The Fallen Princess (20 page)

At Rhun’s raised eyebrows, Godfrid guffawed
and added, “Though I assure you, we are not looking for war
today.”

Rhun waved his men off their mounts, and the
Welsh and Danish parties converged, communicating with each other
in a mix of languages and unconcerned by whose accent was more
atrocious. Godfrid’s Welsh had somehow improved since Gareth had
last seen him. Gareth wished he could say the same for his
Danish.

“Where is Prince Hywel?” Godfrid said as the
men began walking up the beach towards the main path that would
take them back to Aber Castle.

“He is not here,” Gareth said.

“The body of a royal cousin was found on the
beach this morning,” Rhun said.

Godfrid frowned. “I am sorry to hear
that.”

“She was murdered,” Rhun said, more bluntly
than was usual for him. “Prince Hywel has departed on a quest for
information regarding her disappearance and death.”

Godfrid halted abruptly in the middle of the
path, and it was fortunate that the men behind them had kept their
distance or one of them might have bumped his nose into Godfrid’s
back. “You’re not serious?”

“Sadly, Prince Rhun is perfectly serious,
and in fact—” Gareth’s brow furrowed as he considered the
possibilities, “You might even be able to help us clear up a point
or two.”

“How is that?” Godfrid said.

“The body was of our beloved princess,
Tegwen. She was the daughter of Cadwallon, King Owain’s older
brother, who died twelve years ago.”

“I have heard tales of Cadwallon. He was a
mighty man.” Godfrid thumped his chest with his fist. “Much in the
manner of a Dane.” Then he sobered. “Again, I am sorry for your
losses.”

“Thank you,” Rhun said, “but it is the
circumstances of her death and its discovery that concern us
now.”

“If she was murdered as you say,” Godfrid
started walking again, “then this is no time for guests such as I.
We should greet your father and take our leave.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rhun said. “We
lost her a long time ago.”

Godfrid canted his head. “Now you’ve lost
me.”

“Our pardon, Godfrid,” Gareth said. “Prince
Rhun and I began the story at the end. You see, all these years
we’d thought she’d run off with a Dane.”

By the time Godfrid, Rhun, and Gareth
reached Aber Castle, they had explained the situation with Tegwen
to him as fully as they could, given their imperfect understanding
of each other’s languages. Godfrid seemed to be growling under his
breath in Danish as he contemplated what they’d told him. While
Rhun entered the great hall to make sure his father was ready to
greet his guests, Godfrid put his annoyance aside to greet
Gwen.

Or rather, he went to greet her but then
held back at the sight of her burgeoning belly. Taking her by each
of her arms, he said, “You are so beautiful.”

“Now, now.” Gareth stepped between them.

“Well done, old friend.” Godfrid clapped
Gareth on the shoulder. Another few wallops from Godfrid and Gareth
was going to need to see the healer.

“It is good to see you too, Godfrid,” Gwen
said.

Godfrid stretched his arms out wide, taking
in the bustling courtyard of the castle. “It is good to be seen and
good to be here.” Then he looked down at Gwen. “But I hear we have
a murder to solve.”

“I was hoping that Godfrid could help us
identify this Dane who may have run off with Tegwen,” Gareth
said.

Gwen looked hopefully towards Godfrid. “We
are wondering now if he ever existed.”

“Five years ago, you say?” Godfrid tapped a
finger to his lower lip. “I don’t know of any of my father’s men,
or Ottar’s for that matter, who appeared with a Welshwoman at his
side. He would have been a brave man to have stolen away a princess
of Gwynedd, even if her father was dead and would never claim the
throne.”

“He could have sailed east, I suppose,” Gwen
said.

“Certainly, I have many relations back in
Denmark,” Godfrid said. “Many favor marriage to foreign women.”

“Why would that be?” Gwen said.

Godfrid laughed. “Until they learn Danish,
they don’t talk back.”

Gwen’s eyes narrowed at Godfrid. Seeing her
expression, he hastily turned to Gareth. “If there was no Dane,
where does that leave you?”

Gareth sighed. “With more questions than
answers, dare I say as usual.”

“I am sorry that I could not have been more
of a help,” Godfrid said. “My memory of five years ago might also
be imperfect.”

“It was a long shot at best,” Gareth said.
“The man could have been Irish or Norse besides.”

“We still have a murderer loose in Gwynedd,”
Gwen said.

For the first time since he arrived, Godfrid
sobered completely. “We are all murderers, Gwen, at one time or
another.”

“The story grows more complicated when you
add in that Bran, Tegwen’s husband, was also murdered,” Gwen
said.

Godfrid’s brows lifted. “I am liking your
tale less and less.”

“He died not far from where the Danes bought
by Cadwaladr ambushed Anarawd,” Gareth said.

“We’re not accusing you or your people of
anything,” Gwen hastened to add. “Bran died by an arrow.”

“Ah.” Godfrid nodded. “Not a Danish
weapon.”

“My lord.” Rhun approached the three
companions. “My father would welcome you and your men.”

“Of course. Lead on.” Godfrid gestured that
Rhun should precede him.

Gwen and Gareth fell into step on either
side of the huge Dane.

“The last time I was here, the king’s
brother, this Cadwaladr you spoke of, was the one causing all the
trouble,” Godfrid said. “What has become of him?”

“You will see him in a moment and can judge
for yourself; he sits at the high table next to King Owain,” Gareth
said.

Instead of scowling as Gareth felt like
doing, a smile twitched at the corner of Godfrid’s mouth. “Such is
the way of kings, eh? Ottar and my father dine together while
secretly plotting to do each other in.”

“How is your father?” Gwen said.

“Ottar is in the ascendancy at the moment,”
Godfrid said, “so my father is not very well. He broods in his hall
over what might have been, and I worry for his health.”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it,” Gareth
said, “to ask King Owain to go to war with you?”

“Oh no, my friend.” Godfrid put a hand on
Gareth’s shoulder, more gently than before, Gareth was glad to say.
“I came to see you.”

Hywel

B
ryn Euryn, the
seat of the Lord of Rhos, lay a little over ten miles to the east
of Aber but fifteen miles by the high road through the standing
stones at Bwlch y Ddeufaen and the fort of Caerhun. With his father
and two older brothers dead, the third son, Ifon, had inherited the
cantref. After Hywel’s grandfather had taken the throne of Gwynedd
for the third time forty years ago, defeating the last of the
Norman invaders, he’d reduced the kingdom of Rhos to a lordship.
The Lord of Rhos tithed now to the King of Gwynedd. Even so, Ifon
ruled over extensive lands stretching east from the Conwy River all
the way to Rhuddlan.

Despite Gwen’s warning about a killer still
roaming free, Hywel wasn’t worried about reaching Rhos safely, even
in the dark. Any action on the part of the murderer, particularly
Hywel’s death, would result in more scrutiny, not less. The killer
hadn’t been quiet all these years only to panic now.

They reached Caerhun two hours after sunset,
stopping briefly to rest the horses and confer with the commander,
and then rode on nearly another hour before they finally picked
their way up the slope to the castle of Bryn Euryn. Built below the
ancient ruins that took up the crest of the hill, rising some four
hundred feet above the valley floor, it was a well-fortified
palace, not unlike Aber Castle, though built entirely in wood and
surrounded by a wooden palisade.

Hywel hadn’t been here in years. Usually, if
the Lord of Rhos and the King of Gwynedd needed to speak to one
another, the Lord of Rhos came to Aber and not the other way
around. But Calan Gaeaf was upon them, and while the people who
lived to the west of the Conwy River flocked to Aber, Ifon had
called his own people to his seat. Hywel’s small company was
admitted through the main gate, prompting a flurry of activity in
the courtyard. Ifon himself came out of the hall to greet
Hywel.

“My lord.” Ifon bowed from the waist. “To
what do I owe this honor, especially this day, with Hallowmas so
close?”

“I would speak to you in private, if I may,”
Hywel said. “I leave it to you how much of my news you wish to
share with your people.”

“Of course,” Ifon said, “but surely you
would like to refresh yourself first after your journey?”

“This is urgent,” Hywel said, “and cannot
wait.”

“This way.” Ifon gestured that Hywel and his
men should dismount.

“We need shelter for only one night as we
must return to Aber by tomorrow afternoon,” Hywel said. “We won’t
trouble you for longer than that.”

“It is no trouble, as you well know.” Ifon’s
expression showed no irony or resentment. Hywel peered at him
carefully, but it seemed as if he meant what he’d said.

Hywel had hoped Ifon’s involvement in
Tegwen’s death, or in Bran’s for that matter, would be immediately
obvious in his manner. It wasn’t, and now Hywel had to admit to
himself that it had been ridiculous to have expected it. Her loss
was clearly making Hywel soft in the head. Ifon didn’t know why
Hywel had come to see him, and years had passed since either
murder.

Hywel had arranged in advance with Evan that
he should not only see to the men but should also take on his own
investigations on Hywel’s behalf, as Gareth would have done if he
were here. Hywel needed Evan to question Ifon’s men, from the
lowest stable boy to his first captains. If Gwen were here too, she
would have been responsible for inquiring of the women of the
castle. But for now, between Evan and Hywel, they would have to
make do with what they could manage themselves. Hywel was a married
man, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t smile at a pretty girl if he
needed information from her.

Ifon led the way to the keep, and as he
walked beside him, Hywel studied Ifon’s profile. Ifon was older
than Hywel; he was older than Rhun too, for all that Rhun had known
him reasonably well as a boy. As a youth, Hywel had never had more
than a handful of conversations with any of the brothers of Rhos.
Bran had always struck Hywel as too full of himself and had thought
himself the smartest person in any room he entered, which naturally
raised Hywel’s hackles. Ifon had faded into the background, letting
his brother speak first and sometimes never speaking at all.

Hywel reminded himself that if he’d had a
different brother that could have been his fate too: always in his
brother’s shadow and never allowed an opinion or action of his own
but expected to follow Rhun’s lead. Hywel was the second son, but
he knew both his brother and his father loved and trusted him. He
couldn’t say the same for Ifon, which made the irony of his
elevation to the throne all the greater. With Ifon’s father and
both older brothers dead, he was all that had been left to rule
Rhos.

“I apologize for adding to the size of your
gathering by ten,” Hywel said. “It is not my intent to put you
out.”

“I say again that you honor us with your
presence, my lord,” Ifon said.

Hywel decided to take Ifon at his word and
not mention it again. Ifon’s courtesy towards Hywel was slightly
shaming, in fact, considering what Hywel had come here to task him
with.

“I have more apologies,” Hywel said as Ifon
led him to an exterior staircase that took them to the floor above
the great hall. As at Aber, Bryn Euryn consisted of a great hall,
stables, craft halls, barracks, and a small chapel, but on a
smaller scale. In particular, the hall didn’t have wings built off
of it or an adjacent manor house in which to put Bryn Euryn’s
residents, much less its guests. With the inhabitants quadrupled
for the holy day, Hywel might be sleeping in the stables with his
men.

Ifon’s office was among the four rooms that
took up the floor above the hall. Two of the other doors were open
as they passed them, revealing a bedchamber and a narrow room
housing stacked trunks and crates of household goods. Weapons and
armor would be stored in the barracks or armory near the gatehouse.
Turning into Ifon’s chamber, Hywel seated himself where Ifon
indicated.

Ifon then walked around a table and sat
behind it, folding his hands and resting them in front of him. He
kept himself stiff, his shoulders tight and his back straight. “You
have me worried now.”

Hywel had known his appearance would cause
consternation in his host. No minor lord ever wanted his prince to
appear unheralded and ask for a private audience, and for Hywel to
appear so close to Hallowmas had to be even more disconcerting.

“I have been searching my mind for what
disaster could have brought you here on such a night,” Ifon said
when Hywel didn’t immediately begin to explain. “It isn’t—it
couldn’t be your father—?”

Hywel put up a hand, wanting to put Ifon at
his ease. “No. It is a matter that is far less urgent and at the
same time far more so.” Hywel forced his own shoulders to relax.
“We have found the body of Tegwen, your brother’s wife.”

Across the table, Ifon sat frozen. The
silence between them stretched out for ten heartbeats before he
said, “Please explain.”

Hywel gave a brief summary of the finding of
Tegwen, leaving his uncle’s involvement out of it for the moment.
“From the condition of the body, it seems that she has been dead
for many years.”

“If that is so, why do you think the body is
Tegwen’s?” Ifon eased back in his chair, recovering from his
initial surprise and allowing his intellect to begin to work.