Chapter Ten

The routine was very familiar, and the only good thing about having to interview a passel of churchmen this morning was that Gareth could start early because the bishop had assured him his community woke at first light in order to begin the day with prayer and song. Gareth himself had woken just before dawn and gone to roust Llelo. But when the young man came up from his pallet with heavy-lidded eyes and his hair standing on end, Gareth thought better of the plan and shooed him back to bed. Llelo had lain back down and instantly fallen asleep again.

Gareth suspected he wouldn’t even remember being woken and would then accuse Gareth of working without him.

Gareth was working without him, but young men of Llelo’s age needed an absurd amount of sleep, which Gareth remembered from his own youth. Llelo had been the one to find both the coin and the paper yesterday. He could rest on his laurels for a morning.

Conall met Gareth a half-step from the church gate. “Thought you’d start without me, eh?”

“I knew you’d come.” Gareth shot him a grin. “You couldn’t stay away any more than I could.”

“The celebrations last night were delightful, but it has been a few months since I had something I could sink my teeth into,” Conall admitted. “Being the ambassador from Leinster was fraught with peril and intrigue up until the war with Meath. Since then ...” His voice trailed off.

“Sunshine and roses?” Gareth said. “A little too tame for an accomplished spy such as yourself?”

“I’m sure there are other courts to which your king could send you. We would welcome your presence in Gwynedd.”

“Isn’t Gwynedd almost as tame as Dublin now that Cadwaladr has departed for France?”

“Me as well! Why do you think my prince hasn’t returned to Aber in nearly a year? His stepmother has given King Owain two sons. For a time it appeared he might put her aside, having become frustrated by her moods and temper. But he dotes on his boys, and she has used that to her advantage. Both boys were gravely ill this summer and the king and queen reconciled over their sickbeds. These days she is nothing but sweet to King Owain.” Gareth’s lip curled. “I heard all about it from the king’s steward, Taran.”

Gareth closed the metal gate to the churchyard a little too forcefully, so it clanged. “Cristina has learned not to drip poison against Hywel in the king’s ear. He left her before because of it, but I fear for what she plots in secret. She wants one of her sons on the throne when the time comes. Thankfully, with both boys still toddlers, that is many years away.”

“Household intrigue is bread and butter to an Irishman.” Conall shook his head. “Wives plotting against wives, sons against sons. The High King’s household is a den of intrigue. O’Connor had his own son blinded!”

“You know I will be there if Hywel needs me. As will Godfrid. You or he has only to ask.”

“Hywel regrets he wasn’t here for Godfrid—but we didn’t know we were needed because you didn’t ask!”

“My king was there, and that was probably better,” Conall said. “Dublin has come to the aid of Gwynedd in the past, and we are all family in the end, but sometimes it’s best to keep things close to home.”

Gareth had to admit—not even grudgingly—that it was true. If King Owain died in the next ten years, Cristina could do nothing against Hywel because her sons were too young to rule or to have a significant claim to the throne. A challenge could come from Iorwerth, as the eldest legitimate son of Owain’s deceased first wife, since he was already above the age of manhood. He was not one to foster disunity or intrigue, however, and his best friend was Gwalchmai, Gwen’s brother.

Still, as Gareth had said to Conall, if Owain lived longer, until Cristina’s sons were in their late teens or twenties, it would be a different story. But they would ford that river when they came to it.

Bishop Gregory had again assigned his personal secretary, Arnulf, the young priest from the day before, to lead them around the monastery. Because of Conall’s observations about possible tension between the priests and the monks, Gareth didn’t ask for Madyn, the cellarer, or even Abbot James, whom he’d liked on first acquaintance. As monks, both could have given him insight into the community, and Madyn’s Welsh might have been helpful.

But Bishop Gregory was a priest, acting for now as the abbot of a monastery, and Gareth didn’t want to get involved in whatever was going on between the two factions. He would take Arnulf to start and move on to Madyn, if it became possible, or difficulties arose. Although Arnulf was young, he spoke Danish and French (as well as, likely, Latin). Gareth was fluent in French, as was Conall, so they should be able to muddle through for now.

As Gareth had noticed from the very first meeting when Arnulf had run all the way from Christ’s Church to the dock, he was a well-set-up young man in his middle twenties, a bit stocky but not short. He appeared to be more muscular than the average priest, though, before dealing with Harald’s death, Gareth wouldn’t have said that meant much. He had the characteristic lump on the third finger of his right hand that indicated he spent a great deal of time holding a pen. That wouldn’t be unexpected, since he directly served Bishop Gregory, who likely had a great number of letters and documents he needed written every week.

Given that Arnulf wasn’t far off in age from Harald, as they walked to their first stop, the scriptorium, Gareth decided to start the questioning with him. “Did you know Harald?”

Gareth was surprised that he was surprised, and immediately his attention sharpened, though he made sure not to let Arnulf know it. Answering a question with another question was an instinctive reaction when a person had something to hide. So instead, he merely turned a hand upward. “You are a member of this community, as he was, and approximately the same age.”

“I apologize.” Arnulf seemed to realize he had come across as somewhat combative because he swallowed and started again. “Of course I knew Harald. I know the name and face of every monk and priest at Christ’s Church. I don’t know that I can tell you anything more about Harald than that.”

“At this stage, anything would be helpful. I know nothing except he is dead and for some reason was wearing armor when he died.”

Arnulf spread his hands wide. “I’m sure Bishop Gregory gave you all the relevant information. I don’t know what more I can add.”

A simple conversation had turned remarkably difficult. Perhaps Arnulf was merely intending to be circumspect. “Bishop Gregory did tell me what he knew,” Gareth said gravely. “I was hoping to hear more from you, seeing as how it’s unlikely a bishop would interact very much with a monk who worked in the scriptorium.”

Arnulf raised one shoulder. “Many here are close in age to me. From what I saw of Harald, he kept mostly to himself.” He paused. “I hope I am not speaking out of turn to say that his family supported King Ottar, while mine has always been loyal to King Brodar—and his father before him, of course.”

Conall tipped his head. “That a man’s family supported one rival to the throne of Dublin over another caused division amongst the churchmen here? I would have thought you would be above all that.”

Arnulf gave him a deprecating smile. “Ideally, yes, but we are men, and as such, we sometimes forget ourselves and take on the rivalries and factions of the secular world.”

“Would that include you and Harald personally? Did you argue?” Gareth asked.

Arnulf saw immediately the impression he’d given, and he put up both hands, hastening to head Gareth off before he went down that path. “No! No! We never talked about such things. But I felt them between us. Regardless, he kept to himself. I had little contact with him here at Christ’s Church. You’d be better off speaking to the men in the scriptorium.”

Which was, of course, the plan. For now, Gareth was going to ignore the fact that Arnulf was almost certainly lying to him about something. If he wouldn’t answer direct questions, Gareth had other ways of finding out what he wanted to know. And with Arnulf’s elisions and avoidances, he’d only piqued Gareth’s interest.

Conall clearly felt it too, because he elbowed Gareth in the ribs and said in Welsh, in an undertone. “What does Hywel say? When a man is asked to sing and protests long and loudly that he couldn’t possibly, it’s an invitation to ask him again.”

Because Arnulf was looking at him curiously, Gareth didn’t reply to Conall with more than a movement of his hand. But he and Conall had been friends through one of the most trying experiences of their lives, after which they’d investigated another murder together. He didn’t have to worry that Conall would feel dismissed. It was the same with Godfrid. From three different peoples they might be, but that didn’t stop them from being brothers.

The first man they spoke to was Paul, the armarius. His job was to oversee the scriptorium, including providing the scribes with their materials, designating their tasks, providing books for the other members of the community to read, and assisting his abbot—or prior, or bishop in this case—in choosing readings for services. He was Danish but spoke French as well as Harald, which was in large part why they started with him, as well as out of respect for his office since he was the most senior scribe.

Again, Conall didn’t need Gareth to tell him what he wanted from him, and he urged Arnulf to the far end of the room to begin questioning each of the scribes in the hall. This was a small community, so there were only five.

That left Gareth alone with Paul, which was exactly what he wanted. He began with as open-ended a question as he could think to ask, hoping to elicit more from Harald’s supervisor than he’d managed to get out of Arnulf. “What can you tell me about Harald?”

At first it didn’t work. “Very little, I’m afraid. As a scribe, his work was always excellent.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Gareth paused, a finger to his lip. “I know he is dead, and you may be loath to speak ill of him in any way, but I am asking these questions because he is dead, and your bishop would like to know why.”

“What more is there to know? He killed himself.” The armarius spoke bluntly.

Paul blinked. “Really? I am glad to hear it. I don’t like the idea of him being so beset that he took his own life.” His teeth clenched for a moment. “It makes me ashamed that I didn’t ask more questions of him.”

That was a startling admission, and one Gareth wanted to respect. “He seemed out of sorts to you?”

“Not out of sorts so much as distracted. Recently, he’d been later to his desk than I expected every morning, and when he did arrive, he was obviously exhausted. He also seemed to be favoring his left arm, as if he had injured it.”

Gareth knew all about that, of course, but he didn’t share his discoveries with the monk. “Did you speak to him about it?”

“I chose not to.” He paused before answering the obvious next question, “I feel now I should have. But he was the best at what he did, and it is my policy to give men leeway when they are having difficulties.”

“Like everyone else, I assumed he was grieving the loss of his brother.” Again Paul clenched his teeth. “Why didn’t I ask? If he was to speak to anyone about it, it should have been to me. Grief affects each man differently, and he wouldn’t be the first to lose sleep over a loss. But I thought only to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Gareth didn’t have to pretend sympathy. “I’m sorry. Did you discuss him with your prior?”

“Of course.” Then Paul shook his head, both dismissively and apologetically at the same time. “Do you know how scribes work?”

“The scribe is responsible for all aspects of his manuscript, but each man works differently. We keep the quires at the ready—” here he showed Gareth the folded parchment, already prepared for use, “—but Harald insisted on doing everything himself, barring drying and scraping the parchment.” Now Paul held up a pencil. “This is called a plummet.”

Gareth reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his own pencil, causing Paul’s eyes to light. “Where did you get that?”

“It was a gift from Abbot Rhys of St. Kentigern’s in St. Asaph.” Now Gareth brought the scraps of paper he also kept in his pocket and showed the armarius the picture of his daughter he’d drawn yesterday on the boat and then an image of the wooden coin, watching Paul’s eyes all the while for a tell-tale response. He’d given the actual coin to Gwen for her inquiries today.

Instead of recognition, he got a, “But this is wonderful!” Paul cast around the room and then strode towards a corner, returning with a few more scraps of paper, which he thrust into Gareth’s hand. “If you need more, you know where to come.”

“Now,” Paul was back to the task at hand, “a scribe uses the plummet to line his page before he begins to write. Every book is different, and before anything else happens, a scribe has to ask himself, “How many columns? How many lines? What size the text? He has to plan it all out in advance, you see.” As he talked, he showed Gareth page after page in various states of completion, moving among the men who were working.

And Gareth really did see. He’d come to reading and writing late in life and, for the first time, was glad of it. As a result, nobody had ever considered him for the Church. He didn’t think he would have had the patience, never mind the skill, to do what these men did.

As Gareth admired one of the books, flipping gently through the pages, Paul stepped to his side. “You can read yourself?”

“Then perhaps this will interest you.” He pointed to a piece of parchment tacked to the wall.

Gareth went up to it, surprised to find it wasn’t a quote from the Bible, but from Florentius of Valeranica, dated two hundred years earlier:

Because one who does not know how to write thinks it no labor, I will describe it for you, if you want to know how great is the burden of writing: it mists the eyes, it curves the back; it breaks the belly and the ribs; it fills the kidneys with pain, and the body with all kinds of suffering. Therefore, turn the pages slowly, reader, and keep your fingers well away from the pages, for just as a hailstorm ruins the fecundity of the soil, so the sloppy reader destroys both the book and the writing. For as the last port is sweet to the sailor, so the last line to the scribe.

Gareth put a hand to his heart. “I will never look at a book the same way again.”

The armarius spread his hands wide. “I don’t agree with Florentius, of course. Being a scribe is the best job in the world.” He dropped a hand on the closest man’s shoulder, a portly monk with a graying tonsure. “Wouldn’t you agree, Edmund?”

“Of course, armarius.” Edmund spoke in French without looking up. He was working on a lengthy document, and, like Harald in death, his fingers were ink-stained.

The armarius lowered his voice and said conspiratorially, “Edmund tends to be very focused in his work.”

“Not that I know. Not that I saw.” Again he looked to the nearest scribe. “Edmund?”

Edmund finally paused to look up. But even when he did so, he squinted, as if barely able to make out Gareth’s face. “He kept to himself. He made beautiful books.” Then the monk’s expression changed to one of puzzlement. “I heard he killed himself. Why are you investigating his death?”

Gareth was again displeased to hear the scribe say openly what the bishop had wanted to keep quiet. Cadoc had mentioned last night that the rumor of it was swirling around Dublin, despite their best efforts to contain it.

Edmund dropped his eyes to his work, as if no longer interested in the conversation—and perhaps he wasn’t. “Last evening. I don’t remember who mentioned it.”

Because he didn’t want to let any of these monks know he was concerned, Gareth matched Edmund’s tone. “We don’t want to condemn a man undeservedly. It is not my job to condemn anyone, in fact, but to get to the truth. All we know at present is Harald is dead, possibly of a surfeit of uisce beatha. What the Danes call whiskey.”

Again, Gareth wanted to ask how he knew that, but decided it wasn’t a worthwhile question. Gossip spread through a small community like a monastery in the amount of time it took to turn around. “That it is, in fact, his writing is something we would like you to confirm.” He pulled the scrap of paper, much like the armarius had just given him, from his scrip and showed it to the armarius and then to Edmund.

Then his eyes narrowed as he fingered the edges of the paper. “Odd, though—”

“He wrote this on paper, rather than parchment, which I can understand, since one is valuable and one is not. But, more to the point, he tore it from a larger piece.”

“What about finding the rest would put your mind at ease?” Conall stepped beside Gareth, having finished the questioning of the other scribes. Gareth hoped he’d elicited something, but from Conall’s dour expression, he rather thought not.

The armarius drew his finger along the written line of text. “See how the scored line from the plummet is mostly lost and the lettering lies close to the edge of the paper?”

Both Gareth and Conall nodded, having noticed that as well, but didn’t speak, not wanting to interrupt Paul’s thought.

“If Harald tore the paper first and then wrote the words, he would have written right down the center of the scrap. It would have been easier, if for no other reason than to prevent the pen tip from falling off the paper.”

Gareth frowned. “You are wondering if the text wasn’t written first and then the paper torn? What about that do you see as significant?”

“It is Harald’s writing. Of that I have no doubt, but what if he was writing this line as part of a longer piece? Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup of suffering from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done, is from Christ’s prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane. I think it is important to find what paper this piece was torn from and if more was written than we have here. If this is really a suicide note, where’s the rest of it?”