The Unlikely Spy (16 page)

“What’s astonishing to me is that I’ve been
thinking like you,” Rhun said. “As I sat at the table tonight,
looking around the room and contemplating what I’d learned today, I
realized that I was distrusting the motives of every single person
I’d met.”

“Except for Angharad,” Hywel said.

“Except—” Rhun broke off, gazing into his
brother’s face and reviewing Angharad’s words to him in his head.
He had to acknowledge that it wouldn’t be outside the realm of
possibility for Cadell and Angharad to be working together. Cadell
could have meant to incite anger in Hywel and Rhun so that Angharad
could come in as a balm to assuage Rhun’s fears. Or, at the very
least, to imply—as she had done—that she could be trusted where her
uncle could not.

Hywel smirked at the look of surprise on
Rhun’s face. “You really are beginning to learn, brother.”

Gareth

F
ychan was not a
talkative traveling companion. In fact, the boy seemed to regret
having opened his mouth in the first place and was now making up
for his lapse by a studied muteness. Even so, five miles wasn’t far
to travel on a fresh and rested horse—even mostly uphill, since
Goginan lay at the base of the mountains and was the site of a
silver and lead mine, an important source of income for Hywel.

Because of the trade to and from
Aberystwyth, the road upon which they traveled was well maintained,
and as Gareth had hoped, they reached the village while it was
still twilight. Fychan guided them to the home of Gryff’s (other)
wife, Carys. As Gareth dismounted, she was sitting on a stool
outside her house, watching two small children playing in the dirt.
One was the age of Tangwen, and the second was a year or two
older.

At the sight of Gareth and Fychan coming
towards her, Carys stood, her brow furrowing. Recognizing Gareth’s
station by his sword, gear, and fine horse, she bobbed a curtsey.
“What brings you to Goginan, my lord?” Then before Gareth could
answer, Carys looked past him to Fychan, and her eyes widened.
“Fychan! You were a boy last I saw you! Look how you’ve grown.”

Fychan smiled sheepishly and turned bright
red. “Cousin Carys.”

Carys put her hands on his upper arms and
kissed each of his cheeks in turn. “I heard you’d turned to the
Church.”

“Yes, Cousin.” Fychan managed to disentangle
himself from Carys, and he gestured to Gareth. “This is Sir Gareth,
captain of Prince Hywel’s
teulu
. We have come—” Fychan broke
off at the raised eyebrow from Gareth, flushing again. The boy
really didn’t want to be the one to send this pleasant conversation
into the terrible turn it was about to take.

Gareth took a step towards Carys, one of the
sketches he’d made in his hand. “May I ask, is this your husband?”
He tried to keep his face calm and his demeanor unthreatening. He
wanted a truthful answer from Carys, given without fear of what
might come next.

Carys took the paper, her eyes widening
again as she examined the picture. “Yes! Yes, that’s my Gryff.” She
looked up. It was only then that the muscles around her lips
tightened as she realized that something might be amiss—that this
might be more than a pleasant social call. “Why are you asking me
this?”

Gareth tipped his head to Fychan, pointing
towards the two small children. Fychan understood instantly what
Gareth needed from him. He swooped down upon the children, tickling
them and herding them a dozen yards farther away from their mother.
Then Gareth took in a quick breath and let it out, bracing himself
for the task that had brought him all this way. “I’m sorry to tell
you, Carys, but this man, if he is your husband, is dead.”

Carys gasped, put her hand to her mouth, and
staggered a few steps back. She would have fallen if Gareth hadn’t
caught her. “No! No!” She shook her head back and forth
rhythmically.

This initial moment when a loved one learned
about a death was always the worst part for Gareth. He tried not to
rush it, to be gentle in the telling, and when he’d managed to get
the words out, he always felt as if a burden had been lifted from
his shoulders. For the person being told, however, it was only the
beginning of the hard times.

“Sit here while I get you some water.”
Gareth guided Carys back to her stool and then disappeared inside
the darkened house. He was looking for the cup and the pitcher of
water. It was resting on the sideboard, as it must be in every
Welsh house he had ever entered, ready for the refreshment of a
guest. He poured water into the cup and brought it back to Carys.
“Drink.”

She took a sip, and Gareth crouched in front
of her. “Do you think you could answer a few questions?”

Carys nodded, hiccupping a little and wiping
at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her free hand. Her
blond hair was pulled away from her face, though tendrils had come
loose and framed it. Far more than before he’d told her of Gryff’s
death, she looked very young—no more than eighteen to Gareth’s
eyes. Too young to have suffered this loss.

“I’m sorry to have to ask this, but when did
you last see your husband?”

Carys took another sip from the cup. Her
attention was fixed on a patch of dirt somewhere to the right of
Gareth’s foot. “Days ago,” she said, and now her voice came out
dull and lifeless. The reality of her future was beginning to set
in. “He was supposed to visit this coming Sunday.”

That was in three days’ time.

“Why was it that Gryff was absent? He was
employed by …” Gareth left the question hanging on purpose, hoping
Carys would finish it. Given her present state, he needed to lead
her along, but he didn’t want to supply her with the actual
answers.

“By that cloth trader he met,” Carys said.
“He could never settle on any one thing, could my Gryff, but he
always worked. We always had food to eat.” Tears leaked out of her
eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

Gareth glanced beside the cottage, where an
extensive garden lay. It faced southwest, where it would be warmed
by every ray of sun it could soak up. He suspected that the garden
was her doing, and a large part of the food they ate came from her
efforts, even with two small children to raise.

“Did the cloth trader pay Gryff well?”
Gareth said.

“He paid better than any work Gryff had ever
done,” Carys said. “Gryff worked in the silver mine until he hurt
his back. Then he did odd jobs for the blacksmith. He was herding
sheep for my brother when he encountered the trader—Iolo was his
name—stuck in the mud. He helped him out, and then one thing led to
another.” Carys put her head into her hands. “I can’t believe he’s
dead!”

She wept, and Gareth allowed her to do so.
He rose to his feet and stretched his back, waiting for her tears
to slow and considering what question he should ask her next, if he
was going to be able to ask her any more questions at all. Her
grief seemed genuine. When he’d told her of Gryff’s death, she’d
responded in a way that looked completely natural to Gareth—and he
had experience in such matters. He’d told more wives than he liked
to recall that they’d become widows. He found it hard to believe
that Carys had murdered her husband, though he reminded himself to
keep an open mind. There was no telling the lengths to which a
betrayed woman might go to get her revenge.

Then Carys cut herself off abruptly and
looked up from her hands. Since Gareth was now standing, she had to
look up a little higher than she had before, and he took a step
back so she didn’t have to crane her neck. “How did Gryff die?”

Gareth had been wondering when they’d get to
that. “He was found in the millpond not far from the monastery at
Llanbadarn Fawr.”

Carys blinked back a fresh onslaught of
tears, her eyes wide as she gaped at him. “What? You mean he
drowned? My Gryff? No.” She was back to the rhythmic headshaking.
“That’s not possible. Not my Gryff.”

“It could have happened if he’d drunk too
much,” Gareth said, trying out Iolo’s suggestion. “If he couldn’t
swim—”

“He could swim!” Carys glared at Gareth.

Gareth looked carefully at her. “You’re
sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. He taught me.” She
gestured to her children. “My older boy is only three, and he
already swims like a fish. Gryff believed it was never too early to
teach a child who lived by a river to swim.”

Gareth didn’t disagree, and her certainty
made up his mind for him. “If we could beg lodging from you
tonight, would you come with me in the morning to Aberystwyth? At
the very least, I am sure you would like to see your husband into
his grave.”

Carys sobbed aloud at the mention of Gryff’s
funeral, her momentary anger forgotten and her grief renewed. But
she nodded her agreement as well.

“Is there someone close by who can watch the
children in your absence?” Gareth said.

“My sis-sister-in-law,” Carys said, gasping
out a sob in the middle of the word. Then she moaned. “I must speak
to my brother. He never liked Gryff.”

Gareth filed that piece of information away
for future examination and bit his lip. He had more to tell Carys,
and it wasn’t going to be pleasant for her to hear. It wouldn’t be
worse than the news of her husband’s death, but it would add insult
to the injury. “I regret to say that I have more news that you
won’t want to hear, but I think it’s better to tell you all of it
now than for you to discover it tomorrow.”

At first he didn’t think Carys had heard him
because she continued to weep, hunched over with her face in her
hands. Then she quieted, and although she didn’t look up, her voice
came sharply. “What is it?”

He cleared his throat, finding it awkward to
speak to the top of her head. “Another woman has come forward
claiming to be Gryff’s wife.”

Carys jerked, almost falling off her stool.
“What?”

“I’m sorry.” He must have apologized to
Carys six times already and might have to do it six more. “That’s
how we learned his name. The woman came into the chapel where he
had been laid out and told us she was his wife. We discovered that
you were his wife too only because Fychan is a brother at St.
Padarn’s and recognized Gryff’s face when they brought him in.”

Carys had been pale from weeping, but now
the rest of the color drained from her face, leaving it pasty and
drawn. “Who-who is this woman?”

“Her name is Madlen. She is Iolo’s
niece.”

“No!” Carys stood up so suddenly that she
startled Gareth, who took a surprised step backwards. Carys brushed
past him without another word and set off down the hill towards a
cluster of houses below hers that lay nearer to the river.

Gareth went after her. She was distraught,
and he was worried about what she might do. She said she could
swim, but she wouldn’t be the first widow who tried to drown the
pain that she couldn’t master. Because his legs were longer and he
wasn’t crying, Gareth caught up with her after fifty feet or so. He
tugged on her arm for her to stop and came around in front so she
couldn’t keep walking. “Where are you going?”

“To see my brother!” Carys wrenched away
from Gareth, shoving at him with both her hands to his chest, and
took off again.

She didn’t hurt him, of course, being half
his size, but she was quicker than he expected, and she got away
from him. At least he knew now that she wasn’t heading for the
river but for the closest house. It was larger and sturdier than
hers, with a new roof and possibly three rooms inside.

“Alun! Alun!” Carys wailed the name as she
approached the house.

The front door was on the other side of the
building, facing south and away from Gareth, so he didn’t see the
man until he came around the side of his house. He caught Carys in
his arms as she barreled into him. “What is it, Carys?”

Before she could answer through her sobs,
Alun looked past her to Gareth, standing on the pathway that led up
to Carys’s house. “What have you done?”

Gareth put up both hands in what he hoped
was an unthreatening manner and began to walk towards the pair.
Gareth was a knight and could fight if he had to, but he had no
interest in pulling out his sword to protect himself from a
grieving widow and her brother. Alun, if Gareth had heard the name
right, was the size of an ox with a neck at least as thick as
Gareth’s thigh. “I am the bearer of bad news, that is all.”

“What bad news?” Alun looked down to the top
of Carys’s head.

“Gryff is dead!” Carys said between sobs.
“He was found in the millpond in Llanbadarn Fawr.”

Alun’s face turned deep red. “I’ll—” But
whatever he was going to say or do was lost in the outpouring of
tears coming from Carys and the army of children who surged around
the corner of Alun’s house, engulfing him and Carys and moving on
up the hill. Gareth turned to see Fychan standing at the top with
Carys’s two little ones, who would now be growing up without their
father.

Fychan looked helplessly down at Gareth and
the sobbing Carys. “What do you want me to do?”

“Carry on minding the children. We’re not
finished here.” Gareth waved a hand at Fychan, who bowed his
acceptance, and then Gareth walked the rest of the way down the
hill to where Carys and her brother stood.

Alun glowered at Gareth. “Who are you?”

“Gareth ap Rhys.” Gareth kept his expression
calm, and as he came closer, Alun’s expression faltered. For the
first time, Gareth’s general appearance seemed to register.

Alun swallowed back whatever insult or (more
likely) threat he’d been about to throw at Gareth and gave him a
stiff bow instead. “My lord. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize who you
were.”

“I am the captain of Prince Hywel’s guard,”
Gareth said. “I have done nothing to your sister but tell her what
has occurred.”

Alun seemed to be struggling with himself.
“Can you explain, my lord?”