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Day One
Math
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Moriddig’s body was already in the wagon, so all Math had to do was hitch a horse to it and move it. Before Rhys left, he had insisted that both Patrick and Adam stay behind with Math. If Rhys’s first task was to speak to the king, it wouldn’t do at all for either man to be wandering the festival, spreading the tale of Moriddig’s loss before those in authority were aware of it.
Math trusted nobody more than Rhys. Math himself, for all that he was a member of the king’s guard, conversed with the king rarely, and only when King Edward asked him a direct question. Maybe that would change in time; Math’s service was less than two months old. He had reached this point because he’d been willing to stand out when it mattered—namely at that archery contest at Nefyn. Despite being admitted to the king’s guard as a result, he was in no hurry to stick his neck out again.
For now, despite the fact that Patrick and Adam sat silently weeping on the wagon seat, Math was feeling adequately entertained. He would have to ask forgiveness at his next confession for being glad he had something to do besides stand outside the king’s pavilion. As it turned out, constant vigilance was both boring and exhausting at the same time. He was quite sure Rhys felt the same way. The king required able and accomplished men to guard him, but the duty itself was at best routine. At worst, it was cripplingly dull.
Math walked at the front of the wagon, leading the horse. They had deliberately collected Moriddig’s own horse from the corral for this purpose. Some of the onlookers they passed might be wondering why they were moving Moriddig’s wagon in the middle of the day, but Adam and Patrick were a familiar-enough sight that nobody should be thinking about it very hard.
Yet.
Everyone would know soon enough that Moriddig was dead, at which point, those who’d witnessed the removal of the wagon would be at the center of gossip Math could hear even now:
“I can’t believe Moriddig was murdered!”
“Who could have done such a thing?”
“Do you think his body was actually in his wagon when it passed us?”
“I never liked the man myself, but far be it from me to speak ill of the dead.”
And so on.
The question before them, as Math had come to see since he’d joined the king’s guard and begun his association with Rhys and Catrin, was how exactly they were to sift through everything they would be hearing over the next few days for the truth amidst the lies. People would lie, too, about far more than the murder. Everyone kept secrets and hid shameful things, some of which had occupied them while someone else had been murdering Moriddig.
“We’ll need to turn here,” Math called behind him to Adam. “We want the castle, not the church.”
“But surely—” Adam broke off to reorient his thoughts, “—with the king in residence—”
“The church doesn’t have a room set aside for examining the body, and Rhys needs one.” Math appreciated Adam’s concern. He didn’t want to offend the king either, but that didn’t change the reality before them. “Moriddig was Owen’s man; he should lie in Owen’s castle, whether or not that’s where the king is also laying his head. Rhys investigated deaths in Caernarfon and Nefyn while the king was present. Rhys is his quaestor. It matters not whether the castle is the king’s own or Owen’s.”
This particular castle had been built a hundred years or more ago by the patriarch of Simon’s family, after which time the King of Powys had taken the castle for himself. It was more than a little ironic that Owen was doing everything in his power to make everyone forget he was half-Welsh, when it was his Welsh ancestors who’d overcome Simon’s. Undoubtedly, that long-ago king was rolling over in his grave to see his descendants bowing and scraping to those who’d been his enemies.
Math served the king now because he had no choice. Clearly neither did Owen de la Pole. But although Owen’s lands had been bestowed on him by the king, he could never be fully trusted. A man who had betrayed one liege could equally betray a second. Math’s family, except for a momentary lapse early on, had been staunchly behind Llywelyn to the bitter end. Everybody knew it, knew he was Welsh, and didn’t expect him to somehow become Norman overnight as the Poles had done.
Owen’s allegiance had never really been to Wales, even if his father had nominally sworn himself Llywelyn’s vassal. Owen’s mother was sister to Roger le Strange himself, one of the chief conspirators responsible for the murder of Llywelyn at Cilmeri. Math wasn’t sure Owen even spoke Welsh fluently. As far as Math could tell, Owen was fully aware of what everyone thought of him and didn’t care.
The castle had remained in Owen’s family all this time, and these days was just one of many within Owen’s remit. That wasn’t to say Simon’s family bowed to him, despite losing their castle. Neither Simon, his brother, nor their cousin John owed personal allegiance to anyone but King Edward. John Boydell had received his lands directly from the king as a descendant of the original Boydell who’d come with the Conqueror. In fact, the Boydell family could claim kinship through marriage to the royal family.
That the king would retire at night to Owen’s castle during this fortnight was as much a matter of convenience as a mark of Owen’s standing. Queen Eleanor and baby Edward were staying at her manor, of which Osborn was steward, implying that the Boydells were equally trusted.
The castle was built on high ground on the eastern bank of the River Dee, with a grand view to the west (and thus Wales). St. Mary’s Church, where the service for Moriddig would occur, was built on relatively flat land within the town, some distance to the southeast. The festival was taking place in a cluster of fields to the east of the castle and town. There were also flat lands around the river Dee, but these were marshy and unsuited to wagons and tents.
As they arrived at the main castle gate, Math didn’t bother speaking Welsh. “We request admittance,” he said in French, and then he added, s'il vous plaît, as something of an afterthought.
“What is this about, Adam?” The guard at the gate stepped forward. “I thought you were staying at the encampment.”
“We were.”
Math had seen the guard take in the sigil on his tunic. Anyone could see that he served the king and truly he should have recognized Math anyway, since Math had been in and out of the castle all this week, guarding the king as he slept. And still, his eyes narrowed distrustfully. “Has something happened?”
“Yes,” Math took charge again. “But it is for your lord’s ears to hear first. I am Math, a member of the king’s guard and companion to Sir Reese de la Croix.” He didn’t like pronouncing Rhys’s name the Norman way, but he was hoping for cooperation. Math was not a Norman name, but it was understandable to Normans, more so than his full name, Mathonwy.
“At once.” The guard motioned that they should drive into the outer bailey. Math would have to let Rhys know that the mention of his name had a greater effect on the guard than the king’s!
The circling wall around the castle was built of wood and, from the dryness and weathering of the planks within view, hadn’t been renewed recently. The keep, on the other hand, had been converted to stone, and portions of the bailey had been laid with flagstones, so any rain wouldn’t turn it to mud.
“Lord Pole is here; I will tell him you have arrived and have news for him.” Having left another man to take his place at the gate, the guard set off at a loping run for the great hall, which was the largest building in the bailey.
At that point, Patrick began to openly sob. Adam helped him down to the ground and then said to Math, “I’ll take care of him. He needs a restorative drink.”
At Math’s nod, the pair disappeared into the kitchen, a building near the hall but standing apart from it. Math was thus left alone to wait for Owen, during which time he could feel the wondering eyes of the various workers in the bailey, otherwise going about their business. Finally, the door to the great hall opened and the half-Norman lord stepped out. Owen was similar in age to Math, not even thirty, though with his receding hairline, he looked much older.
He gave no explanation for the delay but said abruptly upon approaching Math and the wagon, “I spoke to the king this morning. Does he want me back in his pavilion?” The query was almost aggrieved. In truth, his voice always sounded to Math like it had a bit of a whine to it.
“My apologies, my lord. I am here on an entirely different matter.” Math bent his head in an attempt to be respectful. He figured if he apologized continually, he might be able to mask his disdain. “I am sorry to report that your bard Moriddig is dead, and his body lies within his wagon. I am charged with finding a place to leave him until such a time as the body itself can be examined.” He intentionally didn’t mention Rhys’s name yet or that Moriddig had been murdered. Owen would know Rhys, but Math didn’t know if Rhys’s animosity towards him was returned and wanted to leave the news that it was Rhys himself who would be examining the body until later.
Meanwhile, Owen was openly gaping. “I can’t believe it! I spoke to him yesterday evening. He really is dead?”
“If you would look this way, my lord, you can see for yourself.” Math gestured towards the back of the wagon. Moriddig was dead, and no amount of disbelief on the part of Owen or anyone else was going to change that fact. Math opened the flaps to reveal Moriddig as they’d left him, still flat on his back, though now covered by a sheet. Owen was tall enough to see the way Moriddig’s nose made a bit of a tent of the linen.
“I see.” Owen gazed at him through several breaths before turning back to Math. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to put him in our dead house to prepare him for burial.” Dead house was the Norman term, borrowed from the Saxons, for a laying-out room. Math enjoyed how bluntly to-the-point it was. “But what’s this about examining it?”
It was only in that moment that Math realized he should have been more forthcoming. He was just opening his mouth to explain about the murder when Simon rode through the gatehouse with a clatter of hooves. As Math’s superior, Owen turned to him immediately, beating the stable boy to Simon’s side and holding the reins as Simon dismounted.
“My bard is dead.” Owen’s tone implied the very fact of it was offensive.
Simon bent his head. “I’m afraid so, my lord. My apologies for not coming sooner but I was delayed with the king.” As excuses went, it was a good one and certainly not something about which Owen was going to argue. “He was murdered this morning. The king has tasked Math and me, as adjutants to Sir Reese de la Croix, with discovering why.”
