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Llelo
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“How many people did you say came through the tunnel yesterday afternoon?” Llelo was unable to keep the tone of surprise from his voice.
They were in a stone building built over the top of the tunnel entrance. Given that the town had guarded walls as well, for an enemy to reach the tunnel would have required significant effort—and couldn’t have been done in numbers anyway. Llelo thought it was a major weak point in the castle’s defenses, however, even if it made coming and going from the keep convenient at times. Then again, Aber had two tunnels, both also always guarded, and they’d proved useful in the past.
“At least a dozen,” the old guard said. His name was Tom, and he was possibly four times Llelo’s age. Whether or not Harold was lying about Aelfric’s whereabouts, his assessment of the state of Bristol’s garrison appeared to be accurate: they had a host of inexperienced young men and a handful of greybeards, and not much in between. If King Stephen realized this, he might be far more optimistic about the chances of an attack on Bristol succeeding—and far less concerned about the forces arrayed against him.
Then again, he could be in the same situation as Henry. Eight years into the war, both sides had lost far too many fighting men.
“How a dozen?” Gareth said.
“It’s a gate like any other, the way is straight and well lit, even without one’s own torch. If the weather is inclement, or we intend to store something in the castle, and it’s easier to bring in this way, we allow it. Every man is known to us, however. We don’t let just anyone pass.”
“I want their names,” Gareth said.
The man frowned, thinking. “One was Sir Harold, of course, checking that all was well.”
“Wait—” Gareth put up a hand, asking the guard to pause while he brought out a paper and lead to write with. The pencil was a present from Abbot Rhys, with the lead wrapped in a thin skin to make it easier to hold and write with. The monks used them more for making lines in manuscripts than for actual writing, but it was perfect for Gareth’s purposes, since he could carry it in his pocket and make notes. “What hour of the day was that?”
Tom looked at his companion, yet another man in his late teens, who said, “Around None, I think.”
“That’s right,” Tom said. “The bell had just rung.”
Llelo’s brow furrowed. “The captain had left us by then, Father. He said he had duties to attend to.”
“So he did.” Gareth sighed. “Who else?”
“Several men coming off shift who live in the town.” Tom turned to the table behind them. “You can read? Here.” He turned back and showed a piece of paper to Gareth.
Llelo stepped closer to look. “It’s a list of names.”
“We keep track of everyone coming and going.” Tom looked very proud, though almost immediately his smile faltered. “We did keep track, I mean. We’ve been told we don’t have to anymore.”
“Told by whom?” Llelo asked, remembering that nobody had written down his name when they’d left the castle last night or when he’d entered that morning, though it had seemed very important the day before.
“I don’t know. The men we relieved only said that we didn’t have to.”
“Who wrote these?” Gareth said.
“I did.” The younger man raised a finger. “I can write.”
The list from yesterday had forty names on it, written in several different hands. Literacy seemed to be important at Bristol Castle. Then again, a man didn’t need to know how to read to write out letters if someone knew how to spell his name. Llelo pointed to one, towards the end of the day: Rose.
Gareth turned the paper to show the young guard. “Do you remember her?”
The guard flushed. “Yes, my lord.”
“Was she coming or going?”
“Going.” He leaned forward. “That’s the tick beside the name.”
Now that the guard had pointed it out, roughly half the names had the mark—and half of those were on the list twice, since they’d returned this way as well.
“Why the different hands?” Llelo said.
“If someone can write, I have them do their own name. Sir Aubrey said that was best.” If possible, the guard turned even redder. “Sometimes I don’t spell so good. Better if they do it themselves.”
Harold had clearly done his own, as had several others, including Charles, four names farther down. Llelo remembered the distinctive flourish he’d put at the end of each of their names when he’d written them down at the front gate. As at the front gate, and unlike Gareth with his pencil, the guards wrote in pen and ink on a standing desk.
“What happens to the lists?” Gareth said.
“We keep them here,” Tom said. “Sir Aubrey would collect them every few days.”
“Do you know what he did with them?” Llelo said.
“Kept ‘em.” Tom shrugged. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction to writing from someone who couldn’t read. The names were scratches to him, not necessarily foolish, but certainly useless.
Gareth held up the list. “May I keep this?”
Tom shrugged again. “Sir Aubrey’s gone, isn’t he? Nobody cares about them anymore.”
Gareth thanked the two men and set off back through the tunnel. Llelo followed closely at his heels. “What now?”
“I have to return to the conference. It is most inconvenient.”
“Surely the investigation is more important?”
Gareth stopped and fixed his son with a beady eye. “More important than keeping an eye on Cadwaladr? More important than being on hand when the barons of England make a decision to go to war again?”
Llelo was taken aback at his father’s harsh tone. “No.” He shook his head. “I can see that it isn’t.”
Gareth took in a breath and started walking again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken thus to you.”
“It’s fine.” Llelo hurried to catch up, the tension in his stomach easing at his father’s apology.
“It isn’t, but I appreciate you saying so. I’m not angry at you but at the circumstances in which we find ourselves.” He took in another audible breath and let it out. “The investigation is continuing. It’s just going to be you doing what needs to be done instead of me.”
It was not only an apology but a vote of confidence. Llelo quickened his pace. “What do you want me to do?”
“Sir Aubrey obviously had a system in place with these lists. I’d like to go through his records, but I shouldn’t without permission, and I don’t know that I can corner Earl William before the banquet tonight. As it is, the day is waning, and we have too much to do. I’m also curious to know what your mother has been up to.”
“She’ll have discovered something.”
Gareth shot him a smile. “We’d all be disappointed if she didn’t. I will meet you at the priory once I’m let out of this conference. It’ll probably be long past sunset by then. In the meantime, go to each guardpost, collect these lists, see what you can make of them, and we will confer tonight.”
“Is there anything in particular I should be looking for?”
“I don’t know.” Gareth shrugged. “I accept that Aubrey’s memory could have been failing him—or Earl Robert’s—but my instincts tell me there’s more to these lists than that.”
They’d reached the door to the tower. The guard had heard them coming and already had it open. Before climbing the steps to the guardroom, Llelo paused, speaking slowly as he thought things out, “Robert Fitzharding believed Sir Aubrey to be set in his ways and uninterested in anything new.”
His father was a few steps above him, and he stopped to look down. “Keeping lists like this is new to me. Aubrey had to have had a very good reason to require it. It takes an enormous amount of time and effort.”
“Maybe Earl Robert, even on his deathbed, felt something was amiss at Bristol,” Llelo said. “He was confined to his bed, so this was his way to gather information without relying entirely on someone else’s recollections.”
“Good. Good. I am thinking along the same lines. If there’s more to these lists than meets the eye, I want to know what it is.”
