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Gwen
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The five soldiers Roger had brought with him fell into formation around Gareth, Gwen, and Gruffydd, giving Gwen the feeling of being a prisoner, though she didn’t believe that was the intent. Normans liked formality, and they had a tendency to stand on ceremony even though more might be accomplished with a jest and a please.
This time, however, when they passed into the keep, rather than taking them to the receiving room in which they’d met Prince Henry earlier that morning, Roger led them up the stairs in one of the towers—the same one Gwen had taken to get to the wall-walk—to an upstairs chamber located above the great hall. It was decorated like a noblewoman’s solar, with soft cushions on the window seat, several wide chairs, a thick fur on the floor, and a blazing fire. Gwen was tempted to sit without being asked, if for no other reason than because Taran was heavy. Before she could, however, a middle-aged woman came through a far doorway—gliding rather than walking—and put a hand on the back of a comfortable chair nearest the fire.
“Wine, Roger.”
“Yes, Mother.” Roger moved with alacrity while the other men around Gwen shrank back slightly—the Norman men, that is. Gareth and Gruffydd had no inherent fear of her, though Gwen had a sudden thought that perhaps they should.
Mabel came serenely around the chair and accepted a goblet of wine from her son. Then, with a flick of her hand, she dismissed not only her own lady-in-waiting, who faded back through the doorway and closed the door, but the Norman guards who’d accompanied Gareth and Gwen. Before the man closest to Gwen turned away, he let out an audible sigh of relief, prompting a momentary laugh from Gwen, which she barely managed to swallow down. It would have been inappropriate, and the last thing she wanted was to get on the wrong side of Lady Mabel.
His expression solicitous, Roger returned to the table set against the wall to Gwen’s right, and Gruffydd moved silently to put his back to the main door, as Llelo had done downstairs in Prince Henry’s receiving room.
Gwen schooled her expression and studied Earl Robert’s widow. By all accounts, and by Gwen’s own assessment when she’d met him, Robert had been the kind of man who filled every room he entered. He was a strong leader—and a good man. The authority emanating from Mabel indicated that he’d also been a strong enough man to have a wife who intimidated everyone in her vicinity. Gwen had a passing thought that she’d love to know how Mabel and Empress Maud got along—and strongly suspected the answer was not at all well. That could be why Maud was mourning her brother alone at Devizes rather than with the widow here at Bristol.
Mabel was Gwen’s height but very thin, as sometimes happened to women once their childbearing years were over. Even now, Mabel might not be entirely out of them, since she was somewhere in her forties. Earl Robert himself had been in the vicinity of fifty. Together they had more than a half-dozen living children, the eldest of whom, William, had now inherited his father’s title. William was twenty-seven, having been born within a year of his father’s marriage to Mabel, and was seven years older than Roger.
Gwen had noticed that sometimes when a couple had been married for many years, they started to resemble one another. Mabel was a much smaller person than her late husband had been, but they shared the same patrician nose, high forehead, and slate-gray hair, which in Mabel’s case was pulled back in a bun on the top of her head. Inside her own quarters, she wore no veil or kerchief. Her dress was of the finest wool Gwen had ever seen. Gwen still hadn’t changed out of her traveling clothes, and she felt drab and unfashionable by comparison. Probably, given her nursing mother’s figure, she would have felt that way regardless of what she was wearing.
Having given his mother her wine, Roger poured a second goblet for Gwen, which she took with surprise and gratitude. Because of Taran’s needs, she was constantly thirsty, and if Roger hadn’t come to find her and Gareth, she would have made her way to the kitchen for refreshment.
As she took a sip, Roger retreated back to the table. “Mother, it is a pleasure to see you. I had thought it was Cousin Henry who would be here. That is what I told Sir Gareth.”
“Henry had other duties to attend to, and I wanted to speak to our guests myself.” Her look was severe.
Gwen was left with the impression that Roger had been deliberately deceived—for reasons Gwen couldn’t yet decipher. Did Mabel fear that if she asked directly for Gwen and Gareth to come to her, they wouldn’t have done so? The idea was ludicrous enough to be dismissed out of hand.
Mabel raised a finger to Gruffydd. “I would speak to Sir Gareth and Lady Gwen alone.”
Gruffydd’s eyes immediately went to Gareth, who conveyed his assent, and Gruffydd did as he was bid, though with obvious reluctance. “I will be outside if you need me,” he muttered in Welsh under his breath before closing the door behind him.
While Roger had given Gwen a full goblet, Mabel hadn’t granted Gwen, who still held Taran in his sling, permission to sit. It was incredibly rude of her. Gwen would have thought that a matron like Mabel, who saw herself as superior in every way to Gwen, would not want to appear ungracious. She could have offered Gwen a seat if only to appear like a queen to a lowly subject. Then again, perhaps in her eyes, Gwen’s station was so far beneath hers that she didn’t believe she was a person worthy of notice. That was the reason she’d looked daggers at her son when he’d given Gwen the wine.
She and Gareth were worthy enough of notice for Mabel to fix them with a beady gaze, however. “Henry believes my husband was murdered. I do not concur, and if it had been up to me, you would not be here now.”
Taran, with the perfect timing of a baby, chose that moment to squawk. He flailed his arms, almost knocking Gwen’s cup out of her hand, and arched his back, demanding to be let out of his blankets.
To Gwen’s relief, even though Mabel had showed no concern for her up until now, the noblewoman’s reaction was immediate. “Sit, my dear. You’ve traveled far, and my nephew should not have put this burden on you before you’d even had a chance to rest.” While offering Gwen a place to sit, one woman to another, had been out of the question, one mother to another was apparently a different matter.
Gwen sat gratefully, putting the wine aside and pulling Taran out of his sling to hold him in her lap. Meanwhile, Mabel’s attention shifted back to Gareth. “How could you have brought her so far?”
Gareth stood his ground, though he had his legs spread and his hands behind his back, as if fearing he was about to be buffeted by a high wind instead of merely Mabel’s opinions. “Prince Henry indicated that his need for our presence was urgent, and circumstances were such that leaving Aberystwyth seemed a better idea than staying.”
“Croup. I heard.” Mabel canted her head, condescending to admit that Gareth might have a point.
Gareth bowed. “Please allow me to express my condolences for your loss.”
Mabel didn’t appear to know what to make of that. Either she was offended by his courtesy or surprised that such a pretty statement had come out of a Welshman’s mouth. Instead of thanking him or making any reply, she took a long drink of wine, nearly draining the cup, and resettled herself in her chair. The back of the chair was to the fire so she faced Gareth, who remained standing somewhat awkwardly in front of her.
At which point Gwen realized that she had done Mabel a disservice. The Lady of Gloucester had been moved, not offended, by Gareth’s condolences, and her fluster and bluster had been intended to give herself time to recover from strong emotion—something these Normans strived at all times to hide.
Finally, Mabel spoke again, though it was to address a new subject. “I hear you’ve already examined Aubrey’s body.”
“Yes, my lady, though my conclusions are of no great import. We know how he died.”
“And the battlement?”
Gwen cleared her throat. “I’ve seen it, my lady. As did our son, who is even now speaking with the soldiers on duty at the time. The mason who examined the break does not believe it credible that the mortar failed in only that spot. He is of the opinion that someone deliberately chiseled out the stone.”
“So this is murder.” It wasn’t a question.
“It appears so,” Gareth said.
Mabel sniffed. “It seems you have made business for yourselves here after all.”
That was so patently unfair, Gwen’s breath caught in her throat.
Gareth struggled on. “With these other deaths—”
Mabel cut him off with a wave of her hand. “My husband’s death aside, I do agree that we’ve been stricken by a series of unfortunate events. The common folk are near panic, and I myself have been at wit’s end with them. The castle is in disarray, a condition I cannot abide. We’ve had enough death, murder, and betrayal with this infernal war without adding to it with unexpected losses like Aubrey’s.” She glared at Gareth, seemingly not having the heart to take Gwen to task with a baby in her arms. “I do not see the benefit in upsetting my people more than they already are. You must be more discreet! I can’t imagine what my nephew was thinking inviting strangers to Bristol.”
Gareth wet his lips. “I apologize for any unrest our presence and our questions may cause. But asking questions is the only way to uncover the truth. If there’s a murderer loose in Bristol, it is only by making inquiries that we will catch him, hopefully before he strikes again.”
“If.” She sniffed again. “And can you guarantee that he won’t strike again if you do ask your questions?”
Gareth was silent a moment. “No, madam. I cannot. Even now he might be plotting his next move.”
Mabel shuddered and seemed about to speak, but Roger cleared his throat. “We can’t send them away now, Mother.”
“People might think I had something to hide, you mean?” Mabel was too ladylike to snort, but Gwen had the definite impression she wanted to.
Roger’s next comment was more tentative. “It would also be ... unwise to overrule Henry. We can’t have his authority undermined.”
“You don’t have to remind me of my place, Roger. William is the new earl, and while he didn’t support Henry’s accusations, it would have been impolitic to forbid Henry to pursue them.” Mabel made a tsking sound under her breath. “And look where it has got us.”
Mabel’s comment implied that if Henry hadn’t summoned Gareth and Gwen, Sir Aubrey would not be dead. It was a disconcerting thought, and Gwen was honest enough to acknowledge that it might even be true. But the thought, by definition, indicated that at least one of these other deaths was not an accident. Gwen didn’t dare point out Mabel’s flawed logic, but she wasn’t going to cower before her either. “What can you tell us of these other deaths, my lady?”
“Nothing.”
Gwen ground her teeth, striving for patience. Lady Mabel’s response was one she might have expected from Dai or Gwalchmai, but not the dowager lady of Bristol Castle. Gwen was trying to make allowances for Mabel’s grief, but she was already tired of being treated like a peasant or a serf—and Gwen herself would never treat anyone this way in the first place. “You must have known the maidservant who tended your husband. Who found her body?”
“I did.”
Gwen resisted raising her eyebrows. That was a new bit of information nobody had bothered to tell them yet. “Can you describe the circumstances in which you found her?”
“I was passing by my late husband’s room. I heard a noise coming from behind the door, which was partially open, and I found her lying on the floor, dying.”
“Was there any blood or other indication that her death had involved another person?” Gwen said.
Mabel shook her head.
Gareth took a slight step forward. “Did you notice anything unusual about the room?”
“My husband wasn’t in it.” Mabel was back to obstructing, though her words were true as well.
“Did she vomit before she died?” Gareth said. “Was there foam around her mouth or petechiae around her eyes?”
Mabel paused a moment to consider before answering, and Gwen was glad to see she was taking the questions seriously for the first time. “Her lips were blue, I remember that. And she had a sunburned look to her cheeks, even though it was All Saints’ Day, and we’d had little sun for weeks.” She shrugged. “Neither our physician nor the herbalist could find an external cause of death. There’s nothing further to say.”
Gareth looked at Gwen. “That could be in keeping with a heart condition.”
Gwen tipped her head noncommittally. “It’s also a sign of poisoning from bitter almond—or perhaps a hundred other possibilities.” The description did make her think of suffocation. She wished Saran were here, because she might have better insight, but she and Gwen’s father had returned to Gwynedd. They hadn’t even met Taran yet.
“Who was the herbalist you consulted?” Gwen asked.
“He is a monk at St. James’s Priory, where I believe you are staying. You could speak to our physician, but he went off with William.” Her chin stuck out. “Few men are more knowledgeable, and you would be wise to accept his judgement.”
Gwen fought a skeptical smile. Lady Mabel’s assessment sounded grossly optimistic, since most castle healers were good for pulling teeth and little else. Midwives generally knew something of herbs and their healing qualities, and most monastery herbalists had the basics in their stock. People like Saran, however, people for whom diagnosing and treatment were an art, were few and far between.
Gareth turned to Roger. “What about the valet?”
“He drowned.”
“So everyone says,” Gareth said, “but you have no body.”
Roger sighed, as if impatient with the need to tell the story. “A boy walking along the bank saw him in the boat, and then when he passed by going the other way a quarter of an hour later, Bernard was gone, leaving his boots in the bottom of the boat. His hat was found washed up on the bank a short distance downstream.” It was almost word for word what Prince Henry had told them.
Mabel’s eyes were sad. “Bernard was fishing in honor of the earl, who loved it.” She shook her head. “He’d had so little time to spare for it in recent years.” She meant the earl, Gwen knew, not the valet.
“Where is the boat now?” Gareth said. “Is it available to be examined?”
Roger shrugged. “It is a boat. I can’t see how there’s anything to discover with it, but you may try. I will speak to—” He stopped. “I was about to say I would speak to Aubrey so he could arrange for it, but of course he’s dead too.” He took in a breath. “Someone will know what has become of it.”
“Could Bernard swim?” Gwen asked, looking for confirmation of what Prince Henry had told them.
Mabel pressed her lips together, implying that she was impatient with the questions. “You should really let him be. He’s probably in the sea by now.” She swept out a hand and said, even more tartly, “Bernard was completely bereft upon my husband’s death. It wouldn’t be the first time grief overthrew a man’s senses and caused him to take his own life.”
Henry had denied the possibility of suicide, and this comment put Mabel again at odds with her nephew. It seemed Henry held multiple opinions that nobody else shared.
Then Mabel’s voice softened. “It isn’t the Christian way, but—” she paused again, and her stern appearance suddenly gave way, like the breaking of a wave upon the beach, and tears filled her voice, “—from the first, I wished I’d died too.” She bent her head.
At Mabel’s sudden tears, Roger looked utterly stricken. Gareth’s feet were also frozen to the floor, but after a quick motion from Gwen, he hastened to her to take Taran, which allowed Gwen to move to Mabel’s side. Gwen was uncertain about whether comforting Mabel was appropriate—or if her comfort would be rebuffed—but grief was grief, and even if every widow dealt with the loss of her husband in her own way, Mabel didn’t have to be alone with hers.
So Gwen went down on one knee and placed her hand hesitantly on Mabel’s shoulder. Mabel didn’t dismiss her, and as she continued to weep, Roger brought Gwen a chair to put next to Mabel’s. Throwing caution to the winds, Gwen sat and drew the older woman into her arms.
With that, the storm that had been building let loose, and the real tears came. With a flick of one hand behind Mabel’s back, Gwen dismissed both men from the room, and they left with haste. It was custom to say that men feared a woman’s tears more than battle, but in this case, it was true. Even though a part of Gwen herself feared this kind of grief, never again wanting to feel the way Mabel did, she didn’t recoil from it. She’d lived it since she was ten years old when her mother died, and while she’d experienced loss in the interim, her grief had been renewed upon Rhun’s death a year ago.
The longer Mabel’s weeping continued, the more difficult Gwen found it to blink back her own tears that wanted to fall in sympathy. She struggled to swallow them down and simply act as a rock for Mabel, who was holding onto Gwen so tightly she’d caught the back of Gwen’s cloak in her fists, giving Gwen no chance to draw away even had she a mind to.
“I loved him, you see,” Mabel said, still holding on.
“I know.”
