The look on Gwen’s face as he left her behind had told Gareth all he needed to know about how her day had been. The king was very ill—maybe not as far gone as Gareth had been led to believe by the rumors swirling around the camp, but ill nonetheless. Either his illness had made a dramatic improvement, or the men he’d spoken to had exaggerated the danger. Perhaps both. Sometimes supposing the worst was preferable to being surprised by it later.
As he’d told Gwen, Gareth had spent the whole day in Cilcain going from house to house and questioning the inhabitants of the village as to what they’d seen the night Cole and Adeline had died. What he’d discovered was a bucket full of nothing. Nobody had seen them. Nobody knew anything about riders passing through the village in the night. It had been a relief to leave the unanswered questions behind him and return to his regular duties as Prince Hywel’s captain.
To that end, Gareth had gathered up a mixed group of men to ride to Gwern-y-waun, located just down the hill to the northeast of the princes’ camp. Godfrid and his men rode among them. Though nobody was paying the Danes in gold, effectively they were mercenaries. They had fewer definitive tasks to accomplish, which was one reason Rhun had taken them with him when he’d gone to fetch his father.
The men of Rhun’s own teulu, while a strong fighting force of themselves, were also the leaders of other men, and those in the general army looked to the knights and men-at-arms who served the princes and the king for guidance. The common men didn’t entirely trust, and thus would be reluctant to take orders from, a Dane. Too many Welshmen had died on Danish swords, some not that long ago, for most Welshmen to relish fighting alongside them.
That said, the men-at-arms who served the princes mingled well with the men of Dublin, speaking in a mix of Welsh and Danish without regard for proper grammar or pronunciation. Gareth enjoyed listening to the banter, which even without Madoc would have meant for an entertaining evening. With Madoc, as was evident within moments of setting out, the result could be downright dangerous. He may have kept nearly silent in the presence of his elder brothers, but something about the Norsemen had him far more talkative than usual. Currently, they were trying to teach him Danish profanity, to general hilarity all around.
The men needed their fun, because tomorrow—or the next day—they would go to war.
Infected by the mood of his men, Godfrid reached out from where he was riding beside Gareth and punched him on the upper arm. “I want to know all about the progress of this investigation.”
Gareth rubbed at his arm, thankful for the mail that protected it, because otherwise the punch would have stung. “I intend to tell you everything I know over a large draught of mead just as soon as I can run one to earth.”
“That should go down well,” Godfrid said, complacently.
Hywel was convinced that spies for Ranulf were hidden in plain sight in the countryside, which was why he had asked Gareth to lead this overt show of force. No village headman would ever think to counter a company of thirty mounted men-at-arms and knights, especially when their numbers might be comparable to the number of men in the whole village. Armed men were daunting. Drunken men even more so.
Gareth’s men weren’t drunk, but they were giving a good impression of it, which was all to the good. It gave the villagers the chance to prepare to greet them, as well as fair warning so they had time to spirit away their daughters to some place safe. Likely, Prince Godfrid had already thought of that, which was why he had encouraged his men’s play.
In short order, they reached the village green where, to no one’s surprise, the village headman met them with what looked like every man in the village backing him up.
Thirty soldiers. Thirty village men. Just as Gareth had expected.
Several of Gareth’s men carried torches, and combining these with the dozen in the hands of various villagers meant that everyone could see everyone else clearly, even if the light blinded their eyes to movement beyond the green.
Gareth dismounted and tossed his reins to one of his men. He could have remained mounted and spoken to the headman from on high, but that wasn’t how he wanted to be perceived. If it had been up to him instead of a direct order from Prince Hywel, he would have ridden down from the camp with five men, brought a jug of mead as a sign of goodwill, and drunk it right here on the green with them.
Still, now that he was here, he could forgive Hywel for ordering the larger force. He hadn’t done so because it was the better plan, but because he was angry and fearful about his father’s health, the plot against Gareth and Gwen, about which they still knew far too little, and the coming assault on Mold.
So Gareth stuck out his arm to the headman with aplomb and goodwill. “We have descended on you in force, but you have no need to fear us. My lord has pledged not to strip your homes or your lands of food or possessions. Or your women. The main body of the army is camped a half-mile to the south of you here, and orders have been given for the men to keep to it tonight.”
The headman had initially greeted Gareth’s proffered arm with suspicion, but at his words, real relief swept across his face. “Thank you, my lord. I am Sion ap Robat, and I welcome you and your men to our village.”
“We were hoping to be welcomed to your inn as well,” Gareth said.
Sion bowed. “My home is your home, my lord.” He straightened and gestured to the east. “Please come with me.”
He set off towards the inn. Gareth waved the rest of the soldiers off their horses and then fell into step beside him. “I’m surprised your village can maintain an inn.”
Taverns such as the one at Cilcain were common, since (as in the great hall at Lord Morgan’s fort or at Aber), men and women liked to gather together at the end of the day at a place where they could drink and talk. With winter coming, nights were growing longer, and a man could sleep only so much. To have the village together in one place most evenings saved on candles and firewood. It was friendlier too.
But an inn was something else entirely, requiring the resources to build a structure on the scale of a manor house and the commerce to justify it.
“Ach, I know what you’re thinking. With Mold Castle or Lord Morgan’s stronghold so close, why would anyone stop here instead of there? Here’s the real truth.” Sion leaned in close to whisper conspiratorially. “We have the best mead and the best cook in all of Gwynedd. People come for miles to sample our fare. Just the other day, a fine lord from west of the Conwy by his accent stopped for the night with his companions.”
Gareth’s step faltered for an instant. He covered up the hesitation with an extra-long stride and said, “When was this?”
“Hmmm. Three or four nights ago?” Sion said, his brow furrowing. “I’d have to look in my ledger.”
“What was the lord’s name?”
“He called himself Gareth ap Rhys.”
Gareth almost choked on his own saliva. What had he been expecting? The man to name himself? He cleared his throat. “Had this Gareth ever stopped here before?”
“No, my lord.” Sion’s expression was one of studied neutrality.
“This lord did not comport himself well?”
“I would never speak ill of a customer. We don’t get many men as high as he.”
“And a good thing too, are the words you aren’t saying.”
Sion shrugged. “Still, we’re full up five nights out of six.”
Gareth looked at the headman with new respect, even as his stomach tied itself in knots yet again. “You own the inn.”
“My father built it with his own hands,” Sion said. “Most people don’t understand that a better life can cost nothing more than time and effort.”
Gareth almost laughed at the sudden smoothing of Sion’s elocution. The last words he’d said had been a quote from someone else. “Is that what your father used to say?”
“Every day, God rest his soul,” Sion said.
“Would I have known your father?” Gareth said.
“He was a man-at-arms in the Earl of Chester’s retinue.” Sion drew in a breath before holding out a supplicating hand to Gareth. “My loyalties lie with King Owain, of course.”
“Of course,” Gareth said, but he felt the chill that had fallen between them at the innkeeper’s words. He tried to dispel it, if only because Sion was so voluble a talker and a wealth of information. Gareth wanted to know more about the man who’d given Sion his name. “So, your father retired to run an inn.”
Some of the tension that was showing in Sion’s manner eased. “He did. Have you ever been to the inn before tonight, my lord?”
“No, but I’m looking forward to it.”
“And we are happy to welcome you.” With an extravagant bow, he gestured Gareth’s men inside.
Gareth was used to the dampening effect his presence had on the joviality of a tavern, so he held back at first and allowed everyone else to enter ahead of him. Madoc stepped to one side as well. At Madoc’s own request, Gareth hadn’t introduced him to the headman as a prince of Wales. He was very glad that he hadn’t given Sion his own name either.
“Did I overhear Sion say that a lord stayed here a few days ago?”
“You did,” Gareth said. “He called himself Gareth ap Rhys.”
“Holy hell,” Madoc said. “What did the man look like? Was it this Cole?”
“I would imagine not, since Sion didn’t blink an eye at my appearance,” Gareth said.
“Christ, man. Why didn’t you press him further?” Madoc said.
“I didn’t want to show too much interest in his visitor in case my queries made him clam up too soon,” Gareth said. “I thought I’d take it slowly. The night is young.”
“What if I were to speak to him?” Madoc said.
Gareth nodded as he studied the young prince. Ten years younger than Gareth, Madoc had the surety of a much older man. That’s what came from being one of a dozen sons of the King of Gwynedd.
“I would be grateful,” Gareth said. “It goes without saying that we’re trying to be discreet.”
“Indeed.” Madoc put a hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “Leave it to me.”
The inn consisted of a large main room, almost the size of Morgan’s hall, with an adjacent smaller, more private chamber. The sleeping rooms were above, accessed by a stairway that ran against a side wall. Great beams supported the roof, and a large fire burned in a stone fireplace, which was built against the wall opposite the stairs. An overhanging smoke canopy vented out the back wall and prevented the room from being filled with smoke. Gareth was pleased to see that it was doing a reasonable job—better than the vent in the tavern at Aber, which had been designed poorly and tended to draft inwards instead of out.
Thirty of the village men had met Gareth’s force on the green, but a few—mostly elderly—had stayed behind at the inn near the fire. Gareth headed towards them, not because he was cold in his thick cloak and leather gloves, but because he had learned over the years that the aged tended to look upon authority with more favor than the young. He didn’t order a drink but instead settled back into the corner to watch the crowd for a while. His stomach growled. He had missed dinner and wished he wasn’t on duty because he would like to take the opportunity to taste the fare here.
It was probably just as well he didn’t, however. Sion might think he was obligated to serve Gareth for free.
That Sion’s father had been a man-at-arms in the company of the Earl of Chester explained a great deal, mostly about how he’d acquired the money to build an inn in the first place. Whether or not he, in fact, had constructed the inn himself by hand, the land had to have been given to him by an overlord. In Saxon England, a village was carved out of the land belonging to the lord, and the homes were paid for by him too.
Bigger market towns like Shrewsbury had petitioned the English crown for independence from local lords. Merchants there owned their own land and houses. In Wales, more often than not, towns grew up next to a castle, or as in the case of Gwern-y-Waun, next to a mine and quarry. It was the productiveness of the lead mine, along with the beauty of the limestone found here—a source of building material for his castles—
that was one of the reasons King Owain had been so eager to press forward and take Mold Castle. The people here tithed to the Lord of Mold, which today happened to be the Earl of Chester.
Tomorrow … well, they’d see about that.