The Uninvited Guest

by Sarah Woodbury

  Once they had moved into a side passage, however, the man stuck out his hand and said in perfect Welsh, “I am Dafydd from Powys.”

  Gareth grasped his forearm. “Gareth. How is it that you are part of the garrison here?”

  “My father was Saxon but my mother was Welsh and I was raised just on the other side of the border. She died when I was fourteen and I came east with my father.”

  “I’m a captain in the teulu of Prince Hywel of Gwynedd.”

  Dafydd raised his eyebrows. “A knight, then.”

  “Yes.”

  Dafydd looked Gareth up and down openly. “I should have known this by your sword and armor, but not by your cloth. The exchequer at Aber is not what it should be?”

  Gareth laughed, relieved to have found someone he could talk to. He’d spent all morning with his stomach in a tight knot, wondering if he’d end the day in a cell beneath Chester Castle without any chance to find his quarry. “That’s not it at all. It was better not to call attention to myself with finery. I’m tracking an assassin and it’s been a long road.”

  “Then perhaps I can shorten it.” Dafydd turned Gareth to the west and indicated that he should come with him. “Did you say an assassin? Whom did he murder?”

  “He didn’t murder anyone,” Gareth said. “But he tried.”

  “I will take you to the sheriff.” Dafydd eyed Gareth warily. “You realize that King Owain has no jurisdiction here?”

  “I know it,” Gareth said. “Although I wouldn’t object to bringing the boy back to Gwynedd, my greater objective is to find him and speak to him. There is more here to talk about than just his crime.”

  All the while they’d been speaking, Gareth had been taking in the sights and sounds of Chester. The city streets were cramped and stinking. Gareth and Dafydd had to make sure to keep to the center of the lane to avoid the waste in the gutters. Women leaned out upper windows to call to passers-by or their neighbors. The street was loud and raucous. Gareth didn’t know if he loved it or hated it, but he couldn’t deny the energy coursing through him from all the activity.

  After a few dozen yards, Dafydd turned onto a less busy street which ended at Chester Castle’s front gate. Although up close it showed an imposing façade, compared to other castles Gareth had seen, it didn’t amount to much. A single stone tower, surrounded by outbuildings and a wooden palisade, perched on a mound in the most southwestern corner of the city and overlooked the River Dee. The City of Chester’s stone walls encircled the castle, eliminating the need for additional fortification on the castle’s inner side.

  “The Earl Ranulf is not in residence,” Dafydd said. “That is just as well for you since he’s been out of temper of late, what with all the fighting to the east and south. I will take you directly to the sheriff: Sir Amaury de Granville.”

  “Is he … well-disposed to speaking to a Welshman?” Gareth said.

  Dafydd laughed and clapped Gareth on the shoulder. “If he weren’t, half his garrison would be gone by morning. You’ll find that the lines between English and Welsh are not so finely drawn in Chester as at Aber.”

  “You speak the truth?” Gareth said. “I did not realize …”

  Dafydd leaned in closer. “Don’t you know what the English say about us Welshmen?”

  “What do they say?” Gareth said.

  “That our archers are the finest in Christendom. That we fight from behind trees and hillocks and then melt into our mountains, so high and forbidding that no sane man would attempt to cross them. And yet we do. We move across our landscape without leaving footprints. We are legend to them.”

  That sounded good to Gareth, and he could see how the people of Chester would view the men of Wales as secretive and strange, unreachable in their difference. In turn, he had to ask himself how these English lived so packed together. And with such noise! A man had no space to think.

  Compared to the city, the bailey of the castle was quiet. A few men stood on the battlements above the Dee and others stood sentry at the gatehouse. The castle had its own small population, but unlike most Welsh castles, it needed to supply little for itself, since whatever the residents needed could be found in the city.

  After seeing to Gareth’s horse, Dafydd brought Gareth to an expansive guardroom—an empty one—in the barracks that had been built into the wooden palisade that surrounded the castle. “Wait here.”

  Gareth thanked the saints that he’d fallen in with a trusted lieutenant. For a few moments as he’d approached the gates to the City, he’d considered turning tail and running back to Wales. Now, he was glad he hadn’t given in to instinct.

  With Dafydd gone, Gareth didn’t sit at any of the long tables that filled the space. Instead, he made a circuit of the room. Prince Hywel would want a full report when Gareth returned, along with a sketch of the castle, its strengths and weaknesses, and a catalog of men and weapons. The sheriff of Chester had lined the walls of the barracks with swords, armor, and bows, some ancient, some new.

  Then Dafydd returned. “Here he is, my lord.”

  Gareth swung around to see a short, slender, clean-shaven man with close-cropped dark hair enter the room. This was a Norman. Gareth didn’t know that he’d met any true Normans in his life, just a few Marcher lords with Norman blood. None had been such as this man, with no Saxon or Welsh in him at all.

  Gareth put his heels together and bowed. “My lord Sheriff.”

  “Dafydd tells me that you come from Gwynedd, hunting a man,” the sheriff said in English. “What makes you think he’s here, in Chester?”

  “He spent last night at St. Asaph, in the Abbey there, and the prior directed me here,” Gareth said.

  “You have reason to trust his word?”

  “Yes.”

  Sir Amaury nodded. “This man’s name?”

  “Pedr ap Marc,” Gareth said.

  “And his crime?”

  Now they had come to it. “He tried to murder King Owain Gwynedd three days ago.”

  Sir Amaury had such control over his expression that he kept his face impassive. “And this man, Pedr, has come to Chester?”

  “So I believe,” Gareth said.

  The sheriff pursed his lips and gazed at Gareth, or rather, through him. Gareth could practically see his mind churning. “Can you describe him?”

  “Better. I can show you.” Gareth reached into his pocket and brought out the now worn image of Pedr.”

  “By the Saints!” Dafydd said. “Did you draw that?”

  “I did,” Gareth said.

  “You have a fine hand.” But Dafydd shook his head regretfully. “I have not seen him.”

  Gareth had watched Dafydd’s face as he looked at the paper. His nostrils hadn’t flared and his eyes had shown no flash of recognition.

  “I can make more drawings if you are willing to give me some of your men to help me look for Pedr, my lord,” Gareth said to the sheriff.

  “I will not give you any men.” The sheriff met Gareth’s eyes. “I’m sure you serve your king well, but I cannot have a soldier of Owain Gwynedd combing my city for a fugitive from Wales. You understand this?”

  “Even if he is Welsh?”

  “Even if,” Sir Amaury said.

  Gareth nodded. “I had hoped for more, but I accept your decision. My king would have been equally reluctant to extend the same courtesy to Earl Ranulf, if a fugitive from England found his way into his domains.”

  “Ah. But then you do not understand.” The sheriff looked at Dafydd. “Find him some paper to make more pictures.”

  Gareth stared at the sheriff. “What do you want them for?”

  Sir Amaury turned back to Gareth. “I said I would not give you men, but I didn’t say that my men wouldn’t hunt for your assassin.” Amaury spoke this last word in French, a language in which Gareth was far more comfortable than English. He would have used it from the start, if it hadn’t meant shutting out Dafydd.

  All of a sudden, the day was looking brighter. “I am grateful, my
lord.” Gareth bowed again.

  “Dafydd will take you around, after you’ve eaten,” Sir Amaury said. “We will find this lad, if he’s here to be found.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Gareth hadn’t been surprised, even as he’d been disappointed, when he thought the sheriff would send him home empty-handed. This was an excellent turn of events.

  Dafydd left the room, leaving Gareth alone with the sheriff. Both remained standing, eyeing each other, though not in an unfriendly way. “You are not what I expected,” Sir Amaury said.

  “My lord?”

  “When Dafydd told me that a Welsh knight was waiting to speak to me, I expected to find one of the men who fought beside me two years ago at Lincoln and then at Winchester.”

  “I have never fought in England,” Gareth said.

  Sir Amaury coughed. “Better for you. Better for everyone if none of us had been at Winchester. We barely escaped with our lives.”

  “So I understood,” Gareth said. The sheriff was going somewhere with this, but for the life of him, Gareth didn’t know where.

  “I’ve never met one of King Owain’s men,” Sir Amaury said, “only those who serve his brother, Cadwaladr.”

  After a brief respite, Gareth’s sinking feeling was back.

  “You would balk, I think,” Sir Amaury said, “at some of the things we’ve had to do in this war between Stephen and Maud.”

  “I have done much that I regret, too.” Gareth felt a pinching around his mouth and eyes at the memories.

  “Ah. But you don’t cover fear with bluster,” Sir Amaury said. “I don’t see any fear in you at all.”

  Gareth’s hand moved to rest on the hilt of his sword. “Should I be afraid?”

  “I could lock you up just for setting foot in Chester.” Sir Amaury waved a hand at Gareth, taking in his whole being. “You are a Welsh knight, riding armed into my city.”

  “I came with courtesy,” Gareth said, “under the assumption that we are men of honor.”

  Sir Amaury nodded. “As I said—not what I expected. Different from Cadwaladr.”

  Gareth’s tension began to ease. Here was another man whom he could respect. He’d found two in as many days, first in the prior of St. Asaph and now in the sheriff. “Besides, how would imprisoning me serve your Earl?” Gareth said. “I would just be another mouth to feed, another man to guard to no purpose. Better to boot me out the gate and let me go home.”

  The sheriff barked a laugh. “An honorable man, yet a practical one.”

  “I’ve learned something in the last few years.” It was on the tip of Gareth’s tongue to tell Sir Amaury that he had served Prince Cadwaladr for a time. But he feared it would expose too much.

  Another laugh. “When Dafydd takes you through the taverns, let him do the talking. Your English is terrible.” The sheriff gave Gareth a quick nod of his head and departed, still laughing. Dafydd came through the door just as Sir Amaury pushed through it going the other way. “Take care of him.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Dafydd brought paper and charcoal to one of the tables. “You put the sheriff in a good humor. What did you say to him?”

  “No more than necessary and that appears to have been enough.”

  Dafydd gave Gareth a quizzical look, but didn’t ask more. Gareth sketched a dozen copies of Pedr’s face. Dafydd took the papers to pass among his men and then came back for Gareth. “We’ll start at the gatehouse and work north. I’ve sent men to the other gates. At the very least, we’ll catch him as he’s leaving the city.”

  But as the day wore on, it seemed to Gareth that they wouldn’t catch him at all. He and Dafydd made a full circuit of the streets. The sun had long since set by the time they returned to the castle. Gareth felt as if he’d met every single one of Chester’s three thousand residents. Although Gareth didn’t want to give up, he was just opening his mouth to tell Dafydd that he was sorry for wasting everyone’s time when one of Dafydd’s underlings ran up to him.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We’ve found him!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  At last I’m going to get some answers!

  Pedr had found himself a seat at a table in the corner of a tavern, one street south of the east gate. As Dafydd and Gareth settled themselves onto the bench opposite, the youth lifted his cup to them. “Hello! It’s a fine evening.” He spoke in Welsh. His first mistake.

  “Is it?” Gareth said, answering in the same language.

  Pedr put down his cup. “Excuse me. Do I know you?”

  “You certainly should,” Gareth said.

  Pedr just gazed at him, an innocent half-smile on his face. “Enlighten me.”

  Gareth had forgotten the issue of the man’s amnesia—feigned or otherwise. He gave a ghost of a laugh, shook his head, and then wagged his finger at Pedr. “You’re good. You might even convince someone who didn’t know you as well as I. I spoke to you in your cell at Aber Castle three days ago.”

  “I have not been to Aber in many years,” Pedr said. “You must be thinking of someone else.”

  “Your face is not one that I could forget,” Gareth leaned forward. “It was I who stopped you from murdering King Owain.”

  “What?” Pedr had been taking a swallow of mead and now sprayed it across the table. Fortunately, Gareth leaned back in time to get out of the way. “What are you saying?”

  For his part, Dafydd snorted into his drink. “Why does it not surprise me that you saved the king?”

  Gareth ignored Pedr’s outrage and Dafydd’s mumbled accolade. “Tell me your name.”

  “Dai ap Aron.”

  “Ah … so you do remember it.”

  Pedr’s eyes widened. For a moment, he’d forgotten what he was supposed to not know. “I think that’s my name.”

  “I don’t,” Gareth said. “That is not the name that Prior Rhys at the monastery in St. Asaph gave me for you.”

  Pedr’s self-satisfied smile faded a little. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have never been to St. Asaph. You have the wrong man.”

  Dafydd had gotten to his feet as Pedr and Gareth were speaking and now poured another serving of mead into Pedr’s cup.

  “I don’t have the wrong man.” Gareth took out his drawing and pushed it towards Pedr. “I drew this two days ago at Aber. Good, isn’t it?”

  Pedr pushed the paper back at Gareth. “I have no idea who that is.”

  “One of the men of the watch recognized you from it. That’s how we found you.” Gareth turned the image around and held it up, pretending to compare it to Pedr. “It is you, and you can tell me why you tried to kill King Owain, or I can have my friend Dafydd, here, throw you into a cell under Chester Castle. Your choice.”

  Pedr drained his drink and set it on the table. Dafydd was right there to fill it again. Pedr didn’t seem to notice. He leaned against the wall behind him, his arms folded across his chest. “If you had anything against me, I’d be in a cell already.”

  Gareth reached across the table, grabbed Pedr by the shirt, and yanked him out of his seat, his nose right in Pedr’s face. “This tavern is full of the sheriff’s men. Whether or not you leave it alive depends on my good will.” He dropped Pedr back onto his bench and settled himself down again. From the way Pedr cleared his throat, Gareth had rattled his composure, but not as much as Gareth would have liked.

  “And mine.” Dafydd’s eyes flashed to Pedr and then back to his drink. “It would be much easier to tell the sheriff that you died in a tavern brawl than haul you down to the castle. Quicker, too.”

  Pedr was starting to look concerned. His eyes flicked from Gareth to Dafydd, who grinned back at him and patted the sword at his waist. “Scum like you, giving Welshmen a bad name. I’d be happy to dispatch you. Just say the word.”

  Gareth tipped his chin at Pedr. “Tell me your name. Your real one.” Pedr eased back from the table, but kept his hands on it, and now his eyes flitted around the tavern looking for a way out. Gareth reached across the
table and grabbed Pedr’s wrist—tightly. “Your name.”

  Pedr’s jaw bulged. “Pedr ap Marc.”

  “That’s better.” Gareth released Pedr and eased back. “Your father was Marc ap Iefan, was he not?”

  Pedr nodded. He took another big gulp of mead. Gareth would have been under the table by now with all that drink, but Pedr’s eyes and hands remained steady.

  “I already know the sordid story,” Gareth said. “I hear he died shortly after King Owain gave him the boot.”

  Pedr shook his fist at Gareth. “King Owain murdered my father!”

  “Easy, now.” Dafydd said. Several of the men-at-arms who served the sheriff rose to their feet.

  “It’s all right.” Gareth put his hand out. “Tell me, Pedr. You were only a boy, then, weren’t you?”

  Pedr nodded. “I was eight when the soldiers came. They were my father’s friends, or so he’d thought.”

  “And what happened?”

  “They burned our house! Our barn! They stripped us of everything we had but the clothes we wore and herded away our livestock. We were left with nothing!”

  “You were left with your lives,” Gareth said. “And from what I hear, King Owain was being generous.”

  “As if our lives were worth anything without the King’s favor,” Pedr said. “He would have done better to kill us.”

  “I see,” Gareth said. “Then he didn’t murder your father, after all.”

  “He drove him to his death!” Pedr’s voice had taken on the tenor of a wounded child, rather than a man of eighteen. Even after ten years (albeit with too much mead inside him), his emotions remained raw. “He died a few months later. Drink.”

  “Did he tell you what he’d done to incur King Owain’s wrath?”

  “His tithes were late. It was nothing.” Finally, Pedr had begun to weave in his seat.

  Dafydd and Gareth exchanged a glance. Dafydd refilled the pitcher with which he’d been supplying Pedr. Gareth leaned over the table again, trying to create a feeling of intimacy in which confidences could be shared. “What did you do to survive?”