The Unlikely Spy

by Sarah Woodbury

  “I guessed as much.” Then Gwen let out a sigh of relief as both priors appeared, stepping out of the doorway to the chapter house. “Hopefully, in a moment, where you were or what you were doing won’t matter in the slightest. I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you too.”

  Fychan shook his head. “Thank you, but Prior Pedr never forgets anything. I’ll be mucking out the latrine tomorrow, you can be sure.”

  Gwen hid a smile at the boy’s morose expression. “Just tell the truth. What happens after that is out of our hands.”

  Chapter Seven

  Hywel

  Hywel had been feeling unsettled all day. Days ago he’d sent a scout up the road to the north to let him know when his father, King Owain, crossed into Ceredigion. That morning, the man had returned to report that Hywel’s uncle, Cadwaladr, would be arriving ahead of the king. Earlier, Hywel had dismissed Gareth and returned to the castle in order to determine whether Cadwaladr had arrived. Consequently, he’d missed the initial finding of the body.

  Now, as he rode through the gatehouse of his castle, his heart sank to see it full of his uncle’s men. Hywel closed his eyes before dismounting, gathering his internal strength and preparing himself to withstand whatever snide comments or outright ugliness his uncle threw at him.

  The passion with which he hated his uncle was something that Hywel rarely allowed anyone to see, and it was important that today not be an exception. Nobody could ever know how Hywel felt. They could guess all they wanted, but if he kept those feelings hidden, when the time came for him to bring evidence against his uncle for his next crime, he could claim impartiality. Some would distrust Hywel’s motives. Cadwaladr certainly would. But the day would come when Cadwaladr would do something so heinous that his father would have no choice but to cast his uncle out of Gwynedd forever. Hywel was going to make sure that his own emotions didn’t stand in the way.

  So far, his uncle’s most grievous crimes included hiring Danish mercenaries to ambush King Anarawd of Deheubarth and conspiring with the Earl of Chester to overthrow Hywel’s father as King of Gwynedd. Beneath those major sins were dozens of minor ones including throwing Gareth out of Ceredigion for disobeying an order. Gareth had refused to cut off a boy’s hand for stealing a pig. Given that Gareth had ended up in Hywel’s service, with knighthood, land, and honors commensurate with his skills and intelligence, Hywel was willing to give Cadwaladr a pass on that one.

  As Hywel strode across the packed earth of the courtyard and up the steps into the keep and the great hall, he endeavored to clear his mind and place a neutral expression on his face. It wouldn’t do to focus on Cadwaladr’s villainy if he was to greet him cordially.

  Aberystwyth Castle was built in wood rather than the stone that was being used in some of the newer Norman castles. The wood construction had facilitated Hywel’s burning of it three years ago, but it had also allowed him to rebuild it quickly once he took over Ceredigion from Cadwaladr. Hywel’s plan was for a castle larger in scale—larger than most of the Norman stone castles, with a more expansive palisade and many buildings within it. Wood burned, of course, but it was far less expensive than stone. Wood or stone, Hywel intended for this castle to be the pride of all Ceredigion.

  Upon entering the hall, Hywel at once spotted his uncle, who (as usual) was impossible to miss. Always the center of attention in every room he entered, he reclined in a chair halfway down the hall, surrounded by other guests. He was holding court as if he owned the castle again, an attitude that burned Hywel’s gut and forced him to take in another deep breath to clear his mind. There was no point in avoiding this first meeting, and better that it happen now than when the hall was even more full of guests.

  Anyway, if Cadwaladr could come without shame or compunction to Ceredigion, a land he had once ruled through fear and intimidation, Hywel could pretend that all was well too. Striding forward, his arm outstretched in greeting, he said, “Welcome to Aberystwyth, Uncle.”

  Cadwaladr stood and grasped Hywel’s forearm in a strong grip. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the various hangers-on who’d gathered around him. Hywel wasn’t sorry the conversation would be witnessed only from afar, in case his façade of welcome slipped.

  “Nephew. I see the rebuilding continues apace.”

  “Yes.” Hywel couldn’t quite bring himself to add ‘sir’ on the end and was glad his father wasn’t here to witness this meeting either. All Hywel had done so far was greet his uncle, but he was already teetering on the edge of his hatred, a hair’s breadth from falling off the knife edge he walked. He gritted his teeth in the semblance of a smile. “I see you have been given food and drink. Are your quarters satisfactory?”

  “Indeed. The room is fine,” Cadwaladr said.

  “Alice did not come?” Hywel said.

  “She is with child again and cannot travel,” Cadwaladr said.

  Hywel nodded, experiencing an unexpected moment of understanding and accord with his uncle. Mari was pregnant again too. It was inconvenient, but it was the way of marriage. “If you’ll excuse me, I must see to the arrangements for tonight’s meal.” Hywel dipped his head in a bow, congratulating himself on the quickness of their exchange and its cordiality. A small victory.

  But with a lifted hand, Cadwaladr stopped Hywel from moving towards the rear door. “I hear a body has been found in the millpond.”

  Hywel hesitated, half-turned away, cursing the speed at which rumor traveled in a small community. And then he suppressed his irritation as best he could, meeting Cadwaladr’s gaze. “That is true.”

  “Who died?” Cadwaladr said.

  Hywel reminded himself yet again that until three years ago, Cadwaladr had been the steward of these lands. Poor ruler or not, he would know many of its inhabitants. “A man named Gryff, an apprentice to a cloth merchant,” Hywel said. “Did you know him or know of him?”

  Cadwaladr frowned. “No. He drowned?”

  Hywel kept his face perfectly composed—or hoped he did. Leave it to his uncle to go straight to the salient point. Everyone else was assuming Gryff had drowned because he was found in the millpond, and neither Gareth nor Hywel had said differently. Hywel supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that his uncle was curious. Men could be thrown into the water after death. Perhaps Cadwaladr had done it himself.

  Hywel had no compunction about lying to Cadwaladr, but whatever lie he told needed to be credible, and lies were always better when they contained a grain of truth. “We are in the early hours of making inquiries. It does appear that he drowned.”

  Cadwaladr’s frown deepened. “A bad business. All men should know how to swim.”

  “My father feels as you do.” Hywel made another move towards the door, congratulating himself yet again for getting out of this initial meeting unscathed. He had a vested interest in not humiliating himself. Hywel’s father would prefer that Hywel not humiliate Cadwaladr either, and Hywel obeyed his father in all things, even when it grated.

  He’d almost reached the exit when footfalls came up behind him, and a hand caught his arm. Hywel hadn’t stopped at the sound of his uncle’s boots, hoping against hope that Cadwaladr wasn’t really coming for him. But now he turned again, resigned to his fate, only to blink and jerk back at finding his uncle’s face right in his. Cadwaladr was a few inches taller, which forced Hywel to look up at him. He hated that. “What?” The word came out sharply before he could stop it.

  “You’re lying. I can see it,” Cadwaladr said. “You know something about the way that man died that you aren’t saying.”

  “No,” Hywel said. The lie was purely defensive.

  Cadwaladr’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying now. He was murdered, wasn’t he? That’s why you were so evasive in your answer to me.”

  Hywel looked past his uncle to make sure that none of the onlookers were close enough to overhear and took his tenth deep breath since he’d walked into the hall. Then he looked back, his gaze steady on his uncle’s face. “We think so.”


  “Aren’t you going to ask me if I had anything to do with the death?”

  “No,” Hywel said.

  Cadwaladr sneered. “Why not?” When Hywel didn’t answer, he continued, “You believe I did have something to do with it, don’t you? That’s why you lied to me. You would have brought it up in some unguarded moment, hoping to catch me out.”

  Hywel rolled his eyes. “That is not it, Uncle. We are keeping the fact of the murder a secret in order to lull the murderer into a sense of security.”

  “So you treated me like you would the murderer,” Cadwaladr said.

  “Why do you twist my words?” Hywel said. “We aren’t telling anyone.”

  “Who do you mean by ‘we’? Gareth?” The sneer was fixed to Cadwaladr’s face.

  “Of course,” Hywel said, not backing down. “His skills in these matters are legion.”

  “Since I’m here, you need to ask me now.”

  Hywel swallowed down a scoff and decided to do as his uncle asked, despite his determination not to let him get the better of him. He gave his uncle a short bow—in parody of the greeting he’d given him before—straightened, and put his heels together. “Did you have anything to do with Gryff’s death?”

  “Of course not.” Cadwaladr dropped Hywel’s arm, reverting without warning to his usual air of unconcern and disdain.

  “Than why did you mention it?” Hywel said.

  Cadwaladr’s nose was in the air. “It was only a matter of time before you came to me for answers. It’s a wonder that your father has never seen fit to commission me to investigate these unlawful deaths. I would do it better.”

  Hywel stared at his uncle, horrified by the vision that rose before his eyes of Cadwaladr stomping through a crime scene and then all over the witnesses. Not to mention, the fact that it would be a travesty to make him the lead investigator in a crime he himself committed. Before he could stop himself, Hywel said, “You take too much on yourself.”

  “You can never seem to think beyond me.”

  Hywel straightened his tunic with a jerk. “If you are referring to the several instances in which you have been questioned during an investigation, you might remember that you were involved.”

  “Not the last time.”

  Hywel gaped at his uncle, incredulous. “You left the body of my cousin on Aber’s beach!”

  “It was a small matter. A mistake,” Cadwaladr said. “In the end you know as well as I that I had nothing to do with her death. It is the same here. I didn’t even know the man.”

  Hywel snorted. “It was you who brought up the death, not I.”

  Cadwaladr sniffed and turned away. Hywel watched him go, shaking with rage, not only at what his uncle had said, which was bad enough, but that he would confront him in his own hall. Hywel turned away too, knowing that he should leave before he said or did anything more rash.

  Before he exited by a rear door, however, he shot a look over his shoulder at his uncle. Cadwaladr had returned to his chair, kicking it back and putting his feet on a nearby table. With his hands clasped behind his head, he was the very picture of a calm and collected lord of his domain.

  He hoped Cadwaladr’s outward expression was a front for inner turmoil, because after that exchange, Hywel was anything but calm and collected. Then again, his uncle may have been plotting that ambush for weeks and had merely used Gryff’s murder as a means for getting it done. Cadwaladr wasn’t unintelligent (regretfully), just unwise.

  Before Hywel returned to the festival grounds below the castle, he sought out his steward, a man named Morgan. His father’s steward, Taran, had recommended Morgan for the position, and Hywel had found nothing in their two-year association to make him regret that choice. The man was built like a boar—apparently Morgan was the champion arm wrestler among Hywel’s soldiers—but he had never used his strength in battle, having learned to read, write, and account as a youth before his physical prowess became clear. As Hywel thought about it, Morgan rather looked like a boar too, with curly brown hair from the top of his head to the tops of his feet. His brown eyes were the one exception, looking at everyone and everything around him with dry amusement.

  Hywel found Morgan supervising the turning of the spit upon which a sheep was roasting. With a jerk of his head, Hywel pulled him aside. “Thank you for seeing to my uncle’s wellbeing.”

  Morgan looked at him gravely, bushy eyebrows raised. “It was my duty.”

  “I will speak to Gareth about setting a man to watch him,” Hywel said, “but I would ask you as well to inform me if my uncle meets with anyone unusual—or does anything unusual.”

  “Can you define unusual, my lord?”

  Hywel found his teeth grinding together—not at Morgan’s request for clarification but at having this conversation at all. “My uncle, as you know, has conspired with many of my father’s foes over the years. He hasn’t come to Ceredigion because he loves music. He is here for something else. I want to know what it is.”

  “Does this have to do with the death of that merchant, Gryff?” Morgan said, showing that his usual astuteness hadn’t deserted him.

  “I do not know. My uncle claims not.”

  “As one might expect,” Morgan said.

  Hywel eyed his steward. “You should know that we believe Gryff was murdered.”

  Morgan didn’t even blink. “How?”

  “A stab to the chest,” Hywel said. “All the more reason to wonder at my uncle’s interest in it.”

  “Do you believe his assertion that he wasn’t involved?”

  “It is not what I believe or don’t believe at present. I have no reason to suspect him other than that I always suspect him. But no, Gryff’s death seems far below the doings of my uncle.”

  Morgan gazed past Hywel, looking towards the entrance to the great hall. “He brought many men, your uncle. Did you know?”

  Hywel’s eyes narrowed. “How many?”

  “Twenty came with him to the castle, but I have been informed that he left some fifty more outside Aberystwyth.”

  “What?” Hywel said. “Fifty cavalry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me where exactly?” Hywel said.

  “In the woods about two miles to the northeast of St. Padarn’s,” Morgan said. “I only learned of this moments ago when one of the farm boys came in and spoke of it. He was riding in the back of his father’s hay cart when he saw them setting up camp near St. Dafydd’s chapel.”

  Hywel was aghast at the news. “Your network of spies appears to be better than mine.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, I—”

  Hywel waved a hand. “Please know that I am in no way angry about that. I’m impressed and grateful.”

  “I’m a Ceredigion man, born and bred,” Morgan said. “I regret to say that the men of Gwynedd remain newcomers and are often ill-trusted.”

  “For good reason,” Hywel said, “thanks to my uncle.”

  “You are not painted with the same brush,” Morgan said.

  Hywel almost laughed. He had tried to be fair, ruling with a firm but just hand. But when a man didn’t get what he wanted, or was punished, it often didn’t matter to him or his family that his sentence had been just.

  “You are vulnerable, however,” Morgan said. “It isn’t that the people are tinder, just waiting to be lit, but they distrust. King Cadell of Deheubarth should arrive at any moment and those two—Cadell and Cadwaladr—are as the two faces of a coin. Both want to rule Ceredigion, and neither is to be trusted.”

  Hywel already knew that, but it was good to hear Morgan articulate it. “Again, thank you. Please let me or Gareth know if you see or hear anything more about these men of my uncle’s or have further thoughts on the matter.”

  Morgan bowed. “Of course, my lord.”

  Hywel headed for his horse, which had been fed and watered in his absence, and found Evan, Gareth’s second-in-command, holding his bridle.

  “Do you have orders for me, my lord?” he said.


  “Yes, I do.” Hywel would have sent Gareth to investigate if he were not inconveniently busy with the murder. Evan would do in his stead. Hywel mounted his horse and turned its head. His uncle might not be involved in this murder, but as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow, he was involved in something.

  Chapter Eight

  Gareth

  It was different having Prince Rhun for company instead of Hywel. Gareth didn’t dislike his presence. It was simply new to him, and like any new thing, it would take some getting used to. Prince Rhun was closer to Gareth’s age than Hywel was and, quite honestly, probably closer in natural temperament to Gareth, too.

  As they strode across the monastery courtyard to the stables, Rhun glanced at Gareth. “Is something the matter?”

  “Not at all.” Gareth hastily rearranged his expression, smoothing his furrowed brow. “I was merely thinking about the murder, and what we might discover when we speak to Iolo.”

  “Have you encountered a cloth merchant by that name before, here in Ceredigion?” Rhun said.

  “No. Not that I remember. He must have come for the festival. Madlen implied as much.” They entered the darkness of the stable where their horses were being kept. Two boys came out of the depths of the stalls to greet them, but Gareth didn’t need a guide to find his horse. Braith whickered at his approach, snuffling at Gareth’s hand for the apple he knew would be there.

  The boy who led out Gareth’s horse was almost too small to lift the saddle, so Gareth helped him throw it onto Braith’s back and cinch the buckles tight. Then they walked him back into the hot sunshine of the late August afternoon.

  “I keep thinking back over that interview with Madlen,” Rhun said as he mounted his horse. “I’m not used to being fooled in this way, if she was fooling us at all. Perhaps there is an innocent explanation for why she took the purse.”

  “Even if there isn’t, I imagine we’ll be given one,” Gareth said.