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Day One
Gareth
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If Bishop Gregory’s urgency hadn’t been so contagious, and he didn’t have the coming wedding to think about, Gareth might have called a halt to the entire proceedings, now the initial conversations were over, until later tonight—or better yet, tomorrow. The welcome feast at the palace would take place before sunset and was an event they not only had to attend, but Gareth wanted to attend. He was reminded too, by the discussion about armor, that he had hoped for a bath at Godfrid’s house before he spent the evening in Brodar’s hall.
Instead, he had a dead body to examine. And, truth be told, dead bodies were better examined sooner rather than later. If he got it out of the way, he could put off asking the hundreds of questions of reluctant witnesses until tomorrow.
He had allowed himself to hope, in the months since the death of Earl Robert and the subsequent events in Bristol, that he and Gwen might never again be called to the scene of an unexplained death. It wasn’t that murder wouldn’t still happen. That was as old as Cain and Abel. It was unexplained murder he was hoping to avoid. And really, if his reputation had spread as far and wide as Hywel claimed, murderers should know better.
Fortunately, these days, he and Gwen had a significant number of people they could call upon to help them. And, amazingly enough, most of them were actually in Dublin with them right now. Perhaps if they took the divide and conquer approach, they could discover whatever Harald’s death was about and be done with the investigation by this time tomorrow.
Then he chastised himself for wishful thinking and getting ahead of himself. As always, they would face what was right in front of them and leave tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow.
Only Llelo had been champing at the bit in the long months of quiet, thinking his grand plan to one day take Gareth’s place as Prince Hywel’s chief investigator would come to nothing, simply because any murderers in Gwynedd insisted on being open and stupid about their activities. Plus, with Prince Cadwaladr in France in the court of Prince Henry, the intrigue in Gwynedd was significantly reduced.
Gareth himself had also been busy with his transition from serving as the captain of Prince Hywel’s teulu, his personal guard, to becoming his seneschal. It meant a shift in focus from the martial aspect of Hywel’s life to one that encompassed more of a social and fiscal role. It had also made him a nobleman.
Though Gwen was busy most days with the children, he thanked God every day for her level head and the fact that her father had seen to her education as well as Hywel’s. It was as if Hywel, by elevating Gareth to be his steward, was getting a second steward in the bargain. Gwen had learned to figure and read as a child (while Gareth had come to both as an adult) and for him both came less easily.
Not that he was occupied much in Hywel’s counting house. It was more a matter of making himself familiar with all of Hywel’s holdings, tenants, contracts, and alliances, and advising Hywel on every aspect of his life. The next step would be a return to Ceredigion to check up on Hywel’s castellan there. Income had been down compared to the previous year, and it was time Gareth knew why.
He had hoped—they had all hoped—that the journey to Dublin would be a welcome break from their day-to-day cares. For him, being the steward to the edling of Gwynedd was a burden he’d never expected to bear. This week, Hywel hoped for a respite from being the edling of Gwynedd. In a way, they both were still getting a kind of respite: Bishop Gregory hadn’t called upon Gareth as Hywel’s steward. It was the investigator he wanted.
And what he would get, now that they were here.
While Prior James showed Gwen and Llelo Harald’s sleeping quarters, Gareth and Conall set to work on the body in the laying out house. Gareth had spent countless hours in such rooms, large and small, sized for many bodies or only one. Some were dark, confined places, lit by a few candles and full of incense to mask the smell of death.
This particular laying out room, Gareth was happy to see, was more hospitable than most. It wasn’t large, providing space for just two tables—one of which was empty and hopefully would remain so. But the roof was raised on posts two feet above where the top of the wall stopped. It allowed an abundance of light and fresh air to flow freely through the room without anyone being able to look inside unless they came to the door. In winter, it would be as cold as the outside, but with dead bodies to wash and dress, nobody wanted the room warm anyway. Gareth approved of the arrangement.
They started with Harald’s sword, which Conall held up to the light from a lantern hanging from the ceiling. “Harald was a monk, which is not the type of person I would have thought would use—or ill-use—a sword.”
Gareth stepped closer to look, and just the sight of the nicks and abrasions on the steel had his fingers itching to polish and oil it. A sword without a sharp edge wasn’t useless, but it was certainly less useful. “One wonders if it was his personal sword—certainly unusual in a monk—or one he borrowed for the occasion. Did he fight with it? And if so, against whom?”
“All good questions,” Conall said. “Regardless, it has not been cared for since it was last used.”
“I’m inclined to think it was his own, to match the armor, and he didn’t know what to do with it,” Gareth said, “but that’s my biases talking, and I should stop speculating now.”
Together they turned to the man’s mail. After some moments of struggle, punctuated by grunts from both of them, Conall said, “I would say removing a dead man’s gear is just as difficult as we told the bishop.”
“Thank heaven he isn’t as large as Godfrid.” Gareth glanced at his friend with an amused eye, taking in what he was wearing from top to bottom. “What about you? You’re wearing neither sword nor armor. You’re rather trusting of the Danish populace, aren’t you? You don’t think it’s possible to be threatened on the streets of Dublin?”
Conall was a nobleman and had a martial past, as all noblemen must, but he’d chosen to deemphasize that history today in favor of what Gareth would characterize as ‘court’ clothing: shoes instead of boots, a robe instead of armor and tunic, and a knife with an ornately wrought handle at his waist, rather than a sword.
“These days, if someone is going to kill me, it is going to be in secret, with a knife in my back in the dark on the way to the latrine. That or poison in my wine. I confess, I think I would prefer the latter to bleeding out in the yard.”
“Such is the power of the King of Leinster,” Gareth said.
“Do I detect an acid note in your voice?”
“Not at all!” Gareth laughed. “In a way, I am commenting on my own indenture to Prince Hywel, though, as you can see, despite my new position, I am as fully armed as ever.”
“Not enjoying your new employment?” Now that they’d managed to extricate Harald from his gambeson, Conall had turned to examining the contents of Harald’s purse, which came to very little: a few coins, a wooden cross on a leather thong, and a tiny knife, like a man might wear within a bracer as a weapon of last resort. It was well-made, similar to those the Dragon Steffan carried on his person. Frowning, Conall laid each item for inspection on a nearby table.
“I am, actually, though Gwen will tell you I complain about it more than my previous job as captain of the guard.” This time Gareth’s laugh was somewhat more sardonic. “Book work is not my friend. I have two grown sons, and neither appears to want to assist me in this particular matter.”
“That’s what scribes and clerks are for. All you have to do is make sure your man figured right, not do the work yourself! Somewhere there is a smart boy who’s terrible at the sword but doesn’t want to join the church. You just have to find him.”
Gareth looked at his friend curiously. “I wouldn’t call you terrible at the sword, but by the tone of your voice, am I right in guessing you’re describing yourself, once upon a time?”
Conall scoffed. “Book-learning wouldn’t earn me the hand of any lady, not of any station that would have pleased my uncle. And though I soon realized war wasn’t for me, the life I found was no better for women.”
“So you have none.”
“Ouch.” Conall shot Gareth a piercing look. “We are marrying off Godfrid so now you think it’s my turn?”
“A happy man wants all his friends to be happy too.”
“I am happy.” Conall gestured to the dead man, whom Gareth had stripped down to his underclothes. “What do we have here?”
Harald was as thin as Gareth had expected from the sight of him on the altar, and his hands as ink-stained as Bishop Gregory had promised. But his body told a different tale from that of a reclusive scribe who spent his days in the scriptorium.
Rather than being genuinely scrawny, Harald’s arm and shoulder muscles were wiry, and his belly muscles stood out without an ounce of fat. Gareth was that fit, but this last year, maintaining it took a bit more effort than it had in his youth. While he still trained with the men of Hywel’s teulu, it wasn’t quite as often. Most men as they moved into middle age had to accept a bit of softening about the middle, but Gareth didn’t think thirty-three was quite time for that yet.
Harald also sported a dozen bruises scattered all over his body, with the worst on his left side, as if he’d taken a strong blow to the left ribs. His left upper arm had a bandage wrapped around it. Peeling off the wrapping revealed careful stitching, indicating someone other than Harald had sewed up his wound. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have done it himself, and he apparently had a fine hand for writing, but the angle of the wound was such that it would have been nearly impossible for him to see, much less stitch, without help.
Though the wound might once have been deep, made with the sharp edge of a blade, it had been healing well. Infection hadn’t killed him.
“So the armor wasn’t just for show.” Conall moved to the other side of the table and looked down at the body. “I’m revising your opinion about whether or not he knew how to use that sword.”
“As I am—though knowledge didn’t stop him from getting hurt.”
“Nothing can stop that, as you well know. How many scars do you have, despite your gear?”
“Gwen could tell you.”
Conall barked a laugh. “I think I’m safer not asking.”
Gareth indicated the arm wound. “We need to speak to the person who tended him.”
Conall took in a breath through his nose, his eyes sweeping across Harald’s body from head to toes. “It’s all very well and good for him to have these injuries, but I see no blood on his clothing. None of them killed him. Internal bleeding?”
“Could be, though if so, I would have hoped to see a spreading bruise across his belly.” Gareth let out a huh sound. “I have a dead body in front of me with no idea what caused his death.”
“His heart could have failed, though that’s unlikely since he wasn’t even thirty.”
“I would have no way to tell that either.”
“So what do we say to the bishop?”
“Nothing yet. It’s too early to admit defeat.” Gareth leaned forward and sniffed at the man’s lips, which were closed, and then used two fingers to pry apart his teeth. More than one case had been broken open by what was inside a corpse’s mouth. In this case, the alcohol fumes that billowed up had Gareth rearing back. “Whew!”
“I can smell that from here.” Conall reached out a hand and pressed on the dead man’s belly, sending another putrid waft into the air.
“And maybe we now know the cause of death.”
Conall gingerly stepped closer to peer into Harald’s mouth where more than just alcohol fumes had come up when Conall had pressed on the dead man’s torso. “Did he choke on his own vomit?”
“I wouldn’t say there’s enough here for that.”
“Then what? He drank so much he never woke?”
Gareth shrugged. “I’ve seen it before, though not often, thank the saints. Men simply lay down and die.” Then he frowned and sniffed somewhat more delicately. “I don’t recognize the smell of the drink, however. It isn’t ale, wine, or mead.”
Conall took a similar tentative sniff, frowned, and then said, “Give me a moment.” He hastened from the laying out room.
He was gone long enough for Gareth to wish for a drink of his own, though since that wasn’t forthcoming, instead he fully cataloged Harald’s wounds and went through his clothes. Unlike the sword, the armor had been well cared for, with each link polished until it shone. Gareth himself would have been proud to wear it. If Harald had a squire, he should have been commended. It was Llelo’s least favorite task.
Then Conall returned, bringing another man with him, dressed in a monk’s robes. “This is the monastery’s cellarer.”
A cellarer was in charge of all food and drink in the monastery and was the third-highest-ranking monk on the premises. This man was of average height and weight, perhaps forty years old, and was in every way nothing out of the ordinary—except for his blue eyes, which took in the laying out room, the body, and Gareth with undisguised interest.
“How might I be of service?” And then he grinned at Gareth’s surprised look, since he had spoken in fluent Welsh. “My father was Welsh. He came to Dublin as crew on a ship out of Llanfaes. He met my mother here, and she sailed to Wales to be with him. After he died when I was ten, she came home to Dublin, to her family.” He put his hand to his chest. “You may call me Brother Madyn.”
“I am very glad to know you!” Gareth looked at Conall. “Did you know he spoke Welsh when you brought him here?”
Conall was looking a little surprised himself, which gave Gareth his answer before he spoke. “Not at all. I wanted to ask him his opinion about what Harald had consumed.”
Gareth gestured to the body. “If you will.”
His eyes no more than narrow slits, Madyn approached and hovered for a moment with his face above Harald’s. Then he stepped back, frowning. He put up one finger, silently asking them to wait, and left the room. This time, the wait wasn’t as long, and he returned almost immediately, bearing a stoppered glass jar designed to contain liquids. The bottle was a nearly opaque light green that was almost white and could be carried by means of a rounded handle.
Madyn uncorked the jar, sniffed what was inside, and then brought the jar to Gareth. “If you can separate what is coming from Harald’s mouth from other contents of his stomach, would it smell similar to this?”
Gareth sniffed, and the alcohol fumes were so strong his eyes watered, just as they had when he’d opened Harald’s mouth. “Yes.” He choked a little himself. “Definitely yes.” The back of his hand to his nose, he asked, “What is that?”
“Uisce beatha. Or, as they say in Dublin, whiskey.”
Conall grunted, acknowledging he knew what Madyn was talking about.
Gareth looked from one man to the other. “What is that to someone who doesn’t speak Gaelic or more than passable Danish?”
“It means water of life, an alcoholic drink distilled by monks throughout Ireland,” Conall said.
Madyn nodded. “Though wine is preferred here at Christ’s Church, whiskey is often used in the sacrament in more remote areas when wine isn’t available, as it very often isn’t.”
“Harald was a Dane,” Gareth said.
“Oh yes.” Madyn gave a small smile. “Over the generations, the knowledge of how to distill whiskey has spread beyond the church. You don’t have to be Irish to associate with Irishmen, as you well know, my lord. The Danes have been in Ireland long enough to have learned many Irish customs. As the cellarer, I am one of the few monks at Christ’s Church who meet with the laity on a daily basis, though as you can see, we are wide open to the residents of the city. Any monk can come and go as he pleases at any time, provided he isn’t expected somewhere else. While I can’t confirm that any of my brothers frequent local taverns, I know for a fact that a man can order whiskey in several right here in the city.”
Gareth rubbed his chin. “I have never heard of whiskey.”
“You are Welsh. Your mead is the best in the world. Nobody would drink this when he could have something better, unless—” Madyn broke off, his brow furrowing.
“Unless what?” Conall said.
Madyn thought for another moment before answering. “Whiskey has other uses besides the Holy Sacrament and getting a man drunk. It alleviates pain, for starters, which—” he gestured to Harald’s body, still frowning, “—might have been Harald’s reason to drink it. I hurt just to look at him. It isn’t as powerful as poppy juice, but enough of it can make a man insensate.”
“Where did what you have there come from?” Conall asked.
“We keep a little in the church, in the event the wine has soured or isn’t available.” Madyn lifted the stopper again to show them the contents. “As you can see, it is three-quarters full. It is the same level as when I last checked it earlier this week.”
“So what Harald drank couldn’t have come from the cathedral’s stores?”
“No.”
“But drinking whiskey could kill him?” Gareth asked.
“Like any alcohol, it could if he drank enough of it, and whiskey requires less than most.” Madyn held up the bottle. “This amount would do it.”
“How quickly would it work?”
“That is very hard to say.” He gestured to Conall and Gareth. “You have known very drunk men before. Some behave quite reasonably up until the moment they lose consciousness.”
Conall nodded. “Just this spring, I fought with men I could have sworn should be blind drunk and staggering, and yet they held the shield wall.”
“I am no warrior,” Madyn said, “but this is common among Danes, I think? Whiskey is no different from mead in its effects. Certainly, it can take some time for it to overcome mind and body. A surfeit of alcohol is a terrible, but not unheard of, way to go.”
“So he could have walked to the church on his own and laid himself on the altar?” Conall said.
Madyn took a long look at the body. “As I said, it would depend upon how much time passed between drinking the whiskey and coming here. If he’d lived, he might not remember anything afterwards. But with the right circumstances and motivation, like the warriors with whom you fought, anything is possible.”
