Chapter Twenty-four

"I pledge by my honor that I will be faithful to Edmund, Prince of England. I will never cause him harm and make my homage to him in good faith and without deceit."

The words were those of submission. But also ones Rhys could adhere to. He’d pledged them before, of course. Even with his resignation and service to Prince Llywelyn, from a certain point of view, he hadn’t ever violated that particular vow.

Regardless, Edmund seemed to see the matter as resolved, a duty done, and now he could move on to other issues. As Rhys rose to his feet, the prince gestured toward the plank, which Simon still held in his hand. “What is this?”

Simon turned over the wooden board to show Edmund the incomplete hexfoil, while Rhys told him of its discovery, along with the important details of John’s death. Edmund hadn’t been at the castle long enough to know much about the other deaths beyond that they’d happened, and though little expression showed on the prince’s face beyond a narrowing of the eyes, his aura grew colder the more Rhys talked.

Then Guy, who had been witness to the entire conversation, including Rhys’s submission to the prince, stepped forward. “Has Rolf been informed of his brother’s death?”

Rhys thought it unlikely, given that Rolf spoke no English, but said it was better he heard it from someone he trusted. Edmund agreed and made a gesture of dismissal.

“Best not to give him too much information,” Rhys said to Guy’s retreating back.

As an investigator, Rhys would have liked to see Rolf’s face when he learned of his brother’s death—not out of vindictiveness but to make sure that Rolf himself wasn’t responsible for it. At long last, however, Rhys’s royal obligations were finally taking precedence.

With Guy gone, Edmund took the board from Simon and studied the carving. “Clever of you, Reese, to get him from the room before we spoke of the Baphomet, while at the same time making him think it was his idea to leave.”

Edmund eyed Rhys, his expression disbelieving, and then he switched his gaze to Simon. “You concur with Reese’s findings?”

“Yes. And I must point out that when Reese says, ‘we’, he really means that he discovered all these things.”

“We have no suspects, my lord.” Rhys turned up both hands. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know if all three were killed by the same man.”

“Surely that’s a given!” Edmund said. “The symbol should tell us that!”

“Everyone in Gwynedd knows by now about the incomplete hexfoil at Cole’s murder scene,” Rhys said. “John’s murderer could be someone else entirely, someone trying to hide his tracks by copying the actions of the man who murdered Cole and Tomos.”

“I’m afraid not, my lord,” Simon said. “We haven’t had the opportunity to question anyone as to his movements.”

The prince began to pace around the room. “John came to Carnarvon on my orders.”

Rhys had long experience at reassurance. “The only man responsible for John’s death is the man who stabbed him, my lord. Don’t take any measure of guilt on yourself.”

Edmund glanced at Rhys. “You’ve been here all along, hiding in plain sight.” It was as if he couldn’t resist another dig. The resentment wasn’t going to go away any time soon, deservedly so. “What do you make of a Baphomet in Carnarvon?”

Then Edmund suddenly reversed course and came right up to Rhys, stopping only a foot away. He could have been angry, but his eyes were merely curious, which was almost worse. “And yet, you deceived everyone here for a year. I am concerned it came so easily to you. Maybe you aren’t the man I once knew.”

“I did not murder John, my lord, as much as I have reason to detest the Stranges.” And maybe it was just as well Edmund was accusing him now. Better to have it out in the open than festering inside. “You are correct, of course, that I alone, among all the current residents of Gwynedd, have knowledge of the Baphomet.”

Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “Why come forth now if not to take charge of an investigation into murders you yourself committed?”

“After Cilmeri, I could have gone anywhere in the world, my lord. I chose to come home. You, the king, even the Baphomet came to me.”

Edmund plucked at his lower lip with his forefinger and thumb as he studied Rhys. “Your pledge to me was true?”

That was a question of honor, and enough to prompt Rhys to finally protest, “My lord—”

But then Edmund waved a hand dismissively, cutting Rhys off before he could complete whatever he was going to say, which maybe even he didn’t know. “The man I used to know would be dishonored by my asking. He would not have lied to me. And maybe I was wrong. Maybe hiding yourself here didn’t come so easily to you after all.”

“I am not lying to you, my lord. I did not kill those men. I am the same man you knew. Older, of course.”

“Wiser too, my lord,” Simon interjected again, knowing as Rhys had that he needed to let Edmund’s suspicions and anger run its course. “While it’s true he hid himself from everyone, including me, he isn’t hiding anymore.”

“It was information I’d rather he had not withheld.” Edmund’s lips remained a thin line.

Rhys waited. Either Prince Edmund was going to accept his renewed service, or he was going to lock him in irons. In that moment, both outcomes had an even chance.

Until Edmund snorted laughter. “Come here, you imbecile.” And for the first time since Edmund had knighted him all those years ago, the prince embraced him. “By the saints, I believe you. More to the point, I want to believe you, and I want you with me. The world wasn’t the same after you left.” He canted his head towards the door on the other side of the room. “Come and see.”

So Rhys and Simon came and saw: a dozen men or more were waiting for the prince in the adjacent room, and they all stopped talking as the three of them entered. It was required that conversation cease at Prince Edmund’s arrival, but that didn’t mean all eyes didn’t fall on Rhys, and he could feel their questions:

Once Rhys turned around and they saw the crusader cross embroidered on the back of his surcoat, they would have their answers, since it was the same cross sewn into the back of Edmund’s.

Rhys scoffed under his breath, understanding further why Simon had so casually given him his own surcoat.

Edmund put an end to their uncertainty by simply waving a hand in Rhys’s direction. “You will have heard of Reese de la Croix, of course, from our time in the Holy Land where he saved my life. He has returned to my service this very day and has my countenance.”

Nods and assenting murmurs came from every throat, though Rhys still felt their eyes. Some of them would know more, and all would be wondering where Rhys had been all this time. Most were great lords with extensive lands, with only a few, like Simon, rising in the prince’s service on merit and knowing their entire station depended on his goodwill. As a prince, Edmund could do as he liked, so nobody was going to question his abrupt introductions, but they would all be feeling Rhys had no business in their company.

One of them, a few years younger than Rhys, stepped forward, his hand out. “Humphrey de Bohun.”

Rhys looked him in the eye and grasped his forearm. “My lord.” Humphrey was one of the great lords of the March, the borderlands between what had been Wales and England. Since the end of the war, his estates in Wales had doubled, now stretching west from Brecon along the Usk almost to Llandovery. The River Irfon, in fact, where Llywelyn had died, acted as the border between Bohun’s lands to the south and Mortimer lands to the north.

Edmund stabbed his fingers in the direction of the other men in the room worthy of being introduced. “Thomas de Clare, John Gifford of Landovery, William Mortimer, Owen de la Pole, Richard FitzAlan, John de Warenne, Henry de Lacy.”

Given that these men had all arrived with Edmund, none of them could be the murderer. But they could be the source of other threats, particularly the ones against the king Simon had mentioned. The secrets these Marcher lords kept, to themselves and with each other, were numerous and varied and any number of them could be plotting against the king. Marcher lords learned conspiracy in their cradles.

The introduction of one of the men in particular had caused a red mist to pass momentarily before Rhys’s eyes. Oddly, it wasn’t William Mortimer, cousin to Roger and Edmund, but rather Owen de la Pole, whom Rhys knew better by his Welsh name, Owain ap Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, a man who’d conspired to assassinate Llywelyn many years earlier. Rhys had known Owain had continued in the king’s favor, having sold out to the English long ago, but he hadn’t thought he’d come face-to-face with him on his first day back in royal service. Owain was also married to a niece of Roger le Strange.

“Wine, gentlemen?” Bohun moved to a side table laden with food and drink and gestured with the goblet he held.

“Thank you.” Rhys suddenly found himself in a position to do what he’d been doing the whole of this last year: befriending former enemies, never mind they were Marcher lords instead of guardsmen at the gate.

“Reese! It’s been too long.” An elbow into Rhys’s ribs had him turning suddenly and almost sloshing his newly poured drink.

Rhys found himself looking into the face of Peter Stebbins, whom, like everyone else, he hadn’t seen in years. He served Henry de Lacy, who was all at once the Earl of Lincoln and Guy’s brother. Rhys smiled and took his forearm in greeting.

“A bramble scratch.” Peter flicked out his fingers dismissively. “It is no matter.”

“I’m no healer, but even a scratch can be deadly,” Rhys said. “Has someone looked at it?”

With a put-upon sigh, Peter unbuckled the bracer covering his right arm to reveal three narrow, bloody scratches along his inner forearm. The center one was approximately five inches long, with the skin around it red and discharging yellow pus.

As much as it would have been convenient for Rhys to have found John’s killer already, John hadn’t sharpened his nails to points, and he and Peter would have had to have been wrestling or somehow contorted around each other to cause these wounds. The scratches were clearly punctures from thorns, not made by fingernails, and looked days old.

“We have a good healer here, trained by one of the monks at Llanfaes,” Rhys said. “After the meeting, you should see him.”

Then Rhys felt Simon’s hand on his elbow, urging him away from the table towards the back wall. As if moved by unspoken agreement, the great men had begun to gather around the map on the main table.

His friend had gone to tell the king everyone was present for the meeting, since he always appeared last. That so many great lords had come to Caernarfon while it was still under construction spoke volumes about King Edward’s view of its place in his plan to control Wales. It didn’t matter that the town was on the edge of the earth. Caernarfon was to be the new administrative center of the entire principality.

Caernarfon, here at the heart of what had been Gwynedd. It was also the one piece of Wales the king was keeping for himself and not designating to one of his followers.

Caernarfon Castle wasn’t meant only to be a symbol of kingly power to the people of Wales. It was also signaling to Edward’s Norman vassals that they would do well to remember what happens to men who refuse to bend the knee when commanded to do so: they and their descendants would be wiped from the face of the earth.

Then the door opened, and the king entered. To a man, everyone bowed, and when Rhys’s head came up, the king had stopped in front of him and was smiling directly into his face.

“Reese.” He looked him up and down. “It’s good to have you back where you belong.”