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Day Two
Rhys
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Simon’s left hand went to his chin as he studied Rhys. Rhys kept his eyes on his old friend’s face. He would tell him the truth if he asked. And hang for it, if that was the price for honesty.
“Self-pity does not become you.”
Rhys didn’t pretend not to know what Simon was talking about. “Self-pity? Shame and guilt, more like.”
“In your case, it’s the same thing. And you have no cause to feel either—unless you’ve done something horrific in your exile. Did you have anything to do with this man’s death?”
“No.”
“So you failed to defend your prince. From what I heard, the force arrayed against you was overwhelming.” He looked at Rhys curiously. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Rhys gritted his teeth and didn’t answer.
Simon nodded. “You feel you should have died with your fellows, is that it?” He tsked under his breath. “We’ve been through this before in the Holy Land, though then you were counseling others.”
Rhys knew he had to say something, and in the end it was the truth. “I won’t pretend with you. My world ended when Llywelyn was killed.”
“As it should have.”
Rhys hadn’t expected such understanding—which shamed him further. “I haven’t figured out how to live without him to follow.”
“Yes, you have.” Simon gestured broadly. “Even in the short time I’ve been here, I’ve asked around about you. Since you returned to Gwynedd, your conduct has been exemplary.”
“Such was my intent.” Rhys took in some air, having spoken without thinking. “What I show of myself doesn’t necessarily reflect what I feel.”
They were skating dangerously close to what Rhys actually had been doing in the last year—that is, protecting his people from Simon’s people. Rhys never lied outright, but he’d become very good at arranging things so his masters never learned the whole story.
Simon dropped his hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “I hope never to put you in a position where you feel you must lie to me. I understand that you did what you believed you had to do.”
Simon was speaking with more grace than Rhys deserved, and Rhys bent his head, acknowledging the sacrifice they were making for the sake of their friendship. Then he shook himself, thinking the sooner they put aside questions about what had pulled them apart the better.
“What are you doing here? You are the captain of the king’s guard, but yet you still wear Prince Edmund’s sigil?” He gestured to Simon’s surcoat, which (like John le Strange’s the previous night) showed the three lions and azure fleur-de-lys proclaiming him to belong to Prince Edmund of England, Earl of Lancaster, the brother of King Edward and a fellow crusader, hence the name he was known by: Edmund Crouchback. Both Rhys and Simon had served in Edmund’s retinue on crusade, and Simon had continued in that service thereafter.
Simon looked down at himself. “It has been an eventful morning. I am still working through the protocol.”
“This will be quite a change for you, serving the king instead of the prince.”
“We all serve at the pleasure of the king, as you well know.”
“Edmund must not have been pleased to give you up.”
“It was he who offered my services.”
“Only so the king didn’t have to ask.”
“If the king had known you were available, I’d still be in Chester.”
Rhys scoffed. “Neither the king nor Prince Edmund were ever that fond of me. Besides which, I’m Welsh.”
Simon’s lip twitched. “The king doesn’t have to be fond of you to respect your abilities, and he knows well your origins.”
Rhys pressed his lips together, not able to reply in any kind of civil fashion. King Edward was Rhys’s mortal enemy, which Simon should realize if he understood Rhys at all. But then again, maybe he couldn’t understand it because the entire notion was inconceivable to one such as he. If anything, what the Normans around Rhys felt most these days was impatience with the Welsh lack of appreciation of the sacrifices made for them and the benefits that would accrue to them for being incorporated into the Kingdom of England.
For his part, Simon looked hard at Rhys. “You, however, have been sorted. I have spoken to Lord Tudur, Coroner Lacy, Sheriff Pulesdon, and the captain of the garrison here at Carnarvon. From now on, you will report directly to me, and if anyone wants the use of your services, those orders will also come through me.”
“You have been busy.” Rhys was attempting to jest, but he was impressed and a little daunted by Simon’s thoroughness. But as Simon continued to bend his gaze on him, Rhys finally realized his friend’s intentions and started shaking his head. “No. No, no, no.”
Simon overrode his protest. “Before I left for Carnarvon, Edmund spoke of you in my presence, openly regretting your loss. I am being completely serious when I say he sent me to his brother to become the new captain of his guard because he believed he couldn’t send you.”
Rhys wasn’t going to give up what little freedom he had without a fight. “Simon ... what is this about?”
“I need your help. And not this—” he waved his hand up and down in front of Rhys, “—version of yourself.”
“My help?” Rhys laughed. “Surely you have dozens of capable men who would be happy to assist you in whatever capacity you require.”
“Possibly, but things would go much better with you at my side. Nobody else brings your specific attributes to the table.”
“Which are what, exactly?”
“You are the most intelligent—and cleverest—man I’ve ever known.”
“Except when I’m an idiot, as you said yourself.” Rhys didn’t allow himself to be distracted by the compliment. “What exactly do you need my help with? Not this murder, surely. You could solve this blindfolded. You know it’s murder. You know what to do even if Guy does not.”
“This isn’t about the murder.”
“Then what?”
“In the past two months, there have been several incidents—each on their own viewable as simple accidents—that threatened the king’s life.”
For once, Rhys had no ready reply, just stared at his old friend.
Simon smiled sardonically. “That got your attention. And now Guy tells me this new man died over the top of an incomplete hexfoil.”
Rhys wet his lips. “Even with the hexfoil, which I admit is unsettling, I don’t see a connection to the king as yet.”
Simon leaned forward, his hands flat on the tabletop. “That’s just it. The incomplete hexfoil indicates it isn’t a simple murder, not that any murder could be viewed as simple so near the king’s person. And that isn’t the only incident, either. How is it the king’s captain died in the first place? Everything could be related.”
“Gerald was ill. He died. It happens.” Rhys found himself defensive, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.
“At such an important time, on the way to the castle that will be the jewel in the king’s crown, within days of the birth of the king’s latest child?” Simon seemed fond of waving his hand, because he did it again, this time indicating Rhys’s appearance and his unhappiness with it. “Where’s your sword?”
“I have been asked not to wear it in the castle, and I swore a year ago that if I couldn’t wear it when it counted most, I wouldn’t wear it at all.”
“You are a crusader!” Simon’s words came out with real force.
Rhys put out a pacifying hand. “Until you started talking, nobody here knew it, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t broadcast it any farther than you already have.”
“Nobody?”
“Nobody.”
“Rhys—”
He tried not to wilt under Simon’s glare. “I have been very successfully hiding in plain sight for a full year now. Trust you to ruin everything.”
“It was bound to happen eventually,” Simon said. “I gave the coroner your proper name, so he will have everybody knowing your full identity by dinner time, and neither of us need ever say a thing.”
“Alternatively, he could be so resentful of my station, he tells no one.”
Simon gave Rhys a withering look and said, deadpan. “Oh sure. That’s exactly what’s going to happen.”
He was right. Worse, it was likely the king would be even less pleased than Simon (though not as personally hurt) to have been kept in the dark. When Rhys had begun this charade, he’d hoped never to see either the king or Simon again. He had thought he’d put his past behind him. Like Simon said, he was an idiot.
“You do still have your sword, of course.” Simon wasn’t really asking a question.
“I do.” Rhys thought about denying it, but it would be petty to lie. No crusader, no matter how low he’d fallen, would ever give up his sword. He’d bent a knee and kissed the hilt a thousand times in the Holy Land and after. It would be like casting away the cross of their Lord.
“What kind of oath did you make?” Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Was it binding? Did you speak the words before a priest?”
Rhys shook his head, even more wary about where this conversation might be headed than he’d been when Simon had walked into the guardroom.
“So you could wear it, perhaps unsheathe it and wave it around threateningly? Maybe even defend yourself?”
“I suppose.”
Simon gave a sharp nod. “Then you will wear your sword from now on. I will ensure it is not remarked upon.” It was an order, not something Simon had ever given Rhys before. Now Simon looked at him with something like amusement in his eyes. “The coroner seems particularly taken with you.”
It was a relief to laugh, and a bit of the tension in the room was dispelled. “Your senses must be truly failing you if he left you that impression.”
Simon smirked. “His attitude did improve once I called you by your rightful name.” He gazed at Rhys for another moment. “I suppose it could have been worse. You could have become a monk.”
“After Cilmeri, no monastery in England would have me, and none in Wales could afford me. I’m neither farmer nor herder, and I had no gold to buy myself a position. The war has ended, the roads are safe, so no monks need the services of a warrior to protect them from marauders. But my family did need me to protect them, so I came home.”
Simon nodded at the most complete explanation Rhys had yet given him. “I’m glad you didn’t leave your sister in the dark.”
Rhys’s head came up. “That’s why you weren’t surprised to find me here?”
“I stopped at Conwy on the way from Chester and spoke with her. At long last, she told me the truth: you were alive and in Carnarvon.”
Rhys couldn’t be angry at his sister. She’d always had a soft spot for Simon because he’d brought Rhys home from the Holy Land alive. “Efa has enough to worry about without me.”
“I think she would disagree.” Simon paused. “Your brother-in-law asked me to tell you he is doing as you suggested, against his better judgment. What did you ask of him, Rhys?”
Rhys gritted his teeth and almost didn’t answer, but there was nobody else in the room, and Simon had saved his life—and Rhys his—more than once. That bond couldn’t be denied, even if he wanted to. Simon couldn’t know the full truth, but he knew Rhys too well to share Catrin’s confusion about who he really was. “I told Huw not to listen to the hotheads around him. There is no future in disobedience. He needs to keep his head down and do as he’s told. Just as I must.”
“A mason isn’t usually a profession that leads to rebellion.” Simon canted his head, studying Rhys in that way he knew very well, even after all these years apart. “Is yours?”
Rhys wet his lips and didn’t answer.
Simon continued as if Rhys hadn’t just avoided lying to him, “Like Carnarvon, the castle on the River Conwy rises at a great pace, and there will be more castles to build once it is completed.”
That was exactly what Rhys was afraid of, of course, though he didn’t say so to Simon. It was one of the many things that made returning to Gwynedd to live and serve so extraordinarily difficult.
When again Rhys didn’t respond, Simon tsked and changed the subject. “About this murder.”
It was a relief to speak of something else. “What about it?”
“The coroner said he’d already arrested a villager, though the man claims to be innocent. Guy isn’t so sure.”
“Of course he’s innocent,” and then Rhys laid out what he knew so far, which wasn’t much, though it did include the dead man’s identity and the questions raised by Rhys’s conversation with Catrin.
Simon rubbed his chin. “He’s an Englishman, dead in a Welsh barn, which used to be part of your prince’s palace, over the top of an incomplete hexfoil. I’m not liking the symbolism.”
“Nor I.”
“And Lady Catrin had no idea why Cole had ridden all this way from Bristol?”
Rhys shook his head. “He could have been bringing a message to her from her son or to the king from Gilbert de Clare. She fears for her son’s life, of course.”
Simon grunted. “I will have to send a messenger back to Gloucester to discover the truth.”
“Meanwhile, if you still want me to pursue Cole’s murderer, it is my intent to return to the barn and attempt to retrace Cole’s steps.”
Simon had been sitting on the edge of the table, but now he pushed to his feet. “And I am due for an audience with the king.”
“Does he know about me?”
“Not yet.” Simon made for the door.
Before he could leave, Rhys put out a hand to stop him. “You forget.”
Simon made a noise of disgust. “Thanks for the reminder. It’s been a busy day.” He put up his arms. “Help me with it, will you?”
Rhys pulled the surcoat up over Simon’s head, a task nearly impossible for an armored man to do on his own. It reminded Rhys again of how difficult it must have been to remove Cole’s armor and gear after he was dead. It seemed unlikely he’d done it on his own when he was alive.
Throughout this last year, because he wasn’t allowed to wear his sword, Rhys had dressed more like a man-at-arms, in leather instead of mail. He wore a dagger (unserrated) on one side of his waist and a knife on the other, belted around a plain ash-gray tunic. He hadn’t actually put on his mail armor since Cilmeri, and his frame wouldn’t be used to the weight of it anymore, even if it fit. Most likely it would hang loosely around his shoulders and chest. He had worked to maintain his fitness and strength of arm and leg, but he had no teulu to ride in anymore, and he knew he hadn’t regained his fighting weight after his injuries.
But if Simon required him to wear his sword, regardless of his lack of other gear, it would mean detouring back to the village where he lived to collect it before going to the barn to continue the investigation.
Then Simon dropped the surcoat he’d been wearing, the one sporting Edmund’s sigil, over Rhys’s head. “We will start as we mean to go on. Edmund’s colors will do for now until the king decides if he wants you to wear his.”
Rhys didn’t fight his friend’s hands as Simon adjusted the fabric over Rhys’s chest and rebuckled his belt, still minus his sword, of course, at his waist.
“Come find me after you’re done at the barn,” Simon said. “And we will see the king together.”
