The Favored Son

by Sarah Woodbury

  Gareth wanted to protest, to tell Henry that including Cadwaladr in any plan was a well-trodden path to disaster. All Henry had to do was ask Earl Ranulf. Gareth even opened his mouth to speak, but then he shut it again. Henry knew the truth now, and if he chose to ally with Cadwaladr, there was nothing Gareth could do about it. The result would be harm to him and everyone around him, one way or another, but that wasn’t something Gareth could prevent. He wasn’t an adviser, and he had no place here except at Henry’s request. If the prince wanted to entertain Cadwaladr in his own domains, Gareth had no right to tell him that he couldn’t. And he didn’t want to become just another older adviser that Henry chose to ignore.

  Hamelin had a look on his face that indicated he would love to argue too, but at a quick shake of Gareth’s head, he subsided. Still, a calculating look appeared in Hamelin’s eyes that told Gareth he’d made the right choice. Just because neither of them spoke up now didn’t mean they never could again—Hamelin more so than Gareth.

  And maybe, if Cadwaladr really did defect to the Angevin cause, it would be the best thing for Gwynedd. It was possible King Stephen had taken the measure of Cadwaladr and found him wanting—and King Stephen had far more power in England right now than Henry. Even if Gareth himself was immune to it, he acknowledged that Cadwaladr had the ability to charm. Better that he wasn’t in London anymore to whisper in the king’s ear and instead joined the side not currently on the throne.

  So Gareth settled back on his heels and kept his mouth shut while the prince stared into the fire. At least this time Cadwaladr wasn’t a suspect in their investigation, so Gareth need not speak to him, or of him, again. He wished he could avoid looking at him.

  A rap came at the door, and it opened at the same time Henry said, “Enter.”

  A man slightly taller than Gareth and broader besides, though none of his extra weight looked to be fat, stood in the doorway. Gareth knew instantly that this was William. Like his father, he was the very essence of what a Norman lord should look like, down to his highly-polished black boots.

  “William!” Henry strode forward, his hand out.

  The Earl of Gloucester bowed, straightened, and clasped Henry’s hand.

  Henry held it for a heartbeat longer than necessary, looking earnestly up into his cousin’s face. He spoke before William could, as if this was the continuation of a conversation they’d been having—which likely it was. “I know you don’t agree with my suspicions, but you should know Sir Aubrey died today.”

  Gareth didn’t know what to make of the display, since just this morning, Henry had accused his cousin of murdering Earl Robert. Since Henry couldn’t have forgotten that fact, did Gareth need to see the accusation instead as that of a grieving child? Did Henry now regret having made it, especially since William had been absent from Bristol since his father’s funeral and could have had no immediate hand in Aubrey’s death?

  “I heard, cousin.” William pressed his lips together for a moment. “He will be missed.”

  “Now will you consider the possibility we have cause for concern?”

  William gazed down at Henry for a moment and then his eyes flicked to Gareth, who bowed his head and said, “My lord.”

  “You are Sir Gareth. Welcome to Bristol.” William put out a hand as if he meant to shake Gareth’s forearm. “My thanks for saving my cousin’s life are belated, but know they are no less sincere for the delay.”

  Gareth was so surprised at this display of respect that he almost didn’t put out his own hand in a timely manner. Fortunately, he managed it, and the two men grasped forearms. “Thank you. I am sorry for your own loss.”

  William sighed. “My father would have much preferred to die in battle. As it is, he is at peace, and that is all I wanted. He had a long struggle this year in a different kind of battle.” He released Gareth and turned to Prince Henry. “Will you tell me what you know so far? I swear to you now that I am willing to listen.”

  Henry obliged—or rather, Gareth obliged—and he’d just finished relaying everything he knew so far when another knock came at the door, which opened to reveal Charles, the would-be castle steward. “My lords? We have more visitors. The Earls of Hertford and Pembroke have arrived.”

  Charles was speaking of the two Gilbert de Clares, referred to in this Norman castle exclusively as Pembroke and Hertford because otherwise their shared name was too confusing.

  The corners of William’s mouth turned down, however. “I didn’t expect either until tomorrow.”

  “They tell me Earl Ranulf is close as well,” Charles added.

  Again, William’s gaze fell on Gareth, who was standing with his hands behind his back, trying not to look like he was listening, though of course he was. “You fought with Pembroke’s faction last summer. What say you? Can we take England back for my aunt?”

  “England is not Wiston Castle, my lord. I will say that with so many high-ranking lords in residence, we are sitting on tinder that needs only a spark to light.”

  Gareth was thinking particularly of the uncomfortable moment he personally might have coming face-to-face with Ranulf. Gareth had last seen the Earl of Chester in his own hall, where the truth about Cadwaladr’s latest machinations had come out. Since then, King Owain had taken Mold Castle, a fact Ranulf couldn’t be happy about—and might make him more than a little displeased to see Gareth as Hywel’s representative. Of course, Cadwaladr was here too, and the position he’d put Ranulf in was a far more awkward one than Gareth’s.

  “Unless it has already flamed.” Henry tipped up his chin. “Stephen has few supporters left. We control most of the north and west of England. Soon it will be all.”

  That was not at all what Gareth had meant, and the next glance William sent Gareth showed that he knew it too. Neither man contradicted Henry, whose expression was again full of the glories of war, projecting a confidence that Gareth, for one, didn’t think was deserved.

  William cleared his throat. “It is you and your Dragons, Sir Gareth, who struck the first real blow to Stephen’s power in a year. Our conference will begin tomorrow morning. May I count on your presence at the table?”

  “I already asked him, cousin, and he has agreed,” Henry said.

  “Indeed, my lord.” Gareth bent at the waist, deciding to continue hiding his uncertainties about this arrangement. “It would be helpful if my men who are continuing the investigation could retain the assistance of Hamelin, if he is willing. We are Welsh. I do not believe you will be surprised to hear we are not always welcome.”

  “Anyone who objects to your presence will answer to me,” William said.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Gareth could well believe that what William demanded, he received. But Gareth knew in advance that he was unlikely to run to William for help. An informant forced to render information generally produced only that information he thought the questioner wanted to hear.

  “Night is falling.” William pulled in a deep breath through his nose. “Let’s see about these barons, shall we, my prince?”

  Henry went with William to the door, leaving Gareth with Hamelin, whose expression when he looked at Gareth was fervent. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Gareth raised his eyebrows. “You’re welcome. But for what?”

  “Your presence here has settled my brother—and it seems Earl William as well.”

  “We’ll see how settled they feel when all this is over. Meanwhile, I’m not sure who has the more difficult task tomorrow. You must continue the search for our killer, and I must watch while Henry and William try to unite a host of barons, each of whom stands firmly in the center of his own world and despises any abrogation of his authority.”

  Hamelin stared at him for a second and then laughed outright. “Trust a Welshman to say out loud what we all think privately.”

  “Meanwhile, we will return to the priory and confer among ourselves. Will you come?”

  Hamelin hesitated. “Am I welcome?”

  “We will endeavor not
to speak too much in Welsh.”

  Hamelin grinned. “I confess I am growing used to the cadence of it, though I understand not a single word.”

  * * * * *

  Once back in the hall, Gareth tipped his head towards the main exit to indicate it was time to leave, and everyone was together by the time he reached the anteroom. Gruffydd was looking disgruntled, however, and Gareth asked him what was wrong.

  “Not here,” Gruffydd said shortly.

  Fortunately, nobody troubled them about the spelling of their names as they left the castle, and thus they went unhindered to St. James’s Priory. Evan, Angharad, and Dai were waiting for them, along with Tangwen, whom Gareth scooped into his arms. It was a rare day when she saw so little of her parents.

  The sun had set, and the monks were at prayer: Vespers, Gareth assumed, though it could have been Compline. The variation in sunlight in Britain created an oddity in the monk’s rounds. In June, when the world experienced sixteen hours of daylight, the early morning prayers of Lauds and Prime blended together. In late November, with barely eight hours of daytime in which to work, None, Vespers, and Compline could become blurred into one. Nobody wanted to waste candles unnecessarily by staying awake long after dark, and men who worked hard needed sleep.

  They all filed into the dining room of the guesthouse, where lay monks were setting out their meal. They waited for them to finish before taking their seats, which gave Evan the opportunity to pull Gareth aside. “Why have you brought a Frenchman here?”

  Others overheard and stopped what they were doing to hear Gareth’s answer. So he lifted his chin and spoke so all could hear—though in Welsh, for their ears only. “Hamelin’s presence isn’t a whim on my part. We are treated with disdain in many parts of England and by most Englishmen, but not at Bristol today, or at least not by most. Prince Henry asked us to come, and Earl William shook my hand just now as one man to another. We will not barricade ourselves inside our Welshness. If we do that, we might as well go home.”

  Now he switched to French. “Hamelin has been invaluable so far in this investigation. In the past, we’ve had to keep some conclusions to ourselves, for fear of reprisals or misuse of our knowledge. But we are guests today, and when this investigation concludes, no matter how it concludes, we will go home. It is men like Hamelin who will live with the consequences.”

  Gareth didn’t know that he’d answered Evan’s question to his friend’s satisfaction, but Evan subsided anyway. Gareth had a sinking feeling he’d merely shamed them into silence. He’d meant what he’d said, though. However much he despised the English at times, they were men like any others, capable of great deeds as well as heinous ones. Besides, he could hardly complain about their duplicity or arrogance when Cadwaladr, a Welshman from Gwynedd, was planted in their midst. His presence left no moral high ground upon which another Welshman could stand.

  They ate together, trying to put the investigation aside until the servants and children were gone, speaking French to include Hamelin. Gareth didn’t know if the priests would agree, but for a family such as theirs, dining together was nearly as sacred as attending mass. It brought their souls together. Though at times he and Gwen had corrupted their meals with talk of death, they actively chose not to do so today.

  Once the trenchers and platters were cleared, Tangwen shooed off to bed, and Gwen tucked up near the fire nursing Taran, Cadoc poked his head from the dining room into the adjacent sitting room of the guesthouse.

  “We’re alone.” He pulled back inside, though he left the door slightly ajar, so they could hear if someone entered. “I’m uncomfortable with all of us in the same place. We could be ambushed here.”

  Iago responded immediately. “It has been bothering me too.” He buffeted Steffan on the shoulder, silently asking him to stand up. “Isn’t a general meeting the reason nobody saw the stone fall on Aubrey today?”

  Steffan rose to his feet. “Iago and I will see to the perimeter. You can tell us what transpired later.” They left, and nobody tried to stop them.

  In French, Gareth said, “Let us begin.” He looked around the table, taking in the faces turned towards him: the remaining Dragons; his sons; Gwen and Angharad; and Hamelin. Nine, plus Gareth himself. To have so many competent and capable people to rely upon—and whose heads could be put together over a problem—gave him hope that whatever was transpiring here was possible to uncover. “We have four deaths, three of which cannot be investigated in regular fashion because we have no bodies, no crime scene, and only guesswork even to say that any of them were murdered.”

  “All the more reason to lay out what we learned today, and what we think we know, and see what shape we can make of the puzzle,” Gwen said.

  They went around the table, each speaking in turn to tell their part in the investigation. Gwen and Gruffydd went last, prompting outrage from Hamelin. “That woman is absolutely lying.”

  “It does seem so,” Gareth said, more mildly.

  “We must send out a search party to bring her back,” Hamelin said.

  “Gruffydd went looking for Edith after Earl William arrived, but he couldn’t find her,” Gwen said.

  “Nobody would have stopped her leaving,” Gareth said, trying to make Gruffydd feel better about the failure.

  “My initial thought was that she’d accused William as a distraction from the true culprit,” Gruffydd said, “but it could also be that she knew of Prince Henry’s distrust and sought to confirm it.”

  “Even without her, at a minimum, it gives us a new place to look for answers.”

  “For starters, it would be good to know what her relationship was to Sir Aubrey,” Aron said.

  “I never met the man, of course, and I haven’t even been to the castle, but it sounds to me as if he had a hand in every little thing that went on,” Evan said. “It was his right as steward, and I know we should keep speculation to a minimum, but I have to say that getting rid of him could have been more about what someone thought he knew than for his own sake. Earl Robert may have told him something that the killer thinks is incriminating.”

  “He could also have been silenced to stop him from speaking to you, Gareth,” Angharad said.

  “Angharad has a piece of it.” Evan grasped his wife’s hand. “But it might not be just us. We arrived today, but so did a host of lords from all over England and Wales. Perhaps the killer feared Aubrey’s association with one of them.”

  Gwen pursed her lips. “In a way that makes more sense. Loosening a merlon to bring it down required effort, time, and opportunity. We were in the castle for less than an hour before it came down. That doesn’t sound to me like enough time to chip it out without someone noticing.”

  “We did give warning we were coming,” Llelo said.

  On their journey from Aberystwyth, they’d first ridden east across the mountains before turning south, journeying through Abergavenny to Monmouth where there was a good ford across the Wye. Since they had safe passage across Norman-controlled territory, thanks to the letter from Prince Henry, Gareth had asked the lord there to send word to Bristol in advance of their coming. A single rider could make much better time than their small party that included children.

  Lips pursed all around the table as people considered what had been said so far. Gareth was pleased that his supposition had proved true yet again: putting his head together with his companions’ was always better than him puzzling out answers on his own.

  “Let’s talk about what we know.” Gareth put up one finger. “William is Earl Robert’s son. I don’t support starting with an assumption that he isn’t.”

  “Agreed,” Gruffydd said. “The fact that Edith is gone isn’t suspicious at all.” He rolled his eyes, intending to be ffraeth, what the English called biting.

  “With that in mind,” Angharad said, “why have we been left with the impression, even before we came to Bristol, that Earl William was less able than his father?”

  Gareth looked at Hamelin. “Can you answer tha
t?”

  The young man’s face colored. He’d been listening silently, perhaps struggling with everyone’s heavily accented French. True to Gareth’s word, they hadn’t conducted their conference in Welsh, which obviously would have been easier for everyone but Hamelin.

  “I-I don’t know. I don’t know what you’ve heard.” As the bastard of the Count of Anjou, Hamelin had been forced to grow up quickly, and at seventeen he could pass for a man ten years older. For the first time, however, he looked Llelo’s age—and uncertain.

  “Take the story about Prince Henry’s ignominious defeat and payment of wages by King Stephen so he could send his men back to France,” Gwen said. “For Earl Robert to abandon him was surprising, whether or not Maud was of the opinion that her son should be taught a lesson. Henry appears to believe that William is the one responsible.”

  “He’s not entirely wrong.” Hamelin took in a slow breath and let it out. “This last year of his life, Earl Robert did not always have a clear mind.” He gestured to Llelo. “But it wasn’t just his memory. He ... made decisions that seemed out of character for him. William felt that he could not go against an order his father had decreed, even if he disagreed with it. Instead, he accepted responsibility for it, rather than let anyone outside of his immediate circle realize how his father was failing.”

  “Earl Robert wasn’t so very old, was he?” Gwen asked in that gentle way of hers—not questioning Hamelin’s assertion so much as asking for clarification. “What you describe is an old man’s disease, far more likely in someone Sir Aubrey’s age—about whom we’ve heard this too—rather than Earl Robert’s.”

  “It appeared to be a result of his illness.” Hamelin remained relaxed, not taking offense at being questioned. “If you’ve ever cared for someone who’s failing, perhaps you’ve noticed their mind functions less well when they’ve had prolonged periods of difficulty breathing, or when they’ve not eaten for too long.”

  Gwen let out a breath. “This could explain Earl Robert’s denial of William that Edith overheard—or says she overheard. He might not have been in his right mind.”