The Lost Brother (6 page)

“It might not be just for the money,” Gareth
said, reading her thoughts. “People here have lived under Norman
rule more often than Welsh for the last hundred years. Some will
have done better for themselves because of it. Some might truly
believe the Normans bring order, or even that they are the future
and to fight them is only to put off the inevitable while making
things worse for themselves in the process.”

“I don’t want to live in a world where
Norman rule is inevitable,” Gwen said.

“God and King Owain willing, Gwen, you never
will.”

They left the main road to follow a
northerly track, just wide enough for one cart, and halted in a
grassy clearing in front of the main gate that led to the west side
of the church. Like every chapel in Wales—and maybe all of
Christendom—the nave was oriented on an east-west axis, with the
door on the western end of the church and the altar on the east.
This was so the morning sun, if and when it broke through the cloud
cover and shone through the eastern window, could fill the church
with light from behind the altar.

Graves were dotted here and there in the
grass on the north side of the church, and were even more numerous
farther back, under the trees, which, as Father Alun had said,
appeared to have grown up since the people in those graves had been
buried. There were so many tombstones within her line of sight that
Gwen quickly recalculated the age of the church. It was newly
white-washed, which had given her the mistaken impression that it
had been built recently.

Gareth dismounted and surveyed the little
church. “When they come, our men will march right through
Cilcain.”

Gwen dropped to the ground too. “I saw that
gleam in Rhun’s eyes too when Father Alun mentioned the pulling
back of Ranulf’s forces.”

Gareth nodded. “I don’t know when it will
happen, but it could be as soon as tomorrow or the next day. King
Owain will move our camp forward, past Cilcain, but not close
enough to Mold to be seen. And then he will attempt to circle the
town and castle completely.”

“Can you take the castle?” Gwen said.

“Honestly?” Gareth said. “Yes. It’s an earth
and bailey castle, built in wood, not stone. We can take it.”

“You could simply burn it down,” Gwen
said.

“We could,” Gareth said, “but King Owain
wants it for its strategic importance. He’ll burn it if he has to,
rather than leaving it for Ranulf to refortify, but he’d prefer to
take it intact. If we hold Mold, we have a good chance of
controlling the eastern lands all the way from the Conwy River to
the Dee. Even right up to the gates of Chester. Gwynedd hasn’t had
that kind of reach since King Gruffydd’s time.”

“I heard you mention Prince Cadwaladr’s
forces,” Gwen said in a tentative voice. It went without saying
that Gwen neither respected Prince Cadwaladr nor trusted him. She
didn’t want to know what he’d been doing since she’d last seen him
because she cared about his wellbeing, but because she cared about
Gareth’s. As far as she was concerned, even when he was on King
Owain’s side, he was a danger to her, Gareth, and everyone she
loved.

“You knew he was here, Gwen.” Gareth was
speaking so low his words barely reached her. “He’s made Ruthin
Castle his base, in the same way that King Owain has fortified
Denbigh.”

“But the king is staying at the monastery,
not at his castle,” Gwen said.

“Denbigh isn’t in a forward enough position
for King Owain’s tastes. Riding back and forth from the encampment
to the castle takes too much time, and he doesn’t have any other
castles closer to Mold. That’s one of the reasons he
wants
Mold.” Gareth canted his head. “By contrast, Cadwaladr prefers to
lead from behind. I actually haven’t seen him in weeks.”

Father Alun, who had dismounted and
approached without Gwen noticing, cleared his throat in what Gwen
interpreted to be a subtle protest against the aspersions cast on
Cadwaladr’s character. Gwen thought—hoped—he’d only heard the last
few sentences Gareth had spoken, because any discussion of King
Owain’s strategy had been intended for her ears, not his.

Gareth faced the priest. “I apologize,
Father, if I offended you by speaking of the king’s brother in that
way.”

Father Alun raised his hand. “It is good
counsel never to speak ill of anyone, especially a prince, but do
not fear that I am judging you. Your reputation has preceded you.
Prior Rhys of St. Kentigern’s monastery in St. Asaph is a friend of
mine.”

Gwen let out a breath. Father Alun didn’t
have to say more. If he and Prior Rhys had discussed the politics
of Gwynedd, Rhys would have told him of some of the more heinous
crimes Cadwaladr had committed over the years, many of which hadn’t
been made common knowledge among the populace, but which Prior Rhys
knew about from Gareth.

And if he knew of Gareth, than he knew of
her too. Some priests were uncomfortable around a woman who
investigated death, but Father Alun had taken her presence at a
murder investigation far more in stride than he had her resemblance
to the dead woman. In fact, now that Gwen thought about it, he
hadn’t balked at all when Prince Rhun had instructed both her and
Gareth to return to Cilcain with him to look at the dead body. It
was refreshing, really, not to have to justify her presence.

“I should show you the grave site before it
grows any darker. We’ve already moved the body into the chapel,”
Father Alun said.

That answered the question Gwen hadn’t
asked, regarding whether or not he and his helpers had disturbed
the burial scene. He had, but she couldn’t blame him for doing so.
It would have been unseemly to leave the body outside all day,
awaiting Father Alun’s return.

“We understand,” Gareth said.

“She may not have been killed here anyway,”
Gwen said.

Gareth glanced at the sky. “It smells like
snow. We need to work fast if we’re going to beat both it and the
night.”

“Snow will cover the murderer’s tracks
nicely,” Gwen said, as she followed Father Alun towards the
northeast corner of the churchyard, where the graves were set off
slightly from the rest and had bigger grave markers.

“This area of the graveyard has been set
aside for the family of the local lord.” Father Alun halted at a
hole in the ground, approximately a foot and a half deep, which was
marked by a large stone, too weathered for Gwen to make out the
name of the deceased unless she put her nose right up to it. But
from the size of his stone, he had to have been an important
man.

Gwen wrinkled her nose as she looked down
into the hole. As Father Alun had said, the diggers had taken great
care to protect the body of the man whose grave it had been for so
many years. The one who’d buried the body of the girl had made her
grave just deep enough to hide the body but hardly the depth
required to keep a stray pig from uncovering it.

Father Alun gestured helplessly with one
hand. “You see what has been done? Why could he not have simply
buried the poor woman in the woods? Why defile a grave?”

“Father, even with the rain we’ve had, it
isn’t so easy to bury a body six feet in the ground,” Gareth
said.

Nearly two years ago, Gwen and Gareth had
investigated the death of Hywel’s cousin, Tegwen, who also hadn’t
been given a proper burial. One of the men involved had said the
exact same thing as Gareth had just told the priest, though he’d
thrown up his hands in despair when he’d said it.

“Far easier to dig up soil that’s already
been dug once. And since this spot is farthest from the church and
any spying eyes, you can see why the killer chose it,” Gwen
added.

“Whoever did this may have thought burying
her here wouldn’t attract attention,” Gareth said. “Graveyards are
supposed to have bodies in them. What’s one more?”

“It is of great importance to me, I can
assure you,” Father Alun said, sounding offended. “He must think me
simple—or a fool—if he thought I wouldn’t eventually notice.”

“More likely he was in a hurry, panicked
even,” Gwen said. “Most murders aren’t planned, and that means most
murderers are unprepared to face the consequences of what they’ve
done. Nobody thinks about how to get rid of the body of a person
he’s just killed until he’s actually done it.” She gestured to the
grave. “As you can see.”

Father Alun peered into Gwen’s face. “You
are so young. I wish you couldn’t speak of murder with such
familiarity, my dear, but I suppose I’m not sorry for it either if
your knowledge will help us find the one who did this.”

“Gareth and I have investigated untimely
deaths many times in the past few years,” Gwen said. “I don’t mean
to imply that I’m used to it, however.”

“What I hear most in your voice is weariness
with the evil ways of men, and that is a sentiment I can
understand,” Father Alun said kindly.

“You should hear determination too,” Gwen
said. “Truthfully, it isn’t murders we investigate, but murderers.
The dead are with God, and their souls are your purview. It’s the
living who concern Gareth and me.”

Gareth

G
areth directed
Gwen and Father Alun to search around the graveyard in an
ever-widening circle from the grave, in order to look for anything
the murderer might have left behind. He was anxious to examine the
body, but with darkness coming on, a thorough search of the area
took precedence. He was already regretting the lack of manpower
resulting from being here with only Gwen.

If it didn’t snow in the night, they could
try to get a more complete picture of the grave and its
surroundings in the morning, but it was important to do what they
could before any more time passed. Another loose pig in the
graveyard, and the scene would be completely destroyed.

For his part, Gareth crouched by the pile of
dirt, which the gravedigger had left at the gravesite when he’d
removed the body of the woman, and began to sift through it. He’d
borrowed a lantern from Father Alun, accepting the loss of his
night vision in favor of being able to see well enough to
distinguish pebbles and leaves from artifacts left by a man. Gareth
was hoping for a piece of cloth or a memento—a ring, a necklace, a
broach—but he wasn’t exactly surprised not to find anything more
significant than a few stones and sticks.

“Whose grave is this?” Gareth gestured
towards the stone marker, the carving on which he was having
trouble making out. “Did you know him?”

“Huw ap Morgan.” Father Alun turned his head
to look at Gareth. “And yes, I did know him. I was new to the
parish when he became Lord of Cilcain.” Then he approached, peering
closely at the carved letters. “My eyes aren’t what they once were,
but perhaps you can read what I can’t. Does it say he began his
rule in the year of our lord 1118?”

Gareth crouched beside Father Alun, feeling
at the numbers beneath the illegible name. “I’d say so.”

Father Alun rested his hands on his knees,
still bent over. “That was the year King Gruffydd, King Owain’s
father, annexed Rhos and Rhufoniog. Here, we were still ruled by
the lords of Dyffryn Clwyd and Tegeingel, Queen Cristina’s family,
in tithe to the Earl of Chester. But we knew without seeing King
Gruffydd’s army approaching that we would soon fall to
Gwynedd.”

“Caught between two powerful lords is never
a comfortable place to be,” Gareth said.

Father Alun lifted one shoulder. “We are
simple folk and have few needs. We farm, as the Saxons do, and we
care for our flocks, as our ancestors did. Our lands have not been
ravaged.” For the first time, his face took on a fierce look. “Woe
betide the lord who cares so little for his people that he strips
them bare a month before winter.”

Gareth chose not to reply to that, rather
than assure Father Alun that King Owain would never do such a
thing, and instead indicated the stone again. “Could there be a
reason other than convenience that the murderer chose to bury the
woman in this grave?”

Father Alun straightened, looking south,
beyond the wall of the graveyard towards the village. “I can’t tell
you. I know the family, of course. Morgan, Huw’s grandson, rules
these lands from his fort on the bluff above the ford on the road
to Mold. I would say he is of an age with you.”

“And whom does he serve?” Gareth said.

Father Alun barked a laugh, revealing a bit
of acid beneath the kindly exterior. “Not King Owain, not yet. But
not Ranulf of Chester either, except when forced to bend a knee.
Things aren’t what you’re used to here, Sir Gareth. Allegiance is a
tenuous thing, and a man has to look to his own people and flocks
first and foremost.”

“Would you say Morgan is good at that?”
Gareth said.

“Better than some,” Father Alun said. “He
hasn’t filled the seat as well as his father or grandfather did,
but he is young yet and inexperienced.”

“Will he speak to me, do you think?” Gareth
said.

“Are you asking if he will answer your
questions truthfully?” Father Alun gave a cant to his head. “He
won’t blame you for what’s happened, if that’s what you’re
wondering, as much as he won’t like hearing that a murdered woman
was buried over his grandfather’s body. That he won’t like at
all.”

“Such was not my concern,” Gareth said. “I
was wondering, rather, if he would view speaking to the captain of
the guard of a prince of Gwynedd as taking sides in the war. While
King Owain has moved into this region, his soldiers haven’t yet
occupied the village, and with Mold Castle so close, Ranulf could
send in his men at any time. Will he not want to risk meeting with
me in case it rouses Ranulf’s ire were he to hear of it?”

“I am not a former soldier like Prior Rhys,”
Father Alun said. “I have never involved myself in politics, but I
can tell you that Earl Ranulf has proven himself to be a reasonable
man, even if he doesn’t appear so to you.”