Gwen
Gwen could tell that John was shocked by Roger Carter’s death, but he was containing himself admirably. For such a young man, he’d lost more people he knew to foul play than most people four times his age. Though he’d made clear to Gareth when they’d met him last year in Wales that he was inexperienced in solving murder, he was certainly growing more experienced with every hour that passed.
“I’m sorry, John.” And Gwen was—though, even as she said the words, she found herself puzzled by her detachment. Usually, when confronted with a murder, she became almost too emotionally involved. Not today. She’d followed along with Gareth, curious about what had happened—but she felt neither outrage nor horror at Roger’s death.
Now, as she outwardly comforted John, she had to acknowledge that something really was wrong with her. In the last few hours, she’d stood first over the puddle of blood, and then Roger’s body, talking about who he was and how he’d died—and hadn’t taken a single moment to acknowledge the loss, which meant nothing more to her than a puzzle to be solved. When had she become so insensitive to murder? How could she find justice for a victim when she no longer cared about him or saw him as a person?
John took a moment to regain his composure, during which time nobody but Gwen looked at him, and then he said, “How did Roger’s body get from that alley to here?”
“It didn’t,” Gareth said, and then he explained that the blood couldn’t be Roger’s because that wasn’t how Roger had died.
“So we have two incidents in Shrewsbury today.” John was aghast.
“So it seems,” Gareth said. “What can you tell me about Roger Carter?”
John spread his hands wide. “He was a worthy of the town, on the council, and influential. Rich.”
“He was also Adeline’s former betrothed. Could her death have anything to do with his?” Gareth said.
“Unless Prince Cadwaladr was somehow involved, I can’t see how.” Then John frowned as he looked between Gareth and Gwen. “There is another thing that ties the events of four months ago to today, you know.”
“What is that?” Gareth said.
“You.”
Gwen put her hands on her hips, her unease put aside in the face of John’s assertion. “You can’t seriously think that Gareth had anything to do with Roger Carter’s death?”
John held up both hands defensively as if staving off an attack. “I didn’t mean that Gareth murdered Roger. I only meant to suggest that if Roger knew more about Adeline’s death than he told me, someone might be worried to see you here, Sir Gareth. The murderer could have acted hastily—killing Roger—in hopes of preventing Roger from speaking to you.”
Gareth straightened from where he’d been crouching beside the body. “You imply that my reputation as an investigator has preceded me.”
“Yes.” John cleared his throat. “I might have spoken of you a time or two, and certainly the whole town would know of your arrival by now.”
Gareth closed his eyes briefly as if gathering his strength, before opening them and speaking again to John. “With two investigations ongoing, your men are going to be spread thin, but I would say that Roger Carter’s death takes precedence over the possible death of someone we haven’t identified. We need to determine Roger’s whereabouts over the last day—and we need to break the news of his death to his family.”
John heaved a sigh. “That falls to me.”
“I will come with you, if I may,” Gareth said. At John’s relieved look, Gareth turned to Gwen. “I can’t send you out to question townspeople on your own, and I don’t think now is the time to introduce the woman who looks just like Adeline to Roger’s soon-to-be grieving family.”
“I will return to the monastery,” Gwen said. “If you give me a sketch of Conall, I can start showing it around.”
“And the rosary too.” Gareth handed the beads to Gwen. Then he pulled out the picture of Conall and sketched a copy for himself, from which he could make other copies later when he had time. When he was done, he looked up. “Cedric?”
“I’ll escort her,” Cedric said, though his eyes flicked to John as he spoke.
Gwen had the sense that Cedric was torn between chivalry and wanting to stay with Gareth and John. Gwen would have relieved him of the duty of escorting her if she could have, but she understood why Gareth didn’t want her wandering about Shrewsbury on her own, and that he wouldn’t have liked it even if her face wasn’t so like Adeline’s. “Come on.” She poked at Cedric’s arm.
He sighed and assented, and they left the room.
Gwen liked leaving Gareth even less than Cedric did, but Gareth was right, and she had the additional duty of checking up on Tangwen. Gwen would have brought Tangwen’s nanny, Abi, on this journey, which would have meant that Tangwen would have been safe to leave for days at a time. Unfortunately, only a few days before they were to set out for Shrewsbury, Abi had received word that her mother had fallen ill and needed tending. Gwen could hardly insist that Abi neglect her mother and, after further consideration, decided that it was for the best. Abi had never been outside Gwynedd in her life—and had hardly traveled more than ten miles from Aber itself. The trip then became an opportunity for Gareth and Gwen to be together with their immediate family, just the five of them.
She and Gareth hadn’t yet told anybody at Aber what the future held for them, not with the risk of miscarriage so high and the mourning still ongoing. Even if Gwen would have loved to break the somber mood that filled the great hall like smoke from burned cooking, she didn’t feel it was her place to do so.
Some—Queen Cristina among them—might also have thought that Gwen’s pregnancy should have precluded her coming on the journey—which was another reason Gwen hadn’t said anything about it to anyone earlier. She’d had no intention of being left behind. When Gareth had taken her and Tangwen to their small house on Anglesey in February, Hywel had recalled them to Aber after a few short weeks. But even that brief absence had made her see how important it was to get Tangwen away from the grief that hung over Aber.
Once back at the monastery gate, Gwen let Cedric go, and with a grateful wave, he hastened back towards the east bridge and into Shrewsbury.
Gwen then walked into the courtyard, expecting to find her daughter and Gwalchmai there, in the guesthouse, or at the very least in the adjacent garden. A quick search revealed no sign of them, however. Before she had to quarter the entire abbey to find them, however, a monk exited the church, and the sound of Gwalchmai’s tenor poured into the courtyard through the open door. Mocking herself, because she should have known he would find his way to the place with the best acoustics in Shrewsbury, she entered to see her brother standing before Abbot Radulfus himself.
Gwen hoped that Gwalchmai had asked permission before he took up his position in the center of the nave, but perhaps it didn’t matter, given the abbot’s rapt attention. Her brother’s soprano voice had been known to make grown men cry, and even though his voice had deepened with manhood, it had lost none of its quality, timbre, or tone.
As Gwen hovered in the doorway of the church, Gwalchmai stood in the middle of the transept and filled the space with song. The abbot, meanwhile, sat on the step below the altar, Tangwen beside him, and Gwen didn’t think she mistook the disguised movement that swept a tear from his cheek.
Her brother was well on his way to becoming one of the greatest bards Gwynedd—or maybe all of Wales—had ever produced. But despite that fact, and his enormous natural talent, he never allowed the adulation to go to his head. He seemed to view the act of singing in front of an audience as a service to them and to God rather than behaving, like some bards did, as if he were a lord bestowing a gift on his people.
Few professions were more celebrated in Wales than that of bard. The role cut across all classes, all types of people. This was one of the reasons that Gwen, a bard’s daughter and a musician in her own right, had been allowed more freedom during her childhood and early womanhood than almost any other woman she knew. A bard could go anywhere, be forgiven anything (except maybe murder), as long as he could sing.
Gwalchmai knew all that. He’d been treated like the heir to the throne his whole life. He could have behaved like a spoiled child—or at the very least like an entitled princeling—but he did neither. He could sing for his audience of two with as much joy—more joy even—than when he’d performed the previous summer for half of Wales at Prince Hywel’s festival in Ceredigion.
Gwen waited until Gwalchmai had finished his song before moving through the nave to the altar where her daughter sat. At the sight of Gwen, Tangwen toddled over to her, holding out her arms so Gwen could pick her up. Radulfus rose to his feet too, though not without a slight grunt of effort and the crack of aging knees.
“Father.” Gwen bent to scoop up Tangwen.
“I have been enjoying your brother’s music. It is an honor to hear such a voice raised in God’s praise in my church. And for him to sing as he does in Latin—” Radulfus broke off, shaking his head, though in awe not in dismay.
“My father is the court bard for King Owain Gwynedd, and he instructed both of us,” Gwen said, deciding not to take offense that Radulfus might have believed them more ignorant than they were—because they were Welsh, or just because he didn’t encounter many lay people who knew Latin. “He was the first teacher to Prince Hywel of Gwynedd as well.”
“I’m sorry to say that most of the brothers here do not know Latin beyond the recitation of the hours, and none of the laymen are lettered.” Abbot Radulfus bent slightly at the waist. “I had no idea until now who had favored my abbey with a visit. It is our charge as God’s servants to treat all who come through this abbey equally, as we are all God’s creatures. And yet, it would be a waste of talent and time not to use what He has given us. I apologize for mistaking any of you for less than you are.” He looked past Gwen to Gwalchmai. “It is my hope that you will sing during mass on Sunday.”
“I would be honored to do so,” Gwalchmai said, though his brow furrowed. “Are you sure? Nobody has ever asked me to sing during mass before.”
“I am sure.” Abbot Radulfus pressed his lips together in a thin line in displeasure—or maybe simple disbelief.
It was true that while bards were renowned throughout Wales, they weren’t often called upon to sing in church, singing being viewed in this context as a more secular activity. Gwalchmai had become friends with Aber’s new priest, a jovial man who liked his mead, who had taught Gwalchmai several hymns of praise because singing was what Gwalchmai did for fun. But even Father Elis hadn’t asked Gwalchmai to sing at mass, believing it was the purview of the ordained.
“Please see me in the sacristy before mass, and we can discuss the order of the service.”
Gwalchmai bowed. “As you wish.” He beckoned with one hand to Tangwen, who wriggled to get down from Gwen’s arms in the boneless way of a two-year-old.
Gwen could hardly have continued to hold her if she’d tried, and she let Tangwen run across the floor to her uncle. They left together. Then Gwen turned back to Radulfus. “Thank you.”
Radulfus didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Oh no. It is I who should be thanking you. It has been many years since I heard a voice such as his. It is my understanding from a few words he let slip that Gwalchmai used to have a surpassingly beautiful soprano.”
“It is true. I wish we could have preserved it somehow, just to hear it one more time,” Gwen said.
“Like a treasured vintage of wine. Yes,” Radulfus said. “Wouldn’t that be a feat? Alas, such is the condition of man that we cannot return to our younger selves. As it is, perhaps a child’s voice is more precious, like life itself, in that it is fleeting.”
Gwen smiled. “Honestly, I’m surprised my father didn’t say anything to you about Gwalchmai when we arrived. He is so very proud of what Gwalchmai has become.”
“As any father would be.” Radulfus gestured towards the rear door, indicating that they should walk towards it. “As our Father in heaven surely is as well. But I have a feeling you did not come here to discuss your brother and his music, no matter how beautiful.”
Gwen took in a breath. “No, Father. There’s been a murder. Maybe even two. What’s more, one of the dead men is Roger Carter, a member of Shrewsbury’s town council.”
“My dear, what are you saying?” Radulfus halted before the door. “Roger Carter has been murdered?”
“Strangled, I’m afraid.”
“How is it you came to know of it?”
Gwen took in a quick breath. “John Fletcher, the Deputy Sheriff, has asked my husband to consult on the matter.”
Radulfus rubbed his chin. “Sadly, we are no stranger to murder here, as we’ve witnessed several over the years, but I’m afraid that with the sheriff absent, we may be much at a loss in solving it until he returns.”
“That is why my husband has become involved,” Gwen said, trying not to take offense. “He has a regrettable amount of experience in that regard, and he is assisting John Fletcher with his inquiries even now.” She paused, looking searchingly into the abbot’s face, hoping for a sign that he understood her English, which she felt was failing her as she tried to explain. “Gareth was hoping you wouldn’t mind if he sent the body here to await burial and—” She hesitated again.
“And what?” Radulfus’s face remained a mask Gwen was struggling to read. It was generally accepted that the Welsh were expressive and the English impassive. Radulfus was Norman and also had noble blood. He had probably learned in his cradle how to prevent his emotions from appearing on his face.
“I am asking this of you with the idea that housing the body here would allow Gareth and John Fletcher to examine it without inconveniencing anyone or offending the family,” Gwen said. “The fact that Master Carter was an important man in the town complicates matters.”
“Has the family been notified?”
“Gareth and John Fletcher are doing it now,” Gwen said. “Gareth sent me to you instead.”
Radulfus bowed his head, pursing his lips and staring at the ground.
“I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “Did you know Roger well?”
Radulfus looked up. “No, not personally, but his family has had enough troubles this year, what with Adeline’s death—” He gestured to Gwen.
“I know. I look like her.”
“I’m glad you came to me. I agree that it would be best if Roger awaited burial here. His family will want to see him and to see to him, of course.”
“Gareth will be discreet, I promise you. His family won’t have any objections to his treatment, though—” Gwen found herself pausing again.
Radulfus canted his head, waiting for her to continue.
“Roger’s neck is bruised,” Gwen said. “Strangling is an ugly way to die, and it isn’t possible to hide it.”
“I will speak to Martin and his wife when they arrive and make sure they understand the severity of Roger’s wounds. Perhaps a few of the brothers could take from them the burden of washing the body for burial.” Radulfus’ gaze was piercing. “It is kind of you to think of Roger’s family. Meanwhile, I will see that a room is set aside for the body.”
“Thank you,” Gwen said.
Radulfus made a motion as if to suggest that the interview was over and that he intended to return to his other duties, but then he hesitated too. “Didn’t you say there were two deaths?”
“The possibility of the first is what brought John Fletcher looking for Gareth this morning—except, all that we’ve found so far is a pool of blood and no body,” Gwen said.
Radulfus studied her. “Your news grows more disturbing by the moment. I am also concerned about your continued use of the word we. Don’t tell me that you have been a party to these events?”
“Not a party so much as an assistant to my husband in his investigation,” Gwen said, and at Radulfus’ continued stare, she added. “I have served Prince Hywel in that capacity for several years, alongside Gareth, of course.”
Radulfus blinked, but he didn’t object further, merely straightened his shoulders. “Prayers will be said for these poor souls—and those who sent them to an early grave—beginning immediately.”
Gwen would have expected no less, and she was glad that Radulfus wasn’t openly objecting to her participation, for now anyway. “Thank you, Father.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the string of rosary beads she’d found. “Do you recognize these as belonging to one of your people?”
Radulfus took the rosary in both hands and inspected it before glancing up at Gwen. “We, as an order, decry individual possessions, but that doesn’t extend to rosaries, and every monk possesses one. This is roughly made, which I would expect from a monk’s rosary. Though I don’t recognize it specifically, I wouldn’t deny that it could belong to a member of my order. Where did you find it?”
“We discovered it in the alley where the pool of blood was found,” Gwen said. “As you can see from the smoothness of the ends, if the victim lost it as he was running, it wasn’t because it broke, but rather because it became untied. It could also have been there for some time and wouldn’t necessarily have belonged to the victim.”
“Did you clean the beads before you put them in your purse?” Abbot Radulfus asked.
“Not beyond picking a few leaf scraps from between them,” Gwen said, somewhat warily. “Why?”
“If the rosary had lain in the alley for some time, as you suggest, the wood and leather would have become stained, don’t you think?” Radulfus gestured to Gwen herself. “You wear a gold cross on a chain. How long could it have lain in the street before dirt would have adhered to it?”
“Not long. I see now that what you said is true: you are no stranger to murder.”
Radulfus gave a slight laugh. “It isn’t murder I know, but rosaries.”
That prompted a smile from Gwen. “Perhaps you can help me with this too.” She reached again into her purse and pulled out a sketch of Conall that Gareth had made on the guidance of the innkeeper. Gwen was inordinately proud of Gareth for his artistry, which was among the many skills he’d developed over the years on the way to bettering himself, such that he’d risen from a man-at-arms to become the captain of Prince Hywel’s guard. They wouldn’t know if the sketch was a good likeness, however, until they found Conall.
“Would it be possible for me to inquire among the brothers, guests, and lay workers if they have seen this man? He’s Irish, going by the name of Conall. Finding him might go a long way in helping us discover the reason for Roger Carter’s death.”
“Is he the murderer?” Radulfus studied the image.
“Roger Carter’s body was found in a room let to Conall. Although the image can’t show it, he had fiery red hair, white skin, and freckles.”
Radulfus grunted and handed the picture back to Gwen. “I do not know him, nor have I seen him, but if he has been staying in Shrewsbury itself, likely he would have attended mass at one of the town churches.”
Gwen accepted that assessment without comment even though she personally thought it optimistic of Radulfus to think the man would have gone to any church at all. It wasn’t her place to express her disbelief to an abbot, however, so she simply nodded and put the sketch away.
“I will instruct my charges to answer your questions, and I will find someone to accompany you. Brother Julian, I think,” Radulfus said, “and I would appreciate it if you would keep me apprised of what you find.”
“Of course, Father,” Gwen said, “but I don’t want to take anyone away from his duties.”
“I insist,” Radulfus said. “Sadly, I have loaned our one Welsh brother, with whom you could have conversed and who would have made an excellent translator, to Ludlow, to tend to the Lacy heir who is very ill.”
“Perhaps before too long it won’t matter,” Gwen said, giving way, though she wondered if the real reason Radulfus wanted someone to accompany her was because he didn’t want a woman speaking to his monks without supervision. “Gareth speaks English better than I do, and I’m hoping that with a few more days here, my speaking and comprehension will be greatly improved.”
“You already speak English very well,” Radulfus said.
Gwen scoffed under her breath as she walked with the abbot out of the nave and into the afternoon sun in the courtyard. “Far be it from me to accuse an abbot of speaking untruths.”
Radulfus’ footsteps faltered yet again, but this time when he turned to her, he was laughing.