The Unlikely Spy

by Sarah Woodbury

  “I should have thought of that.” Gareth reached down and clasped Rhys’s forearm. “If you would send the message, I can leave with a lighter heart.”

  “I will do so immediately,” Rhys said.

  Gareth departed with Fychan, and the prior turned to Gwen. “I must arrange for word of our need to be sent to the castle. What is next for you?”

  “Food first,” Gwen said, “questions later. Gareth suggested that I show the picture around the monastery. Do you think it would be possible to speak to some of the brothers?”

  Prior Rhys plucked at his lower lip. “It’s irregular, but the abbot did emphasize how important this investigation was and assured me of the cooperation of everyone in the monastery.”

  Gwen acknowledged that the abbot probably didn’t want her speaking to any of the monks alone, even though she was married. She found the monastery a strange sort of place. It functioned much like a castle, with a lord (the abbot), a steward (the prior) and many underlings, all with specific tasks. Except that there were no soldiers and no women. It seemed to her an unnatural way to live.

  Chapter Ten

  Gwen

  Gwen joined Elspeth and Tangwen in the dining hall, where the guests had been lingering over their food and mead. With more than twenty-five people seated around the table, every room in the house had to be full to bursting.

  Before he’d left earlier, Hywel had convinced Mari to join them for the meal, and she was making a brave attempt to do so. Gruffydd and his nanny, Bronwen, were present too. The girl was of an age with Elspeth, though the similarities ended there. Bronwen was quiet and shy, dark where Elspeth was blonde. Both were reliable nannies, however, and despite their differences, the two girls seemed to get along well, perhaps even more so because of their contrasting natures. Hafwen, Mari’s patient maid, stood behind her mistress’s chair, prepared to meet Mari’s every need.

  Mari was as pale as ever, her blue eyes, dark brows and lashes, and red lips standing out in her white face, but her voice was stronger than it had been yesterday. From the remains of the food on her trencher, it appeared that she’d managed to eat a little this evening too—if not yet a normal amount, at least not so little as to invite comment.

  They had found seats at the end of the long wooden table. Mari sat in a cushioned upright chair on the end, while Elspeth and Tangwen sat on the bench to her right, and Gruffydd and Bronwen sat to Mari’s left.

  Gwen plopped down on the end of the bench next to Tangwen. “My lady.”

  Mari took a tentative sip of her heated wine. “Hywel tells me there’s been a murder and that you briefly suspected him.”

  Gwen glanced down the table. Mari had kept her voice low, but this really wasn’t something Gwen wanted anyone else to overhear. Fortunately, their fellow diners were too busy with the remains of their meal to pay attention to her, and the family of four to Gwen’s right included a five-year-old son who was refusing to sit quietly and kept shrieking at his mother. Gwen was somewhat surprised Mari would bring up Hywel’s possible role in the murder in a public setting, but Mari obviously thought the notion was so unlikely as to border on the absurd—and not something she needed to keep quiet about.

  Mari noticed her furtive movements and raised her eyebrows. “What’s wrong? Surely you don’t still suspect him?”

  Gwen leaned closer to her friend. “No. It isn’t that. It’s just that we hope to keep the knowledge that Gryff was murdered to ourselves for now. We want to lull whoever did kill him into a false sense of security.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Mari tipped her head. “And Hywel?”

  Gwen shot her a rueful look. “I didn’t want to suspect him, but the wound is similar to the one he gave Anarawd.”

  Mari managed a sardonic smile. “I realize that his suspicious nature has rubbed off onto you, but you should have known better. Hywel is smarter than to have used the same knife in two murders.”

  “As he himself told me.” Gwen hesitated. “Do you have the knife with you here at Aberystwyth?”

  “I left it in a trunk at Aber.” Now Mari gave Gwen a broad smile. “If someone else found it, carried it all the way to Aberystwyth, and used it to murder that poor man, it isn’t my fault—or Hywel’s.”

  Gwen smiled too. “I believed your husband as soon as he said he didn’t do it. Gareth and I are already tugging on other threads.”

  “Speaking of which—” Mari elbowed Gwen in the ribs and leaned in even closer to whisper in her ear, “Do you see that man’s knife? It’s old and notched in two places.”

  The man in question, dark-haired, of medium height with a short v-shaped beard, was dressed, despite the heat, in a fine green wool coat with embroidery on his sleeves. Gwen had learned when she’d been introduced to him yesterday that he was a minor landowner from lands south of Aberystwyth. He sat two seats down from Bronwen, beside his wife, who was dressed in an equally fine dress of deep red.

  Mari spoke the truth, and as Gwen looked more closely at the knife, she realized that her conversation with Hywel was yet more evidence of how much he trusted her. Three years ago when she’d confronted him with Anarawd’s death, Hywel could have foisted her off with a lie or distracted her with a survey of notched knives at Aber. Instead, he’d told her the truth of his involvement in it.

  A cup clattered on the table in front of Gwen—fortunately it was empty—and Gwen used one hand to set it upright and the other to catch her daughter around the waist. Tangwen had been entertaining Gruffydd by making faces at him across the table. She’d learned it from Dai, who made faces at her to make her laugh or stop whatever fit she happened to be throwing. Tangwen missed the boys even more than Gwen did.

  Tonight, however, Gruffydd was making up for their absence. Though only a year old, he was fully walking and speaking single words, much to the astonishment of everyone around him. Together, Tangwen and Gruffydd had managed to smear their faces with honey, knock over Bronwen’s cup of mead, and nearly fall off their benches, just in the short time since Gwen had joined the meal. She would have preferred to plop them both on the floor and let them eat their dinner from there, but the other diners would have looked askance at that, so she’d resisted the impulse.

  “Lady Mari.” The minor landowner with the questionable knife had set down his mutton, and now he bent his neck in a bow to Mari. “Let me say for all of us that we are honored to have you at our table.”

  “Thank you.” Mari inclined her head regally. She’d become very good at it since she’d married Hywel.

  “It is comforting to us that you are here, my lady,” he said. “We all feel safer.”

  “Is there some reason you might feel unsafe?” Gwen said.

  “It is my understanding that a dead man lies in the chapel,” he said.

  “Yes, one does,” Mari said.

  “He drowned, they say,” the landowner said.

  “Indeed.” Mari really was playing her part well.

  “And yet, I have noticed the comings and goings of many soldiers today,” the man said. “The word is that the man drowned, and yet Prince Hywel has sent men to investigate the death?”

  Gwen looked down at her plate. This landowner was annoyingly perceptive.

  But Mari was ready with an answer. “Any time a man dies of unnatural causes, my lord is concerned. He wants everyone to feel safe, particularly with so many people here for the festival.”

  “I heard he killed himself.” One of the women down the table from Gwen was chewing rapidly on her food and speaking around it. She was tiny, maybe reaching only as high as Gwen’s shoulder, but her voice projected over the general babble in the room.

  “Then why would they allow him to lie in the chapel?” said a merchant’s wife, who was wearing a full wimple. “I don’t like it. It isn’t right.”

  Her husband—a tall, thin man with wispy, balding hair, sitting beside her—put what looked like a warning hand on her arm. “I’m sure that’s not the case, dear. Because you
’re right. He wouldn’t be allowed to lie in the chapel if the abbot believed he took his own life.”

  The tiny woman looked down the table at Gwen. “Your husband is involved isn’t he? What does he say?”

  “It is too soon to say much of anything,” Gwen said, “but no, he doesn’t believe the man took his own life.”

  “So he drowned.” The merchant frowned. “Does he believe the drowning wasn’t an accident?”

  Everyone at the table was listening avidly now, looking from the merchant to Gwen and back again. Gwen swallowed hard, made uncomfortable by all the attention. “As Lady Mari said, any unexplained death requires attention. There are enough questions with this one to warrant an investigation of how it came about.”

  “Thus the extra measure taken for your security, Lady Mari.” The landowner smiled in satisfaction. He seemed to have decided that foul play was involved. Gwen supposed there was no help for it. People were going to jump to their own conclusions, and it was hard to fault them for jumping to the right one. Still, she consoled herself with the knowledge that nobody knew about the stab wound. “Though I would hope your lord husband doesn’t believe you to be in danger here?”

  “My lord does not believe any of us have any reason to be concerned—unless you had something to do with the man’s death, of course.” Mari passed this last addition off with a laugh, which everyone around the table joined in with except Gwen, who was watching the expressions on the diners’ faces. The only furtive look so far had been her own.

  Gwen spoke up. “As a precaution, you’re right that the prince will augment the guard around the monastery tonight. We don’t want anyone to feel unsettled, and if you are concerned about your safety, you are free to move your lodgings to the castle or elsewhere.”

  A burly man with a patchy beard, sitting at the far end of the table, snorted into his cup. “Not likely to find any place with room to spare at this hour, are we?” Then he gestured expansively to the room at large. “Besides, where better to stay than in the same place as the Lady of Ceredigion?”

  He rose to his feet, his movements awkward since the bench he was sitting on was occupied by five other people. He bowed at the waist to Mari and sat again. Mari nodded her head and smiled, though she, like everyone else in the room, was quite sure the man had drunk far more mead than was good for him.

  “Speaking of the poor man’s death, we are trying to discover exactly who he is and what he was doing at the millpond so late at night. We hope to notify whomever of his kin we can find.” Gwen pulled the sketch that Gareth had given her from her pocket and handed it to the landowner. “Do any of you recognize him? He may have gone by the name of Gryff.”

  The landowner looked at the sketch and then passed it to his wife. The sketch went all the way around the table to a general shaking of heads. It had been a long shot that any of them might have known him. Gwen had hoped that because these visitors were from other parts of Wales, and Iolo was a merchant who traveled far and wide throughout the country, someone might have seen Gryff before somewhere else.

  Then one of the women seated down the table from Gwen leaned forward. Up until now she’d remained silent, and Gwen had barely noticed her. Closer inspection revealed pretty brown eyes ringed with dark lashes and brown hair that perfectly matched her eyes. She also had pox scars on her forehead, cheeks, and chin, marring her loveliness. “I saw him yesterday.”

  Gwen leaned forward too to look past Elspeth and Tangwen, who was currently standing on the bench to eat and jumping up and down at the same time. “You did?”

  “Yes. We had just arrived, and I saw him speaking to the gatekeeper as we waited on the cobbles for the hosteler to come for us. They spoke briefly, and then he went away.” She handed the sketch down the table to Gwen.

  “Had you ever see him before?” Gwen said.

  The woman shook her head. “Nor again. I only noticed him that one time because he seemed to be anxious. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  “Thank you.” Gwen spoke fervently. “Thank you so much.”

  Mari put a hand on Gwen’s arm. “You should speak to the gatekeeper. The girls and I will look after Tangwen.”

  “I will be back as soon as I can.” Gwen kissed Tangwen’s plump cheek, patted Elspeth’s hand, and bid goodbye to the other guests. “Thank you.”

  As she headed for the door, a buzz of conversation rose behind her. She knew it had to do with the speed of her departure from dinner, but she also knew that even if she’d waited an hour to act on the woman’s information, they still would have talked among themselves when she left. That made her stop and return briefly to Mari’s side, bending to whisper in her friend’s ear. “Let me know if you learn anything else, will you?”

  “Of course,” Mari said. “They’ll have this investigation wrapped up by bedtime.”

  Gwen gave a low laugh. “Except they’ll have decided the cook did it because he’s stealing supplies from the monastery to sell for his own enrichment.”

  Mari laughed too, but then she sobered, looking up at her friend. “You know, it could be something like that.”

  Gwen shook her head, still laughing, and this time went through the door. Within a few moments, she was hastening across the cobbles towards the gate. The sun had all but set, and the courtyard was in full shade. Sweat had trickled down her back all through dinner, and the slight breeze that came in from the gardens came as a relief. The wet fabric on her back cooled instantly, and she stood for a moment in the center of the empty courtyard, her arms outstretched, trying to catch more of it.

  The gatekeeper stayed in a little room adjacent to the gate, in order to watch it at all times. In the winter, he was allowed a brazier to warm himself, but today his door stood open to allow that same breeze that stirred the air in the courtyard to reach him. While the warmth of the day had dissipated, it could hardly be called cool.

  Gwen was pleased that it was the same gatekeeper who guarded the door most days. Several of the older monks took turns with the duty, because the gate had to be manned through the night as well as the day, but Sion was the monk most often present. White-haired and crotchety on the surface, he’d fallen in love with Tangwen from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. To his mind, she could do no wrong. Fortunately, he included Gwen in his adoration.

  “My dear,” he said as she appeared.

  “Brother Sion,” Gwen said. “Are you well?”

  “I am. Thank you for asking. This weather agrees with these old bones.” Sion squinted at her. “But you aren’t here about my health. I see urgency in you. What is it? Is Tangwen—”

  Gwen put out a hand to the old man. “She is well. Covered in honey, but well.”

  Sion smiled, as Gwen hoped he would. Some men went through life with an edge to them, just waiting for someone to cross them, and some couldn’t help but see the best in people. Sion might have affected a gruff exterior, but from his reaction to Tangwen, there was no doubt in Gwen’s mind that he was of the latter type.

  Then Gwen went on. “Yesterday afternoon, you spoke with a young man. One of the guests saw him come and leave. Do you remember him?” Yet again, Gwen brought out the sketch of Gryff.

  Squinting down at the image, which he brought to within a few inches of his face, Sion frowned. “I do remember him. We’ve had many comings and goings these last few days, you know, but I remember this man in particular. Anxious fellow. He wouldn’t give me his name or tell me what he wanted except that he was looking for the prince. He’d already been to the castle without any luck.”

  “Did he know Lady Mari was here?” Gwen said.

  “He seemed to. Certainly he hoped to find Prince Hywel with her.”

  “When you said that the prince wasn’t here, what did he say?” Gwen said.

  “He sounded near to tears, to tell you the truth.” Sion peered closer at her. “Why are you asking all this?”

  “Sion, the young man in question lies dead in your chapel.”

  “Oh!” Si
on sat back on his stool.

  “Did you not see him when they carried him into the monastery?” Gwen said.

  Sion looked at Gwen warily, and then he leaned forward again, motioning conspiratorially for her to do the same. Gwen did as he asked, putting her own face closer to his than would normally have felt comfortable.

  “My eyes are such that I can’t make out faces from any distance.”

  “It is a common problem,” Gwen said.

  “Especially in a man with my years,” Sion said. “Can you tell me the poor man’s name?”

  “His name was Gryff. I am among those charged with discovering his movements in the hours before he died.”

  “I’m afraid I never saw him again beyond that afternoon,” Sion said. “I will pray for him.”

  “I wish we knew what he wanted Prince Hywel for,” Gwen said.

  “It must have been something important for him to have ended up dead by morning,” Sion said, and then his eyes widened. “That means—that means his death wasn’t an accident!”

  Gwen didn’t begrudge Sion his conclusion, since he’d brought her the first piece of information that indicated Gryff might have had a secret worth killing him over. He seemed to have married two different women, which could have been reason enough to murder him, but only if one of the women herself had done it. Gwen hadn’t yet met either woman, but she was struggling to picture one of them stabbing Gryff in the middle of the night and throwing him into the millpond. Still, stranger things had happened.

  Gwen made a shushing motion with her hand and moved even closer to the old monk. “Please keep this quiet. If you would say nothing to anyone about what you told me, I would be grateful. Only a very few know that we suspect Gryff’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  “Why shouldn’t I tell—” Sion’s voice broke off as understanding spread across his face. “You don’t want the killer knowing you suspect murder. Very clever, my dear.” Then his eyes narrowed. “I assume the abbot knows?”