The Fallen Princess (32 page)

Gwen grabbed another bucket from her
neighbor on the other side and handed it to the king. Her arm was
growing tired, and the muscles in her belly were aching, but she
wasn’t going to stop now, especially if King Owain was willing to
confide in her. “You were distracted—”

“I’ve been distracted for months,” King
Owain said. “I feel at times as if my kingdom is slipping through
my fingers.”

That was far too frank a statement for her
to reply to, and she wondered if King Owain was still a little
drunk from the evening’s festivities.

“You don’t say his name but I know what
you’re thinking,” King Owain said.

Gwen swallowed. “Sire?”

“You wonder if my brother has had more of a
hand in these events than he’s said or we’ve discovered. Tomorrow,
with the holy day over, he will return to Merionydd for a long
winter of idleness.”

“Perhaps you could find something to occupy
him?” Gwen said. “Stephen and Maud are still at each other’s
throats.”

King Owain guffawed under his breath. “A
little war is in order, do you think? One that my brother can sink
his teeth into?”

“I don’t like war,” Gwen said. “I fear for
my husband and our friends, but if Cadwaladr is searching for the
Book of Kells to use as leverage for his own meeting with Gilbert
de Clare, it is a short hop from there to speculating that he wants
more than Ceredigion.”

“Bran was plotting against my life and
sleeping with my wife,” King Owain said.

Gwen looked away.

King Owain noticed. “Hywel told me. I find a
deep well of anger in my belly at all that has happened in my
kingdom that I knew nothing about, and it makes me concerned about
what else I don’t know.”

Gwen was grateful that she had been living
in the south when Tegwen disappeared and that Gareth hadn’t yet
joined Hywel’s company. Those events had completely passed her by.
She handed another bucket to the king.

“Rhun and Hywel—”

“They are fine sons,” King Owain said, “but
though Rhun will be king after me, he lacks the suspicious mind
that a king needs. I am counting on Hywel to protect him when my
time comes.”

“You know he will,” Gwen said. “But you
don’t have to worry about that for a long time to come.”

“One never knows,” the king said. “When
Gareth and Hywel return to Ceredigion after the Christmas feast, I
expect you to remain at Aber. I cannot have all three of you
departing at the same time. Hywel will arrange for his informants
to report to you in his absence.”

Gwen’s surprise was such that she stopped
moving, and the man beside her prodded her into action with the
edge of a bucket. “But Gareth—”

“Gareth will not object when I tell him that
this duty will keep you out of greater trouble,” the king said.

Gwen swallowed hard. She didn’t know how it
had happened, but it seemed that she’d been promoted.

The conversation had her worried, however.
The king seemed particularly maudlin tonight, perhaps not
surprising given the death around them, but an uncomfortable
sensation started in her belly that he’d had a premonition of his
own death. She would mention it to Hywel at the first
opportunity.

“When you speak to my son, tell him that it
would be better for him to swallow his pride and admit what he
doesn’t know than to lose everything we’ve gained in
Ceredigion.”

Gwen gaped at the king. He couldn’t have
read her mind, could he? Before she could ask what he was talking
about, Gwen felt a drop of water plop onto the top of her head. At
first she thought it was spray from a swung bucket, but then
another drop came. And then another. She held out a hand. Rain
splattered into it. King Owain tipped back his head, relieved
laughter escaping his lips.

“Pardon the ramblings of an old man, Gwen.
We will not falter now. God is on our side.”

Gareth

T
he hall was
crowded for the last celebratory meal at Aber Castle, with the
bonus of yet another strange event to gossip over. The villagers
from the surrounding area, even if they had slept at home the night
before, had come to help with the cleanup of the fire and stayed to
celebrate Calan Gaeaf. King Owain had insisted that the festival be
celebrated properly. Gareth was in wholehearted agreement, even if
it felt like they were spitting into the wind.

The guards had left the front door open,
since people went in and out of it in a constant stream anyway, and
the press and stench of people inside was already a little too
much. They had spent all morning in prayer in the chapel, thankful
to have survived Hallowmas with no more deaths. The manor house lay
in ruins and the body had been burned beyond recognition. With the
crowds dispersing by the end of the day, or at the latest by
tomorrow, Gareth felt his opportunity for finding the answers to
the rest of his questions slipping away. He glanced up to the high
table where Hywel and Godfrid sat beside each other. As an honored
guest, Godfrid could remain as long as he liked, but he would be
leaving soon too, on his quest to find Ottar’s son, Thorfin, and
the Book of Kells.

Gareth’s eyes narrowed as he registered
Cadwaladr’s absence from the high table. The man always wanted to
be at the center of attention, but he liked to mingle with the
common folk at times because it made him look magnanimous.
Gareth—and many others—knew that to be a pretense, but Cadwaladr
was the brother of the king and because King Owain tolerated him,
everyone else had to too. Gareth cast his eyes around the hall,
looking for the wayward prince; he was about to rise to his feet to
better see over the top of others’ heads when Gwen put a hand on
his arm. “Are you all right?”

“Of course. Why?” he said.

“You’ve been ripping at that meat with your
teeth as if it’s someone’s throat, and now you’ve forgotten about
your meal altogether.”

“I was looking for Prince Cadwaladr.” Gareth
gave a slight laugh. “I’m sorry. I realize I’m not good company
right now.”

“How about we take a walk?” she said. “I
need some air too, and it will give you a chance to look for him
outside. Perhaps Dewi is now capable of speech.”

“You know me so well.” Gareth got to his
feet and helped Gwen to hers. Cristina had kindly loaned Gwen one
of her gowns, a deep burgundy which set off her dark hair and eyes.
“I wish one of the kitchen workers had noticed someone who didn’t
belong there last night.”

“But they didn’t,” Gwen said. “They’re run
off their feet and have been for days. Besides, it seems more and
more likely that the murderer is someone we know—someone who
belongs at Aber and wouldn’t be noticed.”

“The murderer did return to the castle,”
Gareth agreed.

Gwen tipped her head so she could look into
his face. “Is that why you’re searching for Cadwaladr?”

“Cadwaladr is a slippery bastard,” Gareth
said. “Besides, I need something else to think about besides Bran
and Tegwen and everything we still don’t know about their
deaths.”

“This isn’t a failure, Gareth,” Gwen said.
“Bran killed Tegwen. We do know that.”

“I am trying to believe it was an accident,”
Gareth said.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Gwen said. “They’re
both dead.”

Gareth scowled. “He could have done a
hundred things with her body instead of hiding it in Wena’s hut and
putting out that she’d run off with a Dane. That is not the act of
an innocent man.”

“You need to let Tegwen go,” Gwen said.
“That’s what last night was for.”

“If only the murderer had known we were
hours from closing the investigation,” Gareth said. “Instead, Dewi
and Erik flee Aber, someone shoots at Hywel, Brychan is murdered,
Dewi is poisoned, and the manor house set afire, all within the
space of a single day. Now we have more questions than when I awoke
yesterday morning. If we already know Bran killed Tegwen, who is
behind these other incidents?”

“We’ll solve this case like we solve every
other. By asking questions, like you and Hywel have been doing.”
Gwen canted her head. “And hopefully, with a bit more luck than
we’ve had so far.”

“Brychan didn’t have any luck,” Gareth
said.

“You are sour this morning,” Gwen said.

Gareth grumbled under his breath. “A killer
is walking free. I can’t breathe easy.”

They stood on the top step to the keep, and
Gareth felt Gwen take a deep breath beside him. The air was moist
and warm. More rain would come soon, but thankfully, it had held
off during the worship service for All Saints’ Day, since the
chapel hadn’t been large enough to hold everyone, and the residents
of Aber had overflowed into the courtyard. Gareth and Gwen had
found places inside, but looking at Gwen’s pale face, Gareth wished
he’d paid more attention to her and had found a better place to
pray, or perhaps skipped the service entirely.

He took her arm, and they headed away from
the hall, looking for a quiet place to be together.

“I keep seeing that man with Brychan,
watching him fall,” Gwen said. “People are saying that Aber is
haunted by all the deaths, but someone real started that fire and
someone real poisoned Dewi.” She sighed.

Gareth had already talked to Hywel about
taking Gwen home to Anglesey tomorrow. Hywel had said that he would
bring Mari and leave her there with Gwen, before the two men set
out to help Godfrid with his quest. Hywel, it seemed, intended to
come along on that adventure too.

Evan appeared in the doorway to the stables.
“Dewi’s awake, my lord.”

“Sir Gareth!”

Gareth turned at the shout. The drunken
soldier from the previous night, Iago, stood underneath the
gatehouse, waving his arm above his head urgently. Torn between two
duties, Gareth gave Gwen a quizzical look.

She released his arm. “Go. I’ll talk to Dewi
with Evan.”

“I’ll find you after I see what Iago wants,”
Gareth said.

Gwen and Evan disappeared into the darkness
of the stables, and Gareth loped towards the gatehouse, anxious to
clear up whatever this was so he could get back to Gwen. Then
Gareth saw who was beside Iago and pulled up ten yards from the
gatehouse, his mouth dropping open in surprise.

“Hello, Sir Gareth.” The woman before him
smiled. “I see you have been keeping well.”

“Prioress Nest!” Gareth caught the arms of
his old mentor, who was standing with a young companion, also a
nun. Both wore the heavy undyed robes and head coverings of their
vocation. “What are you doing here?”

“I fear the community you so lovingly
protected is no longer, my friend,” she said. “We came to grief,
finally, last year. Those of us who survived found refuge with a
community of women at Conwy.”

Gareth’s stomach clenched with a momentary
guilt that he hadn’t been there to protect them. Nest gave him a
compassionate look. “Gareth.”

He shook himself. “You’ve been so close all
this time? Why haven’t you contacted me before?”

Nest narrowed her eyes at him. “We are
pledged to a life of quiet contemplation. I would never have come
to Aber at all if it wasn’t so urgent.” Then she frowned. “Where
are your manners, sir?”

“Of course, of course!” Gareth accepted his
chastisement with bowed head, pleased that she was here at all. He
gestured towards the great hall. “Come inside. There is plenty of
food for everyone. King Owain has not scrimped on the feast,
despite the difficulties of the last few days.”

Nest indicated the girl next to her. “This
is Bronwen, a novice.”

Bronwen was carrying a large, heavy package
in her arms. Gareth looked at it curiously but didn’t ask its
purpose, just held out his arms to take it from her. Nest shook her
head and grasped it instead. “Patience.”

She seemed intent on having her own way and
strode up the steps to the keep in front of Gareth. Once inside,
she went directly to the end of a nearby table where there was
enough space for them to sit. Iago had come with them, and Gareth
held up a hand to indicate that he should wait by the door in case
he was needed.

Nest didn’t take a trencher for herself or
for Bronwen but swept the remains of the previous diners’ meals
aside with one arm. Then she set the package on the table between
them. “I heard you were looking for this.”

Gareth stared at the wrapped package and
then up at Nest.

“We learned of the arrival of three Danish
ships at Aber almost before they landed on your shore,” Nest said.
“My contacts assured me the Danes had been welcomed into Aber
Castle, so I knew it was time to find you.”

“I don’t understand.” Gareth’s head felt
thick and slow, like it was stuffed with day-old porridge.

“A man brought it to us.” Nest pinched her
lips together as if fighting back amusement. “Not that bringing it
to us or leaving it with us came about of his own volition. A
fisherman found him at the bottom of his longboat, the only
survivor of a storm.”

“When was this?” Gareth said.

“The end of September,” Nest said. “The
storm was a bad one.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Gareth said. “I was in
Ceredigion with Prince Hywel.”

“I don’t know what happened to the rest of
the men who sailed with him, but the man was alone with few
possessions.” Nest put her hand gently on the package. “This was
clutched to his chest, wrapped in many layers of oilskin and sealed
tight. The fisherman brought it and him to us. Unfortunately, the
man himself never woke.”

“You’re telling me that this is the Book of
Kells?” Gareth said, still disbelieving. “Why didn’t you come to me
sooner?”

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me
that,” Nest said reprovingly. “I was waiting for a sign that would
direct me towards the proper course of action.”

Gareth rubbed at his chin. “And you found
that sign now?”