Gareth rode the two miles to St. Asaph in increasing darkness, hunched against the brisk wind blowing from the west, its one benefit that it kept him awake. His hour-long doze in the straw back at the hay barn had not been enough for him. He crossed the Elwy River and turned towards the monastery of St. Kentigern which guarded the east-west road through this section of Gwynedd. As the tower of the cathedral loomed above him, Gareth gave himself permission to rest for a while, if only for his horse’s sake.
Gareth pulled on a rope and a bell sounded inside the walls of the monastery. The doorman spied Gareth through the peephole. All Gareth could see of the doorman was an eye and half a nose, but he stood back from the door so the man could see all of him. “I come at the behest of King Owain Gwynedd,” Gareth said.
“One moment, my lord.” Scrapes and mutterings came from the other side of the door, and then it opened. “It’s cold out there. It may snow before morning.”
As he’d waited for the doorman to open the door, Gareth had started to shiver, so he could only agree. He gave the man a stiff nod of his head. “Thank you.”
Two monks greeted him a few paces into the courtyard between the gate and the main building. At the sight of him, one ran off and came back a moment later with one of the Abbey’s officers. “King’s business, did you say?” the man said. “We’ve a fire in the warming room. Please come inside and be welcome. I am Prior Rhys.”
“I just need to see to my horse,” Gareth said.
“One of our lay brothers will take care of him.” Rhys patted Dewi’s nose. If the horse were Braith, Gareth probably would have seen to her himself, but his hands had grown so stiff, even in their leather gloves, he feared he wouldn’t be able to hold the brush.
“You know horses?” Gareth said.
“I haven’t spent my life behind these walls,” the prior said.
Gareth bowed his head in acknowledgement of possible shared experience, though he didn’t pry. When Rhys walked beside Gareth towards the warming room, he had the rolling gate that matched Gareth’s own, indicating a man who’d spent much of his life on the back of a horse. With his broad shoulders, he could have been a Crusader. He wouldn’t be the first man who chose a monastery as his final berth after a life of travel and war.
Once inside, a wave of warmth hit Gareth and his shoulders relaxed for the first time in hours. One of the brothers took his cloak and hung it on a hook by the fire. Gareth ran a hand through his hair. He’d kept it cropped short in Ceredigion, but with the coming of winter, he might let it grow longer again.
“If you’ll pardon us, we’ve just come from vespers,” Rhys said. “The evening meal will be served shortly. You are welcome to warm yourself here until then.”
“Thank you again.” Gareth stretched his boots towards the fire, letting the warmth seep into him. “I would be grateful for a meal, but I would also like to speak to you, if I may.”
The prior had turned to leave, but then hesitated. “I would not inquire into the king’s business, but I am happy to assist you if I can.”
Gareth held out the paper with the image of the assassin. “Have you seen this man?”
Prior Rhys needed only to glance at it. “But of course. His name is Pedr ap Marc.”
Gareth straightened in his seat. “You sound as if you know him well.”
“Well enough.” The prior canted his head to the side as he looked at Gareth. “He came here first as a boy, with his parents.”
“And you’ve seen him often since then?”
“Not often, but enough to recognize him and welcome him when he does visit. He stayed here last night.”
Gareth’s brow furrowed. “Last night? Are you sure?”
The prior gave a cough. “I know who sleeps in my guest hall.”
“I apologize,” Gareth said. “It’s just that Caradoc of Rhuddlan Castle told me that he’d encountered Pedr this morning on the road to St. Asaph.”
A wariness entered the prior’s eyes. “Why would he say that? Caradoc spent the night here as well. He ate his evening meal with Pedr. They left the monastery at the same time, though Caradoc was journeying elsewhere to check on Rhuddlan’s estates and the boy was heading to Chester. Perhaps Caradoc didn’t get a good look at the image and was thinking of someone else.”
“That must be it. Darkness was nearly upon us when I encountered Caradoc.” Gareth nodded for Rhys’ benefit and put the paper away. “I appreciate your time.”
The prior turned away, but then Gareth had another thought. “Did Pedr say why he was going to Chester?”
The prior stopped in the far doorway. “Not in so many words, but he implied that he had business in the city.”
“Any idea of what kind?” Gareth said.
The prior shook his head. He made to leave again, but then hesitated. “May I ask why you search for this youth?”
Gareth studied the man. His demeanor inspired Gareth’s trust, even when Gareth knew he shouldn’t trust anyone. Still … “Pedr attempted to assassinate King Owain Gwynedd.”
The prior took a step back. “No! That’s not possible!”
“Isn’t it?” Gareth said. “I assure you, I witnessed it myself.”
“But why?” The prior appeared shocked, yet a hint of resignation resounded in his voice.
“Don’t you know why?” Gareth said. “Surely he has spoken of his discontent at one time or another.”
“Yes. Yes, he did.” The prior’s face had gone white when Gareth had broken the news of the boy’s misdeed. As Rhys spoke now, however, his color returned and his shoulders straightened. He set his feet in the manner of a man who’d heard it all—seen it all—and could no longer be surprised. “I had thought—hoped rather—that Pedr had put aside his animosity. Last we spoke, before yesterday I mean, some weeks ago now, he seemed more at peace than I’d seen him in many years.”
“Perhaps he’d made his decision to act,” Gareth said. “A certain kind of peace can be achieved that way.”
“True.” The prior’s expression cleared as he looked at Gareth. “You’ve seen fighting yourself, I assume.”
“Yes.”
The prior nodded. “By what means was the king’s life spared? Pedr has always been a bright child, if reckless. He must have had a plan that could have worked.”
“He tried to put a knife into the king’s back during a feast in the great hall,” Gareth said. “It was almost as if he wanted to be stopped.”
“Perhaps, he did.” Again, the prior canted his head to one side. “And the man who stopped him? That was you?”
Gareth swallowed. Back at Aber, very little had been said about what he had done. The king had thanked him, but the subsequent murders had shunted to one side the fact that it was Gareth who had prevented the death of the king. “Yes.”
Rhys nodded, implying that nothing more needed to be said about the matter. “Please convey my regrets to the king for giving the boy my hospitality. I did not know.” He shook his head.
“The king will not blame you,” Gareth said. “But if Pedr returns—”
“I will send word,” Rhys said.
“I can ask no more than that,” Gareth said.
Prior Rhys nodded and left the room, leaving Gareth alone before the fire with much to think about. First and foremost, why had Caradoc lied? It had been growing dark, but the image was a good likeness, if Gareth said so himself. The prior had recognized Pedr immediately. What was the relationship between Caradoc and the young man?
Now that Gareth had his name, and the direction he traveled, he’d just have to find him and ask him.
Chapter Nineteen
“I swear to God, by all that is holy, this time I’ll hang him!” King Owain strode to the door of the hall.
Prince Rhun gave way before him. “We don’t know exactly what he’s done—”
King Owain turned on him. “Don’t we? Then why does he hide from me?”
Gwen hadn’t been there to see it, of course, but the last ti
me King Owain had been this angry at his brother was when Cadwaladr had stolen Gwen from Aber. Cadwaladr had panicked, thinking himself only one step ahead of Gareth and Gwen. In truth, they hadn’t been anywhere close to catching him. Of all the barons of Wales, Cadwaladr was the man Gwen would most like to see hang for the murders and the attempt on King Owain’s life, but …
“I don’t want it to be true.” Rhun swung into his father’s wake with Gwen and Hywel on either side of him, heading out the door. A brisk wind had blown through the hall again and Gwen pulled her cloak around her shoulders and put up the hood. It had also grown colder in the last hour.
“Why not?” Gwen said.
“Because—” Rhun threw out a hand. “I had hoped we could put the events of last summer behind us. This is the last thing my father needs to concern him in such troubled times.” Rhun had always been the more optimistic brother.
“Did someone tell him that we have evidence against him?” Gwen said, thinking of the dragon ring and the image imbedded in Enid’s palm.
“By all reports, he was tucked into bed with Alice, his own wife, the night Enid died.”
“Was he?” Hywel said. “Alice is loyal even if he doesn’t deserve her loyalty.”
“Their son was up in the night, sick. Uncle Cadwaladr went to the kitchens for water and broth,” Rhun said.
“That means he was out and about, possibly during the crucial time period,” Gwen said.
Rhun sighed. “Alice did say that he didn’t return right away.”
“How long was he gone?” Hywel said.
“Less than an hour.”
Gwen gritted her teeth. Less than an hour was plenty of time to murder Enid. Gwen couldn’t remember when, or even if, Cadwaladr had left the hall after the assassination attempt. They had a less clear time of death for Ieuan which hampered them.
At the same time, Cadwaladr, for all that he was devious, selfish, and an altogether worthless human being, hadn’t physically harmed Gwen herself last summer. Would he have dirtied his hands with the murder of a different girl? She could believe Cadwaladr had hired the assassin to kill King Owain and then locked himself in the chapel out of guilt and fear—that was exactly the kind of thing he would do.
Perhaps, as before, two people had plotted at cross-purposes. If Cadwaladr had hired the assassin, he would hang for it as he should have been hanged for the murder of King Anarawd. But it would be a mistake to convict him of the other crimes if he didn’t commit them and leave the real culprit to go free.
The chapel lay across the courtyard from the stables, set hard against the curtain wall. For more important holy days, the inhabitants of Aber rode to Bangor to worship in the cathedral there. Because certain higher-ups among the clergy refused to sanction King Owain’s marriage to Cristina, they were to have been married at Aber, rather than with a magnificent ceremony in the cathedral, as would have befitted the King of Gwynedd.
The chapel had two doors, one at the front, which Cadwaladr had barricaded from the inside, and a second at the rear, separated from the western wing of the great hall by a narrow passage. This back door led to the vestry and a side entrance to the altar. Owain reached the front steps. Gwen and Hywel moved nearer to him. Neither Hywel nor his father spoke. King Owain just glared at the door to the chapel, as if the fire in his eyes could burn right through it.
A member of the garrison, listening at the keyhole, straightened and looked to the king. “Lord Cadwaladr won’t open the door, sire.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?” King Owain loosened his sword in its sheath.
Gwen stared at the hilt in his hand, thinking of violence and retribution. Then, the rear door to the chapel swung open and Aber’s priest stepped out. “Lord Cadwaladr asks that Prince Hywel and the maid, Gwen, come inside to speak with him.”
Gwen didn’t say really? out loud, but from the look in Hywel’s eye, he was thinking it too. King Owain clapped his hand onto Hywel’s shoulder. “Go. Get him out of there. I don’t want to waste any more time on him than I already have, and the last thing I need is more sympathy among my people for my brother.”
The crowd of people in the courtyard gave way before Gwen and Hywel. As they reached the steps, Gwen said, “What did your father mean by that?”
“Cadwaladr has put on an air of humbleness like a cloak. Up until yesterday, certain people had begun to openly say that it’s time for my father to forgive him.”
Cadwaladr had a charm that attracted others, Gwen would give him that. She didn’t see it, herself, but even in his worst moments, he could convince an audience of his sincerity and truthfulness.
“And give him back Ceredigion?” Gwen said.
“Thank the Lord, no,” Hywel said. “Not that, but lands in Arfon, perhaps? Or further estates on Anglesey?”
Gareth’s lands were on Anglesey. Gwen had yet to see his manor, but she hoped it was as far away from Cadwaladr’s lands as it was possible to live and still be on the island.
Hywel read her thoughts. “Never fear, Gwen. Gareth’s lands are far to the east of Aberffraw.”
The priest touched her arm and Gwen let out a breath. “Are you ready?” he said.
“Did Prince Cadwaladr say why he wanted to speak to us?” Hywel said.
“No, my lord,” the priest said.
Hywel dismissed him and waited until he’d crossed the courtyard to King Owain before putting a hand to the latch. He tugged and the door swung outward. “My uncle has never been known for careful planning. This is an impulsive act, like most of what he does. Let’s talk to him and see what he says. We withhold judgment until then.”
Gwen had never entered the chapel through this door. She looked around with interest at the narrow vestibule, lined on both sides with hooks for robes and cloaks. An archway led to another closet-like room in which the priest kept the holy relics. King Owain retained the royal crown in the treasury, in the room adjacent to his suite, but he’d placed the piece of the true cross here, locked in a carved chest. During services, the priest might place the chest on the altar, although he never opened the box, at least not to Gwen’s knowledge.
Hywel crossed himself as he passed the table on which the chest lay and then peered into the darkened interior of the chapel. Had it been a bright day, the sun would have shone through the upper window onto the altar. As it was, candles lit the altar, but the light penetrated only a few yards into the chapel. Beyond, Cadwaladr crouched before the door at the front of the church.
“I did not try to kill you, Owain. I promise you.”
Muffled sounds came from the other side of the door. Gwen couldn’t hear Owain’s response, but Cadwaladr replied, “You were about to make a mistake. Another man did this. You have to find him. I won’t come out until you do.”
Hywel stepped into the nave. “You may have a long wait, Uncle.”
Cadwaladr swung around. “So you came? Where’s the priest?”
“He remained outside.”
“I must make sure of that.” Cadwaladr strode towards the back of the chapel, brushed past Hywel and Gwen, and pushed through the curtain that separated the altar from the vestry. Hywel, after a quick, unspeaking exchange with Gwen, walked down the aisle to the front door.
Before he reached it, however, Cadwaladr returned with drawn sword which he pointed at Hywel. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to talk to my father. I won’t open the door.”
“Get away from there!”
Hywel stepped back into the nave, his hands raised. “All right. No need to get angry.”
“My brother must listen to me!”
“You aren’t exactly helping your plea by pointing that at me.” Hywel dropped his arms and stood relaxed, his hands at his side. He didn’t believe Cadwaladr would run him through. After a moment’s reflection, Gwen didn’t either. Cadwaladr was putting on a play, for their benefit, to prove he was serious.
“Put away your sword, Uncle.”
Even though Cad
waladr didn’t obey, Gwen decided to ignore his faked aggression. She plopped herself into the priest’s chair, set against the wall by the archway. “We are here at your request, my lord. Why don’t you tell us your side of the story. We can’t help you until we hear it.”
Cadwaladr gazed at her, his eyes wary. He didn’t sheath his sword, but he gestured with it that Hywel should sit near Gwen. Hywel tugged at one of the few benches along the wall and moved it closer to Gwen’s chair. “Make it quick,” he said. “My father has no more patience.”
Cadwaladr lifted his chin. “I will speak to the young lady, with whom I have an understanding.” He turned to Gwen.
Gwen coughed a laugh. “You do?”
“When you came with me to Aberffraw, I didn’t harm you and never had any intention of bringing harm to you,” Cadwaladr said. “You know that.”
Gwen gazed at him, stunned that he would bring this up. His conceit and arrogance knew no bounds. He probably thought that he could wheedle his way into heaven when the time came. “I will not discuss last summer with you,” she said. “I don’t want to hear your excuses or what story you now tell yourself about it. Tell me why you’ve locked yourself in here.”
Her refusal appeared to have no effect on Cadwaladr. His chin was up and his eyes flashed. “I didn’t conspire to murder my brother.” He gazed at her unblinking as he said these words.
Hywel peered at him. “The hard thing, Uncle, is that either what you say is true, or you’ve convinced yourself so thoroughly that it’s true, that you don’t look like you’re lying. You’ve lied so often now, we can’t tell the difference.”
Cadwaladr’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want my brother dead! Not by my hand or anyone else’s. And this boy—I have never seen him before.”
Gareth would find out if that was true. Cadwaladr couldn’t prove it one way or the other from where they sat. “Talk to me of Enid,” Gwen said.
Cadwaladr snorted. “Enid. Prettiest girl you’d ever want to meet. As vacant and placid as a cow.”
The Uninvited Guest Page 17
