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Gareth
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When Gareth had come to Bristol, it had been to investigate the suspicious death of Earl Robert—and while for most people that would have been an uncomfortable proposition, it was within the range of normal for Gareth. If he’d known, however, that not only would he be participating in a council of war, but sitting across from Cadwaladr at the same time, likely he would have seriously reconsidered his decision to come.
But then he would have come anyway. He knew himself well enough by now to recognize that he did his duty, regardless of the personal consequences to himself. Besides, Prince Hywel had been searching for Cadwaladr for a year—and now Gareth had found him. Knowing was better than not knowing, even if it would sharpen Hywel’s anxiety about what mischief Cadwaladr could be getting up to. While Gareth hadn’t yet determined the true purpose behind Cadwaladr’s visit to Bristol, and though he would have loved to pin any one of these deaths on him, it did seem that Cadwaladr had truly arrived after Sir Aubrey was dead. He couldn’t blame him this time.
“You’re the expert, Gareth,” Aron said in an undertone. “How do we kill him and get away with it?”
Gareth didn’t look at the younger man, but kept his gaze steady on Cadwaladr, who was talking animatedly with Hertford, his brother-in-law. The other Gilbert de Clare, the Earl of Pembroke and the first Gilbert’s uncle, was here too, speaking intently with Humphrey de Bohun and Maurice FitzGerald. Pembroke had not brought his son, Richard, whom Gareth had met six months before, during the endeavor against the Flemings, and had quite liked. Nor was Cadell, the King of Deheubarth, or Rhys, his youngest brother, present. Instead it was seventeen-year-old Maredudd, whom Gareth had not met before, who had arrived late last night to represent Deheubarth.
In fact, half of the lords who’d come to Bristol had benefited from the taking of Wiston last summer and its aftermath, including the discovery of Empress Maud’s treasure. That none of them had mentioned its existence to Henry was a relief, since Gareth wouldn’t have wanted to explain his silence either.
At that moment, as if reading Gareth’s thoughts, Pembroke turned to look at him. Gareth gazed steadily back, and after a few easy breaths, Pembroke lifted his chin in acknowledgement. Gareth was not blind to the fact that one reason he was being treated so well by these Marcher lords was because they were worried about what he knew and what he might say to the prince.
Gareth could not be bribed or bought. They didn’t like it, but there was nothing they could do about that either. It gave Gareth power that a few years ago might have made him uncomfortable, but now he accepted—not as his due, but as something he could work with.
“Believe me, I’ve been considering our options,” Gareth said. “Any attempt on Cadwaladr’s life would be instantly put at our doorstep, however. You know that.”
“Do we care?”
Gareth heaved a sigh. He’d asked this question and answered it a dozen times in the last year—and the last day—even as he’d entertained himself with visions of Cadwaladr’s demise, each death more gruesome than the last. “Prince Hywel would care. King Owain would care. We do not have free license to kill, no matter how guilty the man.” He paused. “It is not who we are.”
“Not who you are, maybe,” Aron muttered under his breath, but he didn’t argue anymore.
Gareth felt the need to add, “Furthermore, we must treat him with respect.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Gareth wasn’t happy about having to say it, but he well remembered Hywel’s words to him about biding their time. Which meant that Gareth had to play along, to smile when he wanted to punch Cadwaladr in his teeth while gutting him with a dull knife. Gwen had once wished for Cadwaladr the long decline of dying unloved and alone, but it was a wasted curse. Cadwaladr was his own best companion and loved only himself.
Yesterday the council had met for nearly the entire day, hashing out the state of England from north of York to the tip of Cornwall and everywhere in between. While the lords here were haughty, arrogant, and often rivals, in Henry’s presence they were allies. They were trying to come up with a way to take the throne from Stephen, and they were united in their desire to do so. Thus, while the atmosphere had been intense, it hadn’t been because the men here were at odds.
Henry’s receiving room had been transformed from when Gareth had first met the prince in it. Two tables had been placed side by side so they abutted each other along their length, making a rectangle. Six men could sit along each side with two each on the ends, and sixteen seats were more than were needed. Having spent yesterday in their company, Gareth would have been happier to have been left out today, or at least to have found himself at a place other than at the main table, but Maredudd, the only other Welshman, fetched up beside him, and somehow Gareth found himself guided to a spot just left of center. “My brother Rhys sends his greetings.”
Gareth looked at Maredudd sharply. “Your brother knew I was here?”
“We did.”
That did not give Gareth a good feeling, but he didn’t have time to pursue the topic because Prince Henry took a seat in the exact center of one long side, making him the focal point of the meeting. William was the new Earl of Gloucester, but it was Henry who was calling this conference, and the more Gareth saw of him, the clearer it was to him that he was claiming the dead earl’s mantle for himself.
Unlike what sometimes happened in Welsh councils, the next-highest-ranking baron, Pembroke, did not sit opposite the prince. The chair of honor was to the king’s right. Gareth was a little embarrassed to watch Pembroke and Ranulf fight Cadwaladr for the seat. When Ranulf finally did manage to sit, Cadwaladr’s nose went up, and a smile appeared on his face. He moved down several seats to the end of the table. Pembroke retired to the seat opposite Prince Henry, next to Gareth.
That brief exchange was all Gareth needed. After two days of unfailing grace, Cadwaladr had allowed his true personality to show for just a moment, before covering it again with a small smile and polite words. Gareth had never known a man as false-hearted as Cadwaladr, but his behavior had been spectacular mumming, even for him.
Cadwaladr had been included in yesterday’s council too. Gareth had thought William and Henry were mad to invite him to join them, but as he’d sat between his various relations, kin through Cadwaladr’s wife, Alice, Gareth realized that everyone was taking for granted that he was with them, and it could even be that Cadwaladr had gone to Stephen as a spy in the king’s court—on his own initiative or at the request of one of these Marcher lords.
At the thought, a frisson of unease put up the hairs on Gareth’s neck. If Cadwaladr spied for Maud, it was no wonder his return here had been triumphant. Gareth hadn’t given King Stephen’s men a thought since they’d arrived, but he realized he hadn’t seen them recently.
Again it was Aron, standing behind Gareth’s chair at his left shoulder, who bent down to whisper in his ear and put words to his thoughts. “Did you see that? How long do you think he can keep this up?”
“By all indications, he’ll manage as long as he needs to.”
“The question is why does he need to?”
“I may have just figured it out.”
“Welcome again, all of you.” From his chair placed at the end of the table opposite Cadwaladr, William rose to his feet. Unlike Cadwaladr, he’d given way to Ranulf without protest—and seemingly by his own choice. “Yesterday was spent outlining our current situation. Today, we will put the pieces together and devise a plan, without which the war cannot continue.” He lifted his chin and spoke a little louder. “We must ensure that King Stephen understands the stark truth: despite my father’s death, nothing has changed.”
Prince Henry sat quietly through William’s introduction, but at a bow from the earl, ceding the floor, he lifted a hand. “My mother is the rightful Queen of England. We all know it. I believe even Stephen knows it. I believe it is still possible to make him see it.”
Strangely, it was Cadwaladr who spoke first. “Why should he?” At the startlement in the faces of the men near him, he laughed and carried on, “As you well know, I ask this not as a supporter of Stephen, but as someone who wants to see the Empress succeed. But I must ask ... on what grounds does hope rest? Stephen was crowned twelve years ago. What’s to prevent the war from lasting twelve more?”
Gareth wanted to despise Cadwaladr for his speech, but he agreed with nearly every word—and he felt a sense of grim satisfaction that his new evaluation of Cadwaladr’s role appeared to be exactly right.
Prince Henry spoke into the silence that followed. “The answer, my friends, is me. Twelve years ago, I was an infant. I am fourteen now, and while I acknowledge that my uncle carried England on his back for many years, and I cannot replace him, I am my mother’s son. I am the rightful heir to the throne of England. This fight is not only one we can win, but it is one we will win. I will not be denied. King Stephen has to know that the war has only just begun.”
These were fighting words, righteously spoken. The blazing expression on Henry’s face belied its youthful softness. What’s more, in that moment, Gareth believed him, believed he could win back the throne—and by the looks on the faces of the men who surrounded him, the rest of the men in the room did too.
It was another reminder of the way Normans wielded power. This was a fourteen-year-old. If he’d been born a Welshman, he would have been construed a man, but he was still far from his maturity by Norman lights. And yet, everyone in the room sat completely silent as he spoke, they nodded at his certainty, and they girded their loins for what the next few years would bring. They were ready to follow him to the throne if he could achieve it.
These barons had come to the conference because Prince Henry had rank, even though his mother was uncrowned and—unless the conference produced a meaningful plan—had no hope of being crowned. He had no official status at all, even in Bristol. This was William’s castle. But unearned or not, Henry ruled here because the people in the room believed he did.
As Gareth listened to these great lords put forth their pledges of men and arms and construct the next phase of the war, he felt a growing respect for Prince Henry—along with a cold fear in his belly of what would happen if the boy really did achieve his aim. King Stephen hadn’t turned his attention to Wales, not just because he was occupied with keeping his crown, but because he was inconstant, unwilling to sustain any campaign for long. He wasn’t interested in taking the necessary steps to conquer each little kingdom of Wales in order to claim the whole as his own. For now, he had been content to let his lords of the March rule their small portions as they saw fit.
While crowning Henry might be good for England, especially if he was able to provide a steady hand after all these years of war, from the glimmer in Henry’s eyes and the forcefulness of his personality, the day the crown was placed on his head could be a very bad day for Wales. All these lords were men of the March. If they continued their present course, and if Henry did win the throne eventually, they would want to be repaid for their loyalty.
Most likely in Welsh land and blood.
