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Day One
Simon
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As Owen’s men maneuvered the body out of the wagon, the lord himself didn’t leave like Simon had hoped, instead surveying their efforts with his hands on his hips. Now that the initial shock of Moriddig’s death had passed, he was practically glowering at the body. “What is the world coming to when a bard is murdered in his own wagon? Can you believe it?”
His tone was familiar, but Simon didn’t make the mistake of replying in kind. “It is unsettling, my lord.”
Before today, Simon had always felt a little envious of the bards for having wagons to sleep in while they were on the road. As a member of the king’s guard, Simon traveled with him everywhere he went, as he had done for Prince Edmund since they’d returned from the Holy Land. Thus, he lay his head in the same place for only a few days or a week at a time.
He considered it a blessing they were going to be in Overton-on-Dee for a full two weeks because it meant his wife and children could join him in his tent at the festival grounds. The king was sleeping at the castle, and his guard rotated duty throughout the day and night. But when not on duty, they were not high-ranking enough to actually sleep here. For his part, Simon had been overjoyed to be reunited with Elizabeth. They’d known each other since childhood, and theirs was a love match. That fact made their separations harder, rather than easier, to bear.
Owen let out a breath. “It is just too bad the son is not half the bard his father was, not yet leastwise. Likely, not ever.”
Coupled with his comment about how well Moriddig had performed the previous evening, Owen seemed to be feeling more sorry for himself about losing his entertainment than mourning his dead bard.
“Perhaps you will find a viable replacement at the festival,” Simon suggested. “We do have nearly a thousand bards from whom to choose.”
Owen snapped his fingers. “Perhaps one of them will even unseat the odious Gruffydd. I would be the first to make an offer to such a man.” He bobbed a nod in Simon’s direction. “I appreciate the reminder.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw Math’s expression contort for a mere heartbeat before smoothing back to a polite façade.
Math and Rhys, as the two Welshmen among the king’s guards, were allowed their resentments as long as they kept them to themselves. Simon was actually glad to see the degree to which the two had grown closer over these last few weeks. Math had been the first person to whom Rhys had turned when confronted with another investigation. The more connections with others Rhys acquired, the more tightly he would be bound to his service to the king. And to Simon himself, if he was being honest.
He appreciated the pain these Welshmen felt at losing their lord, but he also had to suppress an impatience at the way Llywelyn kept invading their thoughts. The man had been dead nearly two years! It was time to accept the change that had come to Wales and move on.
For some reason, the Welsh mostly didn’t think that way. It was a source of endless puzzlement, not only to Simon but to everyone in Edward’s court. The political calm the king brought, the clarity of purpose, and the civil structure were all benefits of being part of England that the Welsh somehow didn’t appreciate. They hung onto the past in a way Simon viewed as, quite frankly, destructive.
But then, Norman children were taught from the cradle that change was inevitable, that their greatest asset was adaptability, and that their job was to be on the right side of any change when it happened. Families maneuvered constantly in a struggle for land, power, and the wealth that came with it—and were very flexible about their allies and enemies. In fact, if the circumstances were right, enemies could become friends overnight. Thus, the king had forgiven Rhys and Math for their prior allegiance and for fighting against him, and had accepted them into his service. All they’d had to do was bend the knee.
Rhys and Math had done exactly that, but grudgingly, even though the king himself held no grudge against them.
Owen, by contrast, had so taken on his mother’s Norman identity that he was almost more Norman than Simon. It made some of his peers wary, but not Simon. Owen had more to prove, and thus more to lose. That made him predictable. With Owen, one actually knew where one stood.
Simon set himself half a step to the left and behind Owen as he followed Moriddig’s body into the laying-out room. Math kept pace an additional two or three steps behind Simon, such that the three of them arrived into the relative darkness of the laying-out room one after the other. Math filled the doorway briefly, and then stepped off to one side so as not to block the light. The two men Owen had found to move the body set it on a table in the center of the room and departed in response to a wave of Owen’s hand.
That left the three of them alone, staring down at Moriddig. To see the man so vulnerable and exposed, as he had strived never to be in life, felt irreverent. “Sir Reese should be along shortly. Would you like me to stay with the body until then?” Simon asked Owen.
“Not at all. He isn’t going anywhere.” Owen then added, almost as an afterthought, “Perhaps a cup of wine wouldn’t go amiss?”
Simon swallowed down his surprise. “Thank you, my lord.”
Leaving Math to wait for Rhys, Simon followed Owen out of the laying-out room, across the bailey, and into the great hall.
They passed several servants along the way, all of whom bent their heads out of respect to Owen, but he spoke to none of them and behaved as if he hadn’t seen them. Arriving in a receiving room off the back of the hall, Owen went straight to the fire and began poking at it. He waved a hand towards Simon, who’d been left hesitating a few paces into the room. “Pour the wine, will you?”
“Of course, my lord.” Simon did as he was bid, and by the time he turned around, Owen was relaxed in a chair by the fire. He then gestured to Simon that he should take another opposite. This chair wasn’t as cushioned, but it still had a back.
Simon handed Owen the warm wine before sitting. They both sipped. By now, Simon had figured out that Owen wasn’t just wanting company while he drank. He had brought Simon here for a specific reason, and it wasn’t to discuss Moriddig. It would be impolite to prompt him, however, so he drank his own wine and waited him out.
After another sip, Owen said, “How goes it with your brother?”
That was a question Simon definitely didn’t want to answer in any meaningful way. The Boydells and the Poles were not friends. If family was what Owen wanted to talk about, Simon was going to have to tread very carefully. Thus, he responded with a platitude. “He has been honored by the queen beyond any expectation.”
“That he has.” Owen nodded his head in agreement. “He is hoping for a good match for his daughter.”
“For Emma. Yes.” Simon took another sip of wine, trying not to swallow hard or maybe even breathe.
Owen then leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, dangling the cup between his knees. “You will have noted that the queen has designs on all of Maelor Saesneg.”
Simon would have fled if he could. Instead, he forced himself not to shift in his seat. Owen had spoken definitively, telling Simon a fact, not a supposition. He felt he could half-agree. “It is clear she loves her new manor.”
“Of which your brother has been given charge.” Owen nodded. “My sources tell me she has mentioned to the king her fondness for the beauty of the River Dee. I begin to think that the king’s largesse in granting Overton a market fair five years ago was a mere preamble to what will come next.”
Given Owen’s frankness, Simon thought it was safe to risk stating another obvious fact. “What came next was the queen took Robert’s manor for herself.”
“It will not stop there. Your brother would be wise to think about his own estates. One can never refuse to negotiate with the Queen of England, but if one is prepared in advance, one has a possibility of retaining wealth and royal favor in the process. It is the unprepared who find themselves in far worse straits.” Owen was being shockingly frank—and also observant. Simon hadn’t ever had a real conversation with the man. Until now, he’d assumed everyone was right that Owen was a bit of a fool. Simon wasn’t so sure now that he was even naïve.
The truth was, Simon had already warned Osborn of the exact same thing Owen was telling him. Osborn had replied in no uncertain terms that Simon needed to keep his concerns to himself. This week, Osborn had no thought for anything but the main chance in front of him. He aspired to the same heights as any Norman—a lordship; an earldom; the throne. Just because he had little chance of reaching these heights himself did not mean he wouldn’t do everything in his power to position his family in such a way that a descendant might achieve what he couldn’t. Emma’s wedding was a first step, and he would not begin by alienating the queen in any way.
He certainly wasn’t going to question her commitment to Overton-on-Dee. He would not countenance Simon doing so either. Neither of them, of course, had any control over Owen. If the half-Norman lord wanted to risk what he had and the king’s favor by maneuvering against the queen in advance of her maneuvering against him, Simon wasn’t going to stop him.
While he had not thought Owen this insightful, it should have been obvious to anyone that the queen wanted the whole of the region for herself. Past experience indicated she was likely to get her way. Thus, he opted to speak the truth too, as far as he could. “Osborn does not believe it is in his interests to look beyond this fortnight.”
Owen leaned back in his chair. “No, he wouldn’t.” He took another sip of wine, his eyes on the fire now. “I don’t want to be caught unawares by new developments.”
“Nor would my brother, I imagine.”
“Then we are agreed.” Owen nodded sharply.
After a moment, with Owen’s gaze still drawn by the flames, Simon realized he was dismissed. He rose to his feet, bowed briefly, and set his half-drunk cup of wine on the side table. As he left the room, reviewing the conversation, he knew in himself that he had admitted to nothing and agreed to nothing.
And yet, somehow, it felt as if he might have just committed treason.
