The Uninvited Guest

by Sarah Woodbury

  Gwen gazed at Hywel with her hands folded in front of her lips.

  “You haven’t been entirely honest with yourself,” Hywel said. “What offends you, and what makes you most angry, is that I lied to you and Gareth. You don’t care that the man is dead, since he so clearly deserved it. You care that I lied to you about killing him.”

  Gwen could barely breathe. “Yes.”

  “Earlier, you thought about withholding information from me, in case I was the one who killed Enid.”

  “Yes,” Gwen said. “I did.”

  “You hid it, or you thought about hiding it?”

  “I thought about it.” Gwen leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. The lack of sleep from the night before was catching up with her. “Gareth persuaded me otherwise.”

  “Why did you let him?”

  “Because he was right. I knew he was right. If we are to continue in your service, we can’t serve at half-measures. We must be either all in, or out.”

  Hywel smiled. “Good for Gareth. So you agreed?”

  Gwen nodded.

  “But you can’t accept it in your heart?”

  “I don’t know,” Gwen said. “As I said, I thought I had.”

  Hywel studied her through a count of ten, and then said, using the same soft voice he’d used with Cadwaladr. “And for the rest of what I said?”

  Gwen wanted to grind her teeth. She hated admitting she was wrong. She brushed back her irritation before it could spill out. “I’m angry that I cannot muster the moral outrage to hate you. I’m angry that I can understand what you did and why, and not regret it, as you said. I’m even more angry that Cadwaladr walks among us. He churns my stomach, even to the point that I would let him hang for something he didn’t do.”

  Hywel sat with an elbow on the armrest of his chair and his fist to his chin, his foot tapping a quiet staccato. She looked away. The last thing that made her angry—the thing she hadn’t admitted to anyone, even Gareth, was that she couldn’t banish her memories of last summer. When she’d entered the chapel and seen Cadwaladr, the most overwhelming emotion she’d felt wasn’t anger, but fear.

  Hywel studied her and she felt he could see right through her. And so he could. He stood and came around his desk; then crouched in front of Gwen and took her hand. “One day, Gwen. I promise you. One day, Gareth and I will make Cadwaladr pay for what he did to you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Prince Cadwaladr was gone. The best they could tell, he had left the chapel by the back door and fled through the postern gate, though not before putting his fist into the face of the man who guarded it, who’d done his duty and tried to stop him. It appeared from the hoof prints that a few of Cadwaladr’s men had met him on the other side of the wall with a spare horse.

  King Owain had sent men in all directions to try to discover his route, though not before raging around two full circuits of the hall.

  “It’s a blessing, you know,” Hywel said, in an aside to Gwen after the storm was over and King Owain had retired to his rooms.

  “Because the king would have had to act?” Gwen said.

  “Yes,” Hywel said. “Could it be that Cadwaladr realized only once he was inside the chapel that plotting against my father with Earl Ranulf was a far worse betrayal than murdering Enid?”

  “He seemed to have realized it, towards the end of our conversation,” Gwen said.

  “And so he fled,” Hywel said.

  “Leaving us no closer to our murderer,” Gwen said, “and with yet another issue to vex the king.”

  * * * * *

  By mid-afternoon the next day, all of the men sent out from Aber to track Cadwaladr returned, reporting that he hadn’t crossed the Menai Straits, nor gone south to Dolbadarn or Dolwyddelan. He’d taken the high road, to Caerhun and points further east. It was the same country into which Gareth had disappeared. The garrison at Caerhun hadn’t stopped him, of course, because they hadn’t known that they should.

  Gwen and Hywel were left with two bodies and a houseful of suspects, none of whom Gwen had any interest in questioning. She was tired of the whole thing and wanted nothing more than to be with Gareth. Worse, she’d spent the prior evening responding to people’s sympathy at Gareth’s loss and trying to maintain a mask of brave grief. It had been trying. She hated lying to everyone, especially Mari, who’d taken her hand and spoken genuine words of comfort.

  King Owain, for his part, decided to take matters into his own hands, whether on his own accord or because he had given in to Cristina’s tears. He stood in the hall at sunset, lifted a cup to his gathered barons, friends, and retainers and said, “Please join Cristina and me in one hour at the chapel. We will no longer put off what we have long desired: our wedding.”

  Relieved sighs circled the room, and then scattered applause. Mari leaned in, whispering close to Gwen’s ear. “Praise the Lord. I didn’t know if I could handle an unmarried Cristina one more day.”

  Gwen turned to her new friend. “She’s been causing you trouble, has she?”

  “Every moment she feared King Owain would call off the wedding,” Mari said. “The rumors about a curse have grown more prevalent with each passing day.”

  “I can see why some might think a curse existed,” Gwen said.

  “Probably the murderer started the rumor of it himself.”

  Gwen turned to look into Mari’s face. “What did you say?”

  Mari’s brow furrowed. “It makes sense that he would. He killed two people to prevent the wedding from taking place. And now it’s happening anyway.”

  “Wh-why do you say he killed to prevent the wedding?”

  Mari canted her head as she looked at Gwen. “It occurs to me that we’ve been thinking about these murders the wrong way around. What if Enid’s death wasn’t about something Enid had done, but instead had to do with King Owain’s wedding plans?”

  “You’re saying the killer wanted to stop King Owain and Cristina from marrying and didn’t care how he did it?” Gwen said. “You’re saying that the murderer didn’t have to choose Enid. He could have killed anyone?”

  “Maybe not anyone.” Mari gestured to their fellow guests, who’d gone back to their business now that they knew the wedding for which they’d traveled so far would finally happen. Lord Goronwy, Cristina’s father, was smiling happily to several other barons over his cup of mead by the fire. “Enid did dose Lord Goronwy with poppy juice, after all. All these incidents are linked, but perhaps heading towards a different outcome than the one we’ve been assuming.”

  “King Owain’s death—”

  “Not his death,” Mari talked over her, “his wedding. The assassination attempt, the murders, the loss of Gareth, even Cadwaladr’s flight were to lead to one thing: a further postponement of the wedding.”

  “He killed two people!” Gwen said.

  “And for all that, his efforts have come to nothing,” Mari said.

  Gwen glanced to where Cristina and King Owain stood, two goblets of wine on a tray in front of them. Gwen hadn’t seen who’d brought them and as her gaze fell on the royal couple, her attention sharpened.

  “What hasn’t the murderer tried?” Mari said. “If my supposition is correct, he’s about to lose everything.”

  “He hasn’t tried … to harm Cristina!” Gwen spoke the words almost as an afterthought, because she was racing across the room even as she said them. Cristina and King Owain had taken their cups and hooked their elbows one to the other such that they were joined as they brought the wine to their lips.

  “Stop!” Gwen skidded to a halt. She grabbed Cristina’s cup with one hand, King Owain’s with the other, and yanked them away, sloshing the burgundy liquid as she did so. One-third of the liquid in each cup splashed to the floor.

  King Owain’s color was dangerously red yet again. “Girl! What are you doing?”

  Gwen ducked her head. “I’m sorry, Sire. Please excuse me but I couldn’t forgive myself if something happened to either of you.”


  King Owain opened his mouth, probably to berate Gwen further, but Cristina clutched at his arm. “No, my lord. Listen to her.”

  King Owain leaned into Gwen. “You think the wine is tainted?”

  “I fear it.” Yet again, neighbor jostled neighbor, trying to see and hear what was happening on the dais. Gwen looked at her feet. “I feel now that I overreacted. I disrupted your festivities for no reason.”

  Cristina moved close to Gwen and lifted her chin with one finger. “I will always treasure the knowledge that you reacted so quickly because you feared for my life. I am not bothered if you were wrong in the specifics.”

  Hywel looked into one of the cups, which Gwen still held. He dipped his pinky into the wine and brought it to his nose. “I’m not sure she was wrong.” He was about to touch his finger to his tongue when Gwen bumped into him with her shoulder, as both her hands were full.

  “No! Think of what you’re doing!” She set the cups on a nearby table, away from him.

  “How will we discover the truth if I don’t test it?” He sniffed the wine.

  “My lord Hywel,” Gwen said. “We have ways of finding out if the wine is tainted without you putting your life at risk. What if the cup contains aconite or nightshade? It takes only a drop of either to kill. You’re lucky you don’t have a cut on your finger. You could already be dead.”

  But Hywel’s face had cleared. “It’s mandrake.”

  Gwen sighed with relief. Mandrake would have made them ill, but not killed them, not in the quantity found in a cup of wine. It was the same herb Gwen had given to Gareth last summer to induce vomiting when he’d been poisoned. Regardless, it surely would have postponed the wedding yet again.

  Gwen turned to Cristina. “Who brought you the wine?”

  “I-I don’t know,” Cristina said. “I didn’t see.”

  “Someone must have.” Hywel glared around the room.

  “It was a servant.” Mari had stepped into their small circle and now stood on her toes to peer over the crowed. “That one!” She pointed a finger towards a girl who was clearing a table.

  Hywel grabbed Gwen’s hand. “Come on!”

  “Wait!” King Owain hadn’t yet caught on. “Where are you going?”

  Hywel turned back to his father. “Get married. Right now. Gwen and I will find the one who would have poisoned you.”

  King Owain stared at his son, and then released one of his characteristic laughs. As Gwen and Hywel disappeared through the doorway that led to the kitchens, King Owain called to the crowd, “My friends! Come!”

  “You need to be with him,” Gwen said.

  “It will take him a moment to find the priest,” Hywel said. “My father needs him only because he wants to thumb his nose at the Church. They could have signed the papers before witnesses at any time before this moment.”

  “He wanted his people around him,” Gwen said. “You can’t blame him for desiring a small spectacle, even if a larger one was denied him.”

  Gwen and Hywel came to a halt in front of the girl, who’d seen the commotion and stared at them with wide eyes. She curtseyed. “My lord.”

  “You brought the wine to the king, yes?” Hywel said.

  “Y-y-yes, my lord.”

  “Where did you get it?” Hywel said.

  “One of the barons, my lord. He handed me the tray. He was here just now—” She swung around to look toward the open doorway to the kitchen.

  “We’re wasting time.” Hywel took off at a run for the kitchen. Half a dozen servants looked up as he and Gwen entered. Hywel pointed a finger at Dai, the cook. “A nobleman came through here, yes?”

  The cook looked around. “Yes, my lord, though he’s long gone.”

  Hywel’s voice was harsh. “Did he leave by the back door?”

  “Y-yes. He wore a deep hood. I didn’t see his face,” Dai said.

  Hywel ran to the door, Gwen just behind him. They came out at the rear of the complex and circled around to the postern gate.

  Hywel practically leapt on the guard who watched it. “Did a man leave just now through here?”

  “Uh … no, my lord.”

  Hywel grunted his disappointment.

  “What about through the main gate, my lord?” Gwen said.

  The guard’s face brightened. “A whole company rode out, my lord.”

  Hywel’s expression hardened. “Whose?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Never mind.” Hywel ran to the main gate of the castle, which was open. Following after him, Gwen felt like a child’s toy pulled by a string. Early evening was still a busy time of day with much coming and going from the village and surrounding area. In the time it took for them to reach it, a cart left Aber piled with refuse and another one came in bearing fresh hay.

  Hywel pulled up beside the soldier of the garrison who was in charge of the gate. “Did you see who rode away just now?”

  “Certainly, Sir. It was some of Prince Cadwaladr’s men.”

  That news set both Gwen and Hywel back a pace. “It couldn’t have been,” Gwen said. “He left yesterday.”

  The man appeared flummoxed. “I could have sworn they wore the Prince’s colors.”

  “Damn.” Hywel stepped through the gate and stared down the road that ran towards the sea, before curving eastward around a bend. He turned back to Gwen, shaking his head. “They’re gone.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I have to speak to my father,” Hywel said. “But first, I need to see him married.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Gareth hadn’t thought very hard about what he would do when he got to Offa’s Dyke. Yes, King Owain and Ranulf, the Earl of Chester, were on good terms—or as good terms as a Welsh King and a Norman baron could be when each guarded their territory carefully—but Gareth would be pursuing a fugitive from Wales into England. Most rulers didn’t like that. In fact, English villains could find freedom in Wales, and often did, since the Norman writ stopped at the border. It would be hard to find a Welshman who was above harboring an English criminal if it meant he could thumb his nose at Norman law.

  In turn, King Owain’s writ stopped at the border of Gwynedd. Still, from the looks of things, if Pedr had told Prior Rhys the truth, it was to Chester that Gareth had to go. He left the monastery before first light, passed the Dyke by mid-morning, and shortly after noon, approached the gates of the city. Chester was the most substantial settlement in this part of England. Once, it had been the home of the twentieth Roman legion, whose job it was to control Wales. The Saxons, and Normans after them, had fortified it for the same purpose.

  A curtain wall fronted by a ditch circled the entire city, which had four gates: the water gate to the west, by which flowed the River Dee and which allowed access to the city for shipping and trade, the north gate, the east gate, and the bridge gate. Gareth headed for the last of these, riding over the bridge that spanned the Dee as it passed south of the city. A few paces further on, he found himself in a narrow passage, with sandstone walls twelve feet high on either side of him. A gate faced him, flanked by two massive towers.

  Men, women, children, horses, and carts crowded into the passage. They passed in and out of the city in a near-continual stream. Gareth had arrived on market day. The crush of people forced Dewi to one side and Gareth edged him along the wall. Gareth kept his eyes on the tower above him and his bearing upright. He hoped none of the guards would shoot him when they realized he was a Welshman. He slowed, allowing a few people to get ahead of him. He had a terrible feeling that the passage could prove to be a funnel leading into a cage.

  Although the two men guarding the entrance to the city allowed most people to pass without inspection, Gareth didn’t even try. He waited for the guards, who were now joined by a third man who’d watched Gareth from the moment he set foot on the bridge. As Gareth had entered under the gatehouse, this man had gone so far as to lean over the battlement to glare down at him. Finally, Gareth reached the fron
t of the line and dismounted in front of the guards.

  The man who’d come down from the battlements spoke first. “Who are you and what is your business?” He wore a big Saxon beard and spoke in English. Gareth wasn’t fluent in the language but spoke it well enough to understand and be understood.

  Gareth bowed slightly at the waist. “I come on business to your Earl.” Gareth felt it best to keep the reason for his journey to himself, for now. Certainly, he didn’t want to broadcast to just anyone what Pedr had done, but more to the point, he had forgotten the English word for ‘assassin,’ if he’d ever known it (which was in Welsh, llofrudd).

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Many do. What makes you different such that I should let you in?”

  “I am seeking a man,” Gareth said. “He rode here from Wales on horseback. He would have arrived yesterday.”

  “We cannot help you,” one of the other guards said.

  The first guard shoved at the man’s shoulder. “You weren’t to answer.” He turned back to Gareth. “You are Welsh.”

  “Yes,” Gareth said.

  “Perhaps you’re a spy? And this man—perhaps he’s a good Englishman if a Welshman hunts him.”

  This attitude was nothing less than what Gareth had expected. “I have a letter from the court of Aber in Gwynedd that vouches for me.” Gareth didn’t explain that the letter of safe passage was from Prince Hywel, not King Owain. Hopefully, such a distinction would be minor to this Saxon guard.

  After another long stare, which Gareth endured impassively, the bearded man grudgingly waved him on and let him through the gate. The line of people had bunched up behind Gareth as he’d talked with the guard, and he could hear the sighs of relief from those waiting.

  “Come with me,” the man said.

  Gareth obeyed, leading his horse. Perhaps he could have fled into the city and hidden instantly in the crush of people, which showed no signs of thinning even a dozen yards from the gate. But he was on official business. Best to keep it cordial.