The Fallen Princess

by Sarah Woodbury

  “Bran was Gwladys’s lover?”

  “You didn’t know?” Gareth said, suddenly confused himself. He’d thought he and Taran had been in accord.

  “No, I didn’t know it was he!” Taran said. “I thought it was Gruffydd, Tegwen’s grandfather.”

  Gareth almost choked on his own saliva. “That’s not what I was told.”

  Taran sat back. “It would make more sense if it was Bran. Gruffydd has always been a friend, and that spring he’d broken his leg, which was why I felt I was wasting my time at Aber when I could have been serving Owain in the field.”

  “So you never saw Bran at Aber?” Gareth said.

  “All these years and I never harbored a suspicion against him.” Taran shook his head. “I would apologize to Gruffydd for misreading him, but Gwladys’s affair was not common knowledge. Or so I believed until now.” He glared at Gareth.

  Gareth put up both hands, palms out. “I will tell no one. I only brought it up because it seemed you already knew.”

  Taran subsided, still looking disgruntled. “I will have to speak to the king.”

  Gareth was glad that task would not be his. “So, if I may ask again, when did you last see Bran?”

  “I was about to repeat that I didn’t, but—” Taran put up his finger again. “Give me a moment.” He pushed to his feet, went to a shelf on the wall, lifted out a heavy book, and began flipping through the ancient pages. Gareth had seen the book before, though he’d never been given the opportunity to read it: it was an account of important events in Aber since its founding, all the way back to Rhodri Mawr. “Here it is. It was the twenty-second of April. Bran ap Cynan, Lord of Rhos, rode to Aber to tell of the disappearance of his wife, Tegwen ferch Cadwallon.”

  “May I see that?” Gareth rounded the table and read where Taran pointed. “I don’t understand.”

  Taran spread his hand wide. “What’s there to understand?”

  “Tegwen’s grandfather, Gruffydd, told us that Tegwen disappeared on the Feast of St. Bueno, which I believe is only two days earlier.”

  Taran closed the book and looked at Gareth. “Bryn Euryn is only ten miles from Aber. He could have easily ridden this far in a day.”

  “Except that he was supposed to be fighting in the east; I wouldn’t have thought that he could have known of her disappearance yet, much less reach Aber so quickly.”

  “Perhaps when Prince Hywel returns, he can shed light on these events.” Taran put the book back on the shelf.

  “Why didn’t you send word to Gruffydd that his granddaughter was missing?” Gareth said.

  Taran shook his head. “Now that I’ve seen the writing and the date, I remember Bran’s visit but little about it other than the fact of Tegwen’s disappearance.” His brow furrowed. “I do believe he told me that he had already informed Gruffydd that she was gone.”

  “Gruffydd claims otherwise,” Gareth said.

  “I can’t tell you any more than I’ve said.” Taran pinned Gareth with a sharp look. “Where is this going in your head?”

  “Gruffydd and Brychan both accused Bran of killing Tegwen,” Gareth said. “I have no other suspects at the moment.”

  “Given that he’s dead, he is certainly a convenient one,” Taran said.

  “You don’t believe he could have done it?” Gareth said.

  “Wouldn’t it have been smarter to murder her near Rhos?” Taran said. “And if he wanted to hide the body, there are smarter things he could have done with it. Why bring her all the way here?”

  “Perhaps because he was already here,” Gareth said. “Are you sure that he couldn’t have met Gwladys during that same time period?”

  Taran lowered himself back into his chair. “I do sleep, you know.”

  “Maybe he was smart enough to kill her far away from Bryn Euryn where nobody would suspect him if the body was eventually found,” Gareth said. “Did Bran get along with Cadwaladr?”

  Taran snorted laughter. “No. They hated each other.”

  “Do you know why?” Gareth said.

  Taran’s eyes narrowed as he thought. “In truth, I couldn’t say. Bran was a good ten years younger than Cadwaladr, so it must have been something that happened once they reached manhood.”

  “Maybe they were too much alike,” Gareth said.

  Taran eyed Gareth, his lips twisting in a wry smile. “Thinking always of themselves and nobody else? You may be right.”

  Gareth left Taran to his work. Walking away from Taran’s office, he reflected on how much he was growing to despise this investigation. He had never been one to gossip, and he didn’t enjoy accumulating other people’s secrets the way Hywel did. Had he wanted to know that Gwladys was unfaithful to King Owain? No, he had not. And at this point, he didn’t know if her activities had any bearing on Tegwen’s disappearance and death beyond informing him that something wasn’t right in Bran’s relationship with Tegwen. It occurred to him that nobody had yet told him if Bran himself had wanted something different in a wife and had married Tegwen only because his father made him.

  At times like this, Gareth was glad he wasn’t born a nobleman.

  The great hall was filled with sleeping guests, and Gareth paused to listen to the chapel bell toll for prime. Many would be rising now that the sun was up, and Gareth might not have a single quiet moment for the rest of the day. He turned on his heel and left the hall.

  Standing on the top step, Gareth beheld the courtyard, which was already filling with villagers coming into Aber to spend the day, anticipating rich meals, gossip, and entertainment. Meilyr and Gwalchmai had sung for everyone last evening and had even coaxed Gwen up on the dais for one song at the end. They would play on and off for much of the day. King Owain had also arranged for jugglers and storytellers, some who would sing and some who would not. The most important event of the day, however, would be Tegwen’s funeral.

  Gareth had some time before then, so he pointed himself towards the stables, thinking that he would saddle his horse and roust one of the castle’s men-at-arms to ride with him to Wena’s hut. When he arrived at the entrance, however, Godfrid and his Danes blocked the way inside, in the midst of a heated discussion.

  Gareth stopped a few feet away. He’d picked up some Danish over the years but not enough to make out more than one word in three when they were speaking so quickly. After a moment, Godfrid spotted him and sliced his hand through the air, cutting off all discussion. Gareth took that to mean that he should approach. “What’s wrong?”

  “One of my men is missing,” Godfrid said.

  Gareth raised his hands and dropped them in a gesture of disbelief. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Then Godfrid’s eyes focused on something behind Gareth; he turned to see four gravediggers with heavy shovels on their shoulders depart through the main gate.

  “When is it to be?” Godfrid said.

  “Before the evening meal.” Gareth turned back to Godfrid. “There’s plenty of time for a thorough search. What is your man’s name, where have you looked, and why would he have gone?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hywel

  Gwen had once told Hywel that he should have the words never assume inscribed above his door, and right now, as he waited for Madog’s funeral train to pass him, he reminded himself of the reason why. He had thought that his main purpose in coming to Rhos was to pin Ifon down about Tegwen’s last days. And he’d done it, but he felt now as if he’d learned too much information about the wrong things. If Bran had done something so terrible that both he and his wife had died over it, Hywel almost didn’t want to know what it was.

  Almost.

  As Ifon had promised, it wasn’t quite noon and Madog would be in the ground within the hour. The preparations for Hallowmas could then go forward as planned. Tegwen might have been dead for five years and Madog for only few hours, but from the buzz of conversation around Hywel, most everyone was focused on Tegwen. Her death had been violent, and everyone knew that it was those spir
its who were the most restless.

  Hywel and Evan stood to one side of the path leading out of Bryn Euryn as four mourners carried Madog’s body towards them in its temporary coffin, inside which the body lay, washed and shrouded. As was the custom in Gwynedd for all burials other than noble ones, Madog would be laid in the grave in just his shroud, and the coffin would be reused. The priest led the procession, followed by Ifon, his family, and Madog’s family.

  Hywel hated funerals. He understood the need for them and the importance of easing the soul into the next life. It was supposed to cleanse the grief of those left behind. But Hywel had attended too many funerals of loved ones to have any interest in witnessing the last journey of someone who may have feared death less than speaking to Hywel about Tegwen’s disappearance.

  Evan shifted beside Hywel, restless too, and Hywel canted his head to indicate that he should move through the crowd. Hywel’s other men-at-arms had spread themselves out among the mourners, acting as Hywel’s eyes and ears the best they knew how.

  Hywel brought his attention back to the procession, and as the body passed his position, he felt the pressure of a hand in his, followed by a low hiss and the words, “Tegwen met with a man the morning she disappeared.”

  Hywel licked his lips, his eyes flicking among the crowd to make sure nobody was looking at him, and took a step back. His fellow mourners shifted to fill in where he’d been standing. An ancient yew tree arched over the pathway a few feet away, and he and the woman who had come to find him stepped behind it, allowing Hywel to get a good look at his informant for the first time. She was perhaps ten years older than he was, blonde and blue-eyed, and if he hadn’t been a happily married man he would have regretted not meeting her the previous evening.

  “What can you tell me?” Hywel said.

  “You have to understand that when the story of how Tegwen ran off with a Dane came out, I assumed I’d been mistaken in what I’d seen. Madog was so sure that he saw her getting into that boat. But now that Tegwen died instead, I knew I needed to come forward.”

  With never assume echoing in Hywel’s head, he pressed the woman’s hand. “With whom did Tegwen meet?”

  “His name was Erik, a half-Dane in Bran’s company,” the woman said. “Tegwen met him over in the trees not far from here. She wandered, you know.”

  Hywel tried to keep his impatience in check. “So I’ve heard.”

  “I know she came back to the castle after she met him, but my duties as wet nurse for her younger girl prevented me from asking her what Erik had wanted. I never saw her again.”

  “You never told anyone about this?” Hywel said.

  The woman shook her head uncertainly.

  “Not Lord Bran?” Hywel said, trying to keep his voice gentle. What he wanted to do was shake the answers out of her.

  “No.” The woman’s eyes went wide. “When Lord Bran was told that Tegwen had gone, his anger was terrifying! I stayed out of his way, and since Erik was his man, I didn’t think it was my place to say anything.”

  “What about this Erik?” Hywel said. “Did you ever talk to him about it?”

  The woman sniffed and wiped at her nose. Hywel was reconsidering his initial attraction. “No. He left Bran’s service that summer, and by then I’d decided I was mistaken. He was half-Dane, and since Tegwen had run off with a Dane, perhaps I’d confused one man for the other and it hadn’t been Erik I saw.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  The woman gave him a coy smile. Had he actually fallen for this sort of thing in the past? Hywel decided he must be growing more discerning with age. He patted her hand and dismissed her. By now, the funeral procession had reached the bottom of the hill, and Hywel walked along the edge of the road, passing some stragglers, until he could see the chapel and the circular graveyard with its freshly dug grave. The pallbearers had removed Madog from his coffin and were lowering him into the ground.

  Evan stood at the back of the mourners, and Hywel moved to his side. They were standing to the left of the priest who raised his hands and began a prayer. “Is everything all right, my lord?”

  Hywel settled back on his heels. He’d walked up to Evan with a spring in his step, but to be so bright-eyed at a funeral was unseemly, and he should have known better. “I was just given helpful information and a real lead. I’ll tell you when this is over.”

  Hywel waited impatiently for the funeral rites to end and for Ifon to greet each person who’d attended. Ifon had made himself into a fine lord, even if he hadn’t been born to it. If things had fallen out differently, Ifon might have been pledged to the church, though it was rare enough in Hywel’s experience for a lord with only three sons to think that he had any to spare. Hywel’s father, King Owain, had fathered ten sons already, only four of whom lived at their father’s court: Rhun and Hywel as the eldest, both in their middle twenties, sons of an Irishwoman their father had loved but never married; and the much younger Iorwerth and Maelgwn, born to his first wife Gwladys.

  Of the six remaining sons, Hywel had met only three: Cynan, who was three years younger than Hywel himself; Cadell; and Madoc, all of whom lived in Powys, serving lords who would train them as warriors the way Hywel himself had been trained. The Norman church would have had Iorwerth as his father’s heir, but fortunately for Hywel, in Wales, all acknowledged sons could inherit. In another world, Iorwerth might have made a fine King of Gwynedd, but Hywel knew that Rhun would make a better one than all of them.

  “Lord Ifon, if I may have one more word before I go.” Hywel touched Ifon’s elbow as the last of his people bowed before him and departed.

  Ifon’s eyes flicked to Hywel and then back to the crowd of mourners heading up the hill to the castle.

  “I know you have people to see to,” Hywel said. “This won’t take but a moment, and my men and I will be on our way.”

  Ifon let out a breath and turned to face Hywel directly. “Of course. How may I serve you?”

  “It is my understanding that after Bran’s death you found places for his men all over Wales,” Hywel said. “I would like to know why.”

  Ifon gave a snort. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s as I told you last night. They were loyal to my brother.”

  “In many households, that loyalty transfers to the man next in line,” Hywel said, “which would be you.”

  “I did not trust them,” Ifon said. “I had my own men, and Bran’s men deserved the opportunity to serve a lord who would use them well. That lord was not I.”

  Hywel bent his head once in acknowledgement of Ifon’s reasoning. “I’d like to inquire in particular about one man, Erik. He would have been half-Welsh, half-Danish.”

  Ifon was nodding before Hywel finished his sentence. “Bran got rid of him before my time. He sent him home, I believe.”

  “Home, as in … Dublin?”

  “Yes,” Ifon said.

  “You say got rid of him. Do you know why?” Hywel said.

  “It was during the transition from my father’s rule to Bran’s,” Ifon said. “Bran arranged for most of our father’s men to find posts with other lords.”

  “Thank you.” Hywel stepped back. “And thank you for your hospitality. I won’t keep you from your people any longer.”

  Ifon bowed, his hands clasped before him, and then strode past Hywel and up the road to Bryn Euryn, the aforementioned people crowding around him as he went.

  Evan and the other men from Aber, meanwhile, converged on Hywel. “Do we have a lead?” Evan said.

  Hywel’s eyes brightened. “Any of you fancy a journey to Dublin?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Gwen

  Too many mornings since she’d become pregnant, Gwen would wake so tired she could barely lift her head from her pillow, and after last night’s late conversation with Godfrid, this morning was no exception. She lay with her arm across her eyes, listening to Mari throwing up into the basin and knowing she should stop pretending to sleep and help her friend. Gareth, lucky for him,
had woken hours before while it was still dark and gone off. He hadn’t returned. There was a time when Gwen would have been irritated with him for continuing the investigation without her, but this morning she was too tired to care.

  Growing a baby was far more work than she had anticipated. And she thought she’d been paying attention.

  She knew about the dangers of childbirth itself. Her own mother had died birthing Gwalchmai, and Gwen had been a witness until the very end when the midwife and pushed her out the door before a last effort to save her mother. Gwen had been left to sob alone in the corridor. She’d realized much later that her father had known hours earlier that her mother was going to die, which was why he was well into his cups by then and no use at all to Gwen. The midwife had opened the door to hand Gwalchmai to Gwen instead of Meilyr. She’d stood there, bereft, tears on her cheeks and unable to wipe at them because of the squirming bundle in her arms.

  And here she was, pregnant herself and joyful about it, despite the terrors ahead. She supposed she was naïvely hopeful, but she couldn’t be anything else.

  Gathering her strength as if she were about to climb a mountain instead of get out of bed, Gwen pushed up from her pallet and staggered to Mari’s side. Mari knelt on the floor beside the basin, her head resting against the wall. Her face was very pale. Gwen put a hand to her forehead, but she wasn’t feverish. This was simply the sickness that many pregnant women experienced—often in the morning—but in Mari’s case it afflicted her all the time.

  “Will you be all right for a moment if I ask the maid to empty this?” Gwen said.

  Mari nodded, barely moving her head and keeping her eyes closed. “There’s nothing left inside me anyway.”

  Too often that wasn’t quite true. Holding her nose, Gwen hastened to the door. Mari’s maid was just coming through the front door of the manor house with a serving girl. Gwen handed the basin to Hafwen, who passed it immediately to the girl, who ran off with it.

  “I have some herbs that might help her,” Hafwen said. A widow with grown children, she was fifteen years older than Mari and Gwen and refreshingly no-nonsense about pregnancy and everything else. Hafwen picked up a tray containing Mari’s breakfast, still warm from the kitchen, which she’d left by the door earlier.