The Fallen Princess (11 page)

“What about the child?” Gwen said.

“A Dane would have raised her child as his
own,” Brychan said. “That’s the Danish way, and I would have
honored him for it.”

“Do you think Bran ever suspected that you
and Tegwen had renewed your attachment?” Gwen said.

Brychan shook his head forcefully. “Not
unless she told him.”

Gwen canted her head. “Would she have told
him?”

“She might have if she was angry enough or
had been drinking enough.” Brychan made a mournful face as Gwen’s
eyes went wide. “The truth is, I knew how unstable she was. It was
part of the reason I was reluctant to take her away.”

“Which is why you thought her running away
with a Dane was well within her character,” Gwen said.

Brychan nodded. “But now—I wonder if he ever
existed at all.”

To Gwen’s mind, everybody should have been
wondering that by now. Given the condition of the body, she’d been
dead a long while. Did it make sense that her new lover would have
killed her within days of sailing off with her and then left her
body somewhere near Aber? Gwen shook her head. Nothing about this
death made sense.

“I have told you the truth.” Brychan looked
directly into Gwen’s face, perhaps confused by Gwen’s head shaking
and thinking that she didn’t believe him.

“Thank you for talking to me. I will make
sure that both Prince Hywel and King Owain are aware of your
willingness to help.”

“I should have taken her away.” Brychan’s
face crumpled, and he pressed his fingers to the corners of his
eyes. “I should have protected her.”

Gwen put a hand on his arm. “Do you know
something about her death beyond what you’ve already told me? I
thought you were in Powys when she disappeared?”

“I was in Powys, but I have no doubt at all
who is responsible for her death. Lord Bran must have found out
about the baby and killed her.”

Gareth

A
s they left Aber,
Gareth checked behind them to make sure that Gwen wasn’t following
them. There was a time when she might have, but as he straightened
in his saddle, he acknowledged that her task might well prove more
interesting than theirs. Their own quest sounded to him like
searching for a particular sheep in a field of sheep. Llelo sat on
the horse behind him, confident enough in his seat that he was
barely holding on and sure that he had the information they
needed.

“She’s got herself involved in this one, and
you won’t be able to convince her to leave it alone,” Hywel
said.

“I am aware of that, my lord,” Gareth said,
“and I don’t want to. She’ll get answers where we can’t. ”

“She always has.” Hywel smirked, and Gareth
supposed he had every right to feel self-satisfied. It was Hywel
who had asked Gwen to spy for him all those years ago,
acknowledging her intelligence and resourcefulness and putting them
to work for him. Hywel’s pride reminded Gareth of when he’d stood
before the community of nuns who’d taken him in, after Cadwaladr
had thrown him out of Ceredigion, and for the first time read to
them a passage from the Bible. Afterwards, the prioress who’d
taught him to read told him that there was no greater satisfaction
for a teacher than when her student opened his wings and took
flight.

To this day, Gareth had difficulty believing
how much his teacher had done for him—and for so little in
return—but he could see how Hywel could feel the same great
satisfaction about Gwen. Hywel had set her feet on a path that
she’d enthusiastically followed. More recently, she’d walked it on
Gareth’s arm but only because she’d learned to run by herself
first.

“There.” Llelo pointed to a hut to the north
of the road, with a pathway beyond it that led to the beach and the
sea. “That’s where Ceri lives.”

The livelihood of most Welshmen depended
upon herding sheep and cattle, but many on the coast lived by and
for the sea. Fishermen had plied these waters since before the
coming of Cunedda, the great founder of Gwynedd. Oysters, clams,
and fish of every stripe and color fed King Owain’s people daily.
In hard times, when crops failed or in the difficult days before
the harvest, food from the sea kept the people alive. Ceri’s family
was among those who fished.

The hut in which Ceri lived was meager, with
thin walls of wattle and daub and a thatched roof that needed
repairs if it was to keep out the coming winter. Gareth looked at
Hywel with raised eyebrows. Something wasn’t right here, and as a
steward of this kingdom, it was just as well that Hywel was here
today to learn of it. Llelo slid off the back of Gareth’s horse,
went to the doorway, and rapped on the wall beside the door, since
the door consisted only of a leather apron.

A boy of ten swept through the doorway.
“Hello,” he said at the sight of Llelo, and then his eyes widened
to see Gareth and Hywel, both still mounted, behind his friend. “My
lords.” He pulled on his forelock in obeisance.

“Is your father at home?” Gareth said.

Ceri shook his head. “My father is
dead.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Hywel jerked his
head at Gareth, who dismounted and approached the boy, agreeing
with Hywel that a fatherless child needed a bit more concerned
attention while being questioned than one who had a father to stand
at his shoulder. Gareth had been such a child once, though he
couldn’t recall ever being caught up in a murder before he started
working for Prince Hywel. “Llelo tells us that you heard a cart
pass by here this morning. Can you tell us about it?”

“I heard it and then saw it, my lords,” Ceri
said.

“Llelo said that you recognized the horse
that pulled it?” Hywel said.

Ceri nodded. “The horse stables across the
road.” He pointed southwest, towards the woods and fields beyond
the road. “There’s a small steading which you can’t see from here
because of the trees. We don’t go to the house, but when the horse
is out to pasture closer to home, I feed him carrots if I have any
to spare.”

Ceri had moved out of the doorway and was
patting the nose of Gareth’s horse, a bay named Goch (Red). Gareth
felt in his pockets for a bruised apple he’d taken from the stores
for just this type of occasion. All men acknowledged the
indispensability of horses, but not all men loved them. Ceri seemed
to have a knack.

Gareth handed the apple to Ceri, who perched
it on his flat palm and held it out to the horse. “Whose house is
it?” Gareth said. The sooner they found the owner of the horse, the
sooner they could return to Aber.

Ceri shrugged.

Gareth looked at him curiously. “You don’t
know?”

Again the shrug. Goch had taken the apple,
and now Ceri worked his hands nervously in front of him.

Gareth tried again. “You said you don’t go
to the house. Why not? I would have thought you would range all
over these lands when you’re not out fishing.”

Ceri bit his lip and glanced at Llelo, who’d
clasped his hands behind his back and was looking down at his feet,
stubbing his bare toe in the dirt. He didn’t respond to Ceri’s
questioning look.

Gareth looked from one boy to the other.
“Would one of you please tell me what is troubling you?”

Llelo should have known better than to keep
silent when Gareth used that tone of voice, but it was Ceri who
finally capitulated. “It’s the house. It’s … well …
haunted
.”

Hywel was finally interested enough to
dismount. “Say that again, Ceri.”

Ceri shrugged for the third time, not
obeying Hywel, so the prince lifted the boy’s chin with two
fingers. “Why do you say the house is haunted?”

As Ceri gave the prince yet another shrug,
Gareth had a strong urge to shake him. He restrained himself,
however, and Prince Hywel, who had more patience than Gareth, kept
his eyes fixed on Ceri’s face.

Llelo finally came to Ceri’s rescue. “That’s
what they say. We all avoid it.”

Hywel’s eyes turned thoughtful.

Meanwhile, Gareth put a hand on Llelo’s
shoulder. “It seems that what Ceri has told us doesn’t surprise
you. You knew which house and horse he meant already?”

Llelo ducked his head and nodded.

“So you brought us here, even though you
already knew where the horse pastured and could have taken us there
directly?”

Llelo nodded again without looking into
Gareth’s eyes.

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know.” Llelo swallowed hard. “I
didn’t want you to know that I was afraid to go there.”

Gareth contemplated his charge, reminding
himself that Llelo had lost his father not long ago. It was a
comfort to Gareth to think that those he loved weren’t really gone
and existed on the other side of a thin veil, but Llelo might not
yet have reached that understanding. Still not looking at him,
Llelo stubbed his toe again into the dirt.

“Did you think I would be angry with you for
being afraid?” Gareth said.

“I just wanted you to learn about it from
someone else, and Ceri was the one to see the horse. You needed to
talk to him no matter what I told you.”

Hywel put one hand on Ceri’s shoulder and
the other on Llelo’s, finally getting him to look up. “I think I
understand now. The hut you mean is where the witch lived, isn’t
it?”

Ceri’s expression cleared. “Yes, my lord!
They say it’s her ghost that haunts the house.”

Llelo nodded with equal enthusiasm. “I’ve
heard
her! If you get close enough, you can hear a moaning
sound, and if you open the front door—”

Ceri scoffed. “Not that you’ve ever done
it.”

“—the ghost rushes past in a gust of air and
disturbs everything in the house,” Llelo finished, ignoring his
friend’s interruption.

“Clearly I’ve missed an important rite of
passage,” Gareth said. “What house are we talking about?”

“I should have known which one they meant
the moment they said it was haunted.” Hywel let go of the boys and
stepped back. “If Gwen were here, she would have remembered it too.
When we were children, old Wena lived in a house very near to where
they describe, which makes me think it might be the same place. I
know now that she wasn’t any more of a witch than you or I, but we
all thought she might be one when we were young.” Hywel nudged
Ceri’s leg with the toe of his boot to get his attention. Now that
the boys had confessed the truth, they’d been talking animatedly to
one another. “When did Wena die?”

Ceri was back with the shrug. “Years ago,
wasn’t it?”

“So you never knew Wena?” Gareth said. “Only
that she haunts the house?”

“My mam knew her. She might know when she
died.”

“Where is your mam?” Gareth said.

“In here.” Ceri pushed through the door
flap.

Hywel and Gareth shared another concerned
look before following Ceri inside. They’d been talking outside for
too long a time for the mistress of the house not to have given
them welcome and offered them food or drink. Hospitality was nearly
a holy rite among the Welsh, and Hywel was a prince of Wales.

Once inside the hut, however, it was clear
that a haunted house was the least of Ceri’s worries. His mother
lay on a raised pallet set against the north wall of the house. A
fire burned in the central fire pit, and that it flamed well and
most of the smoke left through the hole in the roof was testament
to how well Ceri was caring for his mother, if not the roof. Hywel
sucked on his teeth, taking in the room in a glance, and then went
down on one knee beside the pallet.

“You are not well, Ceri’s mother,” Hywel
said as he took her hand.

“Her name’s Nan, and she took sick a week
ago,” Ceri said. “She hasn’t been able to rise since
yesterday.”

“But you’ve been ill longer than a week,
haven’t you, Nan?” Hywel stroked Nan’s hair back from her face with
such gentleness that Gareth had to swallow hard to contain his
emotions. It was times like these that Gareth was reminded why he
would follow Hywel anywhere, into death if need be.

“Months.” Nan’s voice cracked over the word.
Finding refuge in action, Gareth picked up a pitcher of water from
a small table, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, and
poured the water into a wooden cup. He brought it to Hywel, who
took it and, lifting Nan’s head, helped her to drink. She managed
three small sips before falling back, exhausted.

“We were just speaking to your son about old
Wena,” Hywel said. “Did you know her?”

Nan managed a small smile. “I knew her
well.”

Hywel waited through several of Nan’s
rasping breaths for her to speak again.

“She was my aunt.”

“When did she die, Nan?” Hywel said.

“A few years back, not long after your
father took the throne, my lord.” Each word Nan spoke was carefully
articulated. Gareth estimated that she had days to live, at most.
Her body was nearly wasted, and he suspected that the water Hywel
had helped her to drink was all she’d taken in today.

“What has become of her hut, then?” Hywel
said. “Whose land is it?”

“Same as it’s always been. Wena’s house and
the paddock belong to Prince Cadwaladr.”

Hywel turned to look up at Gareth, who
raised his eyebrows, equally confused. “I didn’t know he held lands
so close to Aber,” Gareth said.

“Nor I,” Hywel said. “If true, it is
something I should have known.”

Nan lifted a hand and then dropped it to the
bedcovers. “I don’t remember how he came by it. Some legacy of your
grandmother’s that she left to him, I think. Cadwaladr was always
her favorite, you know.”

“That I did know,” Hywel said.

And that fact explained a great deal to
Gareth about how Cadwaladr, the youngest of three sons, petted and
spoiled for much of his life, had grown to be a man who thought
only of himself.

“Wena helped your grandmother deliver him,
you see,” Nan said. “Wena was an old woman even then, and your
grandmother wanted to reward her with something for her long years
of service. The hut was hers for the length of her life and then
reverted to Cadwaladr on her death.”