“You know more about the church and churchmen than you think,” Gareth said. “And maybe this is why the monastery doesn’t currently have an abbot. Or why Bishop Gregory sent us Arnulf, his secretary who is also a priest, rather than Madyn, who speaks Welsh.”
“Exactly. Even as bishop, he might feel as if he was treading on the monks’ toes to instruct one of their number without first consulting with the prior.”
“Who, again, does not have the authority of an abbot.”
Conall grunted. “You weren’t wrong when you suggested I might have been more scholarly than the average boy. My mother wanted me for the Church, and I attempted to please her for a time.”
“You were a novice?” Back in the laying out room, Gareth had made a guess, but he was still staggered to learn he hadn’t been far off.
“I never got that far.” Conall shrugged. “Becoming a priest might have made sense at fifteen, but by seventeen—” he grinned, “—girls and my uncle intervened.”
Then the women arrived. Conall introduced Cait to Gareth, and the five of them moved in silent agreement towards the wall that enclosed the church compound, near where the gravestones began. Here, each related what they’d learned and produced their discoveries. Though few in number, each had profound implications.
Gwen bit her lip. “The whiskey became, in effect, the water of death.”
Conall studied the words on the paper. “Prior James was worried Harald might have killed himself, and though I was skeptical before, by this are we to conclude he did?”
“While the note wasn’t left on his side table by accident,” Llelo said, “if suicide was his intent, and he wanted to die in the church, where’s his flagon of drink? Wouldn’t he have brought it with him?”
“Is it even possible to die on purpose from drinking too much?” Gwen asked. “Even if you drank it all at once, likely you’d vomit it up, wouldn’t you?”
“There was no vomit on the floor of the chapel,” Conall said.
“Could someone have cleaned it up?” Llelo asked.
“I don’t know.” Gareth didn’t like that he didn’t. “If Harald drank an enormous amount in just the right amount of time, his decision to go to the church could have been made before he was so drunk he couldn’t walk.”
“People do all sorts of things they wouldn’t normally do when they’re drunk,” Conall said.
Gwen shook her head. “But a declaration of suicide would have repercussions in this community and isn’t to be lightly asserted, especially on so little information. He drank too much and died. He may have drunk himself to death on purpose, he may have put himself on that altar on purpose, but the why of any of this is hardly self-evident.”
“Certainly he wouldn’t be the first man who drank too much accidently,” Gareth said, “and with his wounds, he may have simply been looking for relief from pain. I think we need to speak with Bishop Gregory again.”
“I agree.” While Gareth had been speaking, Gwen’s attention had been caught by something off to the side, and now she screwed up her face and pointed to the wall near which they were standing. “Is that vomit over there?”
The expression of disgust on each person’s face was identical. Conall took it upon himself to edge closer. “Yes.” He bent a little nearer. “Fresh as well.”
Llelo turned entirely away, his arms folded across his chest. “I, for one, am glad we have no way to match what’s on the wall with what’s in Harald’s stomach.”
Gareth chose not to mention he’d found some vomit in Harald’s throat and was already guiding the women to a safe distance away, as Gwen was looking a little green again.
Caitriona eyed her for a moment and then glanced upward to check the location of the sun. “Is it really that time already? The feast is almost upon us!”
Gareth shot her a grateful glance. “Perhaps you two should go and prepare.”
Gwen visibly wavered, reminding Gareth of Godfrid at the gatehouse, torn between duty and duty, so he added, “Cait is the guest of honor.”
Gwen put her hand to her head. “I am so sorry! I almost forgot, and we have so much to do. I’m ashamed to be going about wearing something this dirty anywhere near a church as it is!”
“You look fine,” Gareth said, meaning it, but then he had to laugh at the withering look Gwen sent him.
“You are no judge.” She went up on her tiptoes and put a hand to his cheek. “And I love you for it.” Then she tipped her head to Cait. “Perhaps it would be best if you and I adjourn for now and leave these men to their work. Llelo discovered both the coin and the writing. He’s perfectly capable of speaking to the bishop of what was found in Harald’s cell.”
At first Llelo blinked at the accolade, a pleased look in his eyes, but then he nodded gravely, putting on the mask of maturity he wore now whenever he thought of it. “I can.”
If anything, he took his duties too seriously, but Gareth knew where he’d learned to do so and could hardly complain about something he and Gwen had encouraged. As the eldest son in the family, it was natural that more was expected of him and a greater weight of responsibility ended up on his shoulders. Gareth tried to allow him room for play. But it was difficult, mostly because Llelo himself wanted more responsibility, and to deny him the opportunity to work as a man would end up making him feel belittled. Gareth well remembered what it was like to be a man by law but not quite be entirely grown up inside.
“Don’t be late, brother.” Cait shook her finger at Conall. “Godfrid won’t want to start without you.”
Conall glanced at Gareth. “Assuredly, we won’t intend to be.”
Gwen took Cait’s arm as they started walking away, and Gareth heard her say, “They know. They’ll do what they must.”
“I am so glad they’re getting on.” Conall blew out a breath as he watched them go.
“Gwen was determined that they would. I imagine Cait was too.”
“It is not in my sister’s nature to be jealous, and she knows her own worth, but Godfrid did once ask Gwen to marry him.”
Gareth had actually forgotten that fact. He had been insanely jealous himself when he’d learned of it, though it was difficult to be angry at Godfrid for long—especially when it was clear how much he cared for Gwen.
Conall must have seen that memory in Gareth’s face, because he clapped Gareth on the shoulder. “You won her away, remember?”
“I did. Obviously, it was the best for all concerned.” The men started walking towards the bishop’s office, but when Gareth realized Llelo wasn’t with them, he turned to look back. “Llelo?”
At sixteen years old, Llelo wasn’t a boy anymore, but the expression on his face was comical in its childish horror. “Godfrid asked Mam to marry him?”
Conall’s expression turned sheepish. “Sorry. You didn’t know?”
“I didn’t.” Llelo managed to get his legs moving and caught up.
“As you probably could guess, this was during the time Cadwaladr stole her away to Dublin,” Gareth said.
“But then you came to get her, and she married you instead.” Llelo spoke with some satisfaction, but then he frowned. “If you hadn’t, Father, would she have stayed in Dublin?”
“You would have to ask her that. Fortunately, I did come, and she didn’t stay.” Gareth’s expression turned thoughtful. “From what she said at the time, even had I not come, she would not have stayed—or at least not yet. Her family and life were in Gwynedd. Godfrid had more wooing to do, especially since the relationship started with Godfrid throwing your mother over his shoulder and carrying her to his ship.”
Llelo’s jaw dropped again, as Gareth knew it would, which is why he’d told him that little tidbit.
Conall hadn’t heard that part either, and he laughed out loud, though he instantly shushed himself and looked furtively around, not wanting to disturb the quiet of the monastery with laughter. “Really?”
“So I hear. This was immediately after Cadwaladr had announced from
Aberffraw’s battlements that she was carrying Prince Hywel’s child.”
Llelo was looking as if his head had just exploded, so Gareth grinned. “I can’t believe we never told you this before!”
Llelo shook his head. “You didn’t. Nobody even hinted of it, not even Evan!”
“He was there.” And then Gareth deflated at the memory of what had happened after that: their archers had killed one of Cadwaladr’s men when he’d attacked Rhun, and then Rhun and Hywel had summarily executed two more. It was in the aftermath of those events, after Gareth had gone south with Hywel to take Aberystwyth Castle from Cadwaladr’s wife, that Gareth had climbed into the Viking ship to sail to Dublin.
Only Gareth and Evan had realized at the time what a momentous step that had been for Gareth. He’d known it was right—and wanted to do it—but he’d felt caught between love for Gwen and duty to Hywel. Standing on the beach below Aberystwyth Castle, Brodar, Godfrid’s brother, had offered him a seat in his boat.
It had been one of those pivotal moments in Gareth’s life—the choice to go this way instead of that—and it had shaped the course of the future from then on. As when Gareth had declined to remain in Prince Cadwaladr’s service one more day, he’d known the importance of the decision at the time. It was why he urged his sons to do what they knew was right in their hearts, even if others wouldn’t approve. Only they were answerable to God for their souls.
It was the other types of decisions, the ones where he chose by chance or at random or because he felt like it, where what was right was much less clear, that were most likely to haunt him. The meeting with Conall had been just such a decision in that he and Gwen had chosen to ride to the brothel outside of Shrewsbury after dark rather than wait until morning. Because they’d made that choice, they’d saved Conall’s life. Had they not, he probably would have died—and thus, he never would have become the ambassador from Leinster, and Godfrid wouldn’t have met Cait.
By such choices was a life made.
Now, standing in the yard of Christ’s Church, sixty leagues and across the sea from Shrewsbury, he opened his hand to reveal the wooden coin.
“I know.” Conall looked down at Gareth’s hand. “I have been thinking of that day too.”
“My first thought, of course, like Gwen’s, was that a coin would gain admission to one of Dublin’s brothels. If that is the case, it is troubling to think Harald visited one.”
“Perhaps one of the guards at the brothel beat him up, and that’s how he received all those wounds,” Llelo said.
Gareth looked wryly at his son. “I can’t say that notion is any less troubling!”
“Given our experience, it’s a perfectly reasonable supposition,” Conall said. “But, in fact, I haven’t seen a coin such as this in Dublin, ever. I am not aware of any brothel that uses them.”
Llelo asked, perhaps with innocence, “Would you be aware?” During the events in Shrewsbury, Llelo had been serving in the retinue of Prince Cynan, Hywel’s brother. He hadn’t been with Gareth and Gwen that week, but he’d heard about what happened and had met Conall in St. Asaph shortly after his rescue. Gareth didn’t think his son had ever visited a brothel, but he’d been around fighting men since Gareth and Gwen had adopted him. He wasn’t a stranger to the ways of men.
Conall lifted one eyebrow. “As the ambassador from Leinster, I have, of course, never frequented any such establishments. As Fergus the Sailor, however, it would have been remarked upon had I not joined my fellow sailors a time or two in their escapades.” He eyed Llelo for a heartbeat. “If only to drink.”
Gareth carefully avoided looking at his son. “How many brothels are there in Dublin?”
Conall thought. “Three, all within a block or two of the docks, to be more convenient for the sailors. Under Brodar’s rule and at the behest of Bishop Gregory, slavery has finally been abolished in Dublin, which eliminated a fourth. As it was owned by one of Ottar’s staunch supporters, nobody was sorry to see it go.”
“But no coins.”
“Not that I know. Ottar turned a blind eye to such establishments, and Brodar hasn’t been on the throne long enough to determine what kind of threat they pose to our society, if any. Sailors frequent brothels, as you well know, and Dublin is the preeminent port in Ireland. Bishop Gregory certainly would prefer they were closed, but so soon after his victory against slavery, he isn’t pressing to reform what happens on the dockside.”
“What about the worthy wives of Dublin?”
“Like the church, for the most part they turn a blind eye. In truth, we are all used to doing that. The Danes held slaves for generations. Some of the whores were actually slaves, prostituted by their masters, and those that remain are merely slaves by another name.”
On that grim note, it was time to see the bishop. They entered the cloister through the main doorway and followed the pathway around the central grassy space to the Bishop’s quarters, which included an audience room, a private office, and his bedroom.
The young priest, Arnulf, who’d run to find them at the dock, was sitting behind a table going through a stack of papers. He looked up as they entered the room and immediately stood. “My lords! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. How may I help you?”
Gareth tipped his head towards the half-open door behind Arnulf. “We would very much like to speak to the bishop if he is available.”
“Yes, of course. I will see if he is so disposed.” Arnulf went to the door, knocked, even though it was partly open, and entered. He spoke muffled words Gareth couldn’t make out, even were they not in Danish, and then returned. “Bishop Gregory would be pleased to speak with you.”
They thanked Arnulf and filed past him into the room. It was well-appointed, with tapestries on the walls, heavy furniture, and a fire burning in a grate a few feet from the bishop. The room was illumined by light coming through a large window that faced the churchyard, as well as a half-dozen candles, making Gareth wonder how well the bishop was seeing these days to need so much light to read.
Once inside, Gareth closed the door behind him, not quite in Arnulf’s face but solidly enough for his expression to turn to one of surprise. If the Bishop wanted Arnulf in the room, he could summon him, but their topic was a delicate one. Gareth would prefer for now to keep it amongst the four of them.
Then Gareth approached the bishop, who was also sitting behind a table, though his papers had been pushed aside in favor of a metal goblet containing wine and a tray of thinly sliced bread, butter, and cheese.
At their approach, he looked down at the food and said apologetically, “I missed my mid-day meal. While I too am invited to the palace in a few hours, I find in my old age I do better if I eat more small meals throughout the day.”
“Please continue.” Gareth himself could have done with some food, though he had learned it was best not to examine a dead body on a full stomach, which was why he hadn’t asked for anything from the church’s kitchen. They’d had the cellarer in the form of Madyn right in front of them, and he hadn’t offered either.
“Father, we have some items to show you.” Gareth drew out the wooden coin and the scrap of paper and laid them on the table in front of the bishop.
Bishop Gregory picked up the coin first, turning it over in his hands and peering at the carvings. “What is this?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Gareth said.
Bishop Gregory shook his head regretfully. “I’ve never seen a coin like this one before. What does it buy?”
“We do not know,” Conall said.
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” Bishop Gregory then picked up the scrap of paper, his lips moving soundlessly as he read the words and then read them again.
“You know the passage,” Gareth said, not as a question.
“Yes, of course. In it, Christ is praying for God to deliver him from what he must suffer on the cross.” He looked up. “Why is it written on this scrap, in Danish of all things? Where did you get it?�
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Gareth wet his lips. “The coin and the scrap of paper were found in Harald’s room. The coin was hidden in his mattress. The paper was on his bedside table, held in place by a wooden cup.”
“The implication, as we see it, was that it was meant to be found.” Conall paused. “Possibly after Harald was gone.”
Bishop Gregory’s face paled as he came to the same, inevitable conclusion Conall had drawn in the yard.
“Is it Harald’s script?” Gareth asked.
“Yes, yes. Of course it is.”
There was no of course about it, but Gareth didn’t contradict the bishop, who was distraught enough as it was.
“Harald wouldn’t—” Bishop Gregory stopped, unable to complete the thought out loud. He looked up at Gareth. “You examined the body. Did he really die by his own hand?”
“It appears he died after having drunk a surfeit of whiskey.”
The bishop let out a sharp breath. “An accident then.”
Conall cleared his throat. “His attire was not, your Grace.”
“No. Nor perhaps the location of his demise, though if he was as drunk as you say, he wouldn’t have been in his right mind, would he have?”
“And someone could have helped him into the chapel,” Gareth said. “We don’t know enough at this time to make any kind of judgment about the why of it.”
“I see. You just think now that you know the how.” He looked into Gareth’s face, his expression turning fierce. “Have you spoken of this to anyone else?”
“Only those of us investigating know of it.”
“Good.” Bishop Gregory nodded his head in a single sharp bob. “I must ask that you not bandy about anything you learn, not even to Prior James, not until we know more. Send them to me if they ask. Promise me you will not!”
The Irish Bride Page 6
