The Unexpected Ally (11 page)

“Madog has always been ready and willing to
fight us,” Cynan said. “Why sue for peace? It’s unprecedented.”

Hywel pursed his lips. “We need more
information than we have now. It could be that he’s feeling
pressure from somewhere else that has nothing to do with us. How
far have your scouts ranged east into England, Cynan?”

Cynan gave Hywel a blank look before
answering, “Not far, my prince. I didn’t want Ranulf of Chester to
think we were encroaching on his holdings.”

Hywel pursed his lips at Cynan’s use of his
title, but it was how Cynan would have spoken to Rhun at times.

“Has there been some new development in the
war between Stephen and Maud?” Taran urged his horse a few steps
forward and dismounted too. “Last we heard, King Stephen had
engaged Earl Ranulf in the east.”

Owain nodded. “I promised King Stephen I
would send men to fight against Ranulf, but until now I perceived
my obligation to counter Madog as the greater. Perhaps we should be
warier about fighting too.”

“You may have the right of it, Father,”
Cynan said. “A messenger arrived today from my brother at Mold
informing me that Stephen has released Gilbert de Clare, Earl of
Hertford and nephew to Ranulf, whom he was holding hostage to
Ranulf’s good behavior.” He gestured apologetically to the others
in case he was telling them something they already knew. “His
freedom was predicated on the surrendering of a number of his
castles, which Hertford did. But when his other uncle, Gilbert de
Clare, Earl of Pembroke, who up until now has been loyal to
Stephen, asked that the castles be given to him in trust, Stephen
refused. Now both Gilberts have sided with Ranulf against Stephen.
The whole of the west now stands for Maud, with the lone exception
of Shrewsbury.”

Hywel and his father exchanged a significant
glance. They’d been speaking about these three Norman earls, close
relations of Cadwaladr’s wife, Alice, only moments ago.

“If Chester, Hertford, and Pembroke are
fighting Stephen, then their territories are fair game to an
incursion by Powys,” Hywel said. “Madog knows that any war with us
isn’t going to end well for him. He’d much rather take his chances
with an undefended Chester.”

“Plus, with Robert’s health failing, his son
controls more and more of his domains,” Cynan said. “We don’t know
if he will continue Robert’s staunch support for Maud beyond
Robert’s death.”

“The son is not the father.” King Owain
tapped a finger to his lips. “Robert of Gloucester’s suffering
through Ranulf’s many defections may be as great as my own dealings
with Cadwaladr.”

Nobody had a reply to that observation—all
the more because it was true.

“My lord.” Cynan bowed deeply to his father.
“Your pavilion is prepared and a meal ready.”

“Again. You have my thanks.” King Owain made
a slight motion with his head in Taran’s direction. Taran was the
one who’d make sure that everything really was prepared for the
king’s arrival. The steward nodded, understanding that the thanks
had been a dismissal. He departed with Cynan and the others,
including Cadifor, who shot a look heavy with meaning at Hywel.
Cadifor was a warrior and a straightforward thinker. It wasn’t that
he didn’t understand the need to negotiate or the strategy
involved, but he didn’t like it, and Hywel expected to hear his
foster father’s objections later. Rather than feeling caught
between his two fathers, he felt comforted that both had his best
interests at heart, even if their approach to caring for him
differed.

Thus, Owain was left alone again with Hywel,
and Hywel marveled that his father was taking him into his
confidence in this way. It wasn’t as if he never had, but for the
first time since he’d become a man, Hywel felt like his father was
consulting with him, not simply telling him what to do.

“I assume Gareth is the one heading up the
inquiry into Erik’s demise?” Owain said, coming back around to
their first topic of conversation. Hywel was seeing only now that
his father rarely forgot anything. Beneath his expansive gestures,
his hearty laugh, and his fearsome temper lay the mind that had
kept him on the throne of Gwynedd for the last ten years. Except
for Cadwaladr, until Rhun’s death, no lord had challenged his
fitness to stay there. Even more than a war, Hywel hoped this peace
conference would show Gwynedd’s doubting barons that the Owain
they’d followed all this time was back.

“Yes.”

King Owain nodded. “A good use of him, since
he is injured. I imagine if he didn’t have an investigation to
lead, he would be wanting to lead your
teulu
in this fight
against Madog.”

“He most definitely would. In fact, he would
see it as his duty, and I would be hard pressed to dissuade
him.”

“Then it is good that we take the time to
watch and wait. Madog isn’t going anywhere, and I intend to wrest
concessions from him at this conference that will leave no doubt as
to who got the better of the negotiations.” King Owain gave a sharp
nod. “I’m counting on you to stand with me in this.”

“Of course, Father. I have no problem biding
my time and lulling Madog into a false sense of security.”

Owain turned one more time to look at his
son. “Do not think that a decision to accept Abbot Rhys’s overtures
of peace is an indication that I feel Madog’s offense against you
is unimportant.”

“I know that.” Hywel canted his head as he
studied his father. “I came here with you with fire in my heart
against Madog. But perhaps this fight isn’t in our best interests
any more than it is in Madog’s. While revenge would be sweet in the
short term, I can see the benefit of watching and waiting for the
right moment to strike.”

King Owain guffawed. “You are learning, my
son.” Then he sobered. “And then we
will
strike.” Owain
clapped one fist into the palm of the other hand. “Never say that
Gwynedd doesn’t finish what it starts. I swear to you now that one
way or another, we will bring Madog to heel. He may not want to
fight me, but that does not mean his treachery will go
unanswered.”

Gareth

“W
hat’s your
opinion of coincidences?” Conall climbed down the ladder and moved
to stand beside Gareth to look down with him at the coins as they
lay in the mud. “It seems strangely coincidental that Erik is
killed on the very day we arrive at St. Asaph.”

Gareth scoffed. “They happen, but I don’t
trust them.”

“Nor do I.” Conall gazed around the paddock,
his eyes searching. “If I had been more mindful of them in
Shrewsbury, I might not have been captured.” He glanced at Gareth
out of the corner of his eye. “But then, we would not have met, and
I am wondering more and more if what we might see as a chance
meeting was destined from the start.”

Gareth grunted. “It is at times hard to
discern the difference between coincidence, chance, and
destiny.”

Conall turned to look directly at Gareth. “I
attribute the fact that I live to your stubborn refusal to accept
coincidence. If I haven’t thanked you properly for my life, I
apologize. Words are inadequate to convey what I owe you.”

Gareth made a dismissive motion with his
hand, but Conall wasn’t done.

“If you need anything of me, you have only
to ask.”

Gareth swallowed hard, realizing that
Conall’s reasons for staying in Wales might have more to do with
the life debt he felt he owed Gareth than curiosity or possible
diplomacy with Gwynedd. In retrospect, that Conall was too injured
for a sea journey was a rather feeble excuse for not returning to
Ireland. “I understand the debt you feel you owe me,” he found
himself saying, matching Conall’s grave tone, “and I understand why
you feel it, but I did my duty. Finding you in that mill
was
coincidental.”

“You were at the mill because you believed
the villains had made it their hideout.”

“True—”

“The debt remains,” Conall said. “As you
said a moment ago, it is hard to discern at the time when it is
destiny sitting on your right shoulder rather than chance.”

Gareth held out a hand to Conall and met his
eyes. Among the Irish and Welsh, a life debt was never to be taken
lightly by either party. Conall might think he owed Gareth his
life, and Gareth couldn’t deny the truth of it, but saving a man’s
life incurred a responsibility in the other direction too. A
connection had been formed between the two men, and Gareth now had
a responsibility for the life Conall led from this point on. All of
this Conall knew without either of them needing to articulate it,
and he grasped Gareth’s forearm and shook.

But then Gareth grinned. “We are both alive,
and that’s what matters. Work beside me for long, and you may find
any debt paid off very quickly.”

Conall smiled with his eyes and shook his
head. “I’m beginning to understand why that might be. You could no
more turn away when you are needed than you could stop
breathing.”

“I’m thinking I could say the same about
you.”

Conall opened his mouth, prepared to
protest, but Gareth forestalled him with another laugh. He moved
his right hand to Conall’s left shoulder and shook him a little,
careful not to hurt him. “Friends.”

Conall canted his head thoughtfully, but he
put an even more gentle hand on Gareth’s left shoulder.
“Friends.”

Satisfied that the exchange had cleared the
air between them, Gareth released Conall and gestured to the coins.
“I don’t know about you, but I find it very hard to believe that
finding silver coins in the mud near where the body of a servant to
a prince of Wales was found is a matter of chance.” He finally bent
to pluck the coins from the mud. Straightening, he rubbed the dirt
off with his thumb and turned one over in order to peer at the
faded lettering and image. “This is seventy years old, issued under
King William.” He held it out to Conall.

Conall gingerly took the coin. “It’s a long
way from home.”

Gareth waggled his head back and forth.
“Maybe. Few Welsh kings have issued coins. If a Welshman is to have
one, it is likely to be English in origin.”

The rain hadn’t at all lessened, but the
pounding of hooves of a horse ridden hard along the track to the
barn could be easily heard, coming from the south, the direction in
which the monastery lay. Gareth didn’t actually say
what
now?
because it seemed a pointless question, and a moment
later, a young monk reined in near the fence. “My lords! My lords!
I have a summons from the abbot!”

Gareth and Conall exchanged a look—resigned
and wary at the same time. The monastery had few riding horses, so
even without the monk’s urgent words, Gareth would have known that
the reason he’d been sent was important. Abbot Rhys wouldn’t have
known how far his messenger might have to ride before he found
them.

“Just tell me.” Gareth took the horse’s
bridle to hold him steady and looked up at the monk, who was
breathing hard with excitement and the effort of his ride.

“Another dead man.” The monk put his hand to
his heart. “He was found in a field to the north of here. The abbot
is already on his way, and he asked that you meet him there.”

“We will follow you,” Gareth said.

With a whistle, Gareth rounded up Llelo and
Dai, who were already on their way to him, having heard the horse’s
hooves too. It seemed pointless to leave the boys on guard at an
empty barn, and their purpose was to watch Gareth’s and Conall’s
backs, not the murder site. As befitting the sons of Hywel’s
captain of the guard, Llelo and Dai had their own mounts and, in
short order, they all cantered after the young monk.

The spot where the body had been found was a
mile and a half from the barn and, as promised, Abbot Rhys was
already there when they arrived. Neither Lwc nor Anselm was beside
him: Lwc might still be helping Gwen question the monks, and the
position of the sun indicated that mid-afternoon prayers might have
started. As with dawn prayers, Anselm would be needed to lead
them.

Two oxen and a plow were stopped ten yards
from where Abbot Rhys was standing, having curved from the straight
path they’d been laying. It seemed the monk who tended this field
had been going over the ground for planting when he’d come upon the
body lying in the dirt on the edge of the field.

Their small party reined in and dismounted
near the oxen. With a jerk of his head, Gareth indicated that Llelo
and Dai should make a circuit of the area, as they had at the barn.
Then he and Conall walked to where Rhys waited for them next to the
body, which was wrapped in a rough sheet. The dirt was loose from
the plowing, but if the men who’d left the body had tried to bury
it, their attempts had been half-hearted at best. More likely,
they’d simply dumped it. Rhys flicked out a hand indicating that
the monk who’d escorted Gareth and Conall should move back. He
obeyed with alacrity.

“The plowman saw the body when he turned at
the corner of the field.” Rhys bent to the wrappings and flicked
back the sheet where it covered the dead man’s face.

Gareth let out a burst of air, unable to
contain his disbelief. “Erik!”

“Indeed.” Rhys’s tone was as dry as a king’s
wine.

Conall went into a crouch beside Erik,
studying the dead man’s face.

Gareth stepped closer too, remembering that
Conall hadn’t been in attendance that morning when they’d been
called to the barn the first time. “Have you ever seen him
before?”

“No, I don’t believe so. He may have come to
Ireland, but not to a place where I was. Then again, he may have
been there most of the time I was here.” Somewhat absently, Conall
lifted up the edge of the sheet, but then he drew in a sharp breath
and recoiled. Dropping the sheet, he looked up at Abbot Rhys. “What
madness is this?”