—with his brother’s death. Someday he would confront Cadwaladr again, but it didn’t need to be today.
Gwen looked first at Gareth and then around at every man. “For now, if any of us were even to touch Cadwaladr, the consequences could be far worse than leaving him alive.”
“I know.” Gareth put a fist to his forehead, working on settling his breathing now that his mind had begun to work again. He’d never been this out of control before.
Immediately after Rhun’s death, he’d had to be strong for Hywel. That was the image of himself he had in his head. And although during this past year the grief at Rhun’s loss blindsided him every so often, though less and less as the months had passed, it had never been to the point of loss of control. It was his job to rein Hywel in—or Gruffydd—not the other way around.
One more breath and Gareth was able to ask Aron evenly, “You think Stephen has sent Cadwaladr to Bristol to use him, and yet at the same time to get rid of him? How can it be both?”
“Cadwaladr was a thorn in King Owain’s side long before the war in Deheubarth and your service to him, Gareth. Even when Cadwaladr is on his best behavior, we all know what he’s like.”
“Boastful,” Gruffydd said. “Always going on about his accomplishments, his rights, and his privileges.”
“A liar and a traitor,” Gwen added. “He will tell you one thing to your face and turn around the next day—the next hour—and do the exact opposite if it serves him better. Or even tell you that he will support a particular move and then, when you make that move, deny ever promising anything.”
“King Stephen had to have noticed this by now,” Aron said. “Earl Ranulf, before this latest betrayal, might even have told him of their dealings.”
“But why entrust Cadwaladr with a message to Henry if he knows he’s untrustworthy?” Gareth felt he ought to know the answer, but he supposed his mind still wasn’t functioning properly.
Aron answered without judgement. “The king is a powerful man in the midst of a war, even if outright warfare is currently in abeyance. Taking Cadwaladr’s side against Owain is utterly out of the question, because Owain is the only thing keeping the lords of the March from expanding their reach into Wales. Stephen can’t countenance that when the whole of the March is held against the king, much of it in the hands of Alice’s relations.” Alice was Cadwaladr’s Norman wife, and Ranulf of Chester was her uncle. “Stephen hasn’t even made a move against Gilbert de Clare, despite the taking of Wiston Castle in the summer.”
“He can’t,” Gareth said. “Earl Robert is dead, but William holds the southwest against him.”
“Exactly,” Aron said. “Stephen hasn’t moved against Clare, who attacked one of his staunchest allies. Why would he pay any heed to Cadwaladr if it means going against King Owain, who has reached out to him and who keeps Ranulf in check on his western border?”
“Why not outright evict Cadwaladr from his court, then?” Gwen said.
“There’s no advantage in that either, my lady,” Aron said. “The war has split families right in half, so Cadwaladr’s current position is hardly unique. King Owain never sent men in support of King Stephen, and I expect Stephen may, in fact, be hoping to eventually use Cadwaladr against Owain, once the war with Maud is over. But until then, he can’t, because that would mean siding with a host of supporters of Maud.”
As usual, Aron’s analysis was dead on. Gareth hadn’t before heard the problem so succinctly put.
Gruffydd was gazing in the direction Cadwaladr had gone, having entered the keep with his entourage. “It may even be that Cadwaladr’s mission is a test of loyalty. If he defects to Gloucester, good riddance to a difficult problem. If he returns with news and reports of men, money, and weapon stocks, so much the better.”
Gwen’s eyes had followed Gruffydd’s. “I’m confused, then, as to why Cadwaladr went to the king in the first place, when he has so many natural allies who oppose Stephen.”
“It may be that he tried here first, Gwen, but Earl Robert threw him out.” Aron drew in a breath. “I’m afraid I don’t yet have the measure of Prince Henry.”
“He wants to do good,” Gwen said.
“He wants to be king,” Gareth corrected gently. “Likely, he will have trouble being both.”
Even while he cautioned his friends, Gareth’s interactions with Henry had revealed to him a measure of careful thought in the young man that Gareth found daunting. King Stephen was just past fifty, born within a year or two of Earl Robert. He had a son, Eustace, who was a few years older than Henry. It was impossible to know at their respective ages exactly what kind of men either of these two noble sons might become, but reports indicated Eustace was brash and intemperate. In other words, he was spoiled in a way Henry was not.
If it came down to a battle for the crown of England between these two royal offspring, Gareth’s silver would be on Prince Henry, not Eustace, for all Eustace’s father currently sat on that throne.
Gareth started walking toward the entrance to the keep, Gwen still with her hand tucked into his elbow. Taran was back in his sling, awake but starting to look sleepy, now that he was again attached to his mother. That would be the best thing for him this afternoon, given the upheaval among the adults in his life.
“Tell me you aren’t going to antagonize Cadwaladr, Gareth,” Gwen said. “You must stay calm.”
“I am calm.” Though just the thought of being calm threatened to overturn Gareth’s tenuous hold on himself. “I know my duty.”
The others had started after him, and Gruffydd came up on Gareth’s other side, striding along beside him. “Does Prince Henry know the full story of Cadwaladr?”
“Nobody knows the full story but you few.”
“And I suspect even I don’t know it all. You have to tell the prince.”
Gareth stopped abruptly. “How? How do you think that conversation is going to go?”
“You tell him the truth,” Gruffydd insisted again. “Tell him what Cadwaladr did.”
“Any time you speak ill of another man, you call into question your own integrity. It will look to the prince as if I’m excusing my own shortcomings by denigrating another.”
“You told Prince Hywel about what happened in Ceredigion, and he listened,” Gruffydd said.
“No, that wasn’t me.” Gareth shook his head. “He had his own informants in Cadwaladr’s household. He already knew what had happened from others, and he sought me out. If Prince Henry doesn’t know about Cadwaladr’s misdeeds, I cannot be the one to tell him.”
Llelo burst from the inner gatehouse tower, through which Cadwaladr and his men had just passed, spied his parents, and ran full tilt towards them. Fortunately it wasn’t far and thus only mildly unseemly. “I just saw him.” He arrived, breathless, skidding in the gravel. “He’s here. Cadwaladr is here.”
Gareth put a hand on his shoulder. “We know, son.”
The young man, Hamelin, with whom Llelo had been sent to sp
eak to the guards but whom Gareth hadn’t actually met, hurried up just behind Llelo. “Who is this Cadwaladr that he engenders such dismay?”
Gareth knew his face was stony, but Llelo either didn’t notice or was too excited not to answer without pretense. “He is a treacherous snake who can never be trusted. He murdered King Owain’s eldest son.”
Hamelin gaped at him. “Does Henry know?”
“We are going now to see why Cadwaladr is here,” Gareth said, taking in the young man with a sweeping glance. “Lord Hamelin, yes?”
“The prince’s half-brother.” Hamelin put his heels together, in what Gareth was beginning to see as a very Norman way, and sketched a bow.
“Thank you for assisting my son, my lord,” Gareth said, remembering to be polite. “I very much want to hear what you’ve discovered, but right now we have larger concerns.”
He finally felt he had command of his emotions, and he turned to Gwen. “The meeting with the maidservant is soon. I was hoping that you and—” He took in the expressions of all the men facing him. None of them wanted to go with Gwen.
Gruffydd put up his hand. “It is better that I do not enter the hall, Gareth. If I didn’t run Cadwaladr through, at the very least by the time I was done with him he would be left with a broken jaw.” He bent his head slightly and spoke in an undertone. “You are not the only one who is angry.”
Gareth gripped Gruffydd’s shoulder reassuringly. “We all want to rip out his throat with our teeth, and none of us will do it.” His gaze went to each of the other men in turn. “I was out of line earlier. It will not happen again.”
They all nodded.
With a quick squeeze, Gwen let go of Gareth’s arm and headed off with Gruffydd. Before Gareth could talk himself out of his momentary composure, he set off again towards the entrance to the keep, his stride purposeful, and he felt the other men fan out behind him, like he was a boat and was pulling them along in his wake. Once up the steps and through the anteroom, he didn’t break stride, continuing down the avenue created by the arrangement of the tables to the dais where Prince Henry had been enjoying a meal but which he’d abandoned in order to greet Prince Cadwaladr.
Gareth came to a halt several paces away and to the left of Cadwaladr, such that his left knee just bumped the edge of a bench to the nearest table. They’d arrived in time to hear Cadwaladr conclude, “King Stephen expresses his regrets at the loss of his noble cousin.” He bowed. “Please accept my condolences as well.”
Prince Henry gestured to an empty seat at the high table, past Roger and Robert Fitzharding, who were to the prince’s left. “Please join me for some refreshment.” Then his eyes went to Gareth, and he canted his head. “Though, of course, if you’d rather dine with your countrymen, I would understand.”
Gareth was drawing in a breath, without a single thought as to how to respond to Prince Henry’s assumption—but knowing that he had to—when Cadwaladr turned to him, grasped his upper arms, one in each hand, and kissed his cheeks. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you,” he said in French. “I’d heard a rumor you were here. How goes it with my brother?”
Stunned by the effusiveness of Cadwaladr’s greeting, Gareth could only stutter, “The-the king is well.”
“It is my greatest regret that I was not able to mourn the loss of Rhun with him, but I knew the urgency of my mission to the court of King Stephen and didn’t want to leave the task he’d set me undone.”
This outright lie left Gareth—and all of his men—gasping. It seemed impossible to muster any response in the presence of Prince Henry that wouldn’t show Gwynedd in a bad light, even as Gareth was desperate that the young prince not be seduced by Cadwaladr’s charm. This was the first time that charm had ever been turned on Gareth himself, and he understood better why people succumbed to it.
“Why did King Stephen send you?” was all Gareth could manage.
Cadwaladr didn’t look affronted by the question, perhaps because Gareth hadn’t managed to put the emphasis where he meant it—on the you instead of the why. Regardless, it was clear that Cadwaladr was determined to maintain his current façade regardless of Gareth’s attitude. “King Stephen wants peace in Britain above all else. He considers me a valuable member of his court and knows that many of my relations have in recent months come over to Prince Henry’s faction. He is hopeful that, through me, some kind of accord can eventually be reached.”
That was, without a doubt, the most preposterous thing Cadwaladr had ever said, and his string of comments since he’d come into the hall were already at the outermost of absurd. But he delivered the words with such sincerity that Gareth again found himself struggling for an appropriate response.
Aron rescued him, speaking to Prince Henry, “My lord, thank you for your offer to sacrifice a meal with Prince Cadwaladr so he could eat with us, but the monks at the priory are expecting us. I’m sure Prince Cadwaladr would be more than happy to accept your hospitality.” He bowed deeply.
Prince Henry gestured again to the empty seat at the high table. “Ease your journey at my table. I am grateful to my cousin for sending such a noble emissary at the hour of our greatest grief.”
Gareth’s relief was palpable. Like everything else that had passed for conversation in the last few moments, the prince’s words were prettily said. Though Gareth had been briefly angry at Llelo for being so open with Hamelin, now he could not regret the bit of truth that had been spoken. It might even be that Henry himself had heard a little of what had transpired in Wales last year, in which case a small portion of Henry’s words might be less than sincere. If Gareth knew anything about life in a Norman castle, he knew that all was not as it seemed—ever.
His suspicions were confirmed when Henry added, speaking to Cadwaladr who was in the act of rounding the table to find his seat, “You must tell me how my uncle, the king, fares these days. I had heard that he too has not been well of late.”
“I don’t know who told you that, but it isn’t true.” Cadwaladr bowed regally before pulling out his chair and sitting. He had to lean forward to continue the conversation, and those between him and Prince Henry leaned back so as not to impede either prince’s view. “His only regret is that he has not heard from you since he paid the wages of your men.”
Henry had been trained to control his expression, so if Gareth hadn’t been looking closely, he might have missed the slight pinching around Henry’s eyes. His smile definitely grew stiffer, and though he still looked older than his fourteen years, it wasn’t by much. King Stephen had paid the wages of Henry’s men, and Gareth could well imagine that the line Cadwaladr had just delivered was the real message that King Stephen wanted to send. In other words, You are in my debt, and you would be wise not to forget it!
Perhaps to distract from the extreme awkwardness of the exchange with Cadwaladr, Henry focused again on Gareth. “Before you depart, did you have something to say to me, Sir Gareth?”
The last thing Gareth wanted to do was discuss the investigation in front of Cadwaladr with the entire high table looking down at him. He had no choice but to make some reply, however, so he bowed, feeling that giving Henry his full due as Maud’s son was the wisest course of action under the circumstances. “I would not speak of it in open hall, my lord.”
“Then you and I shall briefly retire.” Henry tipped his head to indicate the side door. “The monks can wait for you a little while.”
Cadwaladr glared at Gareth for a heartbeat—the expression vanishing so quickly Gareth wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t been looking. Rather than churning Gareth’s stomach again, however, Cadwaladr had settled it further. That was the Cadwaladr Gareth knew, and it was something of a relief to know that the treacherous version of the prince was still in there, and Gareth himself hadn’t lost his mind.
Llelo and the Dragons resolved to stay behind in the hall. Given that Cadwaladr remained at the high table, Gareth didn’t think he could have dragged any of them away, anyway, no matter how much
they might have wanted to hear what he had to say to Henry. Only Hamelin came with him, and neither Gareth nor Henry questioned his presence.
As Gareth walked beside the young men, it came to him that the Norman habit of making noble bastards might have a method to it. It created an entire class of upstanding and capable noblemen who served their legitimate siblings and cousins. Because bastards could never inherit, they could be trusted like a legitimate brother never could.
This time Henry made no pretense of sitting in his regal chair but immediately began to pace in front of the fire. Hamelin took up Llelo’s former position with his back to the door, standing silent sentry. Gareth wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He couldn’t sit unless Henry did, so he stood ten feet away, his hands behind his back and his legs spread, waiting.
As it turned out, Henry didn’t actually want to talk about the investigation—or at least not yet. “There is more to this emissary, this Prince Cadwaladr, than I currently know, isn’t there?”
Gareth spoke around a held breath. “I am not the man to talk of this, my lord.”
Hamelin took a step forward. “Then I will. Cadwaladr is responsible for the death of Gwynedd’s heir, Prince Rhun, a year ago.”
His mouth dropping open, Henry stopped his pacing and looked from Hamelin to Gareth and back again. “You tell me truly?”
Gareth forced himself to give the prince a stiff nod.
“I’d heard that Prince Rhun had been killed, but not the circumstances,” Prince Henry said. “As far as I knew, they were unclear. He was ambushed—”
Gareth’s eyes went to Hamelin’s face, but the young man didn’t look at him. As far as Gareth knew, Hamelin had learned of Cadwaladr’s treachery a quarter of an hour earlier—and yet he behaved as if he was aware of the full story.
Gareth didn’t know why Hamelin was showing such fidelity to Gwynedd, but now that the truth had come out, Gareth wasn’t going to hang him on the line to dry. “The day Rhun died, Cadwaladr was attempting to ambush and murder me, and he misjudged his target. Rhun was killed instead. In fairness, you should know from the start that I struggle to accord Cadwaladr any respect, deserved or otherwise. Our history goes back long before Cadwaladr’s latest offense. He used to be my liege lord, in fact.”
The Favored Son Page 11
