The Unlikely Spy (19 page)

“Maybe it isn’t you Cadwaladr doesn’t want
knowing about them,” Rhun said.

That set Hywel back on his heels. “Not
me?”

“What if his true enemy is Cadell, for
instance?” Rhun said.

“You mean they’ve had a falling out?” Hywel
laughed low and mocking. His uncle had hired men to kill Cadell’s
brother. The idea of them working as allies, in the past, present,
or future, was almost obscene.

But Rhun’s suspicions had already gone
there. “Or he is bringing these men across Ceredigion to the other
side for some purpose of his own. It could be the opposite: he and
Cadell, as allies, could be planning a campaign he doesn’t want
you—or Father—to know about.”

“My lords.” Evan murmured the words, drawing
their attention back to the camp. Cadwaladr himself had just ridden
in with his guard. Hywel was relieved to know that his uncle was
out of the castle, even if his absence meant he was plotting some
new intrigue.

The sanctity of hospitality forbade
aggression, either on the part of the host or the guest, and not
for the first time Hywel understood why. To invite a man to dinner
and then murder him as he ate was a crime beyond any other. Few
would attempt it because in order to live afterwards, a man had to
be so powerful that his enemies would continue to treat with him,
despite their fear and hatred.

Cadwaladr dismounted and—almost as if he
knew where Hywel and Rhun were hiding—strode towards their section
of the woods. He didn’t come all the way, thankfully, but stopped
at the fire pit nearest to Hywel’s hiding place. A man stood to
greet him, bowing.

“What news, Erik?”

Only great effort stopped Hywel’s jaw from
dropping.

“Nothing yet, my lord. The death of that man
in the millpond is on everyone’s tongue. Nothing else.” The man
spoke with a faint Dublin accent. Even without it, Hywel could have
guessed who he was from his large stature and blond hair—blonder
even than Rhun’s.

Rhun whispered low in Hywel’s ear. “I saw
that man speaking to Iolo at his stall today.”

Hywel waved a hand at his brother, shushing
him. He wanted to know what Rhun knew, but Cadwaladr was still
talking to Erik.

“And my nephew?”

The big Dane gave a half-shrug. “I found few
who consented to speak ill of him. And even those men were only
discontented because Hywel had denied their claims to land or a cow
in a dispute with a neighbor. He hasn’t put a foot wrong since he
arrived.”

Hywel raised his eyebrows, glad to hear it
but surprised too. He had felt he’d been misstepping right and left
for three years. Cadwaladr gazed past Erik towards the trees,
tapping on his thigh with his fist. Hywel could feel his uncle’s
eyes burrowing into him, even though he knew Cadwaladr couldn’t see
him. Still, he hardly dared breathe. Rhun held his breath as
well.

“Try harder,” Cadwaladr said. “I must have
something I can bring before my brother when he arrives.”

“Yes, my lord,” Erik said.

“What of this death? Is it murder?”

“I have no word on that, my lord.”

Cadwaladr grunted. “It must be. I haven’t
seen that bastard Gareth around, and that means he’s out spying and
asking questions about things he shouldn’t.”

“My lord—”

“Find him. I want to know what Gareth is
doing, what he knows, and if we can turn this man’s death to our
advantage,” Cadwaladr said. “If a murderer is walking free, I need
to know it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

With another grunt, Cadwaladr turned away
from Erik and strode back towards his horse. One by one, his men
bobbed to their feet in order to bow as he passed. He mounted and
rode out of the clearing without looking back, surrounded by the
men he’d ridden in with. Gradually, the men around the fires
returned to what they’d been doing before their lord’s arrival, and
Hywel began to breathe again.

Rhun let out a burst of air. “Well.”

All of a sudden, Hywel found himself
surprisingly cheerful. “We don’t know why he brought all these men,
but we’ve solved one mystery, anyway.”

“What mystery is that?”

“Did you hear what Cadwaladr called that
man? It’s Erik, Godfrid’s missing guard from two years ago,” Hywel
said.

Rhun stared at Hywel and then turned to look
where Erik sat on a log before the fire, contemplating the flames
and drinking from a flask. “He’s been working for Cadwaladr all
this time?”

“It seems so.”

“The Book of Kells is long gone, though,”
Rhun said. “We returned it to Ireland two years ago. What could
have kept Erik beside Cadwaladr all this time?”

“Money,” Hywel said. “He couldn’t return to
Godfrid after he ran away, could he?”

“My lords, should we send word to Gareth of
the threat against him?” Evan said.

Hywel tapped his brother’s shoulder, and
they both retreated with Evan deeper into the woods, back towards
Aberystwyth. Hywel’s men formed a perimeter around them as they
slunk away.

“How many know that Gareth rode to Goginan
this evening?” Rhun said.

“A handful only. The connection is through
the monastery.” Hywel looked back to the camp. They’d come far
enough now that trees hid it from view, though he could smell the
wood smoke.

Rhun nodded. “Sending a man might only call
attention to his whereabouts.”

Hywel agreed. “Gareth, of all of us, seems
safe enough until morning. Now, shall we see what Cadell’s men are
up to?”

Gwen

G
wen was sitting at
the entrance to the guesthouse as Gareth and Fychan rode through
the gatehouse the next morning. They were followed by a large man
driving a cart with a woman on the seat beside him.

Tangwen had been toddling back and forth in
the courtyard since breakfast, picking up stones and dropping them
again. Gwen hadn’t managed to coax Mari downstairs yet today, but
Gruffydd was walking across the cobbles holding onto Bronwen’s
thumbs. At the sight of the horses and cart, Bronwen scooped the
baby up and retreated with him out of the way of any hooves.

Gwen stood, her eyes on the woman on the
cart seat. From her blotchy face—and the resigned look on the face
of the man beside her—she’d been crying for much of the journey.
Gareth dismounted and bent to Tangwen, picking her up and kissing
her. “Were you a good girl while I was gone?”

Tangwen squealed as he tickled her. Since he
didn’t need an answer, Gareth set Tangwen down and motioned to
Elspeth and Bronwen that they should take both babies away. The two
girls and their charges disappeared into the monastery gardens.
Gwen watched them go and turned back as the man helped the woman
down from the cart.

With the arrival of the cart, the stable boy
appeared out of the stables, and the abbot, Prior Rhys, and Prior
Pedr came through the open door from the monks’ dining hall. The
abbot and Prior Pedr strode towards the woman, but Prior Rhys
headed to where Gareth and Gwen stood, interrupting Gareth’s brief
summary of his visit to Goginan.

“I see you found her,” Prior Rhys said.

“I did. Carys is her name, and that’s her
brother, Alun.” Gareth gestured towards the pair, who were bowing
before the abbot. “Carys is distraught at Gryff’s death. Alun is a
bit more philosophical. Neither confess to any knowledge of his
relationship with Madlen.”

“Then this may start to get
interesting.”

The voice came from behind her, and Gwen
turned to see Hywel stepping through the guesthouse door. Sometimes
she wondered if he waited around doorframes and in corridors for
instances like this, just so he could say something witty while
making his entrance. He was tightening the bracer on his left
arm.

“When did you arrive?” she said.

He raised his eyebrows at her surprise.
“Late last night. Rhun and I had an adventurous evening.” He looked
at Gareth. “We have much to discuss.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Hywel looked back to Gwen. “Where’s
Gruffydd?”

“With his nanny,” Gwen said. “How’s
Mari?”

Hywel made a rueful face. “Sleeping. I don’t
think this is going to be a good day.”

Gwen missed her friend but accepted the
realities of marriage and child bearing. Hopefully Mari would give
Hywel many sons, and not all of them would be as difficult to
produce as these first two.

Prior Rhys pointed with his chin towards the
gatehouse where a man and a woman had just entered. “Your wish may
have come true already, my lord.”

“Is that—?” Gwen looked at Gareth.

“Madlen and Iolo,” Gareth said. “Does Madlen
know about Carys?”

“Not unless someone else told her,” Gwen
said. “I haven’t even been introduced to her yet.” Before they knew
for certain that Gryff had another wife, Prior Pedr had sent word
to Iolo as to when he and Madlen should arrive at the monastery
this morning for Gryff’s funeral. For her part, Gwen hadn’t had any
contact with the pair at all.

“Good,” Gareth said. “Go to her. She’s going
to notice that Carys is weeping over Gryff’s body and wonder at it.
I want you to be there when she asks who Carys is. I want you to be
the one to tell her.”

“Me?” Gwen shook her head. “You are a bad
man, Gareth ap Rhys.” But Gwen squeezed his hand and walked to
intercept Madlen and Iolo before they came any farther into the
monastery courtyard. Gareth had described Madlen’s clothes from
yesterday, and what she wore today was equally fine. Sewn from the
finest wool, Madlen’s deep blue dress, the same color as Iolo’s
tunic, wouldn’t have looked out of place at the high table in
Hywel’s hall.

Madlen’s long hair was braided into many
separate strands, in the old tradition for a widow at her husband’s
funeral. Carys hadn’t done anything to hers but put it into a
chignon at the back of her head and cover it with a scarf. After a
five-mile cart ride, wisps of hair had come loose and framed her
face. She must have been at least twenty, but today she looked no
more than fourteen.

When Gwen reached Madlen and Iolo, she
introduced herself. Neither looked happy to meet her, though they
were polite enough. Madlen barely looked at her, instead standing
on her tiptoes to look past Gwen to the cluster of people in the
central area of the courtyard. Without explaining who they were,
Gwen gently guided the pair to one side, out from underneath the
gatehouse as well as out of the path that the monks carrying
Gryff’s body would follow. “The funeral procession should begin
soon. You’re just in time.”

Madlen’s brows drew together. “Who is the
abbot talking to?”

The abbot had been talking to Carys and
Alun, and now he gestured that they should follow him into the
chapel, Carys continuing to sob all the while. Prince Hywel had
already left to return to the festival. Not only should his father
be arriving today, but Hywel himself would be performing that
evening.

Gwen had been going over in her mind how to
broach the subject of Madlen’s status. As the woman Gryff married
first, clearly Carys should have pride of place, and regardless of
what had been written in the contract, Madlen’s marriage was
invalid—in the sight of both God and man. “I’m sorry to tell you
this, Madlen, but that woman is Gryff’s wife and the mother of his
two children.”

“What are you saying?” All color leached
from Madlen’s face as she stared at Gwen. “No.”

“I am sorry, Madlen,” Gwen repeated, “but he
had a wife before you. If you believed yourself married to Gryff,
your relationship was in no way legal.” Gwen didn’t say that
because Madlen hadn’t given him a son, she wasn’t entitled to any
inheritance either.

Iolo rubbed his chin. “You’re saying that
Gryff deceived us?”

“That does appear to be the obvious
conclusion,” Gwen said, without adding the possibility that they
had some responsibility for what had happened as well. Particularly
Iolo, as Madlen’s guardian, should have done some more checking.
“My lord husband is in no doubt that Gryff was married to Carys
long before he met Madlen. They never divorced, and she bore him
two children.”

Madlen was standing with her hand over her
mouth. Then she dropped her hand, looking wildly around in a manner
that had Gwen thinking she was looking to run. Iolo must have
thought the same thing because he caught Madlen’s arm. “Don’t.
You’re here now. You made your bed. Now lie in it.”

Gwen frowned at the harshness of his tone.
She cleared her throat, having more questions, but nonetheless
feeling awkward about asking them. “Did you not wonder at his
absences?”

“He said he had a sick grandmother he needed
to visit,” Iolo said. “He would leave us every so often to do
so.”

“Oh!” Madlen’s eyes widened. “He was seeing
his wife! All this time he was seeing his wife instead!”

“It seems so.” Gwen found herself feeling
sorry for Madlen. From Gareth’s description of her and what she’d
done in the chapel, Gwen hadn’t felt drawn to her or even very
sympathetic. But this was a different girl, not weeping like Carys,
but shocked, her life without Gryff stretching before her.

Six monks appeared at the entrance to the
chapel, carrying the body in its coffin on their shoulders. The
circular graveyard lay adjacent to the monastery. It had its own
small chapel and priest, and it was he who ministered to the
villagers of Llanbadarn Fawr, who didn’t normally worship in the
monastery chapel. Though the procession could have gone through the
gardens and didn’t have to leave by the gatehouse, tradition
demanded it. The monks paced towards the road and out onto it,
turning north to walk with solemnity down the narrow road until
they reached the gravesite, which had been dug earlier that
morning.

Carys and Alun followed immediately after
the abbot and Prior Pedr, and then two dozen monks fell into place
behind them. Madlen held back. Even after Iolo urged her forward,
her feet seemed to move reluctantly. “He’s really dead,” Madlen
said, low enough so that only Gwen could hear her, since Iolo had
lost patience and was striding to catch up to the last of the
monks. “He’s really dead.”