The Lost Brother (10 page)

Pedr waited on the stoop for Gareth and Gwen
to reach the door. Then, Gareth’s elbow in a tight grip, he
directed them through it and into the hall. Gareth took Gwen’s hand
in his left, in part to stop himself from moving his hand to his
hip to rest it on the hilt of a sword that was no longer there.

To compensate for his lack of weapon, he
took long strides, almost dragging Pedr with him instead of the
other way around. Entering Morgan’s hall as a wanted man and
surrounded by angry soldiers was, in equal parts, absurd and
humiliating. It had been a long time since Gareth had entered a
strange lord’s home with this much dismay.

Regardless of how Gareth felt about it,
however, he and Gwen were outnumbered fifty to one. A buzz of
conversation had emanated from the hall at their arrival, but as
Gareth and Gwen passed among them, the people present fell silent,
ceasing to eat, drink, or talk. With Gwen’s hand in his, Gareth
walked purposefully towards the far end of the building where
Morgan’s chair rested. By the time he and Gwen reached the central
fireplace, the only sound in the hall came from the flames
themselves, where wood that had too much moisture in it crackled
and popped.

The steward led them around the fire and
then stopped ten paces away from Morgan’s chair. He bent his head.
Pedr did the same. Gareth came to a halt when they did, and it
wasn’t until the pair parted, one to each side of Morgan’s chair,
that Gareth was able to see Morgan’s face clearly. He almost
laughed—with relief and surprise—because he knew Morgan, though
back when they’d met, Morgan hadn’t been the lord of a stronghold
such as this, but hardly more than a boy.

It wasn’t a boy who faced him now.

Although Father Alun had said Morgan and
Gareth were of an age, Gareth knew Morgan to be several years
younger. The young lord was what the English called ‘black Welsh’:
black hair, olive skin, and eyes so brown they were nearly black
too.

Gareth never liked to be reminded of the
days after Prince Cadwaladr had thrown him out of Aberystwyth.
Because of it, he’d lost Gwen and his livelihood. He’d taken to
wandering Wales in search of someone who needed a hired sword. He
hadn’t cared overmuch, at first anyway, about the tasks he was set,
since he hadn’t thought any could be worse than those Cadwaladr had
given him. For nine months, Gareth served a lord by the name of
Bergam whose son’s escapades had gone far beyond youthful
hijinks.

The last time he had seen Lord Morgan,
Gareth had been dragging his charge out of the hall at a lord’s
fort in northern Powys. The young man in question had drunk too
much, which was usual for him, but in doing so had taken it upon
himself to proposition Morgan’s sister. Gareth hadn’t known exactly
where Morgan was from or the name of his father. Even had he known,
he might not have connected the two so many years later.

Gareth decided to take the initiative. “Lord
Morgan. We meet again.”

Gwen glanced up at Gareth in surprise, but
he kept his eyes fixed on Morgan’s. The hall was completely silent,
and Gareth could feel the eyes of every soul in the room boring
into his back.

“You remember, then. The circumstances of
this meeting appear to be equally inauspicious.” Lord Morgan rose
from his chair. “Gareth ap Rhys, I arrest you in the name of King
Owain Gwynedd.”

Gareth released an involuntary laugh.
“What’s the charge?”

“Treason!”

Initially Gwen’s jaw had dropped at the
accusation, but now she said, “Don’t be absurd.”

Gareth was glad to hear the same mocking
laughter he felt echoing in her voice, rather than dismay or fear.
They were in tune tonight in that regard.

“Gareth and I rode from King Owain’s
headquarters a few hours ago. If he had wanted Gareth arrested he
would have done it then.”

“He doesn’t know what I know,” Morgan
said.

“And what is that, exactly?” Gwen stood with
her hands on her hips, glaring at the man.

“Gareth has been conspiring with Earl Ranulf
against King Owain!” Morgan said.

“That is a lie.”

Morgan took a step back, clearly taken by
surprise by Gwen’s forceful tone. He tried to look stern. “It is
common knowledge in the hall—”

“Who accuses him of treason?” Gwen swung
around, her eyes searching among the onlookers.

“Gwen—” Gareth would have preferred to
confer privately with Morgan, to reason with him and sort out what
was clearly a misunderstanding, but Gwen’s color was high, and she
was furious.

Years ago, King Owain had made what in
retrospect was an absurd accusation against Gareth, and even Prince
Hywel had given way before him, accepting what he couldn’t change
until he found proof of Gareth’s innocence. Gwen and Gareth had
been younger then and less experienced, and that had been in King
Owain’s court, not Morgan’s. Gwen might yield to King Owain, but
Lord Morgan was another matter entirely.

Morgan put out an appeasing hand to Gwen.
“Lady Gwen—”

She actually had the audacity to slap his
hand away. “Don’t Lady Gwen me! You are accusing my husband of
treason! You have arrested him on what grounds? Rumor!” She glared
at Pedr, whose hand had come down on Gareth’s shoulder to prevent
him from running.

Pedr appeared unmoved by Gwen’s anger, but
Morgan recoiled in the face of her wrath. Gareth could see that it
had been with fire in his belly and good intentions that Morgan had
sent Pedr to Cilcain to arrest him, but now that Gareth and Gwen
were before him, he had to be rethinking that decision. He was
definitely over his head with Gwen.

“I challenge whoever has said these things
about my husband to come forward and speak them to his face!”

Nobody in the hall moved. No man rose to his
feet. Gareth knew as surely as he was a Welshman that Morgan could
have no actual proof, of course, but it may not have occurred to
Morgan himself until just now.

Gwen realized it too, and she swung back
around to Morgan. “How did you know Gareth was in Cilcain?”

That Lord Morgan could answer. “One of my
men saw him ride through the village this afternoon with Father
Alun. I realized at that point that the good father didn’t know
he’d brought a viper into our midst, so it was my duty to remove
him.”

During Gwen’s tirade, the steward had moved
closer to Lord Morgan and had been subtly trying to attract his
lord’s attention without success. Now, he tugged on Morgan’s elbow,
and Morgan finally turned to him. “What!”

The steward leaned in to whisper in Morgan’s
ear.

At first, Lord Morgan’s face went completely
blank, but then he said in a far more moderated tone, “Say that
again?”

The steward cleared his throat. “It’s about
the body that was found earlier today, my lord.”

Morgan moved his hand impatiently. “What
does the dead man have to do with Gareth?”

The steward didn’t retreat. “My lord—” he
gestured in Gareth’s direction, “—he looks just like him.”

Gareth

“O
bviously, I
myself didn’t look into his face before this moment,” Morgan said.
“I took my steward at his word that the dead man wasn’t from around
here, thinking Einion would know more about it than I.”

As with the woman in the chapel at Cilcain,
this man had been washed and dried for burial, though he didn’t yet
wear his burial gown.

It could be me on that table.
That’s
all Gareth could think of as he stared down at the dead man’s face.
When Gareth himself died, he wouldn’t care what became of his
remains, but to know that Gwen would have to stand over him, in the
same way they were standing over this possible brother to Gareth
now, brought bile to the back of his throat.

Beyond this initial non-apology, it was
almost as if Morgan didn’t know what to do with himself. He kept
opening his mouth to speak and then closing it without saying
anything. For his part, Gareth was doing his best to ignore the
fact that he was supposed to be under arrest.

Morgan seemed ready to ignore it too.
“Einion tells me he was run through.” The lord reached for the
sheet, but before he could throw it off the man’s body onto the
floor, Gareth caught his wrist and stopped him.

“What?” Morgan said.

Gareth’s eyes flicked to Gwen, who was
chewing on her lower lip, her arms folded defensively across her
chest.

“My apologies.” Morgan relinquished the
sheet and stepped back from the table.

With his back to Gwen, Gareth lifted the
cloth so he could look under it without exposing the whole of the
body to Gwen’s view. The wound to the man’s gut was deep and wide.
Gareth didn’t need to inspect it closely to agree that it had been
made by a sword, not a knife, driven into the man’s belly and
pulled out without ceremony or stealth. The wound was clean and no
longer bleeding, of course, so Gareth decorously folded back the
sheet, exposing the wound but not the man’s body below the
waist.

At the sight of it, Gwen stopped chewing on
her lower lip, and her expression cleared. “But this could mean he
wasn’t murdered. We are in the midst of a war, after all.”

“The body was found by a man searching with
his dog for a lost lamb. It was buried in the ground, but not
buried deep,” Morgan said. “You don’t bury a man you come upon in
war. You kill him and leave him where he lies, thankful you have
lived to fight another day.”

Gwen nodded her acknowledgement of Morgan’s
assessment, pursing her lips as she studied the dead man. She
appeared far less upset than she could have been.

“He looks exactly like you,” Gwen said,
“except for something around the eyes. I would have liked to have
seen him when he was alive. He could be you sleeping there.” She
looked up at Gareth. “He has a bump on the bridge of his nose. You
don’t. Yours is straight.”

“I have been fortunate enough never to have
had my nose broken, even with all the fights I’ve been in,” Gareth
said, trying to keep the mood light, even if it might be a lost
cause.

Gwen seemed to be endeavoring to do the
same. She leaned closer to study the man’s face. “A beard hides
many imperfections too.”

Gareth rubbed his stubble-covered jaw. He’d
shaved off his beard only three days ago because he wanted to keep
the lice, which were rampant in the camp, at bay, and they seemed
attracted to his beard no matter how often he dunked his head in
the washing trough. Gareth had cropped his hair short then too,
unlike this man, who’d allowed it to grow long enough to pull back
and tie at the base of his neck.

Three days ago, however, he would have
looked identical to Gareth, just as a few tweaks to the false Gwen
could have confused anyone who didn’t know Gwen well. This man’s
similarity to Gareth was even more uncanny.

Gareth’s head came up, sensing menace in
every flickering shadow the candles threw on the walls of the small
chapel. Unease curled in his belly, beyond the discomfort
associated with seeing his dead twin on the table. Someone had
murdered two people who looked like him and Gwen. What would he do
when he found out he’d killed the wrong people?

Fortunately, Gwen’s thoughts hadn’t yet
stretched that far.

She lifted the man’s arm an inch or two,
before laying it back down on the table. “The feel of him is
similar to the woman. If I had to guess, I’d say she died first, if
only by a few hours.”

Gareth picked up the man’s wrist as Gwen had
done. The body had turned cold and was stiff with rigor. If the
body were cold and not stiff, it would indicate he’d been dead for
more than two days.

He glanced at Morgan. “You said the body was
found by a sheepdog. Where was this?”

“Not far from here, upriver,” Morgan
said.

“Am I correct in remembering that the body
was found today?” Gwen said.

Morgan turned to look at his steward, who’d
come with them to the chapel. “Einion?”

Now that he’d been called upon to speak,
Einion took a step forward. “The body was discovered shortly after
noon. The herdsman who found him sent his son to me immediately,
and my men arrived back here with the body about two hours before
sunset.”

That was more than an hour before Gareth and
Gwen had arrived in Cilcain.

Einion gestured to the dead man. “I thought
it best to wash the body in preparation for burial, given the time
that had already passed since his death.”

Gareth nodded, not questioning the steward’s
decision. The man had been murdered, but most people didn’t know
that a murder investigation went better if the body was left where
it was found. In this case, both bodies had been moved, but at
least he and Gwen would be able to return to the initial burial
sites.

“It was the arrival of the body which
prompted me to send a man into Cilcain to find the priest,” Morgan
said. “Instead, Father Alun’s housekeeper told him of the murdered
woman discovered in the graveyard, and that Father Alun had ridden
to King Owain’s camp looking for you. I posted one of my men at the
tavern under orders to inform me the moment you arrived.”

Gareth gave a low grunt. When they’d ridden
through the village, he’d feared exactly that—except he’d been
afraid the informer would run to Ranulf at Mold Castle. Only a few
hours ago, being detected by the Earl of Chester was his most
pressing concern. It was odd how so much could change so
quickly.

“And you did that not because you wanted
Gareth to examine the body of a murdered man, but so you could
arrest him,” Gwen said, not yet willing to forgive the young
lord.

Morgan looked down at his feet. “I wish now
that I had asked more questions before I sent Pedr to the
chapel.”

“You no longer believe that Gareth has
committed treason?” Gwen said.

Morgan raised his head. “Let me just say
that my earlier certainty has given way to doubt.”