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Day Six
Catrin
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“Stay back!” The knife was right there in the satchel. Coming to her senses, Catrin pulled the blade from its sheath and held it out in front of her. “Don’t come any closer!”
Maybe she could have made more of his guilt if he openly attacked her, but she was not interested in a repeat of the events in the village of Hartford, when she’d been hit by one of the Justiciar of Chester’s men.
At her cry of defiance, Patrick hesitated long enough for Catrin to set herself more firmly into place at the top of the steps, the satchel now at her feet. If looks could kill, she would be dead where she stood, but he knew better than to lunge upwards at her. She had the high ground and his knife. Although she was no soldier, she knew how to use it.
“Why did you keep mementos when you knew each and every one would implicate you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” All of a sudden, Patrick relaxed, putting up both hands and laughing, as if their confrontation was just a big misunderstanding.
“I’m holding the knife you used to murder Hugh, and you also have his empty purse, your father’s missing ring, and isn’t that a charred piece of wood from the castle?” Catrin kept the knife pointed towards him, hoping to hold him off until help arrived.
“Why shouldn’t I have my father’s ring—” As Patrick said the last word, he surged up the last few steps towards her as if he intended to tackle her to the floor.
At that exact moment, Hywel appeared out of nowhere, captured Patrick around the waist, and fell with him off the steps to the ground.
The two men rolled around, arms and legs flailing. Although they were similar in size, Patrick was twenty years younger than Hywel, and Catrin feared for her brother’s life.
But then Rhys was there again, as she was learning to believe he always would be, along with the rest of their friends and companions. The riders had circled around through the encampment to arrive back at the wagon. It was Catrin who’d changed the plan by entering the wagon on her own, not Rhys. Of course, they hadn’t actually been conducting a search for Adam, who hadn’t been arrested and certainly hadn’t fled. That had been a ruse for Patrick’s ears alone. Emma’s mother and father hadn’t been on their way to speak to Lord Owen either. Prince Edmund had said Owen couldn’t keep a secret, and they hadn’t shared their plan with him, though he would be among the first to be told of the results today, as was his right.
Math and Ralph dismounted and soon each had a knee on Patrick’s arms to prevent him from moving. His upper left arm was also bleeding. In the heartbeat before Hywel had brought him off the steps, he had come close enough to her that she’d cut him.
“Are you all right down there?” Miles studied Hywel, who’d managed to end up on top of Patrick. As a bard, rather than a fighter, in the end Patrick’s blows had been ineffectual compared to Hywel’s. He’d also been on the bottom when Hywel had hit the ground and even now looked a little woozy from the blow to the head and perhaps from having the wind knocked out of him.
“I am now.” Hywel was breathing hard as he pushed himself to his feet. “It’s over. You have nowhere to go, boy. Stand down.”
Patrick’s face was screwed up in fury. “I have done nothing wrong. You have nothing on me. You are nothing.”
“That may well be, but he—” Hywel tipped his head to indicate Rhys, “is the king’s quaestor. You are charged with the murder of your father and Hugh.”
Patrick’s jaw remained tight as Math and Ralph got him to his feet. He had grass in his hair and dirt all over his clothes, as did Hywel. “There is a real villain here, but it isn’t me.”
“Is that so?” Simon was going through the items in the satchel Catrin handed to him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Did they not tell you what was stuffed into my father’s mouth?” Suddenly, Patrick’s eyes lit. “Have you not seen the lament to Llywelyn, written in Gruffydd’s own hand? It is him you should be arresting. Not me.” He tossed his head. “It is they who are keeping secrets, not me!”
Rhys stepped in front of Patrick to meet his gaze. “We found a paper stuffed into your father’s mouth, but the writing on it was illegible. We really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Patrick’s mouth opened and closed as he struggled to find something to say.
Simon, meanwhile, turned to Hywel. “Has Gruffydd written a lament to Lewelen?”
“I would be very surprised if he hasn’t.” Hywel managed to answer with utter calm. “I have not heard any sung, however.”
As with all lies, it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible. Now Math intervened, directing his question to Patrick. “Where did you get it?”
Patrick didn’t seem to realize how thoroughly he’d condemned himself with his knowledge of the paper. “From Gruffydd’s wagon. If you search it now, you’ll find plenty more!”
Rhys stepped away from Patrick in order to say to Simon, in something of a conspiratorial tone, “Gruffydd often discards papers on the floor of his wagon. It is a well-known habit. Half the time, I think he doesn’t even know what’s there after a while, buried in all the layers.”
Simon was looking to each one of them in turn. He was an intelligent man, and savvy to boot. Catrin couldn’t be more grateful now that they’d made up the story of the poem being illegible. For Patrick to have proclaimed its existence, and them to deny it, would have put them in an untenable position. From the triumph in Patrick’s voice, he also didn’t seem to have yet realized how thoroughly he’d incriminated himself. He had worn his uncle’s blue hood; he had stopped by Gruffydd’s wagon. Strangling was often a crime of passion, but Patrick had just proved that, in his case, it was entirely premeditated. He had not only murdered his father, he had meant to do it.
As to the poem itself, Catrin would have preferred to drop the subject entirely, but since that didn’t seem possible, she could at least deflect Simon from what she and Rhys knew.
“Moriddig also wrote secret poetry.” She put her hand to her heart. “I should have said something when I found his papers the day he died, but I did not. I understand if I am condemned for not reporting it, but since Moriddig was already dead, he couldn’t be punished more than he already had been. I just left them where they were.”
Without waiting for a reply, or acknowledging the stunned look that had crossed her husband’s face as she was speaking, she flitted up the steps into the wagon and popped open the secret drawer. The bag of silver coins was still there, making her think that Patrick hadn’t found this hiding place—and maybe it was for the coins he had been searching the wagon so thoroughly. For now, she grabbed the first paper on top.
It was another poem about Cadwaladr, more complete than Trahaearn’s had been, and not one she remembered ever hearing before. She held it out to Simon. Of course, it was in Welsh, so he required her to translate:
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“There was a time when the people of Cymry,
Possessed wealth and peace before their sovereign king.
The people of Cymry
Found tranquility at his table.
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But what is this?
Commotion in every land; a wasteland of desolate years.
The ambitious man raises his head,
The jealous man rises from his knees,
The righteous man lifts his hands in prayer,
Begging for deliverance.
The Cymry lost their bounty,
Choosing alliance with their enemies.
Who laid waste to our lands,
Demanding our pledge in trade for peace.
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But see who rides forth, no longer hiding,
The dragon banner raised high,
Submitting to no one:
No foreign king, no Saxon, no creature from the depths of Annwn.
See his men: Rhun, Bedwyr, Hywel, Dafydd, Goronwy.
Riding out of tales from another age,
Strapping their swords to their waists,
Setting their pikes in their rests,
Spurring forward,
Protectors of a ravaged country.
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The land will be red with battle and strife.
None will stand against him.
All will fall to their knees before him.
The Cymry will rise,
When Cadwaladr comes.”
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When she finished, he looked at her for a long moment, before asking, “There are more of these?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Does anyone else know about them?”
“Not that I know; not that anyone has said.”
Rhys cleared his throat. “I will see to their disposal personally.”
Simon turned back to Patrick. “This was your great weapon? To expose your father as a traitor to the crown, even after you killed him?”
“I-I-”
“You disgust me.” Simon made a motion to indicate that Math and Ralph should take him away. “The gatehouse at the castle is still intact. He’ll be safe enough in the basement.”
As they hustled away, Simon picked up Patrick’s satchel. “Are we sure about what each of these represents? Is there more in that wagon I should know about?”
“Not that I am aware.” Catrin had kept hold of the dagger and now handed it to Simon, who returned it to its sheath. Once they were no longer standing in the middle of the festival grounds, they could see if the garnet Stephen had found amidst the coins on Hugh’s belly was a match. She was confident it would be.
Even more convincing was the dried blood that remained on the leather sheath, separate from the swath of blood on the blade, which was new, from when she’d swiped at Patrick’s arm in self-defense. Somehow, she couldn’t feel bad about it.
“He had to know any one of these items would point an accusing finger right at him.” Rhys seemed to be recovering from the shock of her revealing Moriddig’s poem. “He thought he was smarter than everybody else.”
“They always think that, don’t they?” Simon said. “Let’s hope the culprits we are after keep on thinking it. As long as they do, we will always catch them.”
