Fychan was not a talkative traveling companion. In fact, the boy seemed to regret having opened his mouth in the first place and was now making up for his lapse by a studied muteness. Even so, five miles wasn’t far to travel on a fresh and rested horse—even mostly uphill, since Goginan lay at the base of the mountains and was the site of a silver and lead mine, an important source of income for Hywel.
Because of the trade to and from Aberystwyth, the road upon which they traveled was well maintained, and as Gareth had hoped, they reached the village while it was still twilight. Fychan guided them to the home of Gryff’s (other) wife, Carys. As Gareth dismounted, she was sitting on a stool outside her house, watching two small children playing in the dirt. One was the age of Tangwen, and the second was a year or two older.
At the sight of Gareth and Fychan coming towards her, Carys stood, her brow furrowing. Recognizing Gareth’s station by his sword, gear, and fine horse, she bobbed a curtsey. “What brings you to Goginan, my lord?” Then before Gareth could answer, Carys looked past him to Fychan, and her eyes widened. “Fychan! You were a boy last I saw you! Look how you’ve grown.”
Fychan smiled sheepishly and turned bright red. “Cousin Carys.”
Carys put her hands on his upper arms and kissed each of his cheeks in turn. “I heard you’d turned to the Church.”
“Yes, Cousin.” Fychan managed to disentangle himself from Carys, and he gestured to Gareth. “This is Sir Gareth, captain of Prince Hywel’s teulu. We have come—” Fychan broke off at the raised eyebrow from Gareth, flushing again. The boy really didn’t want to be the one to send this pleasant conversation into the terrible turn it was about to take.
Gareth took a step towards Carys, one of the sketches he’d made in his hand. “May I ask, is this your husband?” He tried to keep his face calm and his demeanor unthreatening. He wanted a truthful answer from Carys, given without fear of what might come next.
Carys took the paper, her eyes widening again as she examined the picture. “Yes! Yes, that’s my Gryff.” She looked up. It was only then that the muscles around her lips tightened as she realized that something might be amiss—that this might be more than a pleasant social call. “Why are you asking me this?”
Gareth tipped his head to Fychan, pointing towards the two small children. Fychan understood instantly what Gareth needed from him. He swooped down upon the children, tickling them and herding them a dozen yards farther away from their mother. Then Gareth took in a quick breath and let it out, bracing himself for the task that had brought him all this way. “I’m sorry to tell you, Carys, but this man, if he is your husband, is dead.”
Carys gasped, put her hand to her mouth, and staggered a few steps back. She would have fallen if Gareth hadn’t caught her. “No! No!” She shook her head back and forth rhythmically.
This initial moment when a loved one learned about a death was always the worst part for Gareth. He tried not to rush it, to be gentle in the telling, and when he’d managed to get the words out, he always felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. For the person being told, however, it was only the beginning of the hard times.
“Sit here while I get you some water.” Gareth guided Carys back to her stool and then disappeared inside the darkened house. He was looking for the cup and the pitcher of water. It was resting on the sideboard, as it must be in every Welsh house he had ever entered, ready for the refreshment of a guest. He poured water into the cup and brought it back to Carys. “Drink.”
She took a sip, and Gareth crouched in front of her. “Do you think you could answer a few questions?”
Carys nodded, hiccupping a little and wiping at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her free hand. Her blond hair was pulled away from her face, though tendrils had come loose and framed it. Far more than before he’d told her of Gryff’s death, she looked very young—no more than eighteen to Gareth’s eyes. Too young to have suffered this loss.
“I’m sorry to have to ask this, but when did you last see your husband?”
Carys took another sip from the cup. Her attention was fixed on a patch of dirt somewhere to the right of Gareth’s foot. “Days ago,” she said, and now her voice came out dull and lifeless. The reality of her future was beginning to set in. “He was supposed to visit this coming Sunday.”
That was in three days’ time.
“Why was it that Gryff was absent? He was employed by …” Gareth left the question hanging on purpose, hoping Carys would finish it. Given her present state, he needed to lead her along, but he didn’t want to supply her with the actual answers.
“By that cloth trader he met,” Carys said. “He could never settle on any one thing, could my Gryff, but he always worked. We always had food to eat.” Tears leaked out of her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
Gareth glanced beside the cottage, where an extensive garden lay. It faced southwest, where it would be warmed by every ray of sun it could soak up. He suspected that the garden was her doing, and a large part of the food they ate came from her efforts, even with two small children to raise.
“Did the cloth trader pay Gryff well?” Gareth said.
“He paid better than any work Gryff had ever done,” Carys said. “Gryff worked in the silver mine until he hurt his back. Then he did odd jobs for the blacksmith. He was herding sheep for my brother when he encountered the trader—Iolo was his name—stuck in the mud. He helped him out, and then one thing led to another.” Carys put her head into her hands. “I can’t believe he’s dead!”
She wept, and Gareth allowed her to do so. He rose to his feet and stretched his back, waiting for her tears to slow and considering what question he should ask her next, if he was going to be able to ask her any more questions at all. Her grief seemed genuine. When he’d told her of Gryff’s death, she’d responded in a way that looked completely natural to Gareth—and he had experience in such matters. He’d told more wives than he liked to recall that they’d become widows. He found it hard to believe that Carys had murdered her husband, though he reminded himself to keep an open mind. There was no telling the lengths to which a betrayed woman might go to get her revenge.
Then Carys cut herself off abruptly and looked up from her hands. Since Gareth was now standing, she had to look up a little higher than she had before, and he took a step back so she didn’t have to crane her neck. “How did Gryff die?”
Gareth had been wondering when they’d get to that. “He was found in the millpond not far from the monastery at Llanbadarn Fawr.”
Carys blinked back a fresh onslaught of tears, her eyes wide as she gaped at him. “What? You mean he drowned? My Gryff? No.” She was back to the rhythmic headshaking. “That’s not possible. Not my Gryff.”
“It could have happened if he’d drunk too much,” Gareth said, trying out Iolo’s suggestion. “If he couldn’t swim—”
“He could swim!” Carys glared at Gareth.
Gareth looked carefully at her. “You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. He taught me.” She gestured to her children. “My older boy is only three, and he already swims like a fish. Gryff believed it was never too early to teach a child who lived by a river to swim.”
Gareth didn’t disagree, and her certainty made up his mind for him. “If we could beg lodging from you tonight, would you come with me in the morning to Aberystwyth? At the very least, I am sure you would like to see your husband into his grave.”
Carys sobbed aloud at the mention of Gryff’s funeral, her momentary anger forgotten and her grief renewed. But she nodded her agreement as well.
“Is there someone close by who can watch the children in your absence?” Gareth said.
“My sis-sister-in-law,” Carys said, gasping out a sob in the middle of the word. Then she moaned. “I must speak to my brother. He never liked Gryff.”
Gareth filed that piece of information away for future examination and bit his lip. He had more to tell Carys, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant for her to hear. It wouldn’t be worse than the news of her husband’s death, but it would add insult to the injury. “I regret to say that I have more news that you won’t want to hear, but I think it’s better to tell you all of it now than for you to discover it tomorrow.”
At first he didn’t think Carys had heard him because she continued to weep, hunched over with her face in her hands. Then she quieted, and although she didn’t look up, her voice came sharply. “What is it?”
He cleared his throat, finding it awkward to speak to the top of her head. “Another woman has come forward claiming to be Gryff’s wife.”
Carys jerked, almost falling off her stool. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” He must have apologized to Carys six times already and might have to do it six more. “That’s how we learned his name. The woman came into the chapel where he had been laid out and told us she was his wife. We discovered that you were his wife too only because Fychan is a brother at St. Padarn’s and recognized Gryff’s face when they brought him in.”
Carys had been pale from weeping, but now the rest of the color drained from her face, leaving it pasty and drawn. “Who-who is this woman?”
“Her name is Madlen. She is Iolo’s niece.”
“No!” Carys stood up so suddenly that she startled Gareth, who took a surprised step backwards. Carys brushed past him without another word and set off down the hill towards a cluster of houses below hers that lay nearer to the river.
Gareth went after her. She was distraught, and he was worried about what she might do. She said she could swim, but she wouldn’t be the first widow who tried to drown the pain that she couldn’t master. Because his legs were longer and he wasn’t crying, Gareth caught up with her after fifty feet or so. He tugged on her arm for her to stop and came around in front so she couldn’t keep walking. “Where are you going?”
“To see my brother!” Carys wrenched away from Gareth, shoving at him with both her hands to his chest, and took off again.
She didn’t hurt him, of course, being half his size, but she was quicker than he expected, and she got away from him. At least he knew now that she wasn’t heading for the river but for the closest house. It was larger and sturdier than hers, with a new roof and possibly three rooms inside.
“Alun! Alun!” Carys wailed the name as she approached the house.
The front door was on the other side of the building, facing south and away from Gareth, so he didn’t see the man until he came around the side of his house. He caught Carys in his arms as she barreled into him. “What is it, Carys?”
Before she could answer through her sobs, Alun looked past her to Gareth, standing on the pathway that led up to Carys’s house. “What have you done?”
Gareth put up both hands in what he hoped was an unthreatening manner and began to walk towards the pair. Gareth was a knight and could fight if he had to, but he had no interest in pulling out his sword to protect himself from a grieving widow and her brother. Alun, if Gareth had heard the name right, was the size of an ox with a neck at least as thick as Gareth’s thigh. “I am the bearer of bad news, that is all.”
“What bad news?” Alun looked down at the top of Carys’s head.
“Gryff is dead!” Carys said between sobs. “He was found in the millpond in Llanbadarn Fawr.”
Alun’s face turned deep red. “I’ll—” But whatever he was going to say or do was lost in the outpouring of tears coming from Carys and the army of children who surged around the corner of Alun’s house, engulfing him and Carys and moving on up the hill. Gareth turned to see Fychan standing at the top with Carys’s two little ones, who would now be growing up without their father.
Fychan looked helplessly down at Gareth and the sobbing Carys. “What do you want me to do?”
“Carry on minding the children. We’re not finished here.” Gareth waved a hand at Fychan, who bowed his acceptance, and then Gareth walked the rest of the way down the hill to where Carys and her brother stood.
Alun glowered at Gareth. “Who are you?”
“Gareth ap Rhys.” Gareth kept his expression calm, and as he came closer, Alun’s expression faltered. For the first time, Gareth’s general appearance seemed to register.
Alun swallowed back whatever insult or (more likely) threat he’d been about to throw at Gareth and gave him a stiff bow instead. “My lord. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize who you were.”
“I am the captain of Prince Hywel’s guard,” Gareth said. “I have done nothing to your sister but tell her what has occurred.”
Alun seemed to be struggling with himself. “Can you explain, my lord?”
Gareth raised his chin, realizing what he was seeing: Alun was used to browbeating everyone he encountered, though the way he was holding Carys suggested that he genuinely cared for her. It had probably been a long time since Alun had asked anyone a polite question as he had Gareth just now.
Not one to hold a grudge, Gareth related to Alun the essential details of the finding of Gryff’s body, without mentioning the stab wound. He was still keeping that in reserve. He didn’t know how long he was going to be able to do that, or if it would help them find the murderer, but it was all he had.
Towards the end of the telling, Carys’s sister-in-law came out of the house and wrapped her arms around Carys. The two women sobbed together, and then the sister held Carys at arm’s length and looked into her face. “You always have a place with us. Isn’t that right, Alun?”
“Of course,” Alun said. Not every man would relish taking on three more mouths to feed, but to Alun’s credit, he welcomed his sister without hesitation.
“Come inside.” The woman put her arm around Carys and guided her around the hut towards the door.
Alun put his hands around his mouth and bellowed up the hill for Fychan to bring the children, which after a moment he did, having scooped up the youngest in his arms in his haste to answer the summons.
Fychan skidded to a halt at the bottom of the hill. “What is it?”
“Send the children inside,” Alun said.
Fychan obediently put the child down, and Alun urged all of them towards the house. They went willingly enough, and when they too had disappeared, Alun turned back to Fychan. “You saw Gryff’s body?”
Fychan nodded, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
“You’re sure it was Gryff?”
Again the nod.
“So he’s really dead, eh?” Alun stroked his chin and continued before Gareth had to answer that question. “I always knew he’d come to a bad end.”
“Why is that?” Gareth said.
Alun dropped his hand. “He was a layabout, that’s why.”
Gareth’s conversations with most everyone had given him that impression, first from Iolo’s disappointment in his associate, then from Carys, and finally from Alun, who proceeded to lay out Gryff’s failings more fully: he would always arrive later than he said he would; he would fail to complete an assignment by the end of the day or simply wander off halfway through; or he’d forget the details of what he’d been asked to do to the point that he became useless and it became quicker just to do the work oneself. Only Madlen hadn’t seen him as others had, and that difference made Gareth wonder yet again why Iolo had kept Gryff on and if it had only been for Madlen’s sake.
“His only value, as far as I could see,” Alun said, “was his ability to deliver messages. He would remember what had been said after hearing it once, and repeat it word for word at the other end, regardless of how much time had passed.”
“That is a useful skill,” Gareth said. “Could he be trusted not to repeat what he’d said to another?”
“As far as I could tell, he forgot the message the instant he delivered it,” Alun said. “Money meant nothing to him. A good day’s work meant nothing.”
“That makes him a difficult man to have for a brother-in-law,” Gareth said. “You must have worried a great deal about your sister.”
“He could have been a bard, you know,” Alun said. “But he threw that away too.”
“A bard? Nobody mentioned that he could sing,” Gareth said, thinking of the festival and wondering if Gryff had meant to participate.
“He could sing anything,” Alun said, “but no bard would take him on as an apprentice because he was so unreliable.”
“But you would think that he could memorize any song,” Gareth said.
“And forget it again by the next day,” Alun said, “once he’d sung it once.”
That kind of behavior was reminiscent of a man Gareth had encountered during the time he’d protected a community of nuns in Powys. One of the laborers who worked in their fields had been dropped on his head as a small child. He could be trusted with menial tasks, but spoke slowly, shied away from contact with people, and often listened without comprehension. But he had a head for numbers that defied all logic and expectation.
“I gather Gryff also drank too much?” Gareth said.
“Who told you that?” Again, Alun started talking before Gareth could answer. “The man had a hollow leg. He could drink me under the table and walk home in a straight line afterwards. I’ve never seen a man who could hold his mead like Gryff could.”
Iolo had implied exactly the opposite, but all Gareth did was make a note of that in his head and continue his questioning. “How did Gryff and Carys meet?”
“Oh,” Alun waved a hand, “he has cousins around here. He married Carys after she conceived his child. My father regretted the match, but at that point, he felt it was better that they were wed. Gryff had been working in the mine, but he hurt his back.” Alun shrugged. “I was there when the accident happened, and it was genuine, but it wasn’t as if he’d ever been a hard worker in the first place.”
“When was this?” Gareth said.
“Some three years ago.” Alun screwed up his face for an instant. “It did give Gryff a fiery hatred of Prince Cadwaladr, Lord Hywel’s uncle.” Alun added this last bit of information as if Cadwaladr might be someone Gareth didn’t know.
“Really?” Gareth said. “Why is that?”
“He was working the men too hard, trying to extract ore too quickly,” Alun said. “He needed money and didn’t care what it took to get it.”
Gareth felt his face fall blank. He knew why Cadwaladr had needed money three years ago: He’d first needed to pay a retainer fee to the Danish mercenaries he’d hired to murder King Anarawd and his men, and then he’d needed to pay them off.
Alun didn’t seem to notice Gareth’s change in demeanor and continued, saying, “Gryff did odd jobs after that and was herding my sheep when he encountered the cloth trader, Iolo.”
“What did you think of his new employment?” Gareth said.
“To tell you the truth, I was relieved,” Alun said. “Gryff was a dreamer. Even herding sheep, which requires only the intelligence of a sheep half the time, was too much for him some days.”
Alun seemed genuinely upset at the loss of Gryff for Carys’s sake, but more regretful than angry or grieving on Gryff’s behalf. If grief was a reflection of love, neither Iolo nor Alun had loved Gryff. Neither man gave any indication they knew Gryff had been murdered either. Gareth wanted to see Alun’s face when he was finally told. Perhaps that moment ought to come soon.
But not yet.
“When did you last see Gryff?” Gareth said.
“Oh—” Alun tapped his chin as he thought. “It must have been the Sunday before last. He tried to visit Carys and the children when he could. The trader let him off on Sunday, and he would come if he could walk from wherever he was staying at the time.”
“Did you know he was in Aberystwyth?” Gareth said.
“I knew he was coming for the festival. He suggested we all come down for it, but—” Alun gestured helplessly around him. “I try not to leave my herds for more than half a day.”
“Aren’t you a miner too?” Gareth said.
“Not every day,” Alun said. “I sometimes pick up work when they need an extra hand.”
Gareth knew a little of silver mining. The work took place underground in open shafts, and workers made their way down steep tunnels to where the silver was found. Usually, silver and lead were extracted together, and they had to be separated in a furnace to release the silver. It was hard work, hot and dangerous at times, and a life Gareth could be thankful every day he wasn’t born to.
Still, it was lucrative since miners were often paid in ore, which explained the size of Alun’s house and the extent of his herds. It was hard to think what Alun might have gained from Gryff’s death, especially if Gryff had finally been able to support Carys without help.
“Was Gryff usually staying in a place close enough to Goginan to walk home?” Gareth said.
“Not often,” Alun said, “Iolo ranged all through Deheubarth and Ceredigion, into Powys, and all the way to Shrewsbury. Gryff came when he could.”
“What about Carys? Would she have been willing to bring the children to Aberystwyth, even if you didn’t come with her? Surely Iolo would have allowed them to sleep wherever Gryff was staying?” Though as Gareth asked that, he realized that he hadn’t yet told Alun about Madlen. Gareth could see why Gryff would have been loath to suggest such an arrangement.
“If Carys discussed it with him, I never heard of it,” Alun said.
“Excuse me, Cousin.” Fychan stepped forward. He’d been so quiet Gareth had all but forgotten the boy was there. “Didn’t I see you a couple of days ago near St. Padarn’s monastery?”
Alun’s brow furrowed. “Did you?”
Gareth raised his eyebrows. Fychan was a sharp-eyed boy. He’d been right about Gryff, and Gareth was inclined to believe him in this too. “Were you in Aberystwyth two days ago? Did you see Gryff?”
The big man’s face grew red. Then the color seemed to take over his whole body to the point that he bore a striking resemblance to the silver furnace he occasionally worked. Gareth imagined him breathing fire. But then Alun took a deep breath, striving to calm himself. He might be a big man in Goginan, but Gareth was of a far higher rank as a knight. And they both served Prince Hywel one way or another.
“Fychan speaks the truth. I visited Aberystwyth for a few hours two days ago,” Alun said.
Two days ago Gryff was still alive. “Did you see Gryff?” Gareth said.
“I did.”
Gareth raised his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you mention it when I asked when you’d last seen him?” Gareth didn’t want to antagonize the big man, but this was a piece of information that should have come out far earlier in their conversation. Keeping secrets was the first indication of a guilty conscience.
“I forgot about it until Fychan said something. Earlier, I thought you were asking about when he’d last come here.”
“How did you get to Aberystwyth?” Gareth said. “Did you walk?”
“I have a cart and horse,” Alun said.
“You traveled two hours there and back to see Gryff?” Gareth said. “Why?”
Alun scoffed. “I didn’t travel to Aberystwyth to see Gryff. I had other business in the village. I ran into Gryff by chance. I hadn’t known he’d arrived yet or that his master had lodgings in the town.”
“What did you two talk about?” Gareth said.
“Nothing of importance, though—” Alun’s brow furrowed, “—he didn’t seem right to me. As I said, Gryff was always a dreamer, but that day he was tense, anxious even. It was noticeable enough that I asked him if he was well, but all he said was that Iolo was working him hard at the festival. He was in a hurry and didn’t want to talk.”
“What kind of hard work does a cloth merchant do?” Gareth was genuinely curious. As far as he could tell, a cloth merchant bought cloth and then sold it. He wasn’t sure where the apprentice came in, especially since Iolo had Madlen to help him.
Alun waved a hand. “Gryff did all the physical work: he put up the tent; he cared for the cart and horse; he even dug a latrine in the evening if they miscalculated how long a journey might take and had to make camp in a remote place.”
“That doesn’t sound like the work of a layabout,” Gareth said.
“It does if it took him three times longer than the average man to do the work.” Alun snorted. “I’d wager the only reason Iolo kept him on was so he didn’t have to do the work himself.”
Gareth grunted his acceptance of Alun’s reasoning. That might be a wager he would win. “What of Madlen?”
“What of her?” Alun said. “She’s Iolo’s niece, isn’t she?”
“Did Gryff ever speak of her?” Gareth said.
Alun pursed his lips. “Not that I remember, or not with any significance. She looked down on him, and such an attitude grows old after a while, even for one as easygoing as Gryff.”
Gareth swallowed, bracing himself for the wrath that he knew would come the moment he opened his mouth again. “She came to the chapel at St. Padarn’s saying she was Gryff’s wife.”
But instead of becoming angry, Alun simply gaped at him. “What? That’s absurd.”
“I tell you it’s true,” Gareth said. “We wouldn’t even have known that he had a wife in Carys—and had children too—if Fychan hadn’t come forward—” And then Gareth broke off as he carried that sentence to its logical conclusion in his mind: if Fychan hadn’t come forward, they would have buried Gryff’s body. If not for the murder investigation, that would have been the end of it. Carys would never have known what had happened to her husband.
Alun was too caught up in the news to wonder at Gareth’s unfinished sentence. He turned to Fychan, his face questioning.
Fychan bobbed a nod without needing Alun to actually ask him anything. “Sir Gareth speaks the truth.”
“That is utterly mad. Why would she say such a thing?” Alun said.
“Our assumption was that she believed herself to be Gryff’s wife,” Gareth said.
“That isn’t possible.” Alun’s voice was full of certainty.
“You don’t believe that Gryff would have led Madlen on?” Gareth said. “That he might not have told her about his wife and children?”
Alun shook his head. “No, I don’t. At the very least, if Madlen was under the protection of her uncle—as we know her to be—he would never have consented to the match without meeting his family. Besides, I just told you that Gryff asked us to come to Aberystwyth for the festival. Why would he have asked us if he was betraying Carys with Madlen?”
“I don’t know,” Gareth said, thinking of his own marriage to Gwen, which had united his family with hers, though at the time, his family consisted only of himself. “I gather you yourself have never personally met Iolo?”
Alun frowned. “Come to think on it, I haven’t. I suppose if I’d gone to the festival as Gryff had asked I finally would have.”
“Didn’t you find it odd that you never had met him before?” Gareth said.
Alun shrugged. “It was typical Gryff. Or so I thought then. But I’m starting to wonder if I knew the man as well as I thought I did.”