“You don’t have a drink in your hand, laddie.”
Gareth blinked and straightened, focusing on the man speaking to him, one of the elderly gentlemen at the nearest table. His face was deeply lined and his hair snow white. Gareth had been neglectful both of his manner and of his duty.
He smiled. “I don’t, do I? If I were to acquire one, may I get another for you as well?”
“Four.” The man nodded, looking very pleased with himself.
Gareth stood up, laughter on his lips. He had expected no less, since the man had three companions as aged as himself, and he knew a soft target when he saw one. Gareth edged his way through the crowded benches and tables to the serving area located against the wall opposite the fire. The old men would be more likely to answer Gareth’s questions once they had another drink in front of them.
“Five.” Gareth held up one hand, fingers spread wide, in case the bartender couldn’t hear him over the hubbub.
An elbow dug into his ribs, accompanied by a grating voice. “If it isn’t the incorruptible Gareth ap Rhys. Not so much on your high horse anymore, are you?”
The man next to Gareth was seated on a stool, drinking with a companion, and from the smell of him, which was wafting unpleasantly up to Gareth’s nostrils, he was extremely drunk.
“How is that?” Gareth said, his cheerful mood dissipating in the face of yet another man confusing him for Cole.
“I knew you were just like the rest of us.”
Gareth’s eyes narrowed as he gazed down at the top of the man’s head, sure he knew him from somewhere but unable to place him. Gareth bent forward, his elbows on the bar, trying to act nonchalant, though his heart was pounding loudly in his ears.
To hear his full name again, though in a completely different context from how Sion had used it, almost had him confused about who he was supposed to be. Sion’s Gareth ap Rhys had been a lord from west of the Conwy River. Now he was either Lord Morgan’s traitor or a brigand such as John Fletcher would have recognized.
The man glanced up at him, drained his drink, and gave a belch. The bartender had already placed two drinks in front of Gareth, and Gareth instantly swapped out the man’s empty cup for a full one. He was glad it wasn’t Sion tending the drinks and hoped Madoc was questioning him in a corner somewhere.
“Do I know you?” Gareth said.
The man grinned, showing yellow teeth, the same color as the mead he was drinking. “Served Prince Cadwaladr once upon a time, didn’t you? Left because you didn’t want to follow his orders if they sullied your hands. They’re well and truly sullied now, aren’t they?”
And with this last phrase, Gareth recognized the man by the way he talked. Looking many years older than when Gareth had last spoken to him, Morein had been a man-at-arms in Prince Cadwaladr’s retinue at Aberystwyth when Gareth had belonged to the garrison. Now, instead of becoming angry at Morein’s smirking face and ongoing insults, Gareth braced his right side against the bar and affected a curious look. “I wouldn’t say so. Why do you?”
“Because we know the truth, don’t we?” Morein said.
“Do we?”
“What are you going on about, Morein?” the man beside him said. Then he looked at Gareth. “Don’t mind him. He’s in his cups and doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“I’d like to hear it anyway.” Gareth couldn’t recall the newcomer’s name. He wore a full beard that obscured his mouth and chin, but Gareth thought he remembered seeing him at Aber Castle a few years ago. As a younger man he’d had less gray in his hair and been unable to grow the beard he wore now.
Gareth didn’t care about the man’s origins. He wanted to get to the bottom of Morein’s snide remarks before the man collapsed into drunkenness or his friend succeeded in silencing him. Gareth clapped Morein on the shoulder. “When was this?”
“What do you mean, when?” Morein sneered into his cup. “You rode next to the prince as fine as you please, didn’t you? You and your lady wife.”
“We’re talking about Prince Hywel, right?” Gareth said, and then was annoyed with himself for picking up on Morein’s habit of ending every sentence in a question.
Morein gave him a sour look. “You know I don’t mean him.”
“You’re going to have to say what you mean,” Gareth said.
“Cadwaladr.” Morein took a long drink.
Gareth felt as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over his head, and it was even now running down his back. He and Gwen had sworn they wouldn’t say Cadwaladr’s name unless all evidence pointed to him, and here was testimony falling into his lap from the lips of a drunken man-at-arms.
Morein’s friend made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat, reached across Morein to put a hand on his right shoulder, and tried to turn him away from Gareth. “Of course he meant Prince Hywel.”
“Get off me!” Morein shoved his friend away. “Putting on airs with the Earl of Chester himself, weren’t you?”
The rage that had been building in Gareth since he’d learned that Cole had been pretending to be him threatened to overwhelm him again, but he ruthlessly shoved it back down. “You saw me with Ranulf, the Earl of Chester, in the company of Prince Cadwaladr?”
Morein’s friend growled. “Close your lips, Morein.”
To Gareth’s great relief, Morein ignored his friend, though his face had sunk into a sullen mask. “No.”
Gareth crashed to earth. Was this not what he thought it was? He studied Morein through a half-dozen heartbeats and then said, “What exactly do you think I’ve done if you never saw me yourself?”
“I saw you,” Morein said. “We all did, and we heard about what you’d done.”
“From whom?”
Morein hesitated, seeming to realize for the first time that something might be amiss, either with him or with Gareth. “From one who was there.”
“This is at Chester Castle?” Gareth said, taking a guess.
“No.” Morein frowned again at Gareth, his puzzlement at Gareth’s ignorance finally breaking through his mead-saturated brain.
Gareth bent closer to Morein, enduring his foul breath. “Go on.”
“It was at Mold. Why are you asking all these questions when you were there yourself?” Morein said.
The man beyond Morein became more agitated than ever. Holding Morein’s upper arm in a tight grip, he whispered something Gareth didn’t catch into Morein’s ear.
Morein jerked away so his elbow connected with his friend’s chin. “I know who it was.” He pointed at Gareth. “Gareth ap Rhys!”
His friend was shaking his head in little jerks, his eyes a bit wider than they should be. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The room was warm, but it wasn’t that warm, and again he tugged on Morein’s arm.
Morein took a long drink from his cup and slammed it down on the bar in front of him. “Another!”
Finally, the friend spoke loudly enough for Gareth to hear. “It was someone else, Morein!”
The man’s urgency finally penetrated the drink in Morein’s head. He gaped at his friend. “Of course it was him. You saw him too!”
His friend shook his head, and his eyes flicked from Morein’s face to Gareth’s and back again, trying to get Morein to look.
“It’s too late to take back what’s been said. You are surrounded by my men. Tell me what he’s talking about.” Gareth paused. “Pawl.” He’d finally remembered the man’s name. “Why did Cadwaladr meet with Ranulf?”
“How would I know?” Morein burped hugely and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
Gareth kept his eyes on Pawl’s face, since Gareth had directed the question to him.
“It wasn’t you, was it?” Pawl said.
“Whatever you think I’ve done, or have been told I’ve done, it’s a lie. Again I must ask, why was I supposed to have met with the Earl of Chester at Cadwaladr’s side?”
Pawl shot a glance around the tavern as if he might find a way out before he had to answer.
“You have nowhere to run. Your only choice is to tell me what you know.”
Pawl licked his lips nervously. “As proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That Cadwaladr had support for his plan.”
It was relief to have the truth laid out before him. Gareth hadn’t even had to work that hard for it. The initial racing of Gareth’s heart slowed, and his brain started to function again. He had most of the answers now. If he’d known that all he needed was one conversation with a drunken man-at-arms in Cadwaladr’s retinue, he would have cornered one days ago. The truth was, he avoided interaction with Cadwaladr’s men and for years had walked the other way if any approached.
In part, he hadn’t wanted to be reminded of his ignominious departure from Cadwaladr’s service, but he also hadn’t wanted to thumb his nose in the faces of men who’d stayed. Nothing was more abhorrent than a self-righteous man.
“And what was that plan?”
Pawl shook his head. “I wasn’t privy to that.”
“But you know something,” Gareth said. “What did Cadwaladr hope to get from Ranulf?”
“Men. Money.”
Now they were really getting somewhere. “What are you two doing here in Gwern-y-waun?” Gareth said.
Blinking sleepily, Morein burped again. He seemed to have already forgotten what he’d told Gareth.
Pawl gave him a sour look and said, “Prince Cadwaladr’s camp lies to the north of the village. We were given leave to enter the inn once our duties were done, same as you. There should be more of us soon.”
That wasn’t quite the same reason Gareth had brought his men to the village, but Pawl didn’t need to know that. It did mean that Gareth had very little time before many more men would descend upon them. Gareth wanted to avoid a confrontation between King Owain’s men and Prince Cadwaladr’s on the village green. They might all be Welsh and ostensibly allies in this war, but they did not get along as a rule. On top of which, the last thing Gareth wanted was for word to get back to Cadwaladr that he was here—and that he’d been seen with Morein and Pawl.
“You two are part of the prince’s teulu, aren’t you?” Gareth said.
Morein laid his head down on the bar. “An honor.”
When Gareth had known them before, they hadn’t yet risen so high. He met Pawl’s eyes above Morein’s head. “How many of you in the prince’s teulu believe my loyalties lie with Prince Cadwaladr?”
Pawl’s brows came together. “What are you talking about? Nobody thinks your loyalties lie with Cadwaladr.”
Gareth felt like his head was full of stuffing. “Then why would I ride to Mold at Cadwaladr’s side?”
“To represent Prince Hywel and Prince Rhun to Ranulf, of course,” Pawl said.
Gareth’s mouth tasted of ash, and he only just managed to keep the shock from showing on his face, wiping it clean of all expression in an instant. Cadwaladr had used Cole to convince Ranulf that the princes had allied themselves with Cadwaladr against their father. And his whole teulu believed it.
And why wouldn’t they? Welsh brothers and uncles had been at each other’s throats since the beginning of time.
It was hard for that many to keep a secret, however, though the fact that Cadwaladr was allowing his men to leave their camp indicated how little he was worried about the rumor getting out. And again, for good reason. None of the king’s men would ever believe that Hywel or Rhun would side with Cadwaladr. Even were Morein to walk right up to them and mock them with it, they would dismiss the idea out of hand. It was only because of the dead imposters that Gareth was taking him seriously.
Gareth craned his neck to look above the heads of the crowd gathered in the tavern. Sighting Madoc talking to Godfrid, Gareth signaled to him with one hand above his head.
While both princes made their way towards him, Gareth turned back to Pawl, “What orders has Cadwaladr given you specifically?”
“To obey our captain, as always.”
“To what end?”
“As Morein told you, we don’t know,” Pawl said. “He hasn’t said.”
And as unlikely as it might seem, Gareth believed him. Whatever Cadwaladr’s plot, it surely made no sense to tell the details of it to anyone but his closest confidants until right before they were asked to act. Gareth felt a little better. Whatever treachery Cadwaladr had planned remained in abeyance, at least for tonight.
Morein gave a huge burp. “Run back to your king and leave us be.”
Gareth’s brows drew together, and Pawl’s face paled as he realized the mistake Morein had just made. He’d said, your king.
Pawl and Morein knew something more, even if they didn’t know how it was meant to play out. It was time to go. Gareth jerked his head to Madoc. “These two need to come with us. Quietly if possible.”
“Who are they?” Godfrid said.
“Cadwaladr’s men. There are more on the way.”
Godfrid snapped his fingers at two of his men, who closed in on Morein and encouraged him to move towards the door. He took a few unsteady steps, and then they grasped his upper arms because he needed assistance to walk. Before Pawl could leave, however, Gareth caught his arm in a tight grip and asked the question that always burned in his gut whenever he encountered one of Cadwaladr’s men. “Why do you still serve him?”
“I’m paid to do so.” Pawl drained the rest of his drink and then dabbed at his mouth with his sleeve. “What are you going to do with us?”
“It isn’t what I’m going to do with you that you have to worry about.” Gareth tugged him towards the door, following Morein, who’d already disappeared through it.
Pawl gave no trouble, allowing himself to be dragged outside. The moon had risen and shone weakly down at them through the scattered clouds. It had grown colder while they’d been inside the inn too, and Gareth could see the fog of his breath in the air.
And with that, Pawl slugged at Gareth’s face with his free hand, jerked away, and made his bid for freedom. As Gareth reeled from the blow, Pawl raced away, his boots pounding heavily on the road and his shape appearing as hardly more than a black shadow in the night.
Gareth took off after him. As he hadn’t drunk anything and was thinner and younger than Pawl, he gained on him quickly. After fifty yards, Gareth caught up to within a few feet. With an indrawn breath, he launched himself at Pawl, wrapping his arms around the man’s hips and bringing him to the ground.
Pawl fell with a squeal and a thud. Scrabbling and jerking, he tried to get away, but Gareth held onto him tightly. Within a few moments, six others arrived to subdue Pawl more fully, two of them jerking him upright and away from Gareth. Evan was among the newcomers, and Gareth grasped his proffered hand in order to rise to his feet. He brushed the dirt from the road off his legs and arms, while Evan swiped at the back of his cloak.
“You’re pretty spry for an old man,” Evan said.
Gareth smirked. “You’re older than I am.”
“Which is why it was good that you reacted first,” Evan said. “Better you than me.”
“That was well done.” Godfrid strolled up, Madoc in his wake. Neither had deigned to be among the men who’d run either.
Gareth’s men tied Pawl’s hands behind his back, which Gareth should have done in the first place. Before they could take Pawl away, however, Gareth stepped close, his face inches away from Cadwaladr’s man. Because Gareth was the taller of the two, Pawl had to look up at him. “You have served Cadwaladr for too long. Your only hope of survival is to tell us everything you know.”
Pawl swallowed hard, real fear in his eyes for the first time. Gareth jerked his chin to Evan, who led him away. Morein had already been coaxed onto a horse, too drunk to walk.
Madoc stepped beside Gareth. “I spoke with the headman.”
Gareth had forgotten all about his request. “You wouldn’t be telling me of it if you didn’t have something important to say, my lord. I can see it in your face.”
“Sion described to me the lord who passed through Gwern-y-waun four nights ago,” Madoc said. “Big, burly, blond going gray.”
A frisson of satisfaction coursed down Gareth’s spine.
“He was accompanied by several men-at-arms and a married couple,” Madoc went on. “The headman specifically mentioned that the married man, who went by the name Dai, not Gareth, bore a striking resemblance to you. When you dismounted on the green, his first thought was that you were the same man. As soon as you spoke to him, however, he knew he was mistaken.”
“What a relief,” Gareth said, mocking. “One wonders why the Earl of Chester didn’t realize it too.”
“The Earl of Chester?” Madoc said. “What does he have to do with this?”
“Everything,” Gareth said. “With your permission, my lord, I will explain it all once we’re back at the camp. It would be better to tell everyone at the same time.”
It was only as Gareth mounted Braith, having ensured that his prisoners were secured, that he realized he’d never brought the old gentlemen their drinks.