| |
Day One
Rhys
––––––––
Rhys halted outside the king’s pavilion, a strange pause settling on him. He’d given himself the task of lying to Simon and the king again, during which time Hywel and Catrin (original poem in hand) would speak to Gruffydd, and Math would remove the body to a place where they could better examine it.
This moment was to be remembered, when life was simpler. His announcement was sure to throw all who heard it into disarray, and right now it was known to just a few. Right now, Moriddig was dead only to his brother and son. Everybody else still thought he was alive and getting ready to sing for the court as he’d done the previous evening.
Moriddig had viewed himself as special in a way Rhys found more usual amongst the most elite jousters or archers. As a rule, within a lord’s personal guard, or the religious/military orders like the Templars, men had to work as part of a team towards a common goal. Rhys had felt that way when he had served Llywelyn, and he still felt that way (almost despite himself), as a member of King Edward’s guard.
There was a reason a Welsh leader’s personal guard was called a teulu, which translated best to family. As the captain of King Edward’s guard, Simon had been working hard to foster that same feeling amongst a very disparate group of men, knowing as well as any soldier that a war was not won when each man fought for himself and his own glory. That was for the ancients. Or for Danes.
Bards worked much the same way. There was little more enjoyable than watching a number of bards come together to sing or play just because they could. Because it was fun for them too.
An eisteddfod, like a martial tournament, could bring out the competitive side of the bardic tradition, with each man focused on advancing his own standing and acclaim. Rhys hadn’t seen much of it this week, however, except in men like Moriddig, who just couldn’t seem to help lording their station and abilities over others. In general, the best bards took on the role of teacher and saw it as their duty and honor to raise up a new generation of musicians. Sometimes a bard took on an apprentice, or had a son to train, enjoying a reflected glory in the accolades accorded the younger version of himself.
This camaraderie had been particularly evident this week. If one man’s life was on the line for daring to sing about a forbidden topic, then all of their lives could be in danger. Trahaearn had violated that compact.
By now, news of his flight had spread throughout the encampment, and the unity of purpose, even among the highest ranking bards, was in full effect. It was for this reason Rhys was honestly surprised Moriddig had been murdered. The community of bards was genuinely that: a community. Moriddig, for all his prickliness, was one of them. On the whole, Rhys was quite sure the bards had never before felt this vulnerable. Just on his walk back to the king’s pavilion, he’d heard one bard assuring another he was going to do as he was told while they were here because he wanted to live to sing another day.
Rhys caught Simon’s eye within moments of his arrival in the pavilion. He didn’t walk directly to him, but navigated through the throngs of hangers-on with a smile here and a nod of greeting there. Simon’s brother, Osborn, was still present, standing next to his cousin, within reach of the king. Given their favorable reception today, it might even be that Emma would leave the festival an engaged woman.
“How bad is it?” Simon met Rhys halfway across the pavilion, and they walked together a few more paces to some tables covered by the remains of a meal Rhys had missed.
“Moriddig was murdered. Strangled, unquestionably. As we speak, Math is moving the body so I can better examine it out of sight of any prying eyes.”
“Is it too early to ask if you have any suspects?”
Rhys coughed a laugh. “We just found the body, Simon. Give us an hour at least!”
“I suppose, with a thousand bards here, you have a thousand suspects.” As Rhys had hoped, Simon responded with a smile and a clap on the back. The moment of joviality thus masked his glaring omission.
“It might appear so at first blush, but most people are murdered by someone they not only know but know well. It is one thing to kill a man in the heat of battle. It is another to come into his wagon and strangle him. Whoever did this will have left clues to his identity. We just have to find them.”
“Was there no obvious evidence at all?”
“Two things. According to his brother, Moriddig’s ring is missing, so we can’t exclude theft as a motive. The second is that Moriddig had a piece of paper stuffed into his mouth. The writing on it is illegible now, so we don’t know if he tried to eat it to prevent the killer from finding it, or if the killer stuffed it into his mouth as part of the murder.” Again, under the principle that the best lies were founded in truth, the four conspirators had agreed that this was the story Rhys had to tell.
“That’s ... unusual.” Simon frowned. “Are you implying this killer is literate?”
Rhys looked at his friend a bit sideways. “Every bard here can read and write, which means many members of their families can too.”
“I had no idea. A first for me, certainly.” Simon gave a shake of his head, reminding Rhys that he was such a good leader because he was willing to admit ignorance. To be fair, as a Norman, he would have no way of knowing that Wales had a rich tradition of literature and laws long before his people came to Britain. “The fact that the killer can read and write is therefore not going to help in finding him. You’re telling me this will take time.”
“As I’m not standing here with the man in chains already, it will definitely take time. As you said, I have a thousand men to sift through!” Rhys pushed down any more thoughts of Gruffydd and his poem. He needed the true story so far back in his mind that he almost forgot it. That’s how he’d suppressed his lies about the death of King Edward’s son, Alfonso. It might even be, in the years to come, that he himself wouldn’t be able to truly recall what part of the story they’d told was the truth and what was lies. He knew, better than most, what an infinite capacity humans seemed to have to lie to themselves in order to preserve their own existence or personal integrity.
Simon sighed. “At the very least, you’ll have dozens of people to question.”
“That is unfortunately true, but first—” Rhys took in a breath, “—it was my thought to speak directly to the king.”
Simon bared his teeth in something of grimace. “Are you sure you don’t want me to give him the news in your stead?”
“I appreciate the offer and will give way if you think I should, but I think I should begin as I mean to go on.”
“God help us all.” It was meant as a jest, and Simon shot him a grin before making his way back to the king’s side.
They had a brief conversation, and then William de Beauchamp stepped to the fore to clap his hands. That was the signal indicating the general audience was over. It was not without precedence for the king to send everyone away while he attended to matters of state.
There was some milling about as people departed, which allowed Rhys to come closer unremarked. He wore the king’s livery and, for all intents and purposes, was as notable as one of the posts holding up the canvas roof. There was a moment where he and Prince Edmund exchanged a glance. Truth be told, they’d mostly avoided each other since Edmund’s arrival at the king’s encampment. There would have to be a reckoning between them, but with another murder investigation before Rhys, it wouldn’t be today.
Once everyone not vital to the court was gone, Rhys bowed to King Edward, “My lord, I have some grave news.”
“Simon implied as much. Spit it out. I’m sure I’m not going to like whatever it is.” The king’s tone was as dry as only Edward’s could be.
“I fear that’s the case, my lord. I heard you say last night that you enjoyed the singing of Moriddig, Owen de la Pole’s court bard. A moment ago, I saw with my own eyes that Moriddig has been murdered.”
As was typical for him, King Edward contained his expression, sitting for a breath or two with his elbow on the arm of his throne and his fingers to his chin. Then he said, “How?”
“He was strangled, my lord.”
With that, the tension that had momentarily crept into the demeanor of the men around the king eased, even as William asked, “It wasn’t poison, then?”
Rhys understood the reason for the concern. Poison as a means of murder was difficult to guard against, especially herbs that were slow-acting. King Edward had been poisoned in the Holy Land, and even if that had been at the hand of a man he thought to be a diplomat, the fear remained. Although the king didn’t know it, his son Alfonso had been poisoned too. That was the secret Prince Edmund and Rhys were keeping from him.
By contrast, with his guard around him, plus all these other men who served him, nobody with the intent to strangle the king was ever going to get close enough to do it.
“No, my lord. The bruises on his neck are clear,” Rhys said. “I can have Simon look to confirm.”
The king waved a hand. “That won’t be necessary. I trust you.”
I trust you.
Rhys disguised his moment of emotion with a bow. He was honored by the trust. He couldn’t help it. And also disgusted that he wanted and needed it from one of the men he hated most in the world. As he came up, he briefly met King Edward’s eyes and knew two things without having to ask: the first was that Moriddig’s death would not be deemed enough of a crisis to warrant a discontinuance or postponement of the festival. The second was that the king really did trust him and wanted him to continue as his quaestor.
When they’d been at Vale Royal Abbey, Rhys and Catrin had briefly considered running away to some part of Wales or the world where nobody knew them. A significant portion of Rhys had wanted to. In the end, they had decided it wasn’t really possible. As he turned away from the king, Rhys once again told himself that while God had not seen fit to save Llywelyn, He had saved Rhys and put him right here, right now, for a reason.
Simon joined him at the entrance to the pavilion. “This is a moment where I am not your superior, my friend. You are the king’s quaestor. What do you need, other than Math, whom you have already appropriated? Do you have enough help?”
Torn, Rhys pressed his lips together in thought. He did have too much work to do in too short a time and only one of him to do it. But the poem had him worrying about opening wider his circle of trust. “Hywel was with Catrin when she found the body, praise be, and they are going to make a start. I do have Math, as you said. If necessary, I was hoping I could borrow one or another of our men when they are off-duty.”
“Of course.” Simon bobbed his head.
“Then let’s leave it there for now. The dead man was Welsh, even if he served a Norman, and I know my people well enough to know that no Norman is going to get the whole truth out of them. First, before I examine the body, I will tell the bards gathering at the main stage what has transpired. Rumors will have started by now anyway, and maybe I can head off the worst of them. Although Math should be on the way to the castle even now, I would ask that you go too and personally speak to Owen de la Pole, if you will. This is news he must hear immediately but wouldn’t want to hear from me.”
Simon tsked under his breath. “You give me all the best jobs.”
“I will pray for you, as always, as I walk away.”
Rhys was grinning as he did exactly that.
