| |
Cadoc
––––––––
Cadoc had agreed to become a member of the Dragons because, for a man to whom killing had been a profession, serving Hywel as a member of an elite squad sounded, by comparison, fun. Killing was what he knew best.
In fact, it was all he knew.
Since he was seven years old and his uncle had put his first cut-down-to-size bow into his hand and told him to draw it, he’d felt an affinity for the weapon that was akin to a man who could track a deer or one who could read the weather. Cadoc’s father had been a drunkard, and all Cadoc had known up until that time was hunger and the back of his father’s hand.
To hold a bow and shoot it, even at seven, had been like touching God. From the very first, he’d felt the hair on his neck rise at a breath of wind, evaluating its speed and direction. As he’d grown, he’d been able to see tiny differences in terrain from a distance, like no one he’d met before or since. Almost immediately, his uncle had realized what he had. Even before Cadoc could shoot an arrow a hundred yards, he was accompanying his uncle to war as his eyes, to tell him where to shoot, how high or low to aim above what he wanted to hit, and the distance to his target.
Admittedly, there’d been a ten-year period during Cadoc’s twenties and thirties where he’d lost himself to the bow and to drink and had no life outside of either. Later, after he’d drunk away his payment, he occasionally had second thoughts, but it was never enough to change his course in life. When a man had the ability to kill other men the way Cadoc did, and when he allowed himself to be used for that purpose by other men—not always the most honorable of men either—it created dark patches on the soul. Dark patches that could never be returned to the light.
Cadoc had killed for Rhys, who himself spied for Geoffrey of Anjou. And yet, knowing that a man of Rhys’s mettle was on his side had changed Cadoc. Under Rhys’s command, he’d begun to wonder if he might have a chance in the world of the living. It had made him recognize the way he’d been used in the past and despise the idea of being used in the present.
He knew himself well enough by then, however, to acknowledge that most of the time he couldn’t honestly say what was right and what was wrong. The Bible said thou shalt not kill, but war was the single greatest occupation of kings and lords. How was it that a king could be chosen by God and yet spend his reign ordering the death of hundreds of men, whose own king or lord was also divinely ordained?
These questions were too thorny for Cadoc, and he hadn’t the temperament to turn priest and abbot like Rhys. But he recognized grace and integrity in other men, even if he retained none for himself. Over time, Cadoc had come to acknowledge that he needed men like Rhys in his life. He could trust that they wouldn’t ask him to aim an arrow at someone who didn’t deserve to be shot. Thus, if his bow was to be put to use for its intended purpose, he’d resolved only to do so at the command of a man like Rhys. Once Rhys had left Geoffrey’s service, and thus stopped providing work for Cadoc, he’d discovered that it was a type of man that was few and far between.
Prince Hywel was not, in fact, such a man.
But Gareth was.
And if Gareth, whom Cadoc knew to have left more than one lord’s service because of that lord’s lack of honor, could serve Hywel, then who was Cadoc to argue or choose a different path? He already knew he had no soul, but Gareth’s glowed around him like a halo.
The only man to whom he’d ever hinted any of this was Abbot Rhys. While the former spy had not told him what to do or which path to tread, his blessing had been clear enough. And somewhere along the way, despite Cadoc’s best efforts to live his life apart and behave as if he was self-sufficient, he’d found himself in the center of a large family. And one that he loved.
Over the years, Cadoc had learned to fear emotion, convinced that feeling anything at all for anyone would harm his ability to kill. Instead, he’d been surprised to find that his new emotions sharpened his attention. It was his job to protect his friends, to watch over them, like he’d done at Wiston Castle.
He slept much better these days too.
Even so, he was a little surprised at himself for volunteering to assist in the investigation in the way he had, and particularly that he’d suggested the addition of the two young men who walked behind him. But he’d told Gareth the truth when he’d said that he knew boats. And almost despite himself, he was growing interested in Llelo’s development. While Cadoc had spoken his true opinion when he’d suggested that Dai was a born Dragon—a soldier-spy—Llelo had too much of Gareth in him to take to it easily. His mind was sharp, however, which when investigating criminals was a good counterbalance to his mile-wide streak of honesty. Too many Gareths in the world might make life a great deal less colorful, but Wales could afford at least one more.
“So you’re the Welshman, are you?”
Cadoc had inquired at the priory gatehouse as to where and from whom the valet would have acquired his boat and had been told that the boatman, Edgar, was the man to speak to.
“One of them,” Cadoc said mildly, also in English. He didn’t introduce the two young men, which was a calculated strategy. He feared that the presence of Prince Henry’s brother might in this instance silence talk instead of encouraging it. Edgar was his own man, but simple, and not under the authority of the castle in the same way as a guard.
They were standing on the edge of the River Frome, adjacent to a wooden dock, one of many jutting into the river. Pilings that supported the dock had been driven deep into the riverbed. In his forty years of existence, Cadoc had traveled from the tip of Anglesey to Italy (the latter in the service of Geoffrey of Anjou). Many of the trading cities on the Continent were larger and more sophisticated than any town in England—certainly than in Wales—but he found that he liked the smaller, more rough-and-tumble, free-wheeling nature of Bristol better. If nothing else, it was more honest. The Venetians prettied up their politics and social interactions with politeness and polish— right before they crept up behind you and stabbed you in the back.
The castle dominated the town, and all trade was taxed for the Earl of Gloucester, but from what Cadoc could see, he kept a light hand on the reins. Though the rumors of William’s character were not favorable towards him, Cadoc was more impressed with the man in person and thought he might be as capable as his father. One indication of Bristol’s success, in establishing itself as a trading center of importance, was the construction of a Templar stronghold south of the castle on the other side of the River Avon, on land granted to them by Earl Robert.
“Where’s the boat?” Llelo said, apparently wanting to hurry the conversation along and impatient with Edgar’s apparent prejudice against the Welsh.
“Just there.” Edgar indicated the third boat in the row, tied amongst a dozen others.
Cadoc left Edgar to crouch above the boat, studying its shape and sturdiness. It was an English boat, like every other one at the dock, and nothing out of the ordinary. Welsh fishing coracles were round, in appearance something like a basket, in which the fisherman stood rather than sat to row. This craft was made with wooden strakes shaped around a frame of ribs and risings. It had a pointed bow and stern, a center seat, and rowlocks for the oars.
Cadoc asked Edgar over his shoulder, “Why was he fishing in the Frome instead of the Avon?”
“The Avon is busier. He and Earl Robert had a favorite spot, up past the weirs and sluice gates.”
Cadoc allowed himself a low laugh, which he couldn’t seem to help every time anyone said the word Avon. Afon meant ‘river’ in Welsh, so those early Saxons, perhaps thinking to keep the Welsh original name for the river, had dubbed one of the largest, most significant rivers in England River River. He could imagine the Welshmen those long-ago Saxons had displaced similarly laughing at their conquerors’ expense and never mentioning the mistake they’d made. Cadoc didn’t either.
Edgar didn’t seem to notice Cadoc’s amusement and added, “He was last seen rowing up the Frome towards one of the fishing holes.”
“Who saw him?” Cadoc hated asking obvious questions, but Edgar wasn’t imparting information quickly. Maybe he was wrong not to sic Hamelin on him. Except Hamelin likely spoke no English.
“Two boys. My sister’s lads. They saw him get into the boat with his fishing net.”
“Did you think to wonder why he was fishing that day?” Llelo said. “It was the afternoon of the earl’s funeral, and Bernard’s wife had died the day before.”
Edgar shrugged. “Each man grieves in his own way. The earl himself liked to fish every once in a while. Bernard would go with him.”
Cadoc’s eyes surveyed the river. From the sluice gate upstream that diverted the Frome around the castle, the course of the river quickly left the bounds of the town and headed northeast. “Where was his body found?”
Edgar blinked. “It hasn’t been.”
Cadoc knew that, of course, but he wanted to know if Edgar did. “Perhaps you could explain to me again why you think he drowned?”
“The boat was discovered after it floated back downstream. Bernard’s boots and fishing gear were found in the bottom. Even a fish! But no Bernard.” Edgar nodded sagely. “I’ve seen this happen before. The body ends up on the bottom of the river and is caught there. The bones are found months later.”
Cadoc knew from talking to Gareth—thankfully not from his own experience—that if a man drowned, his body did sink to the bottom, but eventually would bloat and rise to the surface again. Enough time had passed that this should have happened to Bernard. What Cadoc didn’t say was what he’d been thinking all along, being suspicious and cynical by nature: Bernard had faked his own death. He’d seen it before, in the father of Prince Hywel’s wife, no less. There was no reason to think an earl’s valet couldn’t do the same.
The question before him was if it would be a waste of time to pursue that line of thought. If it was true, Bernard should be long gone by now, living in a different town under a different name. It would be good to know, however, why Bernard had done it.
Cadoc tipped his head to indicate a path he could see that followed the bank upstream. “The boys and I will walk a ways. Thank you for your time.”
“Oh—” Edgar put out a hand. “One more thing.” He hesitated. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
“So many have died that everything is important,” Llelo said. “Please, whatever it is, just tell us.”
“Maybe a week before he died, I saw Bernard arguing with another man, one of the traders in town who deals in wine. Italian.” Edgar sniffed, indicating a typical English disdain for foreigners, no matter how good their product.
“Do you know what the argument was about?” Cadoc said.
“Only Bernard’s side. The other man’s accent was thick, and he spoke low. But he was threatening Bernard. Bernard said, I’ll pay. I need more time.” Edgar scowled. “I know what that sounds like to me, but when I asked him, Bernard shrugged it off and said I’d misheard.”
“Was anyone else close by?” Cadoc said.
“None closer than me, and that was by accident. I was in the shadows, seeking to relieve myself in the river.”
Cadoc thanked Edgar, and Llelo did too, somewhat more profusely, which Cadoc thought was fine. The more everyone here realized they were genuinely interested in solving the mystery of these deaths, the more likely they would be to come forward. In truth, they were coming at the investigation backwards. They needed to find the person who could talk them through these events from beginning to end. Now that Gareth was distracted by Cadwaladr’s arrival and Prince Henry’s conference, it was up to the rest of them to discover the truth.
Hamelin had already started down the trail that followed the river, but he said as Cadoc and Llelo caught up, “You were right not to introduce me.”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” Cadoc said mildly, “but he wasn’t a guard to be intimidated. He’s the king of his own castle and knows it.”
“Merchants are a different breed,” Hamelin admitted, “these Saxon ones in particular. I never know what to make of them.”
As they walked, Llelo related to Hamelin (who didn’t, in fact, speak English) the gist of the conversation with Edgar. The houses petered out after fifty yards, and they found themselves walking through farmland, with stone walls to demarcate individual fields. Cadoc saw sheep for the first time and a few goats. There might have been cattle too, farther on, but trees blocked his view.
Part of the flow of the Frome had been rerouted around the eastern side of the castle, but upstream from the sluice gate remained unchanged, and it wound sinuously through the relatively flat English countryside. Hamelin made to cut across a field rather than follow the river exactly, but when neither Llelo nor Cadoc followed him, he turned back. “Why not?”
“We are looking for a body,” Llelo said, his long legs eating up the yards, “and I may have found one.”
“In the river?” Hamelin’s head swung back to look upstream to where Llelo was pointing a hundred feet ahead. “After three weeks?”
“You came along thinking it was a lark and that we weren’t going to find anything, didn’t you?” Llelo’s steps quickened, and he outpaced the other two men.
Hamelin was appalled. “You can’t be serious! This is your third body in three days!”
Cadoc was interested to see that in those three days, the young men’s relationship had advanced enough that they would speak to each other so openly. It wasn’t a prince’s brother to a knight’s son, if it ever had been, but one man to another. Equals.
Soon Hamelin caught up enough to make out the shape Llelo had seen, lodged against the bank. “It’s a woman!” He took one look and immediately turned away to vomit in the bushes.
Llelo crouched on the bank, his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands dangling between his knees.
Cadoc eyed Hamelin’s back for a moment and then put a hand on Llelo’s shoulder. “Is there anything we need to determine before we get her out of there?” He was deliberately asking for advice, to focus Llelo’s mind and to distract him from the horror of what they’d found. The young man had shadowed his father for long enough that he knew the basics of investigating—more than Cadoc, in truth. And it was Llelo who’d found her.
Although Llelo appeared just short of puking himself, he managed a quick shake of his head. “We should never assume, but it’s unlikely this is where she went in.” He paused. “My father would know more, but I think we should just pull her out.”
“I agree.” Cadoc glanced to where Hamelin’s gray face was peering at them from around a tree. He hadn’t soiled his shoes, which was something. But Cadoc didn’t ask him to help, instead turning resolutely back to the river and steeling himself for the cold water.
Llelo was there ahead of him, however, sliding down the bank and into the shallows. The body appeared to be stuck on a submerged branch, and Llelo put a hand on it for balance.
The body was turned face down, the dead woman’s dark hair swimming around her head, so as they tugged and heaved her away from the branch, they were spared having to look into her face. But once she was out of the water and onto the river bank, they lay her down facing the sky.
Hamelin’s skin was very white. “She’s been garroted, just like Aelfric.”
Puffing with the effort of heaving the body out of the water and as soaking wet as the dead woman, Llelo didn’t join Hamelin in losing his breakfast, but he bent over, his hands on his knees, and spat on the ground. At the sight of her face, even Cadoc, who was no innocent, turned away. The mist on the river was long gone, and the November sun shone weakly down on the macabre scene.
Llelo had pulled off his cloak before he entered the water, and now he grabbed it from where he’d draped it over a nearby bush and covered the body with it.
Hamelin cleared his throat. “What can I do?”
Cadoc lifted his chin, impressed that the young man’s voice barely shook. “Get help.” He tipped his head to point downriver. “No need to run.”
But Hamelin was already hastening away.
Cadoc turned to Llelo. “You all right over there?”
“Well enough.” Llelo spoke with more equanimity than Cadoc was currently feeling. “I’m certainly doing better than Rose.”
