“Solving murders is definitely not a normal way to live.”
“Nobody ever said our lives were going to be normal.” She lifted her skirts and started up the steps to the keep.
“I confess I feel a bit out of my depth here, Gwen,” Gareth said, following just behind her. “Five deaths now? And we don’t have a single definitive suspect.”
“I know that and you know that, but the people here do not. We’re trading on our reputation from Newcastle-under-Lyme—and yours from this summer—and we’re going to exploit it shamelessly.” Gwen smiled at the guard who opened the door for them. “I honestly don’t mind doing this. I just don’t love Normans.”
Gruffydd had come with them, and now he snorted under his breath. “Who does? And why would we?”
“They do seem to love themselves, though, don’t they?” Aron said with his typical bite, though he made sure to speak, as they all had been, low and in Welsh.
Once inside the great hall, Gwen was surprised to find so few people in it. Bristol’s hall was similar to dozens of other great halls Gwen had entered over the course of her life, and they were always the center of a castle’s community. This one was arranged with many tables about which residents might mingle, drink, and talk. Rather than a central hearth, such as those found in Danish and many Welsh dwellings, a large fireplace, built in stone like the hall, filled a portion of one wall near the high table so the higher-ranking diners could stay warm. Thankfully, despite the blaze, the hall wasn’t filled with choking smoke, indicating Earl Robert, as in everything he’d done, had sought out the best architect and master mason, who knew what they were doing.
While Earl Robert had had a hand in the design of Newcastle-under-Lyme, the previous stronghold belonging to him that Gwen had been in, and taken pains in its construction, Bristol Castle had been the seat from which he ruled his earldom and the pride of his personal kingdom. The rich tapestries, carved flourishes around the doorways, the great mantle in the hall, and the glass window panes all bore testimony to his care. Robert had never been profligate and even had a reputation for austerity in his personal life, but if the man had spent money anywhere, it had been here.
All that was missing was a raised platform from which a bard might perform, even in a hall that was in mourning—or especially in such a hall. No Welsh castle or palace could be complete without it, but here it had been forgotten. As Gwen’s father had said more than once, usually accompanied by a shake of his head, the Saxon soul has no music in it.
With the steward dead—his funeral service would be held that evening at Compline in St. Peter’s Church outside the castle grounds—things could have been in chaos. But they were not, in large part because of the efforts of Robert Fitzharding and the resolve of Lady Mabel, who at the moment stood near the dais. She was speaking pointedly to a much younger woman, almost a girl, who cowered before her.
Gwen would have stayed away, but she knew her job today, and it wasn’t going to get done by hanging back. So she approached, warily at first until the lecture appeared over, and stopped within a few paces of the two women.
Both saw her coming, but it was the younger woman, whom Gwen had not met, who spoke first. She had something of a long face, and the way her brown hair was contained in braids indicated she was unmarried. She was also slightly older than Gwen had first thought, closer to twenty than fifteen. Her mouth and eyes had a pinched look to them, and she appeared to have been afflicted with terrible spots, though with time they had faded to pale scars. “You’ve returned. Why is it the Welsh are so intent on fostering mischief?”
Gwen blinked. Yesterday she’d comforted Lady Mabel despite her bitter tongue and the barbs she’d sent in Gwen’s direction. But Gwen had never met this girl. At the same time, it was not unusual for someone who’d just been chastised to cope with their humiliation by turning around and abusing another. It just wasn’t very mature. Or kind.
But Gwen refused to rise to the bait, because that would only confirm their assessment of her and her people. She looked at Lady Mabel. “My lady, we now have five dead in less than a month and two in three days. I am here to speak to the servants of the castle, since three of the dead were numbered among them.”
“We? How can you say we? It is our loss, not yours.” The young woman’s voice was biting and shrill.
Gwen couldn’t ignore her, fearing, if nothing else, that her shrieking would unsettle Taran, who at the moment was happy and alert in his wrappings. With an inward sigh and a quick gritting of the teeth, she said, “We are all family in the eyes of God, are we not? Isn’t the loss of every soul cause for grief in the body of Christendom?” She wasn’t completely sure what she’d just said made sense, but it sounded pious, and something she’d heard a priest say more than once.
Lady Mabel stepped in. “You’ll have to excuse Mabel. She has been much grieved by her father’s death.”
Gwen instantly reined in her ire, putting aside for a moment the identical names. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Who was your father?”
That was the wrong question to ask. The girl sniffed. “As if you don’t know.”
Gwen blinked. “I’m sorry, but I really do not.” She looked from one woman to the other. They looked nothing alike, and Lady Mabel hadn’t introduced the younger woman as her daughter, which would have been customary if that was the case—especially with the identical names.
“Earl Robert was Mabel’s father.” As Lady Mabel tsked her apparent disapproval, the younger Mabel turned away—literally turned to one side—so her back was to her foster mother.
Gwen lifted one hand in appeasement. “I understand.” And she thought she did. The younger Mabel was Earl Robert’s bastard, whom he’d named after his wife, perhaps in an attempt to make taking her in more palatable. Queen Susanna had accepted responsibility for King Madog’s by-blow, Marared, and raised her as her own. The girl was engaged to Iorwerth, King Owain’s eldest son by his first wife Gwladys. Gwen had met Marared, and she was lovely inside and out. What had happened in Bristol was clearly exactly the opposite.
Gwen swallowed, deciding it was in everyone’s best interest to return to the reason she was here. “May I question your servants?”
The younger Mabel scoffed. “If there are any left.”
Lady Mabel appeared to be within a hair’s-breadth of rolling her eyes. Instead she said, somewhat conspiratorially to Gwen, “One of the servants, a laundry girl, was so traumatized by the events of the last month that she’s taken herself off with no warning, and now half her fellows are threatening to do the same.”
“It’s your fault, you know.” Child Mabel was examining her nails with a frown, still half-turned away and not looking at either Gwen or Lady Mabel.
“I’m sorry. How is that my fault?” Gwen bit the inside of her lip, inwardly cursing that she’d risen to the bait like a fish just waiting to be hooked.
Child Mabel sighed elaborately. “One of the other maids saw her speaking to your husband—and then apparently to you—yesterday. What did you say to her?”
“You’re speaking of ... Rose?”
“Of course I’m speaking of Rose!” Child Mabel said.
Lady Mabel was actually looking embarrassed, though why she didn’t send her (daughter?) away, Gwen didn’t know—unless she thought it would only make things worse. Gwen didn’t need to have her time in the castle made even more difficult, so she renewed her attempt to be conciliatory. “I assure you, my lady, that Rose, who called herself Edith to us, came to Gareth and me all on her own. She said she had information that would convince us that Prince Henry’s suspicions were correct and that your father genuinely was murdered.”
Child Mabel sneered. “And did she?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s too soon to say. She had nothing to tell us that was enough to pin a conclusion on. After we talked, she said she was going to leave Bristol. Truly, I tried to stop her and had nothing to do with her decision.”
Child Mabel harrumphed an
d stuck her nose even higher in the air, though her shoulders weren’t as tight as before, and when she spoke next, her words contained less vinegar. “Everybody is upset by this new death, coming hard on the heels of the others. You have to forgive our short tempers.”
“Of course, my lady.” Gwen gave a little curtsey.
Lady Mabel tipped her head to her daughter. “I will leave the two of you alone to sort out the servants.” She turned on her heel and departed.
Gwen gaped after Lady Mabel, shocked and disturbed to be left alone with her hostile namesake, but Child Mabel looked morosely up at Gwen. “Your baby is very sweet. And you can call me Mabs. Everyone else does.”
Gwen’s heart softened, now seeing Mabs less as an enemy than one of the wounded. In a different world, with a different mother, Mabs could have been a much-cossetted member of the household. But she hadn’t been raised in Wales in a Welsh court where being illegitimate and female to boot would have mattered far less, if at all. Though Earl Robert himself was a bastard, claimed her as his own, and brought her into his household, Mabs was unloved by the woman who was supposed to raise her.
“I’m sure you have a finger on everything that happens at Bristol Castle, upstairs and down. I would be genuinely grateful for your help today.” Gwen was careful to keep the pity out of her face. Mabs would have lived with pity her whole life, when it wasn’t outright hostility or disdain, and knew it in all its many colors.
This time it was Mabs who blinked. Those inferior to her would have to treat her with courtesy, but Gwen’s words had been sincere, a sentiment she may not often have heard. “Perhaps I can help, at that. I can tell you straight away that Rose was in love with my father’s valet, even though he was married already with a child on the way.”
Gwen knew she had been right to rein in her animosity, because the information that Jenet was pregnant was brand new, and Gwen hadn’t had to do anything to attain it. “We are speaking of Jenet, the maid who died on your father’s floor, who was married to Bernard, your father’s valet?”
“Yes, of course.” Mabs looked taken aback. “He would have had only one wife. Do men in Wales have more than one?”
Gwen smiled. “No. One is the usual number.”
Mabs nodded as if Gwen had confirmed a rumor she’d heard but hadn’t dared believe.
“Did Jenet have any particular friends?”
“I couldn’t say. She would have been seeing the midwife, of course, especially since it is my understanding that the pregnancy had not been going well. Her feet and ankles were badly swollen, and she hadn’t attended my father for several days because of it.”
All of this was news to Gwen. Gareth had questioned a dozen women yesterday while waiting for her to return from Lady Mabel’s room, and none of them had mentioned pregnancy, difficult or otherwise.
“Is there a castle midwife?”
Mabs looked surprised at Gwen’s ignorance. “Of course. Even with the two midwives in town, she’s run off her feet.” The young woman shook her head. “Between here and town, there’s a baby born every day.”
“Might I speak to her?”
“A baby was born last night. Perhaps we ought to start with someone else.” Mabs reeled off ten names too quickly for Gwen to catch even one.
“Thank you. I will need to speak to each of them in turn.”
Though Mabs had been suddenly and genuinely helpful, she rolled her eyes at the request. But Gwen knew how investigations worked. It was the routine questions that led to what at first seemed to be routine answers—or maybe no answers at all—that ultimately could change the course of the investigation.
She didn’t outwardly show her annoyance, however, and despite their rocky beginning, Gwen even began to wonder, had circumstances been different, if she might have enjoyed Mabs’s company.
They began with Dena, a prim woman with thick red hair she’d probably only managed to contain by smoothing it with an entire bottle of oil.
“How well did you know Jenet?” Gwen said.
“Not at all well. She kept to herself.” Dena’s eyes skated to Mabs as she spoke. Mabs nodded, and all of a sudden Gwen was uncertain again, because she didn’t know if Mabs was nodding encouragingly or telling Dena that the answer she’d given was the correct one.
“What about her husband, Bernard? Did you know him?”
“We didn’t mix,” Dena said.
“What can you tell me about Rose?”
A brief expression of distaste crossed Dena’s face, though her words belied her apparent thoughts. “I can tell you nothing. We worked in different areas of the castle. Her place was in the laundry, you see.”
“Did you know that she was interested in Bernard?”
Dena’s eyes widened. “Was she?”
“Did you like Bernard?”
Dena folded her hands primly. “It is not my place to like or dislike. He was an upstairs servant. His station was well beyond mine.”
“It is my understanding that he was in charge of the earl’s wardrobe, the tailors, and the laundries.” Gwen tried to keep her expression neutral. She knew Bernard’s station already, of course, but while the conversation about Jenet had involved straightforward denial, which sounded either genuine or so well-rehearsed Dena believed it herself, this denial of knowledge of Bernard was far more elaborate for no reason that Gwen could discern.
“He was.”
“So he must have known Rose too.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t say. I didn’t know either of them well.” Dena gave an elaborate shrug before curtseying to Mabs. “May I be dismissed, my lady? I have many duties this morning.”
And so it went. Everyone denied knowing Rose well because of her station or because she kept to herself—with no mention of her outstanding beauty. When discussing Jenet, the women were much more sympathetic to her plight and death, but she came across as a shy mouse. Finally, after the fourth interview, Gwen turned to Mabs. “Was Bernard handsome?”
The way Mabs colored told Gwen she’d finally understood an important piece of the puzzle. “I suppose.”
“I suppose ... or yes, he was very handsome.”
Mabs didn’t like to be pressed, and she stuck her nose a bit in the air, but she did finally admit, “He was very handsome.”
“Charming too, I imagine.”
“I couldn’t say. I hardly ever spoke to him.”
Gwen swallowed down a grumbling reply. I couldn’t say seemed to be the standard response any time anyone didn’t want to answer a question.
“What about Rose? Did you think her beautiful?”
Now Mabs looked positively mutinous.
“I thought she was,” Gwen prompted. “The men I asked about it agreed.”
“They would.”
“So she was beautiful.” Gwen paused a moment to give Mabs a chance to disagree. The woman’s lip was sticking out so far a bird could have landed on it. Gwen had to constantly remind herself that Mabs was only a few years younger than she, a grown woman. She certainly didn’t behave like it.
“Could there have been a relationship between Rose and Bernard, both beautiful people?” Gwen was grasping at straws, but she would ask anything at this point to elicit a genuine response.
“Oh no! He wasn’t like that at all. He would never be unfaithful!” Mabs spoke without thought, and she immediately withdrew into herself once she realized how unguarded she’d been.
Gwen merely gazed at the woman, who flushed for a moment before continuing somewhat more soberly, “He was generous, always laughing, which I think is why my father liked him so much. He was never above taking the time to speak to anyone who crossed his path.”
It was exactly the kind of honesty Gwen was looking for. “Including you?”
Mabs gave a stiff nod, and then consented to answer more fully, “We all liked him very much.” She paused. “He was the only one in the castle who, when he looked at me, liked what he saw.”
“Why will nobody else speak of hi
m so forthrightly?”
Mabs laughed. “You’re an outsider and Welsh in the bargain! Why would they?”
“To discover who killed him?”
“He drowned, by accident or suicide, what does it matter? He’s dead.” Mabs looked genuinely sad. “The light had gone out of the world for him.”
“Do you mean because of his wife’s death? Or your father’s?”
“No, no. Because of his child’s.” Mabs was grieving again. “He was faithful to his wife, but he didn’t love her at all.”
Chapter Nineteen
Evan
The big ewerer, John, bobbed his head in greeting. Evan was Welsh, but he was dressed as a knight, belted with a sword at his waist. Even a Saxon could tell that he and Angharad were worthy of respect. “Och, man. That lad, Bernard, could charm the wax off a beetle and make him think it was his idea to give it away.”
Evan had never heard that expression before, but the ewerer—the man responsible for all the hot water in the castle so the nobles could wash, but also for the laundry—appeared to be a force of nature in and of himself. Evan and Angharad had started their day by interviewing him because he had been crossing the great hall, having emptied a bucket of warm water into the washing basins near the high table.
“Why do you say that?” Angharad said.
John tipped his head towards the door to the keep. “Walk with me. I must refill my bucket.” He took long strides across the floor, and they hustled to catch up. Dai kept pace a respectful distance away, since he saw his role today as guard rather than investigator himself. “The water in the basins throughout the castle must always be warm.”
“That’s quite a responsibility,” Angharad said in total seriousness.
John nodded gravely. “Lady Mabel insists on clean hands for all of us, high and low alike. Nobody wants dirty handprints on the sheets or mud in the food.”
Evan could only agree with that policy, and he was grateful that John seemed willing to talk to them without discord. Earlier, Angharad had wanted to go to Gwen’s defense in her conversation with Lady Mabel, but Evan had held her back.
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