The Renegade Merchant (14 page)

 “Where is everyone?” Gareth said to
the monk who put a carafe of wine in front of him. Unlike the
previous night, when there had been a half-dozen other guests, only
two others dined with them tonight.

“We are not often as full as we were
yesterday,” the monk said. “When the war was at its height, we went
weeks without any guests at all, though now that things have calmed
down here in the west, that lack has become rarer.”

Gareth thanked him and looked down the table
to the other diners: two men, a few years older than he was, in
close conversation. Gareth thought about asking polite questions,
simply to know more of them and because he was curious that way,
but unless they were involved in these murders they weren’t his
concern. He would rather spend the dinner with his family. It would
be rude, however, not to say something.

Gareth stood, a hand to his chest, and
bowed. “I’d like to introduce myself. I am Gareth ap Rhys,
companion to Prince Hywel of Gwynedd.” Then he introduced Gwen,
Gwalchmai, and Tangwen.

Faced with a knight, even a Welsh one, both
stood themselves. “I am Flann MacNeill, of Oxford,” the first man
said. He was middle-aged and balding, with the look of someone
who’d had enough to eat his whole life, “and this is my companion,
Will de Bernard.” Will had the presence of a nobleman, though that
might simply be because he was wealthy. He was of similar age to
Flann, but leaner, with brown hair and a full beard.

“You’re Irish?” Gwen said to Flann.

Flann turned to her with a slight nod. “By
birth, only. I have never been to Ireland.” Both men sat, and they
all continued with their meal.

Tangwen perched decorously beside Gwen,
having decided at some point in the last three days that she was a
lady like her mother and should eat like one. The mind of a
two-year-old girl was completely beyond Gareth, but he appreciated
the absence of the antics of six months ago, when Tangwen couldn’t
sit still for longer than the time it took to cut and butter a
slice of bread.

“Gwalchmai will be singing in church on
Sunday,” Gwen said.

Gareth raised his eyebrows, recognizing
Gwen’s ploy for what it was—an attempt not to talk murder in front
of Tangwen—and he played along. “Are you, Gwalchmai? That will be
something to look forward to. Have you told your father?”

Gwalchmai, however, knew himself to be a man
now and was having none of it. “Gareth, is it true what they’re
saying?”

Gareth scoffed under his breath. They should
have known better than to keep anything from Gwalchmai. Given his
incredible voice, perhaps it wasn’t surprising that he could hear
around corners too. “Probably not. What are they saying?”

“That a member of the town council is dead,
and a girl’s body was found in the river?”

Gareth glanced at Tangwen, but if his
daughter was listening, she gave no sign that she was disturbed.
Thus, Gareth spoke normally, so she would continue to think nothing
was amiss. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s true.” He reached into his coat
and pulled out the sketch he’d drawn of the girl’s face, along with
the one of Conall. “See for yourself.”

Gwalchmai took both images to study. The two
men at the other end of the table had looked up at Gwalchmai’s
question. Deciding it would do no good to whisper when their ears
were already perked, Gareth gestured to Gwalchmai that he should
pass the sketches down the table. “Do you recognize either of these
people? The girl had light brown hair, and the man’s hair was red,
if that helps. We know he was Irish too.”

“You don’t say?” Flann took the sketches
from Gwalchmai. “They’re both dead?”

“Only the girl,” Gareth said. “The man is
missing.”

Flann frowned and looked closer. His
companion bent nearer too, and some kind of look passed between
them before Will sat back in his seat and Flann half-stood, shaking
his head, to hand the pictures back to Gareth.

“You don’t know them?” Gareth had been sure
there for a moment that he’d seen recognition in Flann’s eyes.

“No, no, of course not. You don’t know their
names?”

“The man is named Conall,” Gareth said. “The
girl’s is unknown.”

Again, a look that Gareth couldn’t interpret
passed between the man and his companion, but then Flann made a
dismissive motion with his head and said, “We live in troubled
times.”

“We do, sir.” Gareth didn’t mention that he
was assisting the Deputy Sheriff in his inquiries, though the fact
that he had sketches of the two people in question should have
given it away. Gareth might believe that Flann had never been to
Ireland. He might even find the fact that he didn’t know Conall or
the girl credible, but his presence in Shrewsbury as another
Irishman when there weren’t that many around, begged for
questions.

Which fortunately, Gwen wasn’t afraid to
ask. “What brings you to Shrewsbury? You’re a long way from
Oxfordshire here.”

Flann had started in again on his
vegetables. He stabbed a turnip and held it before his lips as he
spoke. “We’re merchants.”

“Oh, really? What of?” Gwen said.

Flann swallowed. So far Will seemed
disinclined to speak at all. “Leather.”

Gwen nodded and returned to her own meal.
Flann’s answer was a safe one, since Shrewsbury was known for its
leather working, and his words might even be true. But the hairs on
the back of Gareth’s neck were standing up, and he’d learned
something over the years about listening to his instincts.

They could be wrong. They were sometimes
wrong, but he would lose nothing by finding out more about these
two strangers to Shrewsbury, especially since Conall had been a
newcomer too.

He was marshalling his thoughts to ask more
about their business when both men stood. Flann tossed a last
uneaten crust of bread onto his trencher, nodded at Gareth and
Gwen, and left the guest hall with Will.

Gareth immediately bent close to Gwalchmai.
“Go after them, will you? I want to know if they leave the
monastery—but do not leave it with them! Return to me instead.”

Gwalchmai’s mouth was full of food, but he
swallowed quickly and nodded, his chin firming with sudden purpose.
“Yes, sir!”

“Take Tangwen with you,” Gwen said. “She’s a
good excuse to be loitering in the courtyard.”

“You have a devious mind, sister.” But
Gwalchmai had a grin on his face as he scooped up his niece, who
was still holding her buttered roll, and hurried out the door after
the men.

Once they’d gone, Gareth leaned back in his
seat. “Did you see—”

“—the looks they exchanged?” Gwen said. “If
they meant to disguise the fact that they knew Conall, they didn’t
do a very good job of it.”

“You thought it was Conall they knew?”
Gareth said. “I thought the second man, Will, paid particular
attention to the sketch of the girl.”

“Either way,” Gwen said, “those two know
more than they’re saying.”

Gareth rubbed his chin. “I don’t know how
we’re going to get it out of them. I can’t compel them to talk. And
John—”

Gwen nodded without Gareth having to finish
his thought. More and more often, particularly these last weeks as
they’d spent nearly every waking moment together, they’d developed
a habit of finishing each other’s sentences. Gwen already had his
heart, so Gareth was pleased that their minds had connected so
completely as well.

“John means well, and in time he might make
a good investigator, but menacing he isn’t,” Gwen said.

And then Gwalchmai came rushing back,
Tangwen on his hip with her arms around his neck. “They’ve left the
monastery!”

Gareth pushed to his feet. “Did you see
which way they went?”

“West. I followed them a little way,
thinking I didn’t have time to come back here to tell you, but
they’re walking slowly towards the English bridge. You might just
catch them if you hurry. I’ll mind Tangwen until you return.”

“Thank you, Gwalchmai.” Gwen started for the
door. “I’m glad I wore my cloak to dinner.”

Gareth might have objected to her assumption
that she was coming with him if it wouldn’t have meant wasting his
breath. It was entirely his fault that Gwen was involved in the
investigation, since he had sent for her in the first place. He
could hardly complain that she wanted to leave the monastery with
him. Besides which, if he’d refused to take Gwen with him, he would
have found Gwalchmai looking at him eagerly instead.

He consoled himself with the idea that a
married couple such as they would look more innocuous strolling
through Shrewsbury than he would alone, hurrying as he would be
after two English merchants as if he wanted to rob them. Men tended
to look askance at a full-on Welshman wandering about after dark by
himself.

Like Gwen, Gareth had worn his cloak to the
meal, since the dining room wasn’t heated, and the temperature was
hardly different outside than in. The night was clear and the moon
shone down. As they hurried through the monastery gatehouse and
down the road to the bridge across the Severn, they could see well
even without a torch. When they spied the merchants, the two men
were just passing the watchman at the east gate.

Gwen and Gareth were far enough behind that
the men didn’t notice them. Nor did they turn around to see if they
were being followed. Fortunately, as Gareth and Gwen came across
the bridge themselves, Oswin, one of the young watchmen from the
alley, arrived from a different direction, with the intent of
showing the guards one of Gareth’s sketches. He looked up at
Gareth’s approach, his expression brightening, and then introduced
him to the guardsmen.

“We are following two men, who just passed
through here,” Gareth said. “Did you see which way they went?”

“They headed west,” one of the guards said.
“Should we stop them?”

“No,” Gareth said. “This is simple
curiosity. I think.”

“It might be late before we return,” Gwen
said. “Will you be on duty then? Will you let us pass through?
We’re staying at the monastery.”

The guard glanced at Oswin, who nodded,
though Gareth wouldn’t have said that the younger man had any more
authority here than the guard. “Of course, madam. The wicket gate
is always available, but we must be careful about who comes in and
out at night. These are troubled times.”

“We understand your duty,” Gwen said
appeasingly, though her brow furrowed.

Gareth had also noticed that the guard had
repeated the same phrase Flann had used earlier.

Then Gareth and Gwen were off again, wending
their way through the mostly deserted streets. It wasn’t that late,
not quite nine in the evening, but the residents of Shrewsbury rose
early to open their shops in order to take advantage of every
daylight hour given them.

They were nearing the west gate, an area
that Gareth was growing more knowledgeable about, since this was
near where the pool of blood had been found, when he saw the men
stop forty feet away before a three-story house. It was one of
those among the inner ring of houses and shops that lined the
interior of the palisade, and Gareth wondered all of a sudden if it
had gate access to the river. These houses weren’t backed up right
to the wall, like might occur in a castle, but had yards and
stables behind them that the wall enclosed.

The men stopped before the door, below a
sign showing a picture of a woman’s shoe, and spoke to a man
standing in the doorway.

“That’s the brothel!” Gwen said in a
breathless whisper.

Gareth gripped her arm tightly, just in case
she had a mind to go closer. Meanwhile, Will pulled something from
his pocket and showed it to the guard, who nodded, and then the two
merchants entered the house. As they passed through the doorway,
another man was just coming out, tugging his cloak tighter around
his shoulders as he did so.

All three men nodded at each other, not
necessarily because they knew each other but out of politeness,
since they were passing in a tight space, and then the newcomer
left the shelter of the stoop. The road was well lit by both the
moonlight and the many torches shining from the buildings along the
street, so Gareth could easily see the face of the man.

It was Luke, the skeptical watchman.

Hywel

H
is men could ride fifty miles in a day, but even Hywel had to
concede that their horses couldn’t keep going that long. They’d
come fifteen miles since sunset, which left thirty-five for
tomorrow—not an unreasonable distance to cover in one day,
especially with a small group of men whose horses would once again
be fresh.

Throughout the evening hours, as the miles
from Mold had unrolled beneath him, Hywel’s mind had been occupied
with what lay before him in Shrewsbury and what he might find
there. It was as if an invisible thread was pulling him
forward.

It had been an impulsive
move to leave the newly captured Mold in the hands of his brothers,
as capable as Cynan and Madoc were, but Hywel had a good feeling
about this trip—maybe
because
it was impulsive. He’d been playing the good son,
the reasonable prince, for far too long. He hoped Rhun would
forgive him for being himself this one time.

Coming from Mold, they’d ridden directly
south, staying within the territory his father now claimed for
Gwynedd. Ahead of them now was the little village of Llangollen,
which nestled alongside the River Dee. Above it, on a rocky plateau
twelve hundred feet above the valley floor, sat the castle of Dinas
Bran. These lands were controlled not by Hywel’s father, King Owain
of Gwynedd, but by King Madog of Powys. Madog was of an equally
ancient lineage as Hywel, and guarded his lands of Powys as
jealously as Hywel’s family did Gwynedd. He was also married to
Hywel’s aunt, his father’s sister, and thus happened to be Hywel’s
uncle, though not by blood.