Gareth
“Two in one day, a man and a woman.” John sighed. “It’s the same as it was in Clwyd in the autumn.”
“Heaven forbid this turns out to be anything like the same circumstance.” Gareth’s initial examination had begun with a slightly more cursory mindset than was usual for him, since he found his thoughts returning again and again to whatever might be going on between Gwen and her father. It was just as well that he had planned from the start to leave most of the actual work to John. If John was going to be a competent deputy sheriff, this was something he needed to know how to do.
And they were trying to hurry, since the monks, whose job it was to prepare the dead for burial and to do the actual washing and laying out of the body, were waiting.
“We’ve had no sign of Prince Hywel’s uncle, leastwise,” John said. “That has to be good, right?”
Gareth tsked through his teeth but otherwise didn’t answer. He was focusing instead on getting the clothing off the girl—always a difficult task with a dead body. He ultimately decided to cut the dress off of her rather than try to wrestle her out it.
“Look at this bruise!” John lifted the girl’s arm, now free of the dress, and spoke with dismay.
Gareth had already noted her condition and felt equally disturbed. “I wish I could say I’d never seen anything like it, but that wouldn’t be true.”
“Is there any way this could have happened after she was dead?”
“Dead people don’t bruise,” Gareth said, with regret.
“To know that her murder had been preceded by pain makes this all the worse. You can see the imprint of his thumb!” John put his hand to the girl’s upper arm, which he was able to circle almost entirely with his own fingers.
“Now that you’ve seen her up close, you still don’t know this girl?” Gareth said.
“I’ve never seen her before in my life.” John looked up at Gareth. “She would have been beautiful.”
“Yes. Any man would have remembered her, which makes me wonder why nobody has come forward to say that she’s missing.” Gareth touched the girl’s hair, noting, now that it was drying, the way the blonde highlights in the brown caught the light of the candles burning around the table.
John’s eyes widened. “You know how Roger and Conall both had red hair, even if Roger’s was much darker?”
“Many have red hair,” Gareth said, “including your own sister.”
John raised one shoulder, dismissing that coincidence as immaterial. “What if someone came to Conall’s room to murder him, but Roger was waiting there to do business with Conall, and the murderer mistook Roger for Conall and killed the wrong man?”
Gareth gaped at John, caught between consternation and laughter—and real surprise that John might be on to something. “That would be a scenario worthy of Cadwaladr.”
“But it could be true,” John said eagerly, warming to the idea, which undoubtedly he’d thought up only a few heartbeats before he told Gareth about it.
“It would certainly be coincidental that of all the reasons Roger could be murdered, in the end it was by mistake,” Gareth said.
“Perhaps the girl died by mistake too,” John said. “We have no reason for her death at all.”
Gareth shook his head. “Before we make any assumptions about her, tell me why a girl might come to Shrewsbury on her own?”
John pursed his lips, reining in his enthusiasm. After a moment, he said, “She could have run away—from a husband or a master. Shrewsbury is a free market town. If a churl lives here for a year and a day, uncaught, she is free.”
Gareth had heard of that law, if only because it was yet another English custom that had no equivalent in Wales. Churls in England were tied to the land and could not leave without the owner’s permission. They weren’t exactly slaves, but they weren’t free to move about either. A lord might lose his position, be hanged or beheaded, but the people who worked his land would stay where they were, regardless of what new lord ruled them.
In Wales, churls were called taeogion. They owed their lord tithes of food and services. Because of the rugged terrain that made most of Wales poor for crops, being tied to the land was less of an issue. The Welsh were more herders than farmers. Gareth himself owed service to his lord, so in a sense, all men were taeogion, though Gareth appreciated the distinction between choosing that service and being forced into it by birth.
Gareth also understood that, in his time, King Gruffydd had kept actual slaves, and even traded the freedom of some of his own people in payment to the Irish and Danes for helping him gain his kingdom. By contrast, King Owain had bowed to the precepts of the Church, and since he’d come to the throne, slaves had become few and far between in Gwynedd. Because of the Church, or their own sensibilities, the Normans had forbidden slavery in England from the moment they set foot in Kent eighty years ago, even if, to Gareth’s mind, the difference between an English churl and a slave was a line too fine to draw.
“But surely, were she caught, she would be hauled back to her home, not killed,” Gareth said.
“One would think.” John stared down at the girl’s body.
Gareth sighed. “We should make a record of her injuries and see if we can find any clue among them as to who killed her.”
“I found nothing in her clothing,” John said.
They worked in silence for another quarter of an hour, until John turned away. “I have duties at the castle that cannot wait.”
“Go on. I’ll finish up here.” Gareth pulled out a piece of paper and began to sketch the girl’s face. With Conall’s sketch, he’d had to go off of the memory of the innkeeper. This time, the difficulty was to take her slack features and return them to what she would have looked like in life.
It took only a few moments and then, his mind full of what had driven the girl to bleed out in the alley, Gareth turned the body over to the monks and left the room. As he took his first steps into the fresh air of the courtyard, the bell tolled for supper.
Gwen was waiting for him in the doorway to the guest house. Vespers—the monks’ prayers at sunset—had come and gone. There would be one more service at nine o’clock before the monks went to bed. Guests were not required to get up in the night for lauds or matins, however, and thus the kitchens had prepared a light meal for them, here at the end of the day.
Gareth put a hand on his belly, realizing that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.
“What did you find?” Gwen spoke at the same instant that Gareth said, “How is your father?”
Then they both laughed and clasped hands briefly (though Gareth wanted to touch her longer than that). As they walked towards the guest hall where supper would be served, Gwen related the gist of her conversation with her father, including what she’d learned about the deaths of Meilyr’s parents and about her mother’s brother, Pawl. Meilyr wouldn’t be dining with them, having been put to bed with a supper tray in his room, since he needed to sleep off the alcohol he’d consumed and couldn’t be trusted with a meal in the guest hall. Meilyr, thankfully, had given way without protest.
“Where is everyone?” Gareth said to the monk who put a carafe of wine in front of him. Unlike the previous night, when there had been a half-dozen other guests, only two others dined with them tonight.
“We are not often as full as we were yesterday,” the monk said. “When the war was at its height, we went weeks without any guests at all, though now that things have calmed down here in the west, that lack has become rarer.”
Gareth thanked him and looked down the table to the other diners: two men, a few years older than he was, in close conversation. Gareth thought about asking polite questions, simply to know more about them and because he was curious that way, but unless they were involved in these murders they weren’t his concern. He would rather spend the dinner with his family. It would be rude, however, not to say something.
So Gareth stood, a hand to his chest, and bowed. “I’d like to introduce myself. I am Gareth ap Rhys, companion to Prince Hywel of Gwynedd.” Then he introduced Gwen, Gwalchmai, and Tangwen.
Faced with a knight, even a Welsh one, both stood themselves. “I am Flann MacNeill, of Oxford,” the first man said. He was middle-aged and balding, with the look of someone who’d had enough to eat his whole life, “and this is my companion, Will de Bernard.” Will had the presence of a nobleman, though that might simply be because he was wealthy. He was of similar age to Flann, but leaner, with brown hair and a full beard.
“You’re Irish?” Gwen said to Flann.
Flann turned to her with a slight nod. “By birth, only. I have never been to Ireland.” Both men sat, and they all continued with their meal.
Tangwen perched decorously beside Gwen, having decided at some point in the last three days that she was a lady like her mother and should eat like one. The mind of a two-year-old girl was completely beyond Gareth, but he appreciated the absence of the antics of six months ago, when Tangwen couldn’t sit still for longer than the time it took to cut and butter a slice of bread.
“Gwalchmai will be singing in church on Sunday,” Gwen said.
Gareth raised his eyebrows, recognizing Gwen’s ploy for what it was—an attempt not to talk murder in front of Tangwen—and he played along. “Are you, Gwalchmai? That will be something to look forward to. Have you told your father?”
Gwalchmai, however, knew himself to be a man now and was having none of it. “Gareth, is it true what they’re saying?”
Gareth scoffed under his breath. They should have known better than to keep anything from Gwalchmai. Given his incredible voice, perhaps it wasn’t surprising that he could hear around corners too. “Probably not. What are they saying?”
“That a member of the town council is dead, and a girl’s body was found in the river?”
Gareth glanced at Tangwen, but if his daughter was listening, she gave no sign that she was disturbed. Thus, Gareth spoke normally, so she would continue to think nothing was amiss. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s true.” He reached into his coat and pulled out the sketch he’d drawn of the girl’s face, along with the one of Conall. “See for yourself.”
Gwalchmai took both images to study. The two men at the other end of the table had looked up at Gwalchmai’s question. Deciding it would do no good to whisper when their ears were already perked, Gareth gestured to Gwalchmai that he should pass the sketches down the table. “Do you recognize either of these people? The girl had light brown hair, and the man’s hair was red, if that helps. We know he was Irish too.”
“You don’t say?” Flann took the sketches from Gwalchmai. “They’re both dead?”
“Only the girl,” Gareth said. “The man is missing.”
Flann frowned and looked closer. His companion bent nearer too, and some kind of look passed between them before Will sat back in his seat and Flann half-stood, shaking his head, to hand the pictures back to Gareth.
“You don’t know them?” Gareth had been sure there for a moment that he’d seen recognition in Flann’s eyes.
“No, no, of course not. You don’t know their names?”
“The man is Conall,” Gareth said. “The girl’s name is unknown.”
Again, a look that Gareth couldn’t interpret passed between the man and his companion, but then Flann made a dismissive motion with his head and said, “We live in troubled times.”
“We do, sir.” Gareth didn’t mention that he was assisting the Deputy Sheriff in his inquiries, though the fact that he had sketches of the two people in question should have given it away. Gareth might believe that Flann had never been to Ireland. He might even find the fact that he didn’t know Conall or the girl credible, but his presence in Shrewsbury as another Irishman when there weren’t that many around, begged for questions.
Which fortunately, Gwen wasn’t afraid to ask. “What brings you to Shrewsbury? You’re a long way from Oxfordshire here.”
Flann had started in again on his vegetables. He stabbed a turnip and held it before his lips as he spoke. “We’re merchants.”
“What of?” Gwen said.
Flann swallowed. So far Will seemed disinclined to speak at all. “Leather.”
Gwen nodded and returned to her own meal. Flann’s answer was a safe one, since Shrewsbury was known for its leather working, and his words might even be true. But the hairs on the back of Gareth’s neck were standing up, and he’d learned something over the years about listening to his instincts.
They could be wrong. They were sometimes wrong, but he would lose nothing by finding out more about these two strangers to Shrewsbury, especially since Conall had been a newcomer too.
He was marshalling his thoughts to ask more about their business when both men stood. Flann tossed a last uneaten crust of bread onto his trencher, nodded at Gareth and Gwen, and left the guest hall with Will.
Gareth immediately bent close to Gwalchmai. “Go after them, will you? I want to know if they leave the monastery—but do not leave it with them! Return to me instead.”
Gwalchmai’s mouth was full of food, but he swallowed quickly and nodded, his chin firming with sudden purpose. “Yes, sir!”
“Take Tangwen with you,” Gwen said. “She’s a good excuse to be loitering in the courtyard.”
“You have a devious mind, sister.” But Gwalchmai had a grin on his face as he scooped up his niece, who was still holding her buttered roll, and hurried out the door after the men.
Once they’d gone, Gareth leaned back in his seat. “Did you see—”
“—the looks they exchanged?” Gwen said. “If they meant to disguise the fact that they knew Conall, they didn’t do a very good job of it.”
“You thought it was Conall they knew?” Gareth said. “I thought the second man, Will, paid particular attention to the sketch of the girl.”
“Either way,” Gwen said, “those two know more than they’re saying.”
Gareth rubbed his chin. “I don’t know how we’re going to get it out of them. I can’t compel them to talk. And John—”
Gwen nodded without Gareth having to finish his thought. More and more often, particularly these last weeks as they’d spent nearly every waking moment together, they’d developed a habit of finishing each other’s sentences. Gwen already had his heart, so Gareth was pleased that their minds had connected so completely as well.
“John means well, and in time he might make a good investigator, but menacing he isn’t,” Gwen said.
And then Gwalchmai came rushing back, Tangwen on his hip with her arms around his neck. “They’ve left the monastery!”
Gareth pushed to his feet. “Did you see which way they went?”
“West. I followed them a little way, thinking I didn’t have time to come back here to tell you, but they’re walking slowly towards the English bridge. You might just catch them if you hurry. I’ll mind Tangwen until you return.”
“Thank you, Gwalchmai.” Gwen started for the door. “I’m glad I wore my cloak to dinner.”
Gareth might have objected to her assumption that she was coming with him if it wouldn’t have meant wasting his breath. It was entirely his fault that Gwen was involved in the investigation, since he had sent for her in the first place. He could hardly complain that she wanted to leave the monastery with him. Besides which, if he’d refused to take Gwen with him, he would have found Gwalchmai looking at him eagerly instead.
He consoled himself with the idea that a married couple such as they would look more innocuous strolling through Shrewsbury than he would alone, hurrying as he would be after two English merchants as if he wanted to rob them. Men tended to look askance at a full-on Welshman wandering about after dark by himself.
Like Gwen, Gareth had worn his cloak to the meal, since the dining room wasn’t heated, and the temperature was hardly different outside than in. The night was clear and the moon shone down. As they hurried through the monastery gatehouse and down the road to the bridge across the Severn, they could see well even without a torch. When they spied the merchants, the two men were just passing the watchmen at the east gate.
Gwen and Gareth were far enough behind that the men didn’t notice them. Nor did they turn around to see if they were being followed. Fortunately, as Gareth and Gwen came across the bridge themselves, Oswin, one of the young watchmen from the alley, arrived from a different direction, with the intent of showing the guards one of Gareth’s sketches. He looked up at Gareth’s approach, his expression brightening, and then introduced him to the guardsmen.
“We are following two men, who just passed through here,” Gareth said. “Did you see which way they went?”
“They headed west,” one of the guards said. “Should we stop them?”
“No,” Gareth said. “This is simple curiosity. I think.”
“It might be late before we return,” Gwen said. “Will you be on duty then? Will you let us pass through? We’re staying at the monastery.”
The guard glanced at Oswin, who nodded, though Gareth wouldn’t have said that the younger man had any more authority here than the guard. “Of course, madam. The wicket gate is always available, but we must be careful about who comes in and out at night. These are troubled times.”
“We understand your duty,” Gwen said appeasingly, though her brow furrowed.
Gareth had also noticed that the guard had repeated the same phrase Flann had used earlier.
Then Gareth and Gwen were off again, wending their way through the mostly deserted streets. It wasn’t that late, not quite nine in the evening, but the residents of Shrewsbury rose early to open their shops in order to take advantage of every daylight hour given them.
They were nearing the west gate, an area that Gareth was growing more knowledgeable about, since this was near where the pool of blood had been found, when he saw the men stop forty feet away before a three-story house. It was one of those among the inner ring of houses and shops that lined the interior of the palisade, and Gareth wondered all of a sudden if it had gate access to the river. These houses weren’t backed up right to the wall, like might occur in a castle, but had yards and stables behind them that the wall enclosed.
The men stopped before the door, below a sign showing a picture of a woman’s shoe, and spoke to a man standing in the doorway.
“That’s the brothel!” Gwen said in a breathless whisper.
Gareth gripped her arm tightly, just in case she had a mind to go closer. Meanwhile, Will pulled something from his pocket and showed it to the guard, who nodded, and then the two merchants entered the house. As they passed through the doorway, another man was just coming out, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he did so.
All three men nodded at each other, not necessarily because they knew each other but out of politeness, since they were passing in a tight space, and then the newcomer left the shelter of the stoop. The road was well lit by both the moonlight and the many torches shining from the buildings along the street, so Gareth could easily see the face of the man.
It was Luke, the skeptical watchman.