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Day Five
Math
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It was late afternoon by the time Catrin found Rhys and Math to tell them what she’d learned. To be fair to Joan, she had no knowledge of the chain of evidence so far accumulated that made her observation of Adam directly contradict his description of how his morning had gone.
“Adam lied to us deliberately.” By now, the burning sensation behind Math’s eyes was reaching a critical point. That was probably why his words were so blunt.
“Repeatedly, from what you’ve said.” Miles spoke out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes on the high table where Owen was sitting beside the king. Given his destroyed castle, Math couldn’t begrudge him the honor.
Adam was standing behind Owen, wearing his blue hood, as he always did, even when in line with the water buckets. Since then, he’d been in attendance on his lord in such a fashion that made it impossible to walk up to him and, essentially, accuse him of murder.
“The more I look at him, the more I can see how everything that has happened was his doing,” Catrin said.
“All for personal gain?” Rhys said. “It seems so misguided.”
“And petty,” Math said. “He must have murdered Moriddig to stop the move to Brecon, and then murdered Hugh in order to step into his shoes, which Owen obligingly offered him immediately upon Hugh’s death. Adam effectively eliminated everyone between him and Owen, and then made himself indispensable to ensure his elevation.”
“Somehow, we’ve all missed the degree to which Adam is deeply and fundamentally angry.” Catrin’s chin was in her hand. “He hides it well. He’s always smiling! I see it now only because I know he murdered his brother. All along that hatred has been simmering beneath the surface.”
Math found himself suddenly depressed. Brothers were supposed to love each other, not turn themselves into Cain and Abel. Rather than dwelling on the whereabouts of his own brother, which he still didn’t know, he squashed the emotion by rising to his feet. “I see Patrick. Let’s ask him where his uncle was last night, just for a last confirmation.”
Patrick was looking a bit worse for wear again, though better than his friend, who was staggering drunk and needed an arm around his waist to keep him upright. The friend was waving a cup about, calling for another portion of ale. Math came up on his other side and said, “You’ve had enough.”
“Not nearly enough.” This was Dewi, one of the younger bards from Rhuddlan, and his words were slurred. “Never enough.”
“If you keep on this way,” Patrick said, “you’ll ruin your chances in the festival.”
“I never had a chance anyway. I’m not good enough.”
“Your singing is beautiful,” Patrick insisted. “You should not give up.”
With Patrick on the other side, Math helped wheel Dewi around and, best they could, head for the troughs of hay that had been placed outside the pavilion for when revelers had imbibed too much.
“Didn’t you hear?” Dewi moaned. “The winners are already decided.”
Math looked at Patrick, eyebrows raised. “Do we know that for sure?”
“There’s talk—” Patrick started to say, but then his friend lurched forward and vomited into the nearest hay trough.
Fortunately, Math saw it coming just in time and stepped back. Patrick came with him, and they both gazed somewhat impassively at Dewi’s continuing heaves.
“Why does Dewi think he hasn’t a chance?” It might be they weren’t quite as done with the investigation as they’d thought.
“Rumors only. He isn’t the only one who is worried about it.”
“Are you? Worried, that is?”
“No.”
“Hugh was known to take bribes in the past.”
“Not at this festival; not anymore. I told Sir Rhys that days ago.”
“Who does rumor say is going to win?” Math said.
“Not Gruffydd; not Cadwgan. Some bard from the south, I think. Different people are saying different things.”
Math’s next question was a non sequitur, but he hoped Patrick was either too drunk or too distracted to notice. “When we talked the day your father died, you told us your uncle breakfasted with you and then went to the latrine. How long before the rehearsal was that?”
Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Less than an hour, but still quite some time.”
“When did you see him next?”
“At the rehearsal.” The answer came easily and matched Joan’s assessment of when Adam had arrived at Moriddig’s wagon. Unless someone had then gone to the wagon immediately after Adam, there seemed little doubt at this point that it was he who’d killed him.
The vomiting was ongoing, along with mumbled regrets. Patrick called out, “You all right there, Dewi?”
“No.” The word came out a moan.
Patrick wrinkled his nose, which seemed the right time for Math to ask a follow-up question: “Weren’t you and he this drunk just last night? I thought I saw you leaving the bailey right before the fire started.”
“Was that where I was?” Patrick turned to him with widened eyes. “Dewi and I had made it to the latrine in the festival grounds when we heard the call that there was a fire. I honestly wasn’t sure where we’d been drinking before that, though it was clear that we had.”
“You recovered quickly since you were there when your uncle called for you to come with him.”
Patrick shot him a rueful smile. “I’d emptied myself out, much as poor Dewi is doing now. And there’s something to be said for having a bucket of cold water thrown over you.”
Math finally said what he’d been thinking. “Drink won’t bring your father back. Like you said to your friend, it won’t help you in the festival either.”
“I do know that.” Patrick looked at the ground as he answered, digging at the dirt and grass with the toe of his boot. “You won’t find me so drunk again. I have a legacy to live up to.” Suddenly his head came up. “Lord Owen has even offered me a position!”
“As his bard?”
Patrick made a motion with his head. “Not that; not yet; maybe not ever. But I’ll be assistant steward to my uncle. It’s a real living!”
“Congratulations.” Math looked at him curiously. “You sound happy about it.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve finally realized that being a bard was always my father’s dream for me, not mine.”
