Gwen
Rhys moved towards the door and opened it. “Lwc! I need—” He cut himself off at the sight of his assistant already standing in the doorway with an eager expression on his face.
“Yes, Father?”
Even though he was quite a few years older than her brother, Lwc reminded Gwen very much of Gwalchmai, and she almost laughed again.
Rhys recovered from his surprise and gestured to Gwen. “Lwc, I would like you to be Gwen’s escort around the monastery. She and her guard, Evan, who serves Prince Hywel, are to have full access to all areas of the monastery and to every monk, barring those in the infirmary. We need to find this killer before he strikes again.”
Lwc straightened his shoulders to an almost military bearing. “Yes, Father.” Then he hesitated. “What about Prior Anselm? He’s been feeling poorly of late and sleeping in the infirmary rather than in his cell, but he was about earlier.”
“If he’s in the infirmary, don’t disturb him,” Rhys said. “We know already that he didn’t recognize the dead man. I will speak to him myself later.”
“Why choose me, Father?” Lwc said.
“Because I don’t have to explain to you the seriousness of what has occurred, and I know you will be discreet.”
The expression on Lwc’s face as he looked at Rhys was one of hero-worship. “You can count on me, Father.”
Rhys settled a hand on his shoulder. “I know I can. That’s why I chose you for this task.”
It was still raining as Evan, Gwen, and Lwc set out from Rhys’s office. Gareth had made it clear that he would be speaking to the brothers who worked in the fields and gardens, so it was Gwen’s job to take on everybody else. The monastery at St. Asaph was Welsh in origin, having been founded by St. Kentigern five hundred years earlier, before there were any Roman monastic orders in Wales at all. It was a poorer monastery than the Abbey of St. Peter and St. Paul in Shrewsbury from which she’d just come and was home to one hundred monks.
In typical more equitable Welsh fashion, St. Kentigern’s employed few laymen to work for them. Compared to the abbey in Shrewsbury, Gwen was much more comfortable here, among Welshmen, speaking Welsh and with Welsh customs and norms. It had been odd to be in England, even if only seven miles from the Welsh border, and find that what she thought was normal and made sense perhaps didn’t quite. But even a hundred was a great many men to question in a day.
Roughly half the monks in the monastery worked within a stone’s throw of the guesthouse, and the rest were scattered far and wide in the fields and pastures which the monastery controlled. With the idea that they might as well start with what was closest, their first stop was the scriptorium. Gwen and Evan waited in the corridor for Lwc to pace importantly ahead of them and prepare the monks for Gwen’s arrival. He left the door open, however, and Evan watched with bright eyes as Lwc lectured his fellow monks on discretion. Gwen herself suppressed a smile and looked down at the ground.
As they waited, Evan stretched his back and shoulders, loosening his muscles. “I, for one, am not sorry that I’m not out there in the muck fighting men of Powys today.”
“I would that men never went to war again,” Gwen said, “but I don’t see how the abbot will achieve peace, even if he wants it desperately. At the same time, I can’t see what Madog has to gain from fighting.”
Evan pursed his lips before speaking. “He has more men than we do.”
Gwen frowned. “He does?”
Evan waggled his head. “We all know it. Since Rhun’s death, King Owain has been neglecting his kingdom. Not as many lords have rallied around his banner as might have a year ago.”
“I didn’t know.” Gwen bit her lip. “That’s bad—bad for all of us.”
“It is a bargaining piece for Madog, who is clearly in the wrong at the moment. The key will be getting both sides to back down without losing face.”
Then Lwc returned, looking satisfied. “They are ready, but I can tell you already that none of them know anything.”
Gwen struggled not to grind her teeth, since she had wanted to be the one to question them without predisposing anyone to conclusions. She should have said something before Lwc went in there. It was fine giving the young monk the satisfaction of leading them, but he knew nothing about investigations. If she allowed him to continue as he had, he would hinder her.
“Thank you, but you know I have to ask.” Then she leaned into him and whispered. “You intimidate the others because you are the abbot’s secretary. I am grateful for your assistance with the questioning, but it would be better if you let me do the talking from here on out. As a woman, I am less threatening.” She raised her eyebrows innocently as she finished her little speech.
Lwc nodded emphatically. “Yes. Yes, of course. I understand.”
“Thank you.” Gwen looked at Evan. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer it if you stay by the door too.”
Evan smirked from behind Lwc’s back, having enough experience working with her and Gareth to know full well what Gwen had just accomplished. He nodded, acquiescing so it would be easier for Lwc to do the same.
Gwen entered the room and went to each monk in turn, introduced herself, and explained that Gareth had asked her to show the image of Erik to as many people as possible in hopes that somebody had seen him. Unfortunately, Lwc was right that none of the six monks in the scriptorium claimed to have been awake in the middle of the night other than for the vigil of the night office. None of them had ever seen Erik before, even when Gwen added to their understanding of the black and white image by describing his size and coloring.
As Gwen and Evan progressed through the monastery, they found nobody with useful information. Not in the laundry, among those who worked in the kitchen or the stable or tended to the needs of Abbot Rhys, or among the novices. The guesthouse had been completely taken over by King Owain and his retainers, so there were no guests to question this time. Even the monk who oversaw the gatehouse had been aware of no activity last night or any night that seemed to have a bearing on Erik’s death. Everybody looked at the sketch of Erik that Gareth had drawn and shook his head.
This particular monastery was unfamiliar to Gwen—Gareth had been here only briefly several years ago—but she’d spent time in monasteries in the past, most recently in Aberystwyth and Shrewsbury. It was enough to have grown familiar with how things were supposed to be done. Above all, especially in a monastery run by Abbot Rhys, there was dignity, reverence for God’s creation, and order. Gwen could see it in the well-trimmed hedges and the carefully edged pathways through the garden. The guesthouse had been sparsely but adequately furnished and immaculately swept and dusted. The bread last night had been a small slice of heaven. Gwen suspected that every book and paper in the scriptorium was aligned perfectly with every other, and woe betide the novice who spilled his ink.
What’s more, Rhys had an entire monastery of innocent monks.
More than a little disheartened, though Gwen knew she shouldn’t be since this was part of the job of an investigator, and it was more usual than not to spend a great deal of time asking questions nobody could answer, by mid-afternoon Gwen and Evan found themselves underneath the gatehouse tower, watching the rain cascade off the roof and spatter on the flagstones of the courtyard.
They hadn’t deliberately saved the questioning of Brother Pedr, the gatekeeper, for last, but he had been the last monk Lwc had brought them to. Pedr hadn’t been any more helpful than anybody else, and Lwc had departed for afternoon prayers with yet another satisfied look of a job well done, if fruitless in the end. Pedr, as gatekeeper, had remained behind, since (as he told them) his duty didn’t stop for prayers, and he would say them alone in his little room at the base of the tower. As an older monk, he was no longer suited to manual labor, but his mind remained sharp, even if his knees creaked when he walked.
And as it turned out, the need for him to stay was shown to be true a moment later by the arrival of a lone monk, who appeared out of the rain, head bent and cloak clutched tightly around himself, having come from the east. He was an older man, one who upon first impression appeared to be very much in the vein of Abbot Rhys. Like the abbot, he was dressed sensibly for the journey in boots and cloak, though still in the robes of a monk. He dismounted within the shelter of the gatehouse tower, pushed back his hood, and looked around for someone to speak to. He spied Gwen and Evan at the same moment that Pedr came hurrying from his watch room.
“Welcome, brother!” Pedr said. “You look as if you’ve come far.”
The newcomer had already opened his mouth to speak to Gwen and Evan, but he swung around to Pedr. “I am Brother Deiniol from St. Dunawd’s Monastery southeast of Wrexham. I am sent here by my abbot to Abbot Rhys on a matter of utmost urgency.”
“We are at prayers at the moment, but you are welcome to join them in the church until we’ve finished—”
“I have missed the vigils, but this cannot wait.” Deiniol shook his head vehemently in case Pedr was going to argue with him about it.
Pedr pursed his lips, clearly unhappy at the thought of interrupting afternoon prayers, but then Evan raised his hand. “I’ll speak to the abbot. Don’t worry, I’ll be as discreet as I can.”
Evan’s lifted hand had opened his cloak, which he’d been holding closed against the weather, and at the sight of Evan’s surcoat, Deiniol drew in a breath. “You’re a man of Owain Gwynedd!”
Evan’s expression turned to one of puzzlement. “Of course I serve Owain Gwynedd, as does everyone here. Where do you think you are?”
Deiniol’s face paled even more. “Powys.”
Evan snorted. “St. Asaph hasn’t been part of Powys for years.”
“But what-what are you doing here, at the monastery?” The stutter seemed uncharacteristic for a man of Deiniol’s bearing, but his shock was genuine.
Gwen decided she ought to step in, since the two men seemed to be speaking past each other. “We are here for the peace conference that Abbot Rhys has called to reconcile Powys and Gwynedd. If you were looking for room in the guesthouse, it is full.”
“That’s-that’s not why my abbot sent me. Just after St. Dafydd’s day, our monastery was robbed and burned by a party of Owain Gwynedd’s men. It is the theft of our relics and a safe haven for our brothers that I’m about.”
Brother Pedr made a hasty sign of the cross. “That is troubling news indeed. You are sure they were King Owain’s men?”
“We have no doubt of it. The yellow and red lion standard was plain on the chests of every one of them.” Deiniol’s eyes strayed again to Evan’s chest, and then he shook his head and averted his eyes as if looking directly at Evan pained him. “To think that men in the service of the king could sink so low.”
Gwen had a hand to her mouth. She wanted to protest, to deny that what Deiniol said could be true, but he seemed beyond appeasement. Instead, Brother Pedr put a hand on Deiniol’s arm. “The world is a dangerous place. Know that you have come to a safe haven, regardless of who else is here. The Church is neutral ground and provides sanctuary and hospitality to all.” As he finished speaking, his eyes went to Evan, who nodded and headed out into the rain to fetch the abbot.
Though Deiniol’s eyes never left Evan’s back as he loped away from them across the courtyard, he also nodded weakly, taking in a breath and letting it out. Some of his anxiety faded to be replaced by relief that he was no longer in the presence of a soldier from Gwynedd.
Pedr turned his attention to Gwen as if he felt it was now his job to appease her. “The lawlessness along the border between Wales and England is well known.”
“It is.” Now that she’d had time to absorb Deiniol’s news, Gwen’s expression turned thoughtful. “In fact, before he joined Prince Hywel’s retinue, Gareth learned to read as payment for protecting a convent from exactly this kind of banditry.”
“Surely that villainy wasn’t perpetrated by the men of King Owain of Gwynedd too?” Deiniol said.
Gwen let out an exasperated sigh that she immediately swallowed and turned into a smile. “No.”
She still wanted to say more, but she decided not to. Deiniol was not to be persuaded, at least not now and not by her, that the men who’d sacked his monastery couldn’t have been sent by Owain Gwynedd. Only household knights and men-at-arms in the retinue of a man of the royal house wore the colors of the House of Aberffraw. That meant that if Deiniol was correct in their identity, the men involved belonged either to the king, to Hywel, or to one of Hywel’s younger brothers, Cynan or Madoc.
Gwen knew for certain that the men hadn’t been sent by Hywel. King Owain would been in mourning on St. Dafydd’s Day and in no condition to be sending men anywhere, much less to sack a monastery. That left Madoc and Cynan, except their hands had been completely full—first with the preparations for, and then with the actual taking of, Mold Castle. To think that either of them would have ordered men to Wrexham to sack a monastery on the side was laughable.
Furthermore, what better way for a group of bandits operating in Powys to deceive the populace than to disguise themselves as men of Gwynedd? Everybody would be looking at their surcoats and not their faces, and Gwynedd and Powys had been at odds for long enough—forever almost—that most Powysians distrusted men of Gwynedd as a matter of course.
Pedr met Gwen’s eyes, and he made a rueful face. He was a monk and secluded from the world, but he wasn’t a fool. It had occurred to him too that Deiniol’s assumptions about what had gone on in Wrexham weren’t necessarily the real facts.
Because they both continued to smile gently at Deiniol, he knew nothing of their disbelief, and he said, “I am relieved to know that the king has come to the monastery in peace. The Church can call him to account for what his men have done, rebuild our monastery, and return our wealth to us.”
Pedr patted Deiniol on the shoulder. “Meanwhile, we will find a bed in the dormitory for you.”
Deiniol managed a genuine smile, and the act transformed his face from a fairly weathered and severe visage to one far more open. “If not, I am not above sleeping in a stable. If it was good enough for our Lord, I can hardly argue.”
More as a distraction while they waited for Evan to return with Abbot Rhys than because she thought she might learn something from him, Gwen pulled out the sketch of Erik. “Do you recognize this man?”
Deiniol’s brow furrowed as he took the paper from her, looking from Erik’s picture to her face. “Does this have anything to do with what happened to my brothers?”
“I didn’t learn of the destruction of your monastery until you told us. This is a different matter.”
Deiniol returned his attention to the image. Like many men of his age, his eyes troubled him, and he stretched his arm out as far as it would go in order to better see what Gareth had drawn. “My goodness, I think I do recognize him. I saw him on the road a few days ago. I had stopped to rest at a village well in order to slake my thirst, and he came following after. It was only a quarter of an hour before he was heading west again at a rate faster than my old nag could travel.”
“You spoke to him?” Gwen’s heart sped up.
“Very briefly. I can’t say I know anything about him.” He paused, hesitating.
“What is it?” Pedr urged.
Deiniol licked his lips. “I hate to speak ill of any man, but—”
Deiniol hadn’t had a problem speaking ill of the men of Gwynedd, but as he was from Powys, that prejudice would have been instilled from birth. Gwen let the gross untruth pass without comment and said instead, “We really do need to know anything you can tell us about your encounter with him.”
Deiniol gave a curt nod and handed the paper back to her. “He was very gruff, unpleasant even. He wouldn’t look me in the eye when I spoke to him and had no interest in conversing. He left in a hurry, as if someone was chasing him.”
Gwen could have said, or as if he had urgent news to deliver, but again held her tongue. That was information she didn’t need to share with anyone but Gareth, Hywel, and Conall.
Then Evan appeared out of a side door of the church, Brother Anselm rather than Abbot Rhys in tow. She didn’t know Anselm at all, he didn’t like her, and thus she didn’t want to question Deiniol in front of him. So she had time for only one more question. “Where did this sighting take place?”
“In a little village north of Llangollen.”
As Deiniol spoke, Evan reached the shelter of the gatehouse. Taking in the sketch of Erik in Gwen’s hand and her intent expression, he said, “Llangollen did you say? That is the seat of King Madog’s power. My king will want to speak to you of what you saw along the way.”
He couldn’t have forgotten Deiniol’s fear of him, but he was as dismissive of the idea that men of Gwynedd were responsible for the sacking of Wrexham as Gwen was. Deiniol, however, held up his hands in a gesture that implied both ignorance and that he wanted to keep Evan away from him. “I know nothing of this war and want nothing to do with it.”
Evan’s eyes narrowed, but Gwen sighed. “You forget that Gwynedd is here looking for peace.”
“So you say.” Deiniol let out a breath. “You cannot blame me for being distrustful.”
“Surely any further conversation need not be had in the rain.” Anselm shot Evan an irritated look. From what Gwen had gleaned about Anselm so far, it was a common expression for him. To his credit, Anselm was right. It had been rude of her to keep Deiniol outside all this time rather than inviting him inside to warm his hands at Pedr’s grate or in the guesthouse common room.
Deiniol turned to Anselm. “I would be most grateful to shed these wet robes and warm myself at a fire—and if someone could care for my horse? He has come a long way.”
“I’m surprised you had a horse to ride if these bandits destroyed everything as you say,” Evan said.
Deiniol’s breath quickened in the face of Evan’s renewed skepticism. “He was the only one not taken by the marauders. They saw him for what he was—an old fellow who’d been put out to pasture and was no longer useful even for riding. It has taken me so long to get here because he needed to rest—and truth be told, I fell ill and had to take shelter in a village for over a week. It might have been better to have walked directly here, but once he and I started out, I couldn’t abandon him, nor he me, no matter how urgent my task.”
The bell in the tower tolled, indicating that afternoon prayers were finally over. As soon as one of the younger monks, who served as a stable boy, left the church, Anselm snapped his fingers at him, and he changed direction to answer Anselm’s summons. Then Anselm held out an arm to Deiniol in a welcoming gesture. “This way, brother, if you will.”
Deiniol set out into the rain, but then he hesitated in midstride, before he’d gone more than three or four paces, and turned back. “Oh—another thing—” he retraced his steps, “—that man you asked me about wasn’t alone. Another rode with him.”