The Lost Brother (16 page)

Hywel shrugged. “My concerns were
unspecific. I felt I was sending Gareth and Gwen into danger, and
when I do that, I don’t gossip about it.”

“So none of the lords with whom we met
yesterday afternoon knew that Gareth and Gwen had ridden east?”
Cynan said.

“No,” Hywel said. “What are you
thinking?”

“The killer might not yet know that the
bodies have been found. And if he thought he killed the real Gareth
and Gwen, he wouldn’t know yet that he killed the wrong people,”
Cynan said, proving that his mind was as capable as the others,
even if he spoke less often.

Madoc still hadn’t spoken at all, and for
all that his brown eyes surveyed the room with serenity, Hywel
reported that this younger brother was by far the wilder and more
adventurous of the two.

“Did you notice anyone acting nervous or
anxious, my lords?” Gareth said. “More so than might be expected
when war is under discussion?”

The other men in the room turned thoughtful.
It was one thing to speculate on the identity of the killer. It was
quite another to think about being in the same council with him
yesterday.

“No,” Godfrid concluded finally. “I didn’t.
Did any of you?”

Heads shook all around.

“Three days ago, when the murders happened,
we had not yet decided to advance towards Mold,” Madoc said,
finally breaking his silence. “The decision to do so could be
making the killer very nervous.”

“Or emboldening him, Madoc,” Cynan said.

“Why do you say that?” Godfrid said.

“The army is going to march right through
Cilcain,” Cynan said. “It will cause chaos in the village and all
around the countryside, from now until Mold falls or we go home.
The more upheaval the war causes, the less likely anyone would be
to notice an irregular burial in the graveyard or a dead body on a
mountain trail.”

“When are we to move out?” Gareth said.

“Within the hour, actually,” Rhun said.

“If father hadn’t fallen ill, we would have
moved already.” Hywel gestured to the other men in the room. “As it
was, we put it off for a few hours in the hope that his health
would improve.”

“I probably should see him now,” Gwen said.
“If he’s asleep, I can at least assess his fever and speak to his
manservant.”

“I grow more worried for him with every hour
that passes,” Rhun said.

Gwen pressed her lips together, worried
also. Nausea and diarrhea were the scourge of all armies. Even
sleeping well at the monastery and eating better food than his men
hadn’t been enough to keep the sickness at bay.

“I should have something in my box that can
help him,” Gwen said, looking at Gareth.

“I’ll get it.” Gareth stood and left the
room.

“We would be grateful for whatever you can
do for him,” Hywel said.

“As I said, he needs someone other than his
sons to tell him what he doesn’t want to hear.” Rhun paused before
adding, “If he can even understand you.”

Gwen stared at Rhun. “My lord, if he’s that
ill, we shouldn’t have been sitting here discussing Gareth’s and my
problems. I can’t promise I can help him, but—”

A shout came from beyond the walls, along
with the faint clash of steel. As one, the men shot to their feet
and ran from the room, Hywel in the lead. It had been Gareth who’d
shouted, but while Gwen rose to her feet immediately, there was no
point in her leading the way to the sound if it was men with swords
Gareth needed.

Gwen followed on the heels of the men, her
heart in her throat and her fear a knot in her stomach. Gareth was
a knight. He lived by the sword, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t
die by it too.

By the time Gwen arrived in the courtyard,
however, the fighting—what there had been of it—had ceased. Prince
Hywel himself stood between Gareth and another man dressed in worn
traveling clothes and a thick wool cloak upon which water beaded.
The heavy rain of earlier had eased with the waning of the day,
turning into a drizzle that could go on for hours. The stranger was
perhaps a year or two younger than Gwen and was breathing hard with
exertion.

He pointed his sword at Gareth, his dark
eyes flashing with hatred, and spoke in near-perfect Welsh. “Stand
aside! That man is a thief and a brigand!”

Gwen

“N
o, he isn’t.”
Hywel’s voice held amusement, which was typical of the man. It was
his earlier anger that had been unusual.

“He is wanted by the sheriff of
Shrewsbury!”

“You speak our language, so you should be
Welsh enough to know that we don’t abide by English law here,”
Hywel said, speaking for every Welshman in the courtyard, whose
hackles had risen at the newcomer’s words.

Everyone but the stranger knew that Gareth
wasn’t the man he wanted, but his immediate innocence was instantly
put aside to defend the integrity of their homeland. The guards at
the gatehouse stepped closer, their own swords out and ready.
Godfrid, Cynan, and Madoc moved to block any escape.

The man ducked his head, suddenly uncertain.
“I thought this land belonged to the Earl of Chester—”

“Not anymore. He has no power here.” Rhun
came forward, halting out of sword reach of the stranger.

The man wore no helmet, and his brown hair
was plastered to his forehead from the rain. His clothing was that
of a man-at-arms, though the sword he held was finely wrought. He
was either of higher rank than he looked or a well-trusted
emissary.

“Put up your sword,” Hywel said.

Grossly outnumbered, the man flicked his
eyes nervously from Hywel to Rhun and back again, only now noticing
their fine clothing, swords, and armor. He swallowed hard and,
after another moment’s hesitation, obeyed.

Having sheathed his sword, he spread his
hands wide. “May I ask to whom I have the honor of speaking?”

“I am Prince Hywel of Gwynedd, and this is
my brother, Prince Rhun, the
edling.
”

The man expelled a breath, and then he bowed
deeply. “John Fletcher of Shrewsbury at your service.” He lifted
his head, glancing first at Gareth, who hadn’t moved to put away
his sword as yet, and then he straightened. “My lords, I may have
crossed the border into Wales in error, but this man is still a
highwayman. You should know that you have a serpent in your
midst.”

“Did this thieving and brigandry occur in
Shrewsbury too?” Hywel said.

“It did,” John said. “A month ago.”

Hywel turned slightly to look at Gareth.
“Have you been to Shrewsbury in the last year?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Sir Gareth is the captain of my guard,”
Hywel said. “He has hardly left my side in five years of service,
except at my direction and to places he has then proven to have
reached. He has not been to Shrewsbury, and there was never a time
in the last year he could have ridden there and returned without my
noticing his absence. This is not the man you’re looking for.”

“But—” The stranger’s determined expression
had been faltering as the prince talked, and now real puzzlement
entered John’s eyes. “Did you say, ‘Sir Gareth’? Not the Sir Gareth
who saved the life of Henry Plantagenet, the son of Empress
Maud?”

“The very same,” Hywel said.

The man put a hand to the top of his head.
“I am at a loss.” Placing his heels together, he bowed, but this
time in Gareth’s direction. “My lord, I apologize for mistaking you
for someone else.” He squinted too, his expression still full of
concern. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

“Clearly,” Hywel said.

Gareth finally lowered his sword and took
one stride towards the stranger, his arm out. “I am Gareth ap Rhys,
captain of Prince Hywel’s
teulu
.”

Hywel stepped aside so John could grasp
Gareth’s arm. “John Fletcher, undersheriff in Shrewsbury, sent to
trace the whereabouts of one Cole Turner. For some time he’s been
wanted for crimes committed in England, but we had word only a few
days ago that he’d been seen on the road north of Shrewsbury. I
picked up his trail and followed him here.”

“Are you saying that the trail led to this
monastery?” Gareth said.

John shook his head. “I lost his scent a
ways to the south, and I must have turned the wrong way in the rain
because I didn’t mean to enter Wales. What is this place?”

“King Owain, who rules these lands, has
taken this abandoned monastery as his headquarters for his campaign
against the Earl of Chester,” Gareth said.

John licked his lips. “I hadn’t realized
your victories had brought you so far north and east, my lords.” He
released Gareth’s arm and turned to the princes. “I request
permission to explain my task to the king in order to pursue Cole
into Gwynedd.”

“That will not be necessary,” Prince Rhun
said.

John blinked in confusion. “Why not?”

Gareth made a slashing motion with one hand,
not yet ready to answer that question. “I want to know more about
this man who looks like me. It is obvious you have met him. Did you
know him personally?”

“Not as a friend, mind you, but we caught
him red-handed nearly a month ago on the high road to London,
robbing a merchant. He escaped custody, however.” John ground his
teeth in frustration.

Gareth grimaced, which may have been a
failed attempt at a smile. Gwen didn’t feel like smiling either. It
was of some comfort to know Cole’s name, but that he’d been wanted
for highway robbery only made her more concerned about what else
he’d been doing in the last month, and how willing he might have
been to do something far more heinous in Gareth’s name.

“Then you may be pleased to learn that he is
dead,” Gareth said.

“Dead? How so?” John said.

“He was run through and left beside a trail
that passes through the mountains to Cilcain. Lord Morgan’s man
found him, and he told us of Cole’s death yesterday, though we
didn’t have a name for him until now. My wife and I examined the
body ourselves.” Gareth gestured that Gwen should come forward.

John had been looking into Gareth’s face,
but at Gwen’s approach, he looked past him to her. His mouth
opened. “What—how—”

Gwen felt a frisson of satisfaction at
John’s reaction.

Gareth smiled grimly too. “This is my wife,
Gwen ferch Meilyr. From your expression, I don’t have to guess that
she looks familiar to you too.”

John made a helpless gesture with both
hands. “Indeed, though now that I look more closely at both of you,
I realize that I was mistaken on her behalf as well as yours.”

“Who did you think I was?” Gwen said.

“You look very much like the daughter of one
of our merchants in Shrewsbury, a young woman named Adeline,” John
said.

“Is she, by chance, missing, having been
last seen in the company of Cole Turner?” Gwen said.

John couldn’t keep his eyes off Gwen’s face.
“How do you know about her?”

Before Gwen could answer, Hywel intervened.
“May we see your credentials?”

“Of course.” John pulled a folded piece of
parchment from the recesses of his coat and handed it to the
prince.

Hywel studied the paper. From where she was
standing, Gwen could see the elaborate seal and signature at the
end of the letter. Although she didn’t recognize the sheriff of
Shrewsbury’s emblem on sight, Hywel obviously did, since he gave a
brief nod to indicate that all was well.

“For all that your name is of Saxon origin,
you speak Welsh with barely an accent.” Hywel refolded the
parchment and returned it to John. “How is that?”

“My mother is Welsh.” John accepted the
return of his credentials with a slight bow, and when he
straightened, he proceeded to detail her ancestry for three
generations. She was from Powys, and not of a family that Gwen
knew.

“My task is not at an end, you understand?”
John concluded. “Even if Cole is dead, I still seek the girl. I
have word from those who saw them together that she went with him
willingly on this journey north. If she’s up here alone, however,
now that Cole is dead, she may be lost or in distress.”

Nobody replied for a few heartbeats, and
then Gwen sighed, deciding that it might as well be she who
answered him. “I’m afraid that as to the woman you are seeking, the
news of her fate is similar to that of Cole’s.”

John stopped in the act of pocketing his
credentials, his gaze moving sharply to Gwen’s face. “Don’t tell me
she is dead too?”

Gareth put a hand on the undersheriff’s
shoulder, more familiarly than might be normal with a stranger, but
this wasn’t a normal piece of news. “I’m sorry, John. She is,
indeed, dead. She was murdered, as Cole was.”

John’s face fell. “No.” Blinking rapidly, he
stepped away from Gareth, who dropped his hand. The other men
didn’t look at John directly, pretending not to notice his
distress.

Gareth did him the service of continuing to
speak, even if he was talking to the back of John’s head. “Two
nights ago, the killer left her body in the graveyard of the church
in Cilcain.”

John swung around to face Gareth again, and
Gwen was glad to see he’d mastered himself and his eyes were clear.
“You saw her body as well as Cole’s?”

“Yes,” Gareth said. “Her resemblance to Gwen
was unmistakable.”

“I’m so sorry,” Gwen said. “You must have
known her well.”

“I thought I did,” John said.

“Can you tell us how a merchant’s daughter
became a companion to a thief?” Gareth said.

John’s expression turned stony, and when he
spoke next, his voice was without inflection. “I have no idea how
she became acquainted with Cole and ended up here, dead.” He licked
his lips. “Do you?”

“For all that she resembled me, we didn’t
know her name until this moment,” Gwen said. “It seems she might
have been a cousin I never knew I had.”

“We are in the early stages of our
investigation,” Gareth said. “We haven’t had the opportunity to
question more than a handful of people about what they know. We
were just about to return to Cilcain when you arrived and accosted
me.”