| |
Day Two
Rhys
––––––––
Perhaps Rhys should have been horrified that Catrin knew all—or at least most—of what he’d been doing since Cilmeri, but instead he found himself delighted—and a little bit impressed—that Catrin had discovered the truth on her own. Still, he was going to have to speak to Aron about letting her in on his secret without his permission.
Not that it could really be called a secret. Any piece of information that was known to as many people as knew of Rhys’s recent activities didn’t deserve the name. It might be that those to whom he reported had an inkling of what he was attempting—some like Hywel, or possibly Simon—and chose to work with the devil they knew rather than the one they didn’t.
It was something to consider while he figured out how to make Catrin think she was helping while really he was protecting her too. Of all his endeavors, that might be the trickiest.
“How do you think you’re going to do that? Help me, I mean.”
“I’m going to help you solve these murders, for starters. Then I’m going to be your eyes and ears in the castle.” She frowned. “Since I returned to Wales, I have let my emotions get the better of me. It may be that some of the other women realize I am less than fond of what the king has done to my country. I am sure the queen knows, because she has told me so, even if I didn’t admit it. In future, I will work to temper my impulse to be so open.”
“No.” Rhys was firm. “Don’t change a thing. You must be yourself at all times.” He started walking towards the bridge again. “They’ll know something is wrong if you suddenly change who you are. It might be better, however, if you spent less time with me.”
She had started walking with him, but now stopped abruptly again. “Is that what you want?”
He stopped too and found himself unable to lie. He’d become good at evasion over the last year, but outright falsehoods still eluded him. “Of course not.”
She hooked her arm in his again. “Then to snub you would be to contradict what you just told me to do, wouldn’t it? We are childhood friends, and you are conducting an investigation into the death of my son’s retainer. It would look odd if we didn’t associate.”
Rhys had to admit that was true.
“So let’s start as we mean to go on. It seems we know how these men died, but we are no closer to understanding why they died and who could have done it. And why the incomplete hexfoil?” She shook her head. “It makes me fear there will be more deaths.”
“I’d be happier if you didn’t say that out loud.” They reached the bridge, crossed it, and then turned downhill, heading towards the castle. “Unfortunately, I also fear you might be right.”
“So what’s our next step?”
“It’s usually a matter of poking my nose into the business of as many people associated with the victims as I can. In this case, that’s a little more difficult, since Cole’s only known associate was you, and Tomos the mason had no family. I suggested to the coroner that he speak to Tomos’s fellow masons. Given that Guy was at the funeral, I am unsure if he took my suggestion seriously.”
“Why don’t we do it now?”
“They will have finished work for the day, and I am expected in the hall. Finally.” He grimaced. “I have a long-awaited audience with the king.”
She glanced at him, undoubtedly noting the grimness of his tone. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”
“This may be a very difficult meeting, at least on my end. I kept him in the dark about my whereabouts and even that I was alive. I find it unlikely he will take kindly to being deceived.”
“You didn’t lie to him, though, did you?” Her brow furrowed. “You never do actually lie.”
“The finer points of deception will mean little to the king, I assure you. He will view it as a lie, even if only of omission, and not understand.”
“Is that because he’s known you so long? You served him before?”
“I did.”
“Will you tell me?”
It wasn’t something he had ever really talked about before, but he found himself telling Catrin anyway. He’d never set out to become a quaestor, and his first foray into investigating murder happened on Rhys’s own initiative, because he was a meddler, as Simon would say and had said at the time. One of the king’s men had been found dead in Acre, and while the impulse had been to blame a Saracen for the murder, the actual killer had been a fellow soldier, a rival for a woman’s affections. The killer had taken the man’s purse and left him for dead in an alley to make the death look like a random robbery.
Rhys had tracked down a witness to the crime, a ten-year-old boy, who’d seen the killer leaving the alley with blood on his tunic. But a ten-year-old Muslim boy was no valid witness. Rhys knew who’d done it, but had no proof until, confronted with a blood-spattered tunic, the killer gaped and incautiously said, “That isn’t mine! I burned it after—”
Too late, he realized what he’d said. Truly, though the actual insult had been petty, the man’s grudge had been great. If he hadn’t confessed, Rhys would have had to let the matter go.
Prince Edmund, whom both murderer and victim had served, had been impressed with Rhys’s cleverness, having known about the false evidence in advance. Simon and Rhys had been of relatively low rank at that time, and both had been promoted, which had placed Rhys in a position to save Edmund’s life a month later.
But that had been in battle, a skirmish really, and all Rhys had been doing was fighting for his own life. The fact that he’d saved the prince’s in the process was sheer coincidence and blind luck.
Simon refused to allow Rhys to say that out loud, and both had then been knighted for their bravery. Edmund had kept Rhys close after that, and he’d investigated for both princes in the years afterwards. War changes men, and for some, killing starts to come easy, as it did for the man in the alley. Still, even at those times, Rhys’s association with the king had been peripheral and only at the behest of Edmund.
“So that’s why you’re not looking forward to seeing the king,” Catrin said. “I think the king has more pressing concerns than punishing you.”
“I hope you’re right.”
When they arrived at the great hall, Simon motioned them to where he was sitting near the top of one of the long tables. Even were a dozen lords not attending the king at Caernarfon, Simon was not high-born enough to sit at the table with him. And as the captain of his guard, it wasn’t his place anyway.
Rhys held the back of the only chair, set at the end of the table, for Catrin, who accepted it. “Simon, this is Catrin ferch Goronwy, sister to Lords Hywel and Tudur. Catrin, this is my friend and long-time ne’er do well, Simon Boydell.”
Simon stood to take Catrin’s hand, and when he sat again, his eyebrows were nearly in his hairline, but he didn’t comment in the dozens of ways he could have. If he had, Rhys would have kicked him under the table, whether or not Simon was his boss now.
What Rhys really didn’t want was to be teased. Yes, Catrin was a widow and lovely, at least to him, though she wasn’t conventionally beautiful by current standards. Her hair was red, for starters, which was deemed less desirable, and very curly, a second mark against her. Her eyes were neither green nor brown but somewhere between the two and outlined by dark lashes. She was freckled, and she had a bump on the bridge of her nose, which she’d broken before the age of ten, thankfully not Rhys’s fault, though he’d been there.
But when she smiled, the room filled with sunshine, no matter how late in the day. She was smiling now, and Rhys had to forcibly turn himself away in order to think. He motioned towards the high table, which was full of diners, but the king’s chair was empty. “Where is the king?”
“You just missed him. He has retired to the queen’s quarters for the evening and isn’t to be disturbed. You have a temporary reprieve.”
“But he knows I’m here?”
“He does.”
Rhys took a long drink of his mead, trying to settle his thoughts. “How did he take it?”
“He showed little emotion beyond a slight narrowing of the eyes.”
That couldn’t be good. Putting down his cup, Rhys rested one elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. “You never finished telling me about these three incidents that endangered the king.”
Simon’s mouth opened, his eyes flicking to Catrin and back to Rhys.
“Catrin is lady-in-waiting to the queen. She isn’t the one who perpetrated them. You can trust her.”
“If we are talking about what I think we’re talking about, I already know something of what you speak,” Catrin said softly. “At least I think I do.”
Simon’s own eyes narrowed. “According to Prince Edmund, the king tried to keep them quiet.”
“I was present for one. The queen confided in me and Margaret about another.” Catrin tipped her head. “I confess I didn’t know about the third.”
Rhys turned to look at her. “The queen must really trust you.”
Catrin’s expression turned dubious. “I suppose she does. I haven’t much thought so, but she knows that I don’t gossip with the other women.” She looked back to Simon. “My man was the first of the dead. And I have already helped Rhys in the investigation. Guy is next to useless, so why not take help from wherever it’s offered?”
Simon laughed under his breath. “You always were unconventional, my friend.”
“That’s why I got results.” Rhys suddenly found that he was starving, and he pulled a trencher off the stack and started loading it with roast mutton and sautéed parsnips. “Speak.”
Simon sighed, resigned, it appeared, to his fate. “In the first instance, the king’s horse nearly threw him—and would have if the king weren’t such a great horseman. The beast was found to have a burr under his saddle.”
“It could happen to anyone,” Rhys said.
“It could, but the stable lad was flogged anyway.”
Catrin wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I assume he claimed it wasn’t there when he saddled the horse.”
“As he would.” Simon said. “It wasn’t until the second instance that we began to rethink the first: the king’s cook found hemlock root amongst the parsnips intended for his table.”
Rhys froze with his fifth parsnip halfway to his mouth. He set down the knife with the parsnip still stabbed onto it. “And the third?”
“It was another incident while out riding. A hunting arrow narrowly missed him and killed the guard behind him.”
Rhys was gaping at Simon. “Where was this?”
“On the road to Conwy from Rhuddlan.”
Rhuddlan was where the king had proclaimed his new statute annexing Wales to England, so it was no wonder someone had taken a shot at him. Still, it was shocking how close the king had been to death.
“That’s the one I knew about, which prompted the queen to tell me about the incident with the horse,” Catrin said. “I didn’t know about the hemlock.”
“Did you catch the archer?” Rhys asked. “I’m assuming it was an archer rather than crossbowman, and you really do mean arrow rather than crossbow bolt.”
“It was an arrow. And no, we never even found his roost.”
“But you think it was a Welshman?”
“The arrow came from a bow.”
“You don’t have to be Welsh to loose an arrow. And he wasn’t a good enough shot to hit his mark.”
“True. In addition, no Welsh cooks were preparing the king’s food when the hemlock incident happened, and the one with the burr took place in England, without a Welshman in sight.”
“I suppose it’s some consolation that the perpetrator doesn’t appear close to the king or embedded in the royal court itself,” Rhys said.
“Which brings us to the incomplete hexfoil,” Simon said. “Could it be related to the incidents you investigated in the Holy Land that also touched upon the king?”
“Surely not. That was years ago and half a world away.” Rhys’s first instinct was to deny, though in retrospect he wasn’t sure why.
“You always thought, even at the time, that we hadn’t destroyed the nest.” Simon gestured with the stem of his goblet to encompass the hall, but he was referring to the murders. “I’m inclined to think you were right.”
“The Baphomets wanted to bring down the Templars. Any wrath directed at King Edward was a sideline, a product of his support for them.”
Catrin had stilled beside them and now raised her hand to ask, “Baphomets?”
Simon eyed Rhys. “You are the one who insisted we speak openly in front of her. You tell her.”
Rhys looked at Catrin. “The Baphomet were a group of rogue Templars who were accused of worshipping Satan.”
Simon scoffed.
“You didn’t believe it?” Catrin asked.
“Neither of us did,” Rhys said. “Even with the loss of Jerusalem to the Muslims, the Templars are one of the most powerful and influential organizations in Europe and the Holy Land. Kings and princes throughout Christendom owe the Templars vast sums of money, and the Templars control great tracts of land—entire kingdoms when all put together. Some of their number—more than those who became the Baphomets—think they’ve lost their way and need to be reformed. The Baphomets we encountered in Acre distrusted the Templars’ excesses to the degree that they wanted to bring down the order.”
“Have you ever met a Templar?” Simon asked Catrin.
“Only once or twice in passing.”
Rhys gave a little snort at the memories he had in abundance. “Many are arrogant.”
“Like any knight,” Catrin said mildly. “A knight must be a little bit arrogant to do what he does.”
“That may be, but some say they have grown too powerful for a monastic order and threaten the reign of kings and popes alike.”
“France, in particular, is not a friend,” Simon said. “King Louis died on crusade before Edward and Edmund arrived in the Holy Land.”
“Of dysentery, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes,” Rhys said. “But some blame the Templars for failing to act sooner to contain the Saracens.”
Catrin appeared to take the explanation in stride and merely said, “Cole never went on crusade. He certainly wasn’t a follower of Satan.”
Rhys let out a puff of air. “Of course he wasn’t, any more than any of the men we captured in Acre were. Baphomet doesn’t refer to anything at all—a god or otherwise. It was a society created to deflect attention from the dissenters, to disguise their identity and numbers. Their intent was to distract from their true purpose. While a big show was going on over here,” Rhys wiggled the fingers of his right hand, “nobody would be looking at what was going on far more quietly over here.” Now he wiggled the fingers of his left hand.
Catrin straightened in her seat. “That I understand.”
As it was exactly what Rhys was doing every day, he hurried on. “Baphomet itself is a corruption of a name the Templars sometimes called the followers of Muhammad.”
Simon made a shushing motion with his hand. Rhys’s voice had risen as he’d been speaking. “Our opinions on the Baphomets are not universally shared.”
“They aren’t shared by anyone,” Rhys said. “That doesn’t mean we’re wrong.”
“What makes King Edward support the Templars if he resents owing them money?” Catrin asked. “I would have thought he’d want them weakened.”
“A weak Templar order might call in his debts,” Simon said matter-of-factly. “Edward knows that. And the Baphomet know that with Edward gone, his son Alphonso would be malleable.”
“Which is all very well and good,” Catrin said, “but it doesn’t explain why they might care in the slightest about a messenger from Gilbert de Clare or a mason at Caernarfon Castle.”
“Because their intent then and now is not only to kill the king, but to make him fear their coming,” Simon said firmly. “A follower is here. Someone we missed.”
Catrin sat back in her chair. “And the incomplete hexfoil?”
“The renegade Templars etched the symbol at crossroads or on walls,” Rhys said. “Sometimes they paid beggars to do it for them. Their intent was to spread fear and expose the impotence of the Templars to control them.”
“The opinion at Temple Church at present is that the Baphomet threat has been neutralized,” Simon said.
“But the symbol remains.” Rhys tipped his head to Catrin. “Fear of it is truly widespread when people in a village at the end of the world know what it is.”
“They know it’s an incomplete hexfoil,” she pointed out. “They don’t know where it comes from or its original meaning.”
“She speaks the truth, Rhys.”
“Which is why I still am not ready to concede the Baphomet are here,” Rhys said.
Ironically, it was the crusaders themselves who brought the symbol home from the Holy Land. By talking about it, they had perpetuated it.
The first time Rhys had seen it, only a few weeks after he and Simon had returned to Britain, someone had drawn an incomplete hexfoil five feet wide in the dirt at a crossroads. A priest had pushed his way through the crowd that gathered around it, and Rhys had still been innocent enough, despite his sojourn in Acre, to tell him exactly what it was supposed to represent and where he’d last seen it.
He should have claimed not to know, though likely it would have done no good. It was already too late to stop the symbol’s spread and the fear its supposed meaning engendered. But even that first day, Rhys hadn’t seen an attachment to Baphomet in the minds of the populace, if the association had ever been known. It became a sign of Satan, used by some as a warning that a demon was close, and by others—few enough, he suspected—to summon one. It was the kind of thing two young lads might dare one another to draw, since cursing another person was the worst thing they could imagine doing.
Simon was still explaining for Catrin. “After we returned from crusade, as was often the case in situations like this, the initial hysteria eventually died down.”
Rhys shifted in his seat. “I certainly don’t like the idea of it rising again—”
“—especially not in the vicinity of the king,” Simon finished for him, “who will know exactly what it is and what it means.” He sighed. “Now, more than ever, we have to tell him what we know.”
“We’d better have a plan for how to proceed before we do so. Anything less, and it will look like we are as incompetent as I feel right now,” Rhys said.
Simon grunted. “If either Cole or Tomos had something to do with the Baphomet, we will root out the conspirators. And if either was killed by a Baphomet—” Simon left the sentence hanging.
Rhys nodded. “We will root him out too.”
Catrin, however, was no longer listening, her attention having been caught by a commotion at the door. Then the voice of Gruffydd, the village headman, bellowed in Welsh above the heads of everyone in the hall. “My lord! The townspeople are marching to burn the village!”
