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Day Two
Rhys
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Rhys woke up cursing himself—not because of the lateness of the hour, even though it wasn’t as early as he’d hoped to rise, but because he was sure he’d find the hangman’s noose around his neck before the day was out. He’d heard Catrin snort in derision at him when he’d mentioned the way he’d cultivated the guardsmen, and he’d told her that Aron had volunteered to be arrested. He cursed again: stupid, stupid, stupid.
It had been a long time since he’d allowed his heart to get the better of him. He wanted Catrin to be on his side, and she was the one person up at that castle Rhys wished knew the truth about what he was doing for their people. Because of that, he’d showed something of himself to her out of weakness for their shared past, speaking at times too fervently and freely. Though he hadn’t meant to undercut his carefully cultivated façade, he feared he’d revealed a little too much as a result.
It was too easy to treat her like they knew each other well. And, of course, he wanted her not to hate him.
But if he was to continue in the life he’d set for himself, he needed to protect her from the truth. From the comments she’d made, she was still highly partisan in favor of the Welsh cause, which was all very well and good as far as it went, but she hadn’t lived in Wales since the war ended. She didn’t understand the danger of a careless word. As a queen’s lady, she was in a protected position. He was not.
To genuinely have her convinced he was a loyal servant to the English crown would be a significant triumph, because if she, who had known him as a youth, believed the lie, then everyone else would too.
The feeling of dread continued as he accepted a walking breakfast of bread and cheese from Sian, Gruffydd’s wife, and headed down the road that led to the castle from the village. The Welsh settlement had a green in the center, with twenty houses spread around it, encompassing a distance of at least two hundred yards of the south bank of the River Cadnant. The Welsh had never been much for living in towns, but the village had sprung up in this location because of its proximity to the sea and the royal palace on the hill.
Once Rhys arrived at the castle, it was a matter of wending his way among the craft huts, winches, stray stones and other construction equipment, dodging workmen all the while, on his way to meet Guy fitz Lacy.
While he was relieved nobody looked at him oddly (or more oddly than usual), meaning his impending doom wasn’t common knowledge as yet, his heart did beat a little faster when Guy himself stepped out of the great hall and moved to intercept him.
“Had a lie-in today, did we?”
Rhys didn’t bother to deny it because, first, it would feel like he was giving Guy an advantage over him, and second, it was factually true. Guy wouldn’t know how late Rhys had stayed up last night—and even if he did know, he wouldn’t care.
Instead, he said, “May I be of service?”
“You’re wanted in the gatehouse. The new captain of the king’s guard arrived hours ago and asked to see you immediately.”
The old captain had fallen ill and died on the journey to Caernarfon. Although Rhys was working with Guy at the moment, he was officially a member of Tudur’s retinue—which meant he served the king as Tudur did, and Rhys’s real commander was the captain of the king’s personal guard, not Guy, who now pressed his lips together, implying irritation.
“I was not pleased to have to tell him I didn’t know where you were. I couldn’t even say where you were lodging, and he expressed irritation you didn’t have a berth in the castle.”
Guy said all this accusingly, as if his ignorance and Rhys’s lack of housing in the town or castle was Rhys’s own fault. It was true Rhys had deliberately kept that information from Guy as a matter of course. He hadn’t wanted him to know where he was staying because he didn’t believe it was any of Guy’s business. And he made it a point never to lie. Perhaps it was splitting hairs, because his omissions resulted in deception, but to him it remained an important distinction.
But the real truth was, up until this moment, Guy hadn’t thought where Rhys lay his head at night mattered. Besides, even if he’d been given the information, his knowledge of the surrounding countryside was minimal. The Normans defended the castle. They didn’t risk themselves riding through the countryside except in parties of more than fifty. Guy knew his way to the barn where the body had been found only because Rhys had showed him. Up until now, Rhys had always been there when Guy needed him.
For once, Rhys felt compelled to defend himself. “Surely the captain knows why I have no lodging here.”
Guy cleared his throat. “He does.” For the first time in Rhys’s presence, the coroner appeared uncomfortable. “He called you Rhys de la Croix. I didn’t know of whom he was speaking at first. You didn’t tell me you’d been on crusade with the king.”
This last sentence was said in an accusing tone, so it wasn’t actually an apology for his condescending and dismissive manner up until now. It was more that he was offended Rhys had kept such a vital piece of information from him.
“It was a long time ago.” Rhys chose to be forgiving, even if Guy couldn’t, and even though the dread in his belly was now a hundred times worse.
There was a certain kind of safety in being underestimated and despised. But in referring to Rhys as de la Croix, this new captain showed he knew who Rhys was, maybe even knew him well and, worst of all, was asking for him here in Caernarfon. There were a very limited number of people who had that information, most of whom were already in Caernarfon and were, in fact, Welsh. It made the importance of Rhys’s approach to Catrin pale in comparison.
It was on the tip of Rhys’s tongue to ask Guy the captain’s name, but then he decided he would simply wait and see. Asking for the new captain’s identity would reveal a vulnerability within Rhys and imply he cared who he was or was apprehensive about it.
And yet, despite the belligerence with which Guy had initially greeted Rhys, clearly something in his attitude had changed, in that Guy proceeded to personally escort Rhys to the guardroom in the King’s Gate. It was one of the few mostly finished rooms within the castle walls and apparently was going to be the captain’s quarters until the king moved on from Caernarfon.
When they arrived, nobody was present, but given the remains of a meal on the table, someone had been there recently.
And then, for the first time in living memory, and maybe as a sign of Rhys’s new-found status, Guy left Rhys alone and unguarded in the captain’s quarters. In the past, while Rhys had some freedom to wander the corridors and eat in Caernarfon’s great hall, he was looked upon with suspicion every time he entered a room. Certainly, he had never been left alone in one.
With no recourse but to see the coming moment through, Rhys settled against the wall to wait, his arms folded across his chest and his feet crossed at the ankles. If nothing else, hours, days, and years of guard duty and stalking culprits had taught him patience. While he had work to do today, if he was to continue the investigation into Cole’s death and serve his people, he needed to start out on the right side of this new captain, whoever he was. By arriving at the castle at mid-morning, Rhys was already on the back of his heels with him.
The king wouldn’t be at Caernarfon for more than a month or two at most, depending on how quickly the baby came, if he or she lived, and the health of the queen. Then, the king and his retinue, including the captain of his guard, would move on. Rhys would be left in Caernarfon, responsible again only to Tudur and to whomever the king chose to replace Guy as coroner.
Rhys had every intention of handling the new coroner as he handled Guy. For the first time, in fact, Rhys was looking upon Guy’s coming departure as a good thing, since Guy was clearly resentful of Rhys’s history. Hopefully, he would soon grow bored with acknowledging it and return to treating Rhys with disdain. Rhys took this moment alone to ponder how to make that happen sooner rather than later.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t given much time to think before the door to the guardroom opened and one of Rhys’s closest friends, Simon Boydell, entered the room, a look on his face halfway between consternation and amusement.
“Rhys de la Croix, master of arms, defender of princes.”
He said Rhys the Welsh way, with the breathy trilled r like Rhys had taught him thirteen years earlier on a ship to the Holy Land. Simon had spent a diligent quarter of an hour learning how to say it properly and then, out of pure contrariness, had never said it right again.
Today, Simon knew what he’d done, because he smiled as he spoke, though the pinching at the corners of his eyes told Rhys his amusement was just a bit forced. Simon had added the de la Croix because he wanted Rhys to remember their shared past.
As if Rhys could ever forget it.
“Simon.” Rhys straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wall and allowed Simon to embrace him for the first time in more than four years.
Then they stepped back and studied each other.
“I thought you were dead.”
“I was left for dead.”
And then Simon went straight to the one issue between them that truly mattered. “What in the name of our blessed Savior are you doing here, Rhys?”
Again, he pronounced Rhys’s name correctly. Because of that, Rhys couldn’t fob him off with a jest or evasion. He knew exactly what his old friend was asking. He wanted to know what had happened at Cilmeri, where Rhys had been all this time since then, and why Rhys hadn’t let him know he was alive.
“Prince Llywelyn died and, afterwards, I did what I had to do to survive.”
Simon sighed, pulled out a bench next to the table, and sat. “You always were something of an idiot.”
Of all the things he could have said, few would have made Rhys laugh. But laugh he did. Simon was speaking in that familiar manner that had been second nature when they were young men, thinking a crusade was an adventure worth having if ever there was one and not displeased with the idea of being absolved of sin for a lifetime. Both younger sons of minor noblemen, one Welsh, one Norman, they’d joked and jested from Chester to Acre. There, of course, the jests had ceased. Or, if they’d found amusement still, it was in the macabre.
As a younger son, Simon had been shut out of his father’s inheritance in favor of his older brother. Rhys’s father had encouraged him to achieve everything he could on his own merits because it was the only honor that lasted.
“Given the way you’ve kept yourself hidden up until now, why are you involved in this investigation? Why didn’t you leave Carnarvon as soon as you saw what this was about? You had to know you couldn’t investigate the death of a man anywhere close to the king without calling attention to yourself.”
Rhys gazed at his friend, understanding that Simon’s question was coming from a deep well of anger—and it was an anger Rhys couldn’t address, much less apologize for.
So he spoke the simple truth instead. “I hate murder.”
Simon’s lips twisted. “Don’t we all. Any man would say the same.”
“But not every man has seen what we’ve seen, Simon. We’ve lived through death in a thousand different guises. We’ve caused it ourselves. That is the reason every breath, even if painful, should be savored, and every life followed to the end, come what may—Welsh, English, or Norman, God help me. If the priests are wrong, and this world is all there is, then no man should cut another man’s life short, not even that man himself. And if there is such a thing as heaven, then a man can only be well-served by living as fully as possible every heartbeat of the life he’s been given, in preparation for the next one.”
Rhys stopped. He hadn’t meant to go on like that. In truth, He hadn’t realized how much he cared until he’d started speaking. As he stuttered to a halt, Simon gazed at him with that pleased look Rhys had seen many times on his face when they’d been the best of friends. Rhys would start speaking, usually more earnestly than a situation called for, and Simon would allow him to ramble on until everyone around them was both glassy-eyed and awestruck at Rhys’s forceful and elaborately reasoned argument. Simon would act like he’d invented Rhys himself or he was his prized heifer at the village market and suddenly they’d be drinking for free. If only to get Rhys to stop talking.
“Not everyone agrees with me,” Rhys concluded, somewhat lamely.
“Clearly.” Simon let out a puff of air that was almost a laugh. “Here I thought your silence had something to do with me, but it didn’t, did it?”
“No. After Cilmeri, I couldn’t—” Rhys broke off.
Simon allowed the pause to lengthen before finally saying, “You couldn’t what?”
“I swore a long time ago that I would never lie to you, and I never will. But not all lies are overt. There are those of omission. It was better to absent myself from your life, to let you think I was dead, than to pretend to be something I wasn’t.”
