The Unexpected Ally (7 page)

“Then it is just as well he didn’t know,
since I have need of Gareth. Again, we can be thankful even when
circumstances don’t seem to call for it.”

Gwen

R
hys moved towards
the door and opened it. “Lwc! I need—” He cut himself off at the
sight of his assistant already standing in the doorway with an
eager expression on his face.

“Yes, Father?”

Even though he was quite a few years older
than her brother, Lwc reminded Gwen very much of Gwalchmai, and she
almost laughed again.

Rhys recovered from his surprise and
gestured to Gwen. “Lwc, I would like you to be Gwen’s escort around
the monastery. She and her guard, Evan, who serves Prince Hywel,
are to have full access to all areas of the monastery and to every
monk, barring those in the infirmary. We need to find this killer
before he strikes again.”

Lwc straightened his shoulders to an almost
military bearing. “Yes, Father.” Then he hesitated. “What about
Prior Anselm? He’s been feeling poorly of late and sleeping in the
infirmary rather than in his cell, but he was about earlier.”

“If he’s in the infirmary, don’t disturb
him,” Rhys said. “We know already that he didn’t recognize the dead
man. I will speak to him myself later.”

“Why choose me, Father?” Lwc said.

“Because I don’t have to explain to you the
seriousness of what has occurred, and I know you will be
discreet.”

The expression on Lwc’s face as he looked at
Rhys was one of hero-worship. “You can count on me, Father.”

Rhys settled a hand on his shoulder. “I know
I can. That’s why I chose you for this task.”

It was still raining as Evan, Gwen, and Lwc
set out from Rhys’s office. Gareth had made it clear that he would
be speaking to the brothers who worked in the fields and gardens,
so it was Gwen’s job to take on everybody else. The monastery at
St. Asaph was Welsh in origin, having been founded by St. Kentigern
five hundred years earlier, before there were any Roman monastic
orders in Wales at all. It was a poorer monastery than the Abbey of
St. Peter and St. Paul in Shrewsbury from which she’d just come and
was home to one hundred monks.

In typical more equitable Welsh fashion, St.
Kentigern’s employed few laymen to work for them. Compared to the
abbey in Shrewsbury, Gwen was much more comfortable here, among
Welshmen, speaking Welsh and with Welsh customs and norms. It had
been odd to be in England, even if only seven miles from the Welsh
border, and find that what she thought was normal and made sense
perhaps didn’t quite. But even a hundred was a great many men to
question in a day.

Roughly half the monks in the monastery
worked within a stone’s throw of the guesthouse, and the rest were
scattered far and wide in the fields and pastures which the
monastery controlled. With the idea that they might as well start
with what was closest, their first stop was the scriptorium. Gwen
and Evan waited in the corridor for Lwc to pace importantly ahead
of them and prepare the monks for Gwen’s arrival. He left the door
open, however, and Evan watched with bright eyes as Lwc lectured
his fellow monks on discretion. Gwen herself suppressed a smile and
looked down at the ground.

As they waited, Evan stretched his back and
shoulders, loosening his muscles. “I, for one, am not sorry that
I’m not out there in the muck fighting men of Powys today.”

“I would that men never went to war again,”
Gwen said, “but I don’t see how the abbot will achieve peace, even
if he wants it desperately. At the same time, I can’t see what
Madog has to gain from fighting.”

Evan pursed his lips before speaking. “He
has more men than we do.”

Gwen frowned. “He does?”

Evan waggled his head. “We all know it.
Since Rhun’s death, King Owain has been neglecting his kingdom. Not
as many lords have rallied around his banner as might have a year
ago.”

“I didn’t know.” Gwen bit her lip. “That’s
bad—bad for all of us.”

“It is a bargaining piece for Madog, who is
clearly in the wrong at the moment. The key will be getting both
sides to back down without losing face.”

Then Lwc returned, looking satisfied. “They
are ready, but I can tell you already that none of them know
anything.”

Gwen struggled not to grind her teeth, since
she had wanted to be the one to question them without predisposing
anyone to conclusions. She should have said something before Lwc
went in there. It was fine giving the young monk the satisfaction
of leading them, but he knew nothing about investigations. If she
allowed him to continue as he had, he would hinder her.

“Thank you, but you know I have to ask.”
Then she leaned into him and whispered. “You intimidate the others
because you are the abbot’s secretary. I am grateful for your
assistance with the questioning, but it would be better if you let
me do the talking from here on out. As a woman, I am less
threatening.” She raised her eyebrows innocently as she finished
her little speech.

Lwc nodded emphatically. “Yes. Yes, of
course. I understand.”

“Thank you.” Gwen looked at Evan. “If you
wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer it if you stay by the door too.”

Evan smirked from behind Lwc’s back, having
enough experience working with her and Gareth to know full well
what Gwen had just accomplished. He nodded, acquiescing so it would
be easier for Lwc to do the same.

Gwen entered the room and went to each monk
in turn, introduced herself, and explained that Gareth had asked
her to show the image of Erik to as many people as possible in
hopes that somebody had seen him. Unfortunately, Lwc was right that
none of the six monks in the scriptorium claimed to have been awake
in the middle of the night other than for the vigil of the night
office. None of them had ever seen Erik before, even when Gwen
added to their understanding of the black and white image by
describing his size and coloring.

As Gwen and Evan progressed through the
monastery, they found nobody with useful information. Not in the
laundry, among those who worked in the kitchen or the stable or
tended to the needs of Abbot Rhys, or among the novices. The
guesthouse had been completely taken over by King Owain and his
retainers, so there were no guests to question this time. Even the
monk who oversaw the gatehouse had been aware of no activity last
night or any night that seemed to have a bearing on Erik’s death.
Everybody looked at the sketch of Erik that Gareth had drawn and
shook his head.

This particular monastery was unfamiliar to
Gwen—Gareth had been here only briefly several years ago—but she’d
spent time in monasteries in the past, most recently in Aberystwyth
and Shrewsbury. It was enough to have grown familiar with how
things were supposed to be done. Above all, especially in a
monastery run by Abbot Rhys, there was dignity, reverence for God’s
creation, and order. Gwen could see it in the well-trimmed hedges
and the carefully edged pathways through the garden. The guesthouse
had been sparsely but adequately furnished and immaculately swept
and dusted. The bread last night had been a small slice of heaven.
Gwen suspected that every book and paper in the scriptorium was
aligned perfectly with every other, and woe betide the novice who
spilled his ink.

What’s more, Rhys had an entire monastery of
innocent monks.

More than a little disheartened, though Gwen
knew she shouldn’t be since this was part of the job of an
investigator, and it was more usual than not to spend a great deal
of time asking questions nobody could answer, by mid-afternoon Gwen
and Evan found themselves underneath the gatehouse tower, watching
the rain cascade off the roof and spatter on the flagstones of the
courtyard.

They hadn’t deliberately saved the
questioning of Brother Pedr, the gatekeeper, for last, but he had
been the last monk Lwc had brought them to. Pedr hadn’t been any
more helpful than anybody else, and Lwc had departed for afternoon
prayers with yet another satisfied look of a job well done, if
fruitless in the end. Pedr, as gatekeeper, had remained behind,
since (as he told them) his duty didn’t stop for prayers, and he
would say them alone in his little room at the base of the tower.
As an older monk, he was no longer suited to manual labor, but his
mind remained sharp, even if his knees creaked when he walked.

And as it turned out, the need for him to
stay was shown to be true a moment later by the arrival of a lone
monk, who appeared out of the rain, head bent and cloak clutched
tightly around himself, having come from the east. He was an older
man, one who upon first impression appeared to be very much in the
vein of Abbot Rhys. Like the abbot, he was dressed sensibly for the
journey in boots and cloak, though still in the robes of a monk. He
dismounted within the shelter of the gatehouse tower, pushed back
his hood, and looked around for someone to speak to. He spied Gwen
and Evan at the same moment that Pedr came hurrying from his watch
room.

“Welcome, brother!” Pedr said. “You look as
if you’ve come far.”

The newcomer had already opened his mouth to
speak to Gwen and Evan, but he swung around to Pedr. “I am Brother
Deiniol from St. Dunawd’s Monastery southeast of Wrexham. I am sent
here by my abbot to Abbot Rhys on a matter of utmost urgency.”

“We are at prayers at the moment, but you
are welcome to join them in the church until we’ve finished—”

“I have missed the vigils, but this cannot
wait.” Deiniol shook his head vehemently in case Pedr was going to
argue with him about it.

Pedr pursed his lips, clearly unhappy at the
thought of interrupting afternoon prayers, but then Evan raised a
hand. “I’ll speak to the abbot. Don’t worry, I’ll be as discreet as
I can.”

Evan’s lifted hand had opened his cloak,
which he’d been holding closed against the weather, and at the
sight of Evan’s surcoat, Deiniol drew in a breath. “You’re a man of
Owain Gwynedd!”

Evan’s expression turned to one of
puzzlement. “Of course I serve Owain Gwynedd, as does everyone
here. Where do you think you are?”

Deiniol’s face paled even more. “Powys.”

Evan snorted. “St. Asaph hasn’t been part of
Powys for years.”

“But what-what are you doing
here
, at
the monastery?” The stutter seemed uncharacteristic for a man of
Deiniol’s bearing, but his shock was genuine.

Gwen decided she ought to step in, since the
two men seemed to be speaking past each other. “We are here for the
peace conference that Abbot Rhys has called to reconcile Powys and
Gwynedd. If you were looking for room in the guesthouse, it is
full.”

“That’s-that’s not why my abbot sent me.
Just after St. Dafydd’s day, our monastery was robbed and burned by
a party of Owain Gwynedd’s men. It’s the theft of our relics and a
safe haven for our brothers that I’m about.”

Brother Pedr made a hasty sign of the cross.
“That is troubling news indeed. You are sure they were King Owain’s
men?”

“We have no doubt of it. The yellow and red
lion standard was plain on the chests of every one of them.”
Deiniol’s eyes strayed again to Evan’s chest, and then he shook his
head and averted his eyes as if looking directly at Evan pained
him. “To think that men in the service of the king could sink so
low.”

Gwen had a hand to her mouth. She wanted to
protest, to deny that what Deiniol said could be true, but he
seemed beyond appeasement. Instead, Brother Pedr put a hand on
Deiniol’s arm. “The world is a dangerous place. Know that you have
come to a safe haven, regardless of who else is here. The Church is
neutral ground and provides sanctuary and hospitality to all.” As
he finished speaking, his eyes went to Evan, who nodded and headed
out into the rain to fetch the abbot.

Though Deiniol’s eyes never left Evan’s back
as he loped away from them across the courtyard, he also nodded
weakly, taking in a breath and letting it out. Some of his anxiety
faded to be replaced by relief that he was no longer in the
presence of a soldier from Gwynedd.

Pedr turned his attention to Gwen as if he
felt it was now his job to appease her. “The lawlessness along the
border between Wales and England is well known.”

“It is.” Now that she’d had time to absorb
Deiniol’s news, Gwen’s expression turned thoughtful. “In fact,
before he joined Prince Hywel’s retinue, Gareth learned to read as
payment for protecting a convent from exactly this kind of
banditry.”

“Surely that villainy wasn’t perpetrated by
the men of the King of Gwynedd too?” Deiniol said.

Gwen let out an exasperated sigh that she
immediately swallowed and turned into a smile. “No.”

She still wanted to say more, but she
decided not to. Deiniol was not to be persuaded, at least not now
and not by her, that the men who’d sacked his monastery couldn’t
have been sent by Owain Gwynedd. Only household knights and
men-at-arms in the retinue of a man of the royal house wore the
colors of the House of Aberffraw. That meant that if Deiniol was
correct in their identity, the men involved belonged either to the
king, to Hywel, or to one of Hywel’s younger brothers, Cynan or
Madoc.

Gwen knew for certain that the men hadn’t
been sent by Hywel. King Owain had been in mourning on St. Dafydd’s
Day and in no condition to be sending men anywhere, much less to
sack a monastery. That left Madoc and Cynan, except their hands had
been completely full—first with the preparations for, and then with
the actual taking of, Mold Castle. To think that either of them
would have ordered men to Wrexham to sack a monastery on the side
was laughable.

Furthermore, what better way for a group of
bandits operating in Powys to deceive the populace than to disguise
themselves as men of Gwynedd? Everybody would be looking at their
surcoats and not their faces, and Gwynedd and Powys had been at
odds for long enough—forever almost—that most Powysians distrusted
men of Gwynedd as a matter of course.