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Bristol Castle
November 1147
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Gwen
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“I’m so glad you’re here. I was afraid you weren’t going to come—” Henry Plantagenet, son of Empress Maud, broke off his greeting as he caught sight of baby Taran in Gwen’s arms.
Gwen and Gareth bowed. By the time they’d straightened, Henry had come around the table that was serving as a repository for stacks of paper and halted in front of them.
Gwen smiled ruefully at Henry’s evident surprise and said in French, the language he’d been speaking, “You said you wanted both of us, and both of us have come.” She turned sideways to show him the baby, who was asleep in his sling in soft wool blankets. “Plus one.”
Henry bent forward to look into Taran’s face. “I never meant for you to put yourself or your child at risk!” With utter gentleness, he reached out a finger to stroke the baby’s cheek and lowered his voice so his talking wouldn’t disturb the child. “I would not have been so demanding had I known of his birth.”
And then he amended, with a maturity not present the last time they’d seen him, “No, that’s a lie. I would have wanted you to come regardless and resented that you could not.”
“As soon as we received your message, we both wanted to heed your summons,” Gareth said, “but Gwen and the baby would not have traveled such a distance if staying at Aberystwyth wouldn’t have been worse. Croup.”
The disease engendered such fear that Henry recoiled slightly. Gwen put out a hand, wanting to reassure him. “It has been ten days since we left Aberystwyth, and none of our party has fallen ill in that time. You have nothing to fear from us.”
Croup wasn’t as terrible a sickness as plague, but it invariably left dead children and broken families in its wake. When Gareth was five years old, his own parents had died of croup or something similar. He’d been too young at the time to know the difference between one sickness and the next. The disease was characterized by a swollen neck and a sore throat that eventually cut off a child’s ability to breathe. It was an ugly and painful way to die—and horrific for a parent to have to watch.
Prince Henry regarded them. “I see now the reason for the delay in your arrival—and appreciate it.”
What remained to be seen was whether or not anyone else did. Things hadn’t started off well. Their entry into the castle had been further delayed by the need for the guard to write down every one of their names. Because they were Welsh, the construction and spelling had been unfamiliar to him. Just before Gareth himself had offered to write the list, the understeward had hastily finished it and sent them on their way, admittedly with his apologies.
“I am pleased not to take on an unnecessary measure of guilt. The weight I bear is heavy enough.” Henry glanced over his shoulder as he walked back to his seat on the far side of the table. “Where are the rest of your men? Surely you didn’t bring only one retainer with you?”
He was referring to their eldest son, Llelo, who’d put his back to the now-closed door. Gwen had never been to this particular castle before, but she recognized the room as a private office or receiving room. It was fifteen feet on a side, appointed with a long table, several cushioned chairs, and a window. Inside the confines of the castle, Gwen found herself all turned around, so she wasn’t sure which direction the window faced, but it was letting in enough natural light that a few candles and the fire were sufficient to light the space. She could believe the room had once been Earl Robert’s, but with his death, it had been given over to the next-highest-ranking magnate—not his son and heir, William, but Prince Henry.
Since it was only the few of them, Gwen didn’t stand on ceremony and went straight to the hearth to warm her hands and Taran in his blankets. She didn’t have Prince Hywel’s condition, which caused his fingers to turn white when they grew cold, but this morning they’d woken to chillier air than they’d experienced in the whole of their journey. She’d been glad to reach the castle and find herself indoors. The hall had been warmer than outside, but it hadn’t been as warm as this room.
Gareth followed Gwen to the fire, though he stood a pace closer to Henry with his back to the flames and his hands clasped behind him.
“We have a few more men with us, my lord, but we didn’t fear for our lives in Bristol, knowing that it was within your sphere of influence, and we didn’t want to impose on you with an army. We thought our son sufficient protection to enter your hall.” Gareth gestured behind him. “This is Llelo, our eldest and my apprentice, if such a thing can be conceived, in investigating murder.”
Llelo put a hand to his heart and bent his head. “I was also at Newcastle-under-Lyme three years ago, my lord, though I imagine you don’t remember me.”
Henry’s eyes swept over Llelo in a quick assessment. He saw a tall young man, a year older than Henry himself, with dark hair and blue eyes that looked back at the prince with equal curiosity. “I’m sorry, but I do not. I won’t make that mistake again.” Then he paused. “How many soldiers did you say you brought?”
“I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear,” Gareth said. “We have a guard of six.”
Up until now—except for the rueful laugh—Henry had appeared quite grave, but now his eyes lit. “Don’t tell me you brought the Dragons with you!”
Gareth’s eyes twinkled. “We did.” He had felt some apprehension at taking Hywel’s best warriors away with him, but left behind at Aberystwyth were Hywel’s foster father, Cadoc, and Cadoc’s sons, along with the entirety of the prince’s teulu. They had to be content they were leaving their lord in safe hands—or as safe as could be arranged.
Gwen laughed herself to see Henry’s enthusiasm. “How could you possibly know of them?”
“Who hasn’t heard of the Dragons?” Henry sounded as excited as a boy whose master had just replaced his wooden sword with a real one. “They took down the Flemings’ castle single-handed! What a blow they struck for my mother!”
The six men he was referring to, dubbed the Dragons by Prince Hywel, were each worth two or more average men. The decision to send only them with Gareth and Gwen had been deliberated upon at length, but in the end Hywel had decided not to send any more for the reasons to which they’d just alluded. In addition, though it hadn’t occurred to Gwen until she’d seen Henry’s face, the Dragons—of all the members of Hywel’s court—were the most likely to be well received by English people. Their reputation, like Gareth’s and Gwen’s, had preceded them.
Gwen didn’t mention—because to Henry it would have been immaterial—the rest of their retinue, which included their daughter, Tangwen; Evan’s wife, Angharad; Gareth and Gwen’s other adopted son, thirteen-year-old Dai; and four household servants: Tangwen’s nanny, her daughter, and a husband and wife couple. These latter two were recent additions and a concession of sorts on Gwen’s part. But with the new baby, basic daily household tasks were often beyond her, and Gareth was of the opinion that if he could afford to employ someone to help with chores, then he was morally obligated to do so.
Gareth had been smiling at Henry, but at the mention of the battle for Wiston Castle, he sobered. “I know; I was there.”
He shot Gwen a meaningful look. The blow they’d struck at Wiston hadn’t been in the slightest bit for Empress Maud—but for Wales, in the hopes of ridding their lands of the hated Flemings once and for all. That they’d attacked and taken the castle as allies of Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Pembroke, who’d recently abandoned King Stephen for Maud, had been of no importance to Prince Hywel. To Welsh eyes, there wasn’t much to choose between these two cousins who were warring for the English throne. Either would both have conquered Wales in a heartbeat if one hadn’t been too busy fighting the other.
Henry didn’t appear to notice the glance, caught up as he was in the glories of battle. “I would have expected nothing less from you! I want to hear all about it, but it will have to wait until our business here is done.”
Only a boy when they’d met him for the first time at Newcastle-under-Lyme (and saved his life), Henry was now fourteen and a man by Welsh reckoning. Though his freckled face was still rounded with youth, since they’d last seen him his hair had darkened to a reddish-blond. He’d grown stockier in build too, an indication of the martial upbringing that was required for the firstborn son of a claimant to the throne of England. Training in war was his birthright.
What remained to be seen was how much of the boy remained in the man. At Newcastle-under-Lyme, Henry had been a somewhat bewildered and unhappy child but fundamentally honest and hopeful. While he was reluctant to broach what had brought them here, Henry’s hesitation was out of grief, not uncertainty. He had approached them with confidence, certain of his own worth and authority. One could believe, looking at him now, that he really might one day become King of England.
Gareth dropped a cushion onto a chair and held it for Gwen until she sat. At the change in altitude, Taran stirred and pushed at his blankets, but she rocked him, and he didn’t wake.
Henry folded his hands and rested them on the table. “Thank you for coming. I know the circumstances are unusual, and the request even more so, but I cannot rest until I uncover the truth—or you do.”
He paused. “I believe that my uncle did not die a natural death but was murdered.”
Neither Gareth nor Gwen showed surprise, since that had been the gist of the message Prince Henry had sent to Aberystwyth. Earl Robert had died three weeks ago, on Calan Gaeaf, or to the English, All Hallows’ Eve, and the castle was still in deep mourning, as evidenced by the black drapery hung about the windows in the great hall.
“I understand Earl Robert had been ill for some time,” Gwen said gently, trying to be diplomatic. Henry’s suspicions could be misguided, and they needed to lay the issue bare immediately.
It didn’t work.
Henry slammed a fist on the table. “I am not merely a grieving nephew who must be appeased! Nor am I a child any longer, and you are wrong to treat me as one. I am angry, yes, but it is because my uncle was hurried to his grave.” At the sight of Gwen’s stricken face—and Taran stirring in his wrappings—Henry immediately put up both hands in apology. “Please forgive me. Many others have said the same thing to me, and I am tired of hearing it.”
“You seem very certain.” Gwen rocked Taran back and forth. “Is that because you are certain or because you’ve had to defend your position to skeptical older men—or your mother?”
Henry bowed his head. “I admit I could be wrong.” Then his chin came up. At Gwen’s calm words and the baby fading back to sleep, his tension appeared to ease. It was no longer anger that had him clenching his fists, so much as determination. “But I don’t think I am. I did not send for you on a whim.”
Now Gareth hunched forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped before him. The formality of their initial conversation had at last given way to a more casual practicality. “Say we believe it’s possible. What makes you think your uncle was murdered?”
Henry blinked, perhaps stunned at being taken seriously at last. “Because he told me so with his dying breath.”
