Gwen had been taken aback at the initial sight of the body, but she was getting used to the similarities between herself and the dead woman. It helped that the woman’s face appeared less like her own the more she looked at it. She could see why Father Alun had been stunned to find her at King Owain’s headquarters, however, and why Gareth had taken the name of the Lord in vain.
“Now that you’ve seen her, do you still think she was murdered yesterday evening?” Father Alun showed no signs of leaving them alone to do their work, even after Gwen had tried to get him to leave by asking to speak to his housekeeper. After a quick glance at Gareth, whose face indicated resignation, she resolved to ignore the priest’s wide eyes while she worked.
“It has to be that recently,” Gareth said.
“How do you know?” Father Alun said.
“The body is cold and a little stiff,” Gwen said.
Father Alun’s face went suddenly blank, like it had out in the graveyard. It was a look Gwen recognized as an instinctive balking at her bald statement. So much for ignoring his wide eyes.
She’d spoken without thinking and now put a hand out to the priest. “Do you think I’m uncaring? I assure you I am not.”
Father Alun shook himself, as if trying to clear his head. “Your straightforwardness is refreshing. You are thinking of this poor girl as a problem to be solved rather than a lost soul whose life ended all too soon.”
“I am thinking of both,” Gwen said, “but her soul is in heaven and was always your concern. Giving her justice here is ours.”
Gareth grunted his agreement. “It’s as Gwen said earlier. We did not choose this path, but now that we are on it, our charge is to uncover the truth, especially when someone has gone to such great lengths to hide it from us—and to hide from it.”
“And in so doing, we have to remain detached,” Gwen said, “or we can’t function.”
Over the years, she and Gareth had (quite naturally) talked at length with each other about the murders they’d investigated. At one time, Gareth had tried to protect her from them, but he had mostly come around to seeing that they were better off working together.
Gwen didn’t know that either of them had ever articulated to anyone, to quite this extent, the why of what they did. Gwen was surprised at herself for revealing so much about what was going on in her head on such a short acquaintance with Father Alun. His easy manner must have come in very useful when it came to confession.
Father Alun uncrossed his arms and gave them both a little bow. “Perhaps it would be best if I leave you to your work.” He turned on his heel and strode purposefully for the door, his steps quickening the closer he came to it.
Gwen watched him go and then turned back to her husband with a rueful smile. “He seems like a good man, a good priest.”
“I wish we had more like him.” Gareth held up one of the woman’s hands. “Look at this.”
Gwen peered closer. While the body had been cleaned from head to foot, eliminating whatever dirt, blood, or skin might have been left under the nails, the condition of the nails themselves was permanent. And in this case, the nails on the woman’s right hand were ragged and torn.
“She marked her killer,” Gwen said.
“She marked someone. We can’t say yet whether or not he was her killer. The cut to her throat was clean and very likely came from behind,” Gareth said. “I wouldn’t have thought she’d have had the chance to hurt him.”
“She could have fought him earlier,” Gwen said. “He might have had to subdue her before he killed her. He could have tied her to a chair, for example.”
Gareth grimaced. “I’m torn, cariad. I don’t want you to have these thoughts in your head, even as I need you to think them. Worse, I keep seeing you in her. I don’t like it—but I think you could be right. Her wrists are bruised as well.”
“So she was held or tied,” Gwen said.
“Maybe both,” Gareth said. “Maybe she was tied when she was brought to the woods and killed there, close to the grave. We merely haven’t found the spot yet.”
Gwen shivered. The sense of violence that hovered above the body was palpable to her, like a miasma in the air, mixing with the scent of death. When Gwen had first seen the woman’s throat, she’d viewed the murder as somewhat straightforward—or as straightforward as murder ever got. But thinking about the woman struggling against her captors and fighting for her life before she was murdered had Gwen’s stomach churning.
“Go get some air, Gwen,” Gareth said. “I’ll finish up here.”
“But—”
Gareth canted his head towards the door. “Go.”
Gratefully, Gwen went. Gareth still had to see what other damage the killer had done to the woman, even to the point of undressing her completely. Gwen knew she should stay with him, but she hurried away anyway, mimicking the quick steps Father Alun had taken in his last rush to the door. Even so, she resolved to remain outside only briefly before returning to help.
Once she crossed the threshold of the chapel, however, she found Father Alun sitting on a bench outside the door. The air was even colder than before, and their breath formed a fog in front of them. Gwen pulled her cloak close around her body and approached the priest, her boots crunching on the small stones that made up the pathway.
“You’re done already?” Father Alun started to rise to his feet.
“No. No, we’re not.” Gwen put out a hand in a request for him to stay seated. “I just needed some air.”
“I can understand that.” Father Alun subsided, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Sometimes I don’t know how either.” Gwen took in several heaving breaths, trying to expel the smell that lingered in her nostrils. She knew from experience that it would remain in her clothes until she scrubbed it out of them. She was thankful she had a spare dress in her saddlebag. “But it has to be done, and if not by me, then by whom? And who better?”
“Some would say investigating murder is no job for a woman,” Father Alun said.
“Women deal in life and death every day,” Gwen said. “Occasionally, the killer is even a woman. Again, who better than me to discover her?”
“That is a unique perspective and not one I’d considered before,” Father Alun said. “Do you believe this to be your calling?”
“I could never compare what Gareth and I do to what you do,” Gwen said, a little embarrassed now. Yet again, she hadn’t meant to speak so freely.
“But I could,” Father Alun said.
There was that self-satisfied look again, but this time it didn’t trouble Gwen because she’d come to recognize its source: Father Alun had reached a stage in his life where he was sure of himself, the world, and his place in it. Gwen surely couldn’t begrudge him that feeling of security. She’d had it only since she’d married Gareth.
Then she frowned. “Is that the sound of hooves I hear?”
Father Alun glanced up at her, his eyes questioning, and then he stood up quickly. The drumming of hooves on the road was definitely getting closer, and the rhythm of it indicated it wasn’t just one horse coming, but a company of riders.
“Get back in the church,” Father Alun said.
“And leave you out here alone?”
“I am a man of God. Whoever these men are, you should not be the one to face them. Get inside!”
Gwen obeyed his voice of command, flying through the door and across the nave towards Gareth, but she stopped halfway across the floor, barely managing not to heave up the last meal she’d eaten at the renewed assault on her senses. The smell seemed much worse after the fresh scents of the garden outside.
Gareth, concern evident on his face, flipped the sheet over the whole of the woman’s body and met Gwen a few paces from the table. “What is it?”
“Horsemen are coming. At least four from the sound of the hooves on the road. Father Alun sent me inside.”
Gareth took a last look at the body and then moved towards the middle of the nave. Even though Gwen had meant to slam the door shut, it was heavy, with stiff hinges, so she hadn’t managed it. A four-inch gap remained between the door and the frame. That, as it turned out, was just as well. The open door meant they could hear Father Alun greeting the newcomers. His voice was calm, even familiar in its manner, which eased Gwen’s breathing some. A man with a gruff voice replied to him, though in words Gwen couldn’t make out at this distance.
Gareth angled his body so he stood in front of Gwen and waited fifteen feet from the door, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Do you recognize the voice?” Gwen said in an undertone.
“No. But I hear the authority in it.”
The chapel had no back door. There was no place to which they could flee, and no time to do it anyway. The door swung open to reveal a soldier dressed entirely in black, with black hair and beard in the fashion of the English. He wore a sword belted at his waist and a long flowing black cloak. He hesitated in the doorway for a heartbeat, taking in the scene—and probably the smell—and then his eyes focused on Gareth and Gwen.
He took two steps inside and said in a loud voice that echoed around the chapel, “Father Alun tells me that you are Sir Gareth ap Rhys, of the court of Owain Gwynedd.”
Gareth squared his shoulders. His hand remained on his sword hilt, though he hadn’t drawn the weapon. “I am.”
“You will come with me.”
Father Alun came through the doorway behind the man and tugged on his arm. “Sir Pedr. Let me explain why they’re here.”
The man shrugged him off, instead gesturing with one hand to indicate that Gareth should come forward. Gareth didn’t move, and Gwen stayed where she was, slightly behind Gareth’s left shoulder. She was surprised her breathing remained steady.
“Who are you?” Gareth said.
“My name is Pedr ap Gruffydd. I serve Lord Morgan, of Bryn y Ddu. I am tasked with bringing you to his seat.”
“Why?” Gareth said.
Pedr hesitated. “I have not been given leave to answer that.”
“And if I refuse to come?” Gareth said.
“Refusal is not an option.”
“Of course it is,” Gareth said.
Gwen couldn’t see Gareth’s face and couldn’t tell what he was thinking, other than that his shoulders remained relaxed. Gwen recognized his stance. He was prepared for a fight.
Pedr put his hand on the hilt of his own sword and gestured that the five men who’d come with him should enter the nave. They circled around Gareth and Gwen, and while none of them had pulled their swords from their sheaths either, Gareth and Gwen were at a woeful disadvantage. Gareth was an excellent swordsman, but he couldn’t fight six men at once.
Father Alun, his hands fluttering, rushed forward and set himself between Gareth and Pedr. Three more soldiers crowded through the chapel door after the priest. Gareth recognized the impossibility of his position, and the muscles in his jaw clenched. He slowly moved his hand from the hilt of his sword. For Gwen’s part, she gripped the hilt of her belt knife as it lay in its sheath at her waist, though like Gareth, she didn’t draw it.
“I don’t want violence, especially not in a church,” Pedr said. “If you come quietly, I won’t be forced to tie your hands.”
“I’m under arrest?” Gareth said.
Pedr nodded curtly. “Lord Morgan has charged me with the task of bringing you to his seat.” He held up one hand. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”
Gwen found it ironic that Pedr could ask Gareth not to make life difficult for him, as if that should be where Gareth’s sympathies should lie. In this case, however, making life difficult for Pedr would certainly make it even more difficult for Gwen and Gareth.
Then Pedr looked beyond Gareth to Gwen, as if seeing her for the first time. “If this is your lady wife, Sir Gareth, my lord requests her presence too.”
Gareth edged sideways to shield Gwen more fully from Pedr’s view. “My wife needn’t be a part of this.”
“My lord disagrees.” He took another step forward, and this time he brought up one hand appeasingly. “I give you my word that she will come to no harm. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”
Father Alun had remained standing between Pedr and Gareth, but at this oath, he dropped his arms and turned to Gareth. “I know Sir Pedr. You can believe what he says.” He leaned closer and spoke in an undertone. “Sir Pedr is very loyal to Lord Morgan. If he was bidden to bring you, that is what he believes he must do.”
“Regardless of whether or not I want to come.” Gareth made a guttural sound deep in his throat. “It seems my standing as the captain of Prince Hywel’s teulu bears no weight with him.”
Father Alun was back to anxious. “I assure you that Pedr isn’t loyal to Ranulf of Chester.”
“That may be true,” Gareth said, “but it doesn’t explain what possible grounds Morgan has for my arrest.”
Gwen rubbed her forefinger on the back of Gareth’s elbow and said in a whisper, “I don’t think we have a choice but to go with him, Gareth.”
“I know.” He looked down at Gwen. “We have few choices, and none of them are good.”
“Every villager saw us ride past,” Gwen said. “Pedr named you directly. He knows who you are, which means he knows why we’re here. At the very least, by speaking to Lord Morgan we might learn something about the woman and why she was buried in his grandfather’s grave.”
“I will learn nothing if I’m locked in a cell.”
Father Alun was six inches shorter than either man, and Gareth met Pedr’s gaze over the top of his head.
“There is so much more going on here than we know right now,” Gwen added in an undertone.
After another moment’s reflection, Gareth nodded his assent.
“Bring him.” Pedr spun on his heel and strode for the door. The soldiers in the nave closed in on Gareth and Gwen, herding them before them.
Father Alun walked beside Gareth, wringing his hands. “This is all my fault.”
Gareth stopped on the threshold of the chapel and put a hand on the priest’s shoulder. “You didn’t kill this woman. You only sought justice for her, which was the right thing to do. You are not to blame for Lord Morgan’s betrayal.”
“We’ll be all right.” Gwen said, trying to speak confidently even if she didn’t feel it inside.
Lord Morgan was a completely unknown quantity. She couldn’t imagine what he thought Gareth could have done to justify his arrest. King Owain ruled here. Arresting one of his sworn liegemen was hardly the best way to go about currying favor. The combination of death and fear curling in her belly was nauseating.
Stepping out of the door, she took in a breath of fresh air, just as she had earlier when she’d left the chapel on Gareth’s orders. Pedr and his men waited a few feet away with their horses, next to where Gareth and Gwen had left theirs.
“What should I do with the body?” Father Alun glanced through the still open door of the chapel to the table where the woman lay under her shroud.
“I was all but finished with my examination,” Gareth said. “If we haven’t straightened this out with Lord Morgan by morning and returned to finish what we started, bury her as you planned.”
Pedr, who’d moved a few steps closer in order to hear the tail end of Gareth’s and Father Alun’s conversation, said, “He won’t be back.” He waved an arm to indicate that she and Gareth should proceed to where they’d left their horses.
Gwen gave Father Alun’s an imploring look. “Pray for us.”
“I will be on my knees all night,” he assured her, “for all of you.”