The Unexpected Ally

by Sarah Woodbury

  “What did you get yourself involved in that got you killed?” Gareth spoke the words out loud, prompting Ben to turn around and look at him. Gareth raised a hand in pardon. “I knew him in life. He wasn’t a friend, but he would want me to find his killer.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Ben turned back to face front. “I can’t say I have ever encountered a murdered man before.”

  “Then you are fortunate … for I have encountered far too many.” Gareth said the last words under his breath, not for Ben’s ears. The monk didn’t need to be burdened with Gareth’s cares.

  Silent now, Gareth gazed down at the body with pursed lips. He felt a trickle of rain on the back of his neck, and he pulled up his hood, regretting that he had no sheet or blanket with which to shield Erik from the elements—not that he could get any wetter than he already was. While Gareth hadn’t liked or trusted Erik, ever since the big half-Dane had accepted Hywel’s offer of a position, he had done nothing to warrant Gareth’s suspicion.

  Gareth bent to the body again and put his hand to Erik’s neck, matching the size of his hand and fingers to the bruises on Erik’s throat. They appeared to have been made by someone with larger hands than Gareth had. When a dead man bore marks such as these, more often than not the killer had sat on the victim’s chest, holding him down with both hands—one above the other—gripping his neck. This left finger imprints on the victim’s neck that followed a predictable pattern. If the killer’s right hand was above his left, the killer’s right thumb would have pressed hard on the right side of Erik’s neck and the marks of four fingers would appear on the left side. The killer’s left hand would have marred Erik’s skin in a reverse pattern.

  In this case, however, while both thumb imprints were where they should be, the right side of Erik’s neck had only three finger marks, while the left side had four. It appeared to Gareth that the fifth and smallest finger on the killer’s left hand had put no pressure on Erik’s neck—or at least not enough to leave a mark. Gareth turned Erik’s head this way and that, wanting to make sure of what he was seeing. He had just reached out a hand to the torch, thinking the light would enable him to see the bruises better when—

  “Who goes there?” Ben slowed the cart, which hadn’t been going very fast to begin with.

  Abandoning his inspection for now, Gareth rose to his feet and stood in the bed of the cart just behind Ben’s seat. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes searched both sides of the narrow track. “Did you see something?”

  “I-I-I thought so, my lord.” The wind chose that moment to pick up, blowing by them from the southwest, and then the clouds above their heads unleashed another deluge. The men ignored the rain as best they could, squinting forward into the murk. “I thought I saw something up ahead, near the gate I told you about.”

  Pushing back his hood again in order to expand his field of vision, Gareth jumped off the back of the cart, a little more gingerly than he’d climbed into it, and walked to the front. With a glance and a nod at Ben to stay where he was, Gareth paced forward, his eyes searching both sides of the track. The familiar creak of a water wheel sounded off to the left. Never mind that it was barely six in the morning—the miller was working. Gareth made a mental note to question him as to whether he’d seen or heard anything this night. The mill was monastery property, but that didn’t mean the miller himself was a monk who slept in the dormitory. Experience told Gareth that either a miller or his apprentice often stayed overnight on the premises, and if that was the case here, one of them might have heard something.

  Ben was standing on the cart seat. “Anything?”

  “Not that I can see—”

  Both sides of the cart way erupted with men, three of whom launched themselves at Gareth at the same instant: the one from the front came at him with a long knife, one that Gareth easily blocked with an upsweep of his right forearm. But then two more men cannoned into him from behind, the first of them catching him around his waist and falling with him to the ground to land on top of him. Gareth’s stupid left arm was useless to hold them off, and before he knew it, he’d been kicked in the stomach several times to subdue him, he had a sack over his head, and his arms were pinioned behind his back.

  Regardless of the abuse he was taking, he continued to struggle and scream, desperate to get away. In Shrewsbury, men had made him captive for a time—and had almost killed him in the process. That was more than enough helplessness for a lifetime, but Gareth’s attempts to fight off these men came to nothing. However, instead of carrying him away—or killing him—the men rolled him into a little stream that ran to the right of the path.

  The recent rains had raised the water level from what might in the summer be next to nothing to a running torrent a foot and a half deep, and as Gareth’s face went under the water, his anger and fear turned to utter panic. The weight on his back prevented him from rising. He knew he should preserve his strength and his air, but inside his head he was screaming that he was not going to die as Erik had. He was as desperate as he’d ever been in his life.

  But within a few heartbeats, the weight on his back lifted. He couldn’t see or hear anything underwater and inside the sack, but he got his knees under him and surged upwards out of the stream. The sacking pressed on his face but he shook his head to loosen the cloth and took in his first gasping breath that was more akin to a sob. A few more breaths and he was able to start working at the rope that bound his hands behind his back. It seemed that the men had sought to contain him only temporarily, because the bonds weren’t tight, even if they were stiff from being submerged in cold water. After a few moments of effort, he was able to pull his hands loose.

  He ripped the sacking off of his head and threw it aside. He remained on his knees at the edge of the path, the panic fading—though as his breaths came more easily, the pain in his wounded ribs and his left shoulder rose, and he didn’t have to look at his wound to know that it was bleeding again.

  He spat on the ground to rid himself of the last of the stream water and pushed to his feet. Ben lay in the middle of the path, curled up in a ball with his hands to his head. He was moaning in pain and bleeding from a gash in his forehead. The right side of his face was red and puffy.

  And while the horse and cart were where Ben had halted them before the attack—Erik’s body was gone.

  Chapter Three

  Hywel

  Hywel stopped two steps outside of the gatehouse, his mouth falling open at the sight of Gareth and a young monk leaning drunkenly against one another as they struggled to walk. Gareth wouldn’t be drunk at this hour of the day, or any day for that matter—Hywel knew that like he knew himself—and a second look had Hywel hastening forward. The monk was bleeding from a gash along the line of his scalp, and Gareth was holding his left arm bent and pressed to his belly. He was shivering and every item of clothing he was wearing—from shirt and breeches to cloak and boots—was soaked.

  “What happened to you? I mean … I can see what happened to you, but why are you out here at this hour, wounded again and sopping wet? It’s raining, but—”

  The gatekeeper must have been watching too because he was only a step behind Hywel. Sputtering his protests at the state of Gareth and the young monk with him, he hastened past Hywel and ducked under the monk’s arm to support his other side. Once beneath the gatehouse, the gatekeeper waved an arm to signal to other monks in the courtyard that he needed help.

  Now that the sun was up and Lauds was over, the monastery was alive with activity, and two monks responded, hurrying forward with the hems of their robes raised so they wouldn’t trip in their haste to help. Hywel caught a glimpse of the sandals they wore beneath their robes as a sign of poverty and affinity with Jesus Christ. Hywel would have liked to point out to them that the Lord Christ had lived in the Holy Land, where Crusaders reported that it was hot most of the time. Nobody had asked him, of course, so it was just as well he’d never had a vocation for the Church. He had little patience with
impracticality and, regardless, didn’t approve of men having cold feet. But then, he had cold hands and feet no matter how careful he was to keep them warm.

  Once the two monks took their brother from Gareth, Hywel ducked under Gareth’s good arm to support him and followed after them. St. Kentigern’s monastery consisted of a cluster of a dozen buildings surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone wall. Named several hundred years ago for its founder, the monastery lay on the eastern bank of the River Elwy, not far from the bridge they’d crossed in the middle of the night to reach St. Asaph. Other than the wall and the church itself, the monastery buildings were constructed in wood, a far less expensive option for a relatively poor parish.

  With its location in eastern Wales, St. Asaph was the intersection of more than just a river and many roads. For six hundred years it had sat at the crossroads between countries: first between Welsh and Saxon lands, later between Welsh and Norman ones, and now between Gwynedd and Powys. The current conflict was merely one episode of a much larger, long-running war.

  St. Kentigern’s had suffered because of it. Hywel didn’t know if the stone wall that surrounded the property had been built since Rhys had become prior a few years ago, but it was newer than the rest of the monastery—and had been added for good reason. The church had burned to the ground in war at least twice, and it was only since King Owain had risen to power in the last ten years and more or less stabilized relations with Chester and Powys that the monastery had achieved a degree of prosperity.

  With war looming again between Gwynedd and Powys, that peace might be at an end. It was little wonder that Rhys was endeavoring to do everything within his power to stop the fighting before it started.

  As he helped Gareth hobble along towards the guesthouse, Hywel said in an undertone, “Tell me what happened.”

  “Did you hear about the murder?” Gareth said.

  Hywel nodded gravely. “Erik. Gwen told me.” He shook his head. “My father knows too, and we are both worried. If someone killed Erik, it was for a reason that doesn’t bode well for us.”

  “You’re assuming he was doing your work?” Gareth said.

  “I would have thought so.”

  “Did you know he had left Ireland?”

  “No—only that he’d found no sign of Cadwaladr there. But of course, we know now that Cadwaladr never went to Ireland.”

  “When did you last hear from Erik?” Gareth said.

  Hywel gave Gareth a sharp look. “Do you suspect me?”

  Gareth huffed a laugh. “No, my lord. I genuinely want to know what he could have been doing in the village of St. Asaph.”

  “I have no idea.” Hywel glanced at his friend’s profile. Gareth was in obvious pain, but as they crossed the monastery courtyard, he got his feet under him better and was able to walk a little straighter. “So, are you going to tell me what happened to the horse and cart that was hauling the body to the church?”

  As with every church or monastery Hywel had ever been to, St. Kentigern’s church was oriented on an east to west axis, so that the sun rising in the east on the spring equinox would shine through the high windows behind the altar. Because the monastery lay to the north of the road that ran from east to west through St. Asaph, when one came through the southern gatehouse from the road as they just had and entered the central courtyard, the church occupied the entirety of the courtyard’s north side, while the guesthouse was to the left and the stable to the right.

  The monks’ cloister and all its associated buildings were on the other side of the church, accessed by a narrow passage on the east side past the stables and by a broader path to the west that took parishioners to the main door of the church.

  “We still have the horse and cart, which we left where it was. It seemed like too much effort to drive when it was empty anyway—” Gareth cleared his throat, “—but unfortunately we have been robbed of the body.”

  Hywel gaped at Gareth for a heartbeat and then released yet another involuntary laugh. “What is it with you and missing bodies?”

  Gareth shook his head, laughing under his breath himself. “As you may recall, my lord, that one time the loss was your doing.”

  “So you say.” Hywel stayed smiling. “But you still haven’t explained why you are so wet. It looks like you climbed right into the trough with Erik.”

  “Not quite. When the body was taken, three men came at me. More attacked Ben, and that means there had to be still more to steal Erik’s body and get away successfully. My attackers held me face down in a stream with my arms tied behind my back and sacking over my head. They let me go before I drowned, obviously, but by the time I got free of my bonds, they and the body were gone.”

  Hywel was aghast. “Where did this happen?”

  “On the path leading north from the barn. There was no entrance onto the road for a good hundred yards or more, and they were waiting for us in the bushes on either side of the gate.”

  “So they could be anywhere by now.” Hywel made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat.

  “I can tell you only what I saw, which wasn’t much. They left the cart behind and took the body.”

  “Erik isn’t exactly a lightweight either,” Hywel said.

  “That’s one reason they needed so many men. Just lifting him requires at least three people.”

  “That means they had horses close by, though I suppose with the river just across the road, they could have put him in a boat.”

  Gareth cleared his throat. “At this point, we’re better off not assuming anything.”

  They’d reached the guesthouse door, and rather than go through it, Gareth reached with his right hand for the frame of the door for support and settled himself into a sitting position on the top step leading up to it. He let out a sigh and leaned back against the door.

  “Gwen said Erik was strangled and drowned,” Hywel said.

  “Stabbed, strangled, and drowned, actually.” Gareth’s eyes stayed closed.

  “Always important to be thorough.”

  Gareth opened his eyes and gave Hywel a wry look. “I wasn’t expecting a brush with death quite this soon after my last one. I did promise Gwen I’d do better.”

  “Some things can’t be helped.”

  “Apparently not.” Gareth shook his head. “I would have been dead if the men who attacked us had wanted to kill me. Why didn’t they? They’re already into this for one murder. What’s two more?” He leaned forward slightly so his weight was no longer on the door. It wasn’t intuition—merely that he’d heard, as Hywel had, the thudding of footsteps on the floor of the room behind him. Then the door opened to reveal Gwen standing on the threshold.

  She looked down at the top of Gareth’s head. Even from that angle she would be able to see that he was soaked to the skin. “You’re bleeding! Why? What happened? You were just supposed to bring the body to the church!” She dropped to her knees beside her husband.

  Gareth leaned his head against the frame of the door, exhausted. “It turned out to be a harder task than anticipated. I’m really glad you weren’t there.” He reached out and took Gwen’s hand, stopping her from patting him down in a quest for more wounds. “I’m all right, cariad.”

  “I’ll be the one who determines that!” Gwen pried her fingers out of Gareth’s hand and moved them to his left shoulder. She gingerly peeled back his shirt to inspect the damage. “Do I dare ask if Erik’s body made it to the church?”

  “It didn’t,” Hywel said, deciding it was his duty as Gareth’s lord to deflect her ire.

  Gwen stopped what she was doing and looked up at him. “Really?”

  He nodded. “A group of men stole it. It’s too early to say who they were or why they did it. Your husband is wet because the perpetrators threw him into a stream beside the road while they absconded with the body.”

  “Sweet Mary.” Gwen rested her forehead on the side of Gareth’s head for a moment, and he reached out again to grasp her hand as it rested gently on his chest.
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br />   “I really am all right,” Gareth said. “I took a hard fall, but I didn’t hit my head.”

  She sighed and went back to her ministrations. “Did you see which way they went?”

  Gareth had closed his eyes again. After a pause, when no response seemed forthcoming, Hywel answered for him, “He didn’t.”

  “This is all very strange.” Gwen had Gareth’s shirt off by now and was studying his wound. It might seem an odd location to tend to him, but the light was better outside now that it was daylight than it would be in the guesthouse common room, which even on a bright day had only the one window and the fireplace or candles to light it. “It doesn’t make sense that they would steal the body now. Why didn’t they take it after he was murdered? If they had done so in the first place, we never would have known that Erik was dead or that a crime had been committed.”

  Hywel moved under the eaves of the guesthouse to get out of the rain, which had begun to fall with some intensity again. “I’m afraid we don’t have enough information to answer that question.” He eyed his captain. “Will he live?”

  “I suppose so.” Gwen looked up at Hywel. “Would you mind helping me get him inside? He’s starting to shiver.”

  They got Gareth to his feet, through the doorway, and over to a low stool by the fire. As Gareth sat, seemingly exhausted by even that short walk, his wet clothes dripped water onto the floor, forming a puddle at his feet. The fire was blazing in the hearth, however, and Hywel was glad to go to it too with his hands out to warm them. Gwen disappeared up the stairs in the direction of their room on a quest for bandages and dry clothes for her husband.

  Proving that he was awake after all, Gareth said, once Gwen was out of earshot, “Erik was doing more for you in Ireland than simply looking for Cadwaladr, wasn’t he?”