Gareth
Gareth held Henry by the shoulders. “You’re sure? You’re sure it was Amaury you saw?”
The boy nodded.
“Who else have you told?” Gareth said.
“Nobody! I couldn’t tell anyone! Bernard went down and the guards brought me here. My mother screamed and screamed—” He put his hands to his ears as if he could still hear her.
Gareth, for his part, had a hard time imagining the empress screaming about anything except in anger.
“You need to go, Gareth,” Gwen said, “just like before. I’ll stay with Prince Henry until Earl Robert gets here.”
“He’s staying away so as not to attract anyone’s attention to me,” Henry said.
“That may be, but you are more than a prince today. You are the only witness to the murder.” Gareth stood and took a step towards the door. “Your safety is still our first priority.”
Prince Henry rose to his feet to follow him. “You may be right, but it is unseemly for a prince to cower in a room while others risk their lives for him.”
“No!” Gareth and Gwen shouted in unison.
Gareth went down on one knee again before Henry. “We need to know that you, at least, remain safe. For you to appear now, alive, might not only put your life in danger but all our lives.”
“How so?” said Henry, not ready to give in.
“Because the killer will know that he failed. He will be desperate to finish the job and won’t care who is harmed in the process,” Gareth said.
Prince Henry stuck out his chin, but then he sat down again with a sigh. “I accept what you say. Go.”
Gareth glanced at Gwen, who gave him a quick smile. Ten-year-old boys seemed to be her forte, so he knew he could leave Henry to her. Gareth pulled open the door to find the three women still making a show of gossiping in the corridor. At the sight of them, he forced himself to accept what Prince Henry had told him: that Amaury had manipulated everyone, including him. Maybe all signs had pointed to Amaury all along and Gareth hadn’t wanted to see it. He would have to examine the clues again later, when he had time, and discover where they’d all gone wrong. Where he’d gone wrong.
As he saw it now, Gareth had two choices: the first was to run after Amaury on the off-chance that he could overtake him. If Amaury fled Newcastle, he would ride to the court of King Stephen. A man didn’t murder the son of an empress and expect to resume his normal life as if nothing had happened. Three emeralds would give him enough wealth to walk away from his old life.
Gareth’s second choice—and the one he realized he had to choose—was to speak to Earl Robert and inspire him to organize a manhunt. Another few moments might make the difference between apprehending Amaury and not, but Gareth wouldn’t consider the time wasted if he had the earl and all his resources at his disposal. If they were going to capture Amaury, they had an enormous amount of ground to cover in a short amount of time.
That didn’t mean, however, that he shouldn’t do what he could about Amaury right now. Gareth tugged the door closed and faced the women guards. “Prince Henry reports that it was Sir Amaury who killed Bernard. I will speak to the earl if one of you will run to the friary and find Prince Rhun or Philippe. Amaury could be long gone by now, but if we have a chance to stop him anywhere, it will be from there.”
The three women gaped at him, and for a moment Gareth wondered if his French had been up to the task, but then one of the women, the same redhead who’d spoken earlier and seemed to be in charge, nodded. “I’ll go.”
They raced down the stairs and into the anteroom. While the woman disappeared through the main door to the bailey, Gareth came to a sudden stop, having nearly plowed through Evan, who stood swaying in front of him, his eyes crossing and re-crossing as he tried to focus them. Gareth grabbed his shoulders, just as he had Prince Henry’s. “Where have you been?”
“I woke up underneath a bed.” Evan waved a hand feebly towards an upper floor. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t have time to tell you.” Gareth’s eyes swept the anteroom, looking for anyone he could trust and coming up empty. He shoved Evan towards the doorway to the stairs. “Gwen is in Earl Robert’s quarters. Go to her.”
Evan gawked at Gareth. “She’s where?”
Gareth tsked through his teeth at his friend’s slow mind. Poppy juice, he guessed, and not his fault. He gripped both sides of Evan’s head, making him focus on him. “This is important. Go to her. She will explain everything. I need you to protect her and the one she’s with.”
Gareth’s urgency seemed to penetrate the fog in Evan’s mind, because he nodded and, with a straighter back, turned on his heel and trotted up the stairs towards the earl’s apartments. Gareth took in a deep breath, committing himself to his next course of action, come-what-may. He pushed open the door to the great hall.
While the uproar in the bailey had been ongoing, the great hall was unnaturally calm. Bernard lay in state on a table, a cloth covering him except for his head. Empress Maud was nowhere to be seen, but Earl Robert paced in front of the fire, barking commands and demanding answers while his retainers cowered around him. Gareth recognized none of the others on sight, but at Gareth’s entrance, they all looked over to him.
“You can’t be in here—” One of the men strode towards Gareth, motioning with his hands that Gareth should depart immediately.
“He’s Prince Hywel’s man,” Earl Robert said. “Have him come to me.”
The man seemed to hold no grudge towards Gareth, because his shooing hand gesture turned into a welcoming bow. “This way.”
Gareth marched across the floor to join the circle of men around Earl Robert, though with a flick of one finger, all but two melted away. “What is it?” Earl Robert said.
“I have spoken with … ah … the boy in your quarters,” Gareth said, not explaining more clearly since he didn’t know how many of the earl’s men knew about the deception.
The earl raised his eyebrows. “Did you?”
“He saw who murdered—” Gareth gestured to Bernard. “It was Amaury.”
Another lord might have gasped, but Earl Robert gave away his surprise only by a tightening around the eyes. “I see.” The other men had good control too.
“I spoke to the guards at the entrance to the tunnel. Amaury and two of his men left by that avenue immediately after—” Again Gareth’s eyes skated to Bernard’s body and back to Earl Robert, “—the event.”
“The boy is sure?” Earl Robert said.
“Yes,” Gareth said.
“All the boys who accompanied the prince, along with his adult retainers, are gathered in the next room,” the earl said. “Nobody saw anything—or rather, everyone saw something and none of it the same.”
“The boy recognized Amaury from his visit to Bristol a few months ago,” Gareth said. “Today he noted Amaury’s sling specifically.”
“Christ on the cross.” Earl Robert swung around and kicked at the logs stacked beside the fireplace. It was the first instance of emotion Gareth had seen in him.
“I left my wife in your quarters,” Gareth said, “but I feel it is my duty to continue this investigation. Do I have your permission to pursue Sir Amaury as I see fit?”
“I am in your debt,” Earl Robert said. “What is your first step?”
“To ride to the tunnel’s exit in the abandoned chapel and try to find a trace of where Amaury went from there,” Gareth said, and then he explained that he’d sent one of the women guards to the friary to warn Philippe and Prince Rhun of what Amaury had done.
“I will send men through the tunnel, to ensure that he isn’t hiding inside it.” And then Earl Robert was all action. He clapped his hands together, and his men converged on his position. With a few brief sentences, he sent them off to gather men and begin a manhunt throughout the countryside. By the time Gareth reached the door, half of the earl’s men had already left the hall.
Once again, Gareth ran down the steps from the keep and across the bailey, making for one of the many horses picketed outside the stables. Gareth chose one and mounted before the stable lad could stop him. “But, sir!”
“I’ll bring him back!” Gareth saluted the boy and urged the horse towards the gatehouse. He raised his voice. “Open the portcullis!”
But the order from Earl Robert had already gone out. Even before Gareth reached it, the gate was open. Gareth ducked underneath the metal spikes, turned the horse’s head, and sent the animal heading north from the castle. As he flew through the village, people milled about the green, directionless. But at the sight of Gareth leaving and the newly opened gate, many moved towards the castle again. Gareth could have told them that they would see a gratifying amount of activity in a moment.
Once through the village, it was less than a quarter of a mile across a few fields to where the abandoned chapel nestled in its clearing among the trees. Gareth could see it before he reached it and slowed when he realized that no one was near or around it. He dismounted as he approached the ruins and led his horse to the altar with its stairs down to the crypt.
He paced around the altar. The grass that grew between the fallen stones and flagstones had been pressed flat, though Gareth couldn’t distinguish any boot prints in particular. From the tracks, men had come through the tunnel and left the chapel, all following the same line: towards the friary.
Ten feet from the altar, a knife lay in the grass. Gareth looped the horse’s reins around a half-fallen pillar and crouched to look at it. Blood stained the blade. If Amaury had been especially clever, the knife would prove to belong to someone else, perhaps Alard. Gareth could even imagine that Amaury had left the knife at the chapel to lead a pursuer astray. It was unlikely that he’d accidently dropped it having murdered Prince Henry with it a quarter of an hour earlier.
Gareth wrapped the knife in a cloth and stowed it in the saddle bags on the horse. The horse’s owner had prepared for a journey, for the bags were already filled with food, a cloak, and blankets. Gareth took a drink from the water skin to find that it contained not water but a respectable wine. He gave a silent toast in thanks to the owner, who clearly liked his comforts.
Gareth eyed the steps going down into the crypt and decided he ought to check for Earl Robert’s men before continuing on to the friary. He went down the steps and warily entered the crypt and the tunnel beyond. The two soldiers on duty rose to their feet at the sight of him, so he made sure to keep his hands up and unthreatening as he entered. “Did Sir Amaury come through here?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “Not very long ago.” He looked towards the tunnel. A faint echoing of footsteps came from it. “What’s happened, sir? Sir Amaury said that the prince was dead.”
“He is not dead,” Gareth said.
The man’s shoulders sagged in relief, and at that moment, five men from Newcastle popped out of the tunnel’s entrance. The man in the lead lifted a hand. “Sir Gareth. What news?”
“Come with me.” Leaving the guards at their post, Gareth led the way back through the crypt and up the stairs to the altar. Once outside, Gareth pulled the cloth-wrapped knife from his saddle bag and showed it to the soldier. “The murder weapon, I believe.”
The man opened the cloth for a brief look and then closed it again. “Best if you keep it. We may not have the opportunity to return to the castle until nightfall.”
“I’m for the friary,” Gareth said. “Send one of your men back to the earl. If I’m right that Amaury went that way, Philippe might appreciate more men.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “The rest of us will follow you on foot.”
Gareth urged his horse out of the chapel and onto the path the cart carrying Amaury had taken after he’d been shot. It seemed like a lifetime ago. The urgency of his task pushed Gareth on, and he left the earl’s men far behind. While Gareth wanted to learn the answers to his myriad questions, as long as Amaury was at large, the prince’s life remained in danger.
Amaury’s treachery was far harder for Gareth to accept than Prince Cadwaladr’s had been. Gareth had wanted Cadwaladr to be guilty because it fulfilled all his expectations, and he hated the man anyway. Gareth had started to count Amaury as a friend. Villains had escaped Gareth before—rarely, but it had happened—but he would feel personally affronted if he lost this one.
His horse jumped over a low stone wall, cantered through the friary’s extensive gardens, and was approaching the cloister when four men spilled from the wooden gate in the hedge that separated the main friary buildings from the garden in this location. One of them waved his arms at Gareth and then grabbed the horse’s bridle as Gareth reined in.
“Get down! Get down! You’re a target up there.”
Willing to listen, especially if it meant not getting killed, Gareth dropped off his horse and crouched behind the hedge with the monks, several barely into manhood. They clustered around him.
“What’s happening?” Gareth said.
“It’s hand-to-hand in the cloister!” said one monk, his hands tugging at his hood as if pulling it close around his ears would protect him from the violence. “Sir Philippe and Sir Amaury are in there with their men—”
“They’re fighting each other?” Gareth looked towards the courtyard, and now that he knew what to listen for, he could hear the clash of sword against sword. “Stay here.”
Gareth pulled out his sword, opened the gate, and went through the garden to the monastery square. Two monks crossed the cobbles, coming from the stables and supporting a third who was bleeding heavily from his side. They looked up at his approach, and the fear in their faces brought Gareth’s heart into his mouth.
“Sir Gareth! Over here!” Dai appeared in front of Gareth and grabbed his free hand. “Come quickly! He’s hurt!”
Next to the wall outside the cloister, Llelo crouched in front of Prince Rhun, who was holding his left bicep in his right hand. Blood seeped through his fingers.
“A scratch,” said Prince Rhun as Gareth ran up. “It is no matter.”
“What happened? Who did this?” Kneeling in front of Rhun, Gareth forced Rhun’s hand aside to inspect the wound. He’d taken a sharp stab that went through the tissue all the way to the bone.
“Amaury,” Rhun said. “I couldn’t stop him.”
“He’s in there with Philippe!” Dai pointed towards the cloister.
Llelo pulled his shirt over his head and handed it to Gareth, who tore off a strip at the bottom with his teeth. “Quick thinking, Llelo.”
“Is Prince Henry really dead?” Dai said.
Gareth glanced at Dai’s white face out of the corner of his eye as he wrapped the cloth around Rhun’s arm. “No.” Rhun had lost more blood than was good for him, and his face was pale. “How did you know Amaury was the assassin?”
Rhun gestured towards the body of a woman lying on the ground near the stables. It was the servant/guard Gareth had sent to the friary. “She—her name was Clarice—told me what Amaury had done; I didn’t believe her at first. Stupid of me. It was only after she confronted Amaury that I realized she was telling the truth. I was protecting her when he stabbed me, and then he ran her through.” Rhun choked on the last words.
“I’m sorry,” Gareth said.
Rhun’s face twisted in pain. “It was just like you to send a woman.”
“If I were Amaury, I would have been gone long before now.” Gareth tied off the ends of the bandage, hoping that it would hold until he could get Rhun to the healer. “Why did he come back to the friary in the first place?”
“I imagine he thought he had the time,” Rhun said, “and that nobody suspected him. By the time I spoke to him, he’d already sent most of Philippe’s men to search the countryside for the phantom assassin. In addition, his wound had reopened, and he needed it bandaged. He was very calm at first, trying to persuade Clarice and me that all was well.”
“If not for Clarice, everyone here would have believed Amaury’s lies,” Dai said.
“At least I prevented him from taking a horse,” Rhun said.
The sound of clashing swords still came from the cloister. A man screamed in pain. Rhun pointed towards the door with his free hand.
Gareth didn’t delay another moment. Picking up his sword from where he’d left it in order to attend to Rhun, he vaulted into the cloister and pulled up short in one of the archways, trying to look everywhere at once and, most importantly, to sort out the combatants. A half dozen men fought in and around the friary well, with four others wounded or dead on the ground.
“I cannot let you pass! You’re a traitor!”
Gareth turned at Philippe’s shout. Gareth had come in through the western door; Philippe and Amaury stood near the opposite exit that would take Amaury to the friary’s eastern fields. Philippe held off Amaury with a sword, but even at this distance Gareth could see Philippe’s wrist waver. Wounded shoulder or not, Amaury closed in on the old spy and knocked away his sword.
“One man’s traitor is another man’s patriot,” Amaury answered, and Gareth heard glee in his voice.
“Amaury!” Trying to distract him from Philippe, Gareth raced down the covered walkway towards the pair.
Amaury swung around, spied Gareth coming towards him, and turned back to Philippe. Amaury then leapt towards the old spy and caught him around the shoulder with his wounded arm, which was already bleeding through his new bandage.
“So.” Amaury pointed his sword at Gareth. “You know me now.” With Philippe between them, all Amaury had to do was turn and run through the door behind him to reach freedom.
“Let him go, Amaury.” Gareth advanced two more steps.
“You’re too clever by half,” Amaury said. Then, as Gareth took another step towards him, he flicked the point of his sword. “Tut! No closer or the old man dies.”
“I’m dying anyway, Sir Gareth,” Philippe said. “Better quickly here than slowly in my bed.”
The sound of fighting still came from behind Gareth, but he didn’t dare turn around to see how it was progressing or which side was winning, if he could even tell which side was which. Amaury’s men and Philippe’s looked just alike. “Your men fight for you, and yet you abandon them?”
“They were paid well and knew the risks.” Amaury backed with Philippe closer to the doorway.
Philippe gritted his teeth. “I loved you like a son.”
“And taught me everything I needed to know,” Amaury said. “The weaker you became, the more you relied on me.”
“Why would you do any of this?” Gareth said.
Amaury scoffed. “Why? Two years ago William of Ypres made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“What about Ranulf?” Gareth would have asked anything if it meant he could to prevent Amaury from leaving, but this he actually wanted to know. He had been keeping track of the time that had passed. Earl Robert’s men should have been here by now. “Did you lie about his loyalty, too, to protect him? He is your master, isn’t he?”
If anything, Amaury’s sneer deepened. “He thinks he is clever, playing Stephen and Maud off each other, switching sides so often even they don’t know which of them he serves at any given time. I used him as I saw fit.” Amaury lifted one shoulder. “He does serve the empress currently, not that it matters. He’ll change sides again soon enough.”
“But the crown—” Philippe tried to speak.
“This isn’t about the crown, you imbecile. Let those fools tear the country apart between them. It matters not to me. This is about money, in my case, and power, in Ranulf’s.”
“Why did you help me when I came to Chester?” Gareth said.
“It suited me,” Amaury said. “I knew Ranulf was negotiating with Cadwaladr. I thought it might be useful to have maintained good relations with King Owain through other means if things between those two went sour.”
“Which they did,” Gareth said.
Amaury’s eyes narrowed at Gareth. “I would have thought your prince would be thanking me for what I’ve done, fostering chaos and killing Prince Henry, instead of hunting me down. Gwynedd can only benefit from war in England. As it is, you should know that I’ve had to take steps, for my own safety, to ensure that you won’t harm me now.”
“What steps?” Gareth wanted to close the distance between them, but the edge of Amaury’s sword was a hair’s-breadth from Philippe’s neck.
Amaury smirked. “I knew as soon as Alard dropped that body at your feet that I needed a new plan. I knew you would follow this investigation wherever it led until you found the answers or died. Why couldn’t you just go home? For Christ’s sake, my man hurt your woman! No—” Amaury shook his head. “I needed leverage, just in case I found myself in this exact position. I always had the most to fear from you, as you are an honorable man.” Amaury wasn’t complimenting Gareth.
“Leverage?” Gareth took another step but froze as Amaury broke Philippe’s skin with the edge of his sword. “What leverage?”
“If I don’t send word to my man who guards Prince Hywel, by sundown he will be dead, and the girl with him. Their bodies will rot in their hiding place until the return of Arthur.”
Gareth’s hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. He wanted to ram the point right through Amaury’s gullet. He’d liked the man. “Where are they?”
“Drop your sword and let me go,” Amaury said, “after which I will tell you.” When Gareth still hesitated, Amaury added, “Even if you refuse, even if you capture me and try to force the truth from me, I’ll take their location to my grave.”
“You wouldn’t,” Gareth said.
“I would out of spite.”
Gareth had no choice. He bent his knees and slowly lowered his sword to the ground.
“No!” Philippe said.
Amaury’s eyes lit, clearly delighted at the combination of Gareth’s capitulation and Philippe’s despair. Gareth hated to see that expression on Amaury’s face, but Gareth’s first duty was to his prince, not to justice.
“Your man could have killed Gwen—or Prior Rhys—when you sent men to take David’s body. Why didn’t he?” Gareth said.
“I don’t hurt women. My man was overzealous. Besides, I couldn’t have Gwen killed because you would have been like a rabid dog at a bone until you uncovered every secret in Newcastle. I couldn’t risk it.”
“Rosalind wasn’t a woman?” Gareth said.
Amaury’s lips twisted in distaste. “What is necessary isn’t always what we might wish.”
“Why didn’t you just kill me, then? We’ve been alone a dozen times.”
“By God, I wish I had.” And with that, Amaury shoved Philippe towards Gareth and fled.
“Damn it.” Gareth held Philippe, staggering under the sudden weight. Amaury had caught him off guard, but once Gareth recovered, he found that Philippe weighed hardly more than Gwen. “I misjudged. I didn’t mean to make him angry. He didn’t tell me where Prince Hywel and Mari are being kept.”
“It isn’t your fault, and you guessed right—about everything,” Philippe said. “It’s good to know the truth. I should have listened to you sooner.”
As Gareth lowered him onto a bench against the wall, Philippe grasped Gareth’s shoulder and shook him. “Leave me. He mustn’t get away.” While Philippe’s voice was weak, it was also urgent.
Gareth couldn’t agree more and wasn’t going to deny a dying man his last wish. He picked up his sword and ran out the door after Amaury. Neither man had a horse, but Gareth had a strong will and a sound body, unlike Amaury, whose shoulder was bleeding heavily. Gareth raced into the friary’s cemetery, dodging tombstones that had been placed haphazardly rather than in rows, almost slipping twice on the wet grass. He was saved the second time only by hanging onto a tombstone with a tall cross at the top. Amaury appeared to be aiming for a shed that sat on higher ground on the far side of the cemetery, beyond which lay a thick wood.
Gareth huffed up the hill and had just come around the shed when he pulled up. Hywel, Prior Rhys, and Alard stood in a half-circle on the other side of Amaury, whose back was to Gareth. Mari peered down at the scene from one of the lower branches of a nearby oak tree while her father stood sentry beneath it.
“Going somewhere, my friend?” Alard said.
Amaury flicked the tip of his sword at Alard and let out a laugh that was disconcerting, nearly maniacal. “I don’t fear you.” Amaury’s laughter brought to Gareth’s mind a vision of one of King Owain’s companions whom they’d cornered in his treachery last winter. The man had killed himself rather than face the wrath of those he’d wronged. That wasn’t going to happen again if Gareth had any say in the matter.
Only fifty feet separated Amaury from Gareth, and Gareth could see, even from the back, that Amaury’s wound nagged him. He was hunching his left side, instinctively trying to protect himself against the pain. Gareth started forward at a run, his boots pounding on the turf. He was sure that Amaury could hear him, but the traitor didn’t turn to look until Gareth was only a few paces away, at which point Gareth launched himself forward, catching Amaury around the shoulders and wrapping him up in a tight embrace.
Amaury screamed as they hit the soft grass of the churchyard. Gareth rolled off him and sat up, unhurt, but Amaury writhed in pain, holding his shoulder and unable to rise. The other men closed in. Amaury’s sword had fallen from his hand at the impact, and Prior Rhys kicked it away. Amaury glared up at his captors, his face a rictus of hate and pain.
“Shall we try this again from the beginning?” Alard said.