Gareth
Since Gwen had resolved not to leave Tangwen behind if she could help it, and since Rhys had asked for Gwen specifically, Gareth carried his daughter into Rhys’s office, with the caveat that Gwen would take her away if the conversation involved too much of what she shouldn’t hear. Abbot Rhys’s eyes lit at the sight of the little girl, however, and in a moment Tangwen was playing at Gareth’s feet with a set of wooden blocks that Rhys had pulled out of a chest in the corner. The man had hidden depths—and Gareth had thought he was deep before.
A second monk, one Gareth hadn’t yet met, stood off to one side by the window. A good ten years older than Gareth, he was long and lean and far fitter-looking than most men, regardless of their age, without the round belly that often afflicted older men. Gareth didn’t have to work hard to guess his identity: this was Deiniol, the stranger, whom Gwen had already encountered and who had arrived at the monastery earlier that day.
While Gareth and Gwen took seats near Rhys’s desk, Conall crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the inner wall. Gareth could just see him out of the corner of his eye, which Conall had probably intended. The man calculated every angle, and he would know Gareth would feel uncomfortable having someone standing behind him, even if he was a friend. Gareth also suspected that Conall wasn’t standing to be intimidating, but to disguise the fact that his ribs hurt more when he sat than when he stood.
For Gareth’s part, he was afraid that if he sat, he might never rise again, but he sat anyway. He let out an involuntary sigh at the pain in his shoulder and stretched out his legs in front of him.
Rhys politely ignored Gareth’s discomfort and gestured to the newcomer. “I have asked Brother Deiniol to join us. As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, he met Erik on the road, and I’m hoping that he has some insight into our larger problem.”
Gareth focused on the abbot, his brow furrowing. “We have a larger problem?”
Rhys folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “His monastery was sacked by men wearing Gwynedd’s colors.”
“They were men of Gwynedd.” Deiniol’s hands were tucked into the sleeves of his robe, the right in his left and vice versa, a familiar stance among monks, and his chin stuck out obstinately.
Gareth looked at him for a moment and then returned his attention to Rhys, who gazed back at Gareth with an unreadable expression. At another time, Deiniol’s certainty might have been somewhat amusing, but Rhys was the one who had called the peace conference between Powys and Gwynedd. Deiniol was a man of Powys, and Wrexham monastery was located in Powys. Deiniol’s assertion that Gwynedd was responsible for the banditry had now put Rhys in an awkward position. If he outright denied the possibility of Gwynedd’s involvement, Madog—when he found out about the theft, which he would soon if he didn’t know already—would see any assumption of Gwynedd’s innocence as taking sides.
That meant the necessary denial was up to Gareth. “Men of Gwynedd didn’t do this—or at least not any in the king’s service.”
“How do you know?” Deiniol said.
“I am the captain of Prince Hywel’s teulu, so I know my own men, and King Owain’s men would have been preoccupied either with the recent conquest of Mold Castle or in preparation for the coming war against Powys.”
“You’re telling me that you can account for the movement of every man in the royal guard over the last few weeks?” Deiniol said.
Gareth’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t. He’d spent the last few weeks either in Shrewsbury or traveling between Aber and Shrewsbury with a small complement of men. He’d left Prince Hywel’s teulu in the charge of staunch companions, however, Evan among them, and their whereabouts could be accounted for. “Perhaps not every man, but I can tell you that no large company has been absent long enough to ride to Wrexham, rob your monastery, and return.”
Deiniol let out a humph and then turned to Abbot Rhys. “I stand by what I saw.”
Rhys put out a calming hand. “And I believe you.”
Gareth decided that he might as well gather what information he could from Deiniol while he was here, which was surely what Rhys had intended in bringing them all together. “Your monastery employed no soldiers to protect you?”
“The favor of King Madog of Powys has always been sufficient, but he marches for war. Any man who patrolled the roads has been withdrawn from his duty. Madog looks to England, and it is because of that war that our monastery was vulnerable to a raid from Gwynedd.”
Gareth didn’t rise to the bait and deny the accusation again. He realized by now that it would do no good. Deiniol was fixed in his opinion, and Gareth could hardly blame him. If his home was attacked by men wearing Chester’s colors, it would take a great deal to convince him that he was being deliberately deceived. Though it was considered unchivalrous, this would hardly be the first time that men used the surcoats of an enemy to disguise their identity. It didn’t mean, however, that the disguise wasn’t effective.
Deiniol frowned in concentration. “While travelers do bring news from England and Wales, and of course we are well acquainted with the war between Stephen and Maud, it is the nature of our order to be a retreat from the world, to be of it but not in it.” He paused to check the comprehension of his audience. Nobody was having any trouble understanding what he meant.
He continued, “We see how war has unleashed the devil in men, who have known nothing but violence for ten years now. With the failing health of Robert of Gloucester, Maud’s influence in the west lessens, and that lack has spurred King Stephen to press the advantage wherever he can, most recently against Chester. That has put our monastery at the crossroads between the Earl of Chester, who supports Maud, and the Earl of Ludlow, who supports Stephen, but as they are fighting farther to the east, it leaves the border with Wales unprotected.”
At the general nods all around, Deiniol added, “I know as much as I do because my abbot told me of it before sending me on my way.”
“Abbot Tudur is an old friend,” Rhys said for the benefit of Gareth and Gwen. “The brothers have been scattered to several monasteries, but a party of twenty are on their way here.” Rhys sent a wry smile in Gareth’s direction. “A handful intended to ask for sanctuary in Shrewsbury.”
“I can accept that as a coincidence,” Gareth said.
Deiniol made a helpless gesture with one hand. “How this may change with the recent defection from Stephen of the Earls of Hertford and Pembroke, I don’t know. I know only that my abbot entrusted me with the task of finding a home for my brothers.”
Abbot Rhys met Gareth’s gaze. “Lawless men are free to roam wild when kings and barons are distracted by a quest for power.”
“Thus we found in Shrewsbury,” Conall said.
“We don’t—” Gwen looked from one man to another and tried again, “—we aren’t thinking that what happened in Shrewsbury is happening here, are we?”
Gareth put out a hand to reassure her. “Perhaps not slavery. No. But organized thievery? I would believe that.”
“The men who sacked our monastery were organized,” Deiniol said. “They came in broad daylight when we were at our prayers and most of the buildings were unoccupied. Before we knew it, they’d barricaded us inside the church. They gave us the opportunity to flee only when they realized most everything of value was in the church.”
Gareth drew in a long breath through his nose. “I suspect you are less than pleased to have found sanctuary in Gwynedd, but I hope you can see it now as a blessing. No group of armed men, no matter how well organized, no matter what their allegiance, would dare attack St. Kentigern’s while we are here.”
“But you are men of Gwynedd,” Deiniol said. “King Owain could simply order his men to take what is here.”
Gareth’s chin firmed. “It is just barely possible that men of Gwynedd did, in fact, destroy your monastery, but they did not do so on the orders of King Owain. When you speak of the king, you will do so with respect.”
Deiniol swallowed hard.
Gareth realized that as he’d spoken, he’d leaned forward in a way that Deiniol might perceive as menacing. Gingerly, he leaned back before Abbot Rhys had to tell him to calm down.
Gwen shot him a worried look before adding, “Prince Hywel and King Owain themselves, when they hear of these events, will insist that the perpetrators be brought to justice, no matter whom they serve.”
Rhys looked directly at Gareth. “We need to know if there is a link between what happened in Wrexham—and what is happening around it—” he gave special emphasis to these words with a flick of his eyes in Deiniol’s direction, “—and Erik’s death.”
Deiniol started at that and turned to Gwen. “My lady, when you showed me the picture, you didn’t tell me the man was dead!”
Gwen gave him a small smile. “I know. That you didn’t know until now implies that you didn’t kill him.”
Deiniol’s jaw dropped. “Well, of course—”
At a motion from Rhys, he stopped talking. “You may leave us now, Deiniol. If Gareth has more questions about what happened to your brothers, I hope that you will accommodate him by answering as completely and truthfully as possible.”
“Of course.” Deiniol bobbed his head in Gareth’s direction. “I can say, my lord, that I do not believe that you were among the culprits.”
That Gareth could be so accused at all rankled him, and he struggled to be gracious. He did manage to say, “I’m sorry for what happened to you and your brothers. I assure you that if men of Gwynedd are responsible, I will do everything in my power to find them and see that they are not only punished, but that the valuables taken from Wrexham are returned.”
“Thank you.” Deiniol left the room.
Once the door closed behind him, Rhys leaned forward, implying that now that Deiniol was gone, the real discussion could begin. “I did an accounting of our treasury. It is possible that the coins you found belong to this monastery. My records indicate that we are missing six silver coins, plus three other items: two gold crosses and a ring. I wouldn’t have known to look closely—or thought to do so until the next accounting—had you not found the coins, since on the surface nothing has been disturbed.” He shrugged in a somewhat self-deprecating way. “Perhaps I am even mistaken that we are missing anything.”
Gareth scoffed. “If the monastery were run by anyone but you, I might consider the possibility. Tell me the truth—are you mistaken?”
Rhys took in a breath, and Gareth sensed his hesitation was less because he was searching for patience but that he was trying to control anger. “No. Someone has been in the treasury.”
In Wales, the wealth of a monastery was in its sheep, cattle, and land, not in gold or silver. At times, however, wealthy barons endowed the monastery with their temporal goods. They might donate money, jewelry, candlesticks, chalices, or other movable items. They did so out of Christian devotion, in an effort to find absolution for a long life poorly lived, or simply because they had no suitable heir to whom to bequeath their wealth and didn’t want it to go either to a distant relative they didn’t know or simply revert to the king.
“What I don’t like,” Gareth said, “is that Deiniol’s monastery and yours have lost wealth—his more than yours obviously.”
Gwen was tapping a finger to her lips as she thought. “Deiniol’s monastery was robbed and burned outright.”
“My immediate thought is to agree that these are two very different circumstances,” Rhys said, “and that they could not possibly be perpetrated by the same men.”
Conall spoke up from his place against the wall, “That’s the kind of coincidence we don’t like.”
Rhys nodded. “I agree, thus the notion that what is happening here is part of a larger tapestry.”
“How long has it been since you did an accounting of the treasury?” Gareth said.
“Five days. I reconcile the ledger with all the items once a month, though the schedule isn’t necessarily that rigidly regular. It is an unseemly task for a monk, but somebody has to do it.”
“Were you alone?” Gwen said.
There was a pause. And when Rhys didn’t answer immediately, Gareth leaned forward, gazing at him intently. “Father?”
Rhys made a motion with his head implying that he didn’t want to say, but knew that he must. “It is always the abbot and the prior who do the accounting, along with a third monk, chosen at random. In keeping with the traditions established by my predecessor, I never choose the same man twice.”
Gareth’s eyes narrowed as he thought. “So the men involved were you, Prior Anselm, even though he must have just arrived—”
“He’d been here only two days,” Rhys said.
“And a third man. Who?” Gareth said.
Rhys scratched the top of his head, clearly still reluctant to say, but as Gwen, Gareth, and Conall looked at him, he gave a sharp nod. “Brother Mathonwy, the milkman.”
Gareth rocked back in his chair. “That changes everything.”
Rhys sighed. “You’ll have to talk to him again.”
Gareth looked over at Conall, asking with his eyes if Conall was ready for another visit to the barn. The Irishman nodded and then looked at Rhys. “Does anyone else know about the missing items?”
“Since I sent Brother Fidelus back earlier in such haste, by now most of the monastery will know something is amiss,” Rhys said. “They don’t know exactly what is wrong, however.”
“Not even Prior Anselm?” Gwen said.
Rhys shook his head. “But with Erik’s death, the theft and rediscovery of his body, and the condition in which it was found, rumors are swirling around the monastery. In fact—” he rose to his feet, “Vespers is upon us and I must see to my flock. Many of them have spent their entire lives in the monastery and do not have the emotional ballast to accommodate these events.”
A knock came at the door, and at Rhys’s call of “Come!” Brother Lwc opened it and poked in his head. His eyes were wide, excited by the news he had to share. “Father Abbot. King Madog of Powys has come.”