The Unexpected Ally

by Sarah Woodbury

  Gareth and Conall exchanged a look—resigned and wary at the same time. The monastery had few riding horses, so even without the monk’s urgent words, Gareth would have known that the reason he’d been sent was important. Abbot Rhys wouldn’t have known how far his messenger might have to ride before he found them.

  “Just tell me.” Gareth took the horse’s bridle to hold him steady and looked up at the monk, who was breathing hard with excitement and the effort of his ride.

  “Another dead man.” The monk put his hand to his heart. “He was found in a field to the north of here. The abbot is already on his way, and he asked that you meet him there.”

  “We will follow you,” Gareth said.

  With a whistle, Gareth rounded up Llelo and Dai, who were already on their way to him, having heard the horse’s hooves too. It seemed pointless to leave the boys on guard at an empty barn, and their purpose was to watch Gareth’s and Conall’s backs, not the murder site. As befitting the sons of Hywel’s captain of the guard, Llelo and Dai had their own mounts and, in short order, they all cantered after the young monk.

  The spot where the body had been found was a mile and a half from the barn and, as promised, Abbot Rhys was already there when they arrived. Neither Lwc nor Anselm was beside him: Lwc might still be helping Gwen question the monks, and the position of the sun indicated that mid-afternoon prayers might have started. As with dawn prayers, Anselm would be needed to lead them.

  Two oxen and a plow were stopped ten yards from where Abbot Rhys was standing, having curved from the straight path they’d been laying. It seemed the monk who tended this field had been going over the ground for planting when he’d come upon the body lying in the dirt on the edge of the field.

  Their small party reined in and dismounted near the oxen. With a jerk of his head, Gareth indicated that Llelo and Dai should make a circuit of the area, as they had at the barn. Then he and Conall walked to where Rhys waited for them next to the body, which was wrapped in a rough sheet. The dirt was loose from the plowing, but if the men who’d left the body had tried to bury it, their attempts had been half-hearted at best. More likely, they’d simply dumped it. Rhys flicked out a hand indicating that the monk who’d escorted Gareth and Conall should move back. He obeyed with alacrity.

  “The plowman saw the body when he turned at the corner of the field.” Rhys bent to the wrappings and flicked back the sheet where it covered the dead man’s face.

  Gareth let out a burst of air, unable to contain his disbelief. “Erik!”

  “Indeed.” Rhys’s tone was as dry as a king’s wine.

  Conall went into a crouch beside Erik, studying the dead man’s face.

  Gareth stepped closer too, remembering that Conall hadn’t been in attendance that morning when they’d been called to the barn the first time. “Have you ever seen him before?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. He may have come to Ireland, but not to a place where I was. Then again, he may have been there most of the time I was here.” Somewhat absently, Conall lifted up the edge of the sheet, but then he drew in a sharp breath and recoiled. Dropping the sheet, he looked up at Abbot Rhys. “What madness is this?”

  “Madness is right,” Rhys said. Some of the onlookers had stepped closer to better hear the conversation, and Rhys motioned with his hand as he’d done to the messenger to shoo them away. Once his underlings obeyed, Rhys gestured Gareth closer and pulled back the cloth, exposing Erik’s torso.

  Gareth drew back with a gasp. He wasn’t often shocked, but what had been done to Erik’s midsection was unsettling to say the least. The men who’d stolen him had expanded on the stab wound Gareth had seen, cut him down the middle, pulled back the outer layers of skin and muscle, and sliced into his stomach and intestines.

  Conall cleared his throat. “I gather he didn’t look like this the last time you saw him?”

  “No,” Rhys said curtly.

  Conall was still crouched beside the body. After collecting himself, Gareth knelt to get a closer look, even though that was the last thing he wanted to do. “It’s a desecration, but at least he didn’t suffer.” The wounds were ragged, but since Erik had already been dead, they hadn’t bled. It was still raining too, and with the dampness all around—on the trees, the ground, and the grass that grew against the stones of the field—whatever smell Erik was putting out was minimal.

  Gareth grimaced. “I confess in all my years of service to my prince, I have never seen anything like this before.” He rose to his feet, sickened by what had been done to Erik. Murder was one thing, but being hacked apart was another. It wasn’t as if Gareth didn’t have experience with the criminal mind, but the man who did this was as cold and foreign to Gareth as any villain he’d ever encountered.

  Conall took in a careful breath. “I have.”

  “I have also.” Abbot Rhys turned away from the body to stare east. “In the course of my duties in past days, I came upon a courier from Empress Maud, who’d been captured by the enemy. He’d swallowed the Empress’s ring rather than allow it to be taken from him. They cut it out of him. Unlike Erik, they hadn’t bothered with killing him first. He suffered.” Rhys cleared his throat, disturbed by the memory.

  “I have seen something similar, though in Ireland.” Conall looked at Gareth. “I didn’t know Erik nor his duties for Prince Hywel, but—”

  Gareth cut Conall off. He wasn’t angry at Conall but at the situation, which had the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up, and his stomach was churning worse than Gwen’s in the morning. “Erik would have known to swallow evidence that he worked for Prince Hywel if he was hard pressed. He was expert at hiding his identity and allegiance, though I don’t know if Prince Hywel gave him a token as proof that he was under his command.”

  “You might ask the prince, when next you see him,” Conall said. “It would be unfortunate if his token has fallen into the hands of evildoers. They could do great harm in the prince’s name.”

  Gareth himself had been impersonated at the behest of Prince Cadwaladr last autumn, though the ruse had been far more elaborate, in that the man had been made to look like Gareth. Many men would pay a significant sum to acquire a ring or signet of an enemy lord. It was why such tokens were guarded closely. A man with the seal of the king spoke for the king.

  Gareth frowned at the abbot, who was still looking away. “I can tell there’s something else. What is it?”

  Rhys turned back, his lips pressed together, and then his eyes skated past Gareth and went straight to Conall. “I know of two other reasons for a man to be so mutilated.”

  Conall had risen to his feet by now, and the way he was looking intently at Rhys had Gareth feeling like he was missing something. Then, when Rhys didn’t continue speaking, Conall bobbed his head. “I have encountered such blasphemy in Ireland, but those monsters eviscerate animals not—”

  Gareth found his head swiveling from Conall to Rhys and back again. “What are you two talking about?”

  “For one, pagans.” Conall spat on the ground. “Those who worship the old gods split open an animal and use his entrails to predict the future.” He pointed with his chin to Rhys. “I’ve never seen it done to a man before, though.”

  “Sacrilege is everywhere,” Rhys said, “especially in times such as these when a man feels uncertain in his own home and the four horsemen of the apocalypse ride unchecked. The war in England has unleashed the devil in many men’s hearts.”

  Gareth had no patience for this kind of talk, especially coming from two otherwise reasonable men. “Someone murdered Erik, stole him from us, cut him open, and then dumped him here. Why they did any of that remains a mystery, but it was a human hand that held the knife—and that is the man I will apprehend.”

  Rhys’s expression cleared. “If any of the good people of St. Asaph were involved in something so sinister, I would know of it.”

  “Of course you would,” Gareth said. “Erik wasn’t a druid. He didn’t care for rituals, satanic o
r otherwise. He was a spy for Prince Hywel and was killed because of it. Our task is to find out who—and then why. The souls of the men responsible I leave to you.”

  Rhys nodded jerkily at Gareth. “Of course. You are right.”

  Conall gave a low laugh. “Perhaps some of the Devil’s Weed our captors gave me has addled my mind.”

  “You see clearly enough most times.” Gareth was disturbed by the condition of Erik’s body, but even more so at how much the sight of it had shaken his friends. He narrowed his eyes at Rhys. “You said two reasons. What is the second?”

  “Certain men are fascinated by the human form. Men have been known to dig up the newly dead in order to cut into their bodies. They say the purpose is to better understand what goes on inside, leading to an improved ability to heal the sick.” Rhys pursed his lips, just marginally less disapproving than he’d been when they’d discussed pagans.

  For Gareth’s part, he could understand the quest for knowledge, and he knew something of the innards of men because he’d fought in wars and tried to save the lives of companions on the field of battle. He himself wouldn’t be opposed to knowing more about how the body worked and could see its use in healing and in his investigations. Given the gruesome state of Erik’s body, however, he wasn’t going to say as much to Rhys, who, for all his worldly ways, was still a churchman and would not want to see anyone’s body so defiled.

  They’d fallen down the trapdoor of speculation again, and it was time to get on with the real business of investigating murder. He pulled the coins from his purse and showed them to Rhys. “We found these in your paddock. I think they give us a far better and more mundane motivation for Erik’s death: greed.”

  Rhys accepted the coins, eyebrows raised. “Five silver pennies? The monastery keeps a bag of coins in our treasury—” He broke off, his face paling and his mind going to a place Gareth’s hadn’t yet traveled. “If these came from our—” He spun on one heel and pointed to one of the other brothers who’d been lurking twenty feet away. “Brother Fidelus, I need you!”

  The monk hastened forward, and Rhys spoke to him in succinct sentences, asking him to take another brother and the horse and return to the monastery posthaste. If the coins had come from the treasury, it was already robbed, but if the treasury was unlocked, someone needed to stand in front of it. Anything else would be a gross neglect of duty. At the same time, Gareth’s thoughts went again to Conall’s supposition that Erik could have been killed for Hywel’s ring. The coins could have been offered in payment, and when Erik spurned them, he was killed instead.

  Rhys held out the coins to Gareth.

  “What if they’re yours?” Gareth asked.

  “Keep them until I’m sure,” Rhys said.

  Conall tipped his head towards the body. “Shall we escort Erik together?”

  “Likely he’s safe from predation now,” Gareth said, “but it’s the least he deserves.”

  Chapter Ten

  Gwen

  “Gwen! My goodness, I can’t believe it’s you!”

  At the sight of Saran, her long ago friend and mentor, coming towards her out of the gloomy late afternoon, Gwen stopped dead in the middle of the monastery courtyard. She’d known Saran at Carreg Cennan, in the years after Gwen had lost Gareth while her family had been wandering the roads of Wales, singing for their supper.

  “What are you doing here?” Gwen hastened forward and wrapped her arms around Saran, finding tears of happiness pricking at the corners of her eyes. She had often thought about Saran over the years, wondering how she was faring, but Carreg Cennan was on the other end of Wales, and Gwen had never gone back. “You’re walking into the middle of a war, you know.”

  “I understood that this one might be averted, but war is why I’m here, of course,” Saran said.

  Gwen took a step back. “What do you mean?”

  “Deheubarth has descended into turmoil, with King Cadell and the Normans at each other’s throats. Carreg Cennan has been caught in the middle of the fighting, and because of it, I thought this would be a fine time to visit my sister in Corwen. But the farther north I came, the worse the news was. I’m sorry to hear that Powys and Gwynedd are at each other’s throats as well.”

  In her early fifties, Saran was one of those women who, after she reached a certain age, never seemed to grow older. Admittedly, her hair had more gray in it than when Gwen had known her in the south, and perhaps her face and body were somewhat rounder, but her smile was the same, and her brown eyes gazed at Gwen with the same knowledge and wisdom that had prompted Gwen to make changes in her own life eight years ago.

  Gwen pulled her friend into another hug. “St. Asaph is not Corwen, Saran.”

  “I know, but when I arrived at Corwen, my sister and her son were not there. The villagers told me that Rhodri had come north to fight for Gwynedd, and Derwena had gone after him. Rhodri intended to join King Owain’s forces, and she thought to cook and clean for him and those from Corwen who went with him.”

  Gwen frowned. “Truly, I have encountered no women here at all other than me. The guesthouse was emptied yesterday in preparation for the arrival of King Owain’s retinue. Have you checked for her at the encampment?”

  “Not yet.”

  Gwen relaxed a little. “That’s a much more likely place to find them, but I’ll keep a lookout for them for you. What do they look like?” Not for the first time, Gwen wished she had Gareth’s skill with a piece of charcoal.

  “Derwena looks like me, so for you she might be hard to miss! Rhodri is tall and gangly—taller than any man I know, with brown hair and eyes.”

  “And you’re sure they came all the way to St. Asaph? Perhaps they stopped at Denbigh.”

  “I passed through there on the way here. While one man remembered Rhodri, nobody remembers seeing Derwena at all.”

  To Gwen, Saran was completely memorable, but Gwen could see why—to someone who didn’t know her—she would be appear to be just another middle-aged woman. They wouldn’t know to look for the sharp mind beneath her rounded shoulders and pleasant demeanor, and if Derwena looked just like Saran, perhaps the same could be said of her.

  While Gwen had been talking to Saran, Tangwen had been tucked in Gwen’s skirts, half-hiding from the stranger, and now she patted Gwen’s belly, asking to be picked up. The personality of a two-year-old was ever changing, and this shyness was a new thing for the little girl, developing in the aftermath of Shrewsbury. Gwen had tried very hard to keep Tangwen out of what had gone on there, but children were perceptive in ways that adults didn’t always credit, and Gwen felt that Tangwen must have picked up on the fact that her mother and father had been in danger.

  Regardless of the reason, since then, Tangwen balked whenever Gwen suggested that someone else look after her. Gwen had gotten away with a lengthy absence today, first because Tangwen was asleep and then because Tangwen adored Gwalchmai and had been willing to play with him for most of the afternoon. Gwen had also allowed them out into the monastery gardens to stomp in puddles and thoroughly soak themselves. But Gwalchmai shouldn’t have to be burdened with his niece all day when he had tasks of his own to perform. He and Gwen’s father would be singing at the onset of the peace conference tomorrow, and they needed to prepare.

  Rather than fight Tangwen’s need, Gwen had resolved to bring her everywhere, in the hope that the constant reassurance would eventually convince Tangwen that she could be left. It hadn’t happened yet, however, so Gwen bent to her daughter and swung her onto her left hip.

  “And who is this?” Saran reached out a hand and caught the little girl’s finger.

  A month ago, Tangwen would have loudly proclaimed her identity, but today she turned away and pressed her face into Gwen’s upper arm, so Gwen answered for her. “Tangwen.” Gwen couldn’t stop the grin that blossomed on her face. “I have another on the way too. Saran, I married Gareth.”

  For a moment Saran looked at Gwen open-mouthed, and then she laughed with Gwen. “Does he
serve King Owain?”

  “He is the captain of Prince Hywel’s teulu,” Gwen said.

  Saran pressed her lips together, unsuccessfully suppressing a satisfied smile, as if she’d had something to do with the match and with Gareth’s success. “He landed on his feet, then.”

  “That’s exactly what my father said to him when they met again a few years ago,” Gwen said.

  Saran raised her eyebrows. “Meilyr is here?”

  “Yes, and Gwalchmai too, now a man in his own right. Meilyr is King Owain’s court bard.”

  “So he really did go back to the king.” Saran made a heh sound. “We’d heard that he’d finally swallowed his pride and apologized, but I didn’t necessarily believe it.”

  Gwen didn’t think Meilyr would be terribly fond of that description of the course of events that had transpired between him and King Owain. But even if unflattering, it wasn’t far off from the truth. Still, in the end both men had managed to come to terms to their mutual satisfaction and with their pride intact—in part because Meilyr was an accomplished bard and Gwalchmai might well prove to be better. Since that day, her father had learned to say not only I’m sorry but also I love you.

  As if he was aware he was being discussed, Meilyr chose that moment to leave the guesthouse, heading across the courtyard towards the stable with purposeful steps. But at the sight of Gwen with Tangwen in her arms, he changed direction and strode towards them. He had a pipe-horn in his hand and was frowning at it more than truly looking at them. “Gwen, when is Gareth to return—” he broke off, gaping at Saran, having not recognized her until he actually stopped in front of her.

  “Hello, Meilyr,” Saran said. “You look well.”