The Unlikely Spy (11 page)

“There he is.” Rhun put a hand on Gareth’s
arm.

“Which booth?” Gareth said.

Rhun pointed with his chin to a stall twenty
feet away. A man with close-cropped dark hair and a bushy mustache
was adjusting his wares on a table, while speaking to a large man
wearing a too-warm coat and a hat pulled low over his eyes. He
looked like he ought to be a patron, since he had a hole in the
knee of his breeches. Where the hat didn’t cover him, his blond
hair and bushy beard stuck out all around.

Then Madlen set a stack of many-colored
fabrics on the table beside her uncle and ducked back into the tent
behind the stall, one wall of which was completely open. A canopy
extended from the tent to cover the wares, protecting them and the
customers from the elements, which today consisted only of bright
sunlight.

Gareth felt like saying, “Ah ha!” but
restrained himself. He was glad to be able to talk to both uncle
and niece without having to track Madlen down somewhere else.

“She seems remarkably composed for a woman
who just lost her husband,” Rhun said.

“You read my thoughts, my lord,” Gareth
said.

But then, as they made their way forward, a
cry followed by a wrenching sob came from the recesses of the tent.
Rhun shot Gareth an apologetic look. The blond patron glanced
around. Noticing Gareth and Rhun, he bent his head briefly in
acknowledgement of their evident station, which was far above his,
and disappeared into the crowd. Together, Gareth and Rhun
approached the cloth merchant.

Iolo looked up, his expression questioning.
He thought they were customers.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Gareth said.

Iolo’s mouth turned down. “And you are?”

Prince Rhun eyed Iolo, not taking offense,
but he didn’t answer him either. Gareth suspected that Rhun would
happily claim to be someone else entirely if Gareth let him, just
for fun. So Gareth spoke for both of them, “I am Sir Gareth, the
captain of Prince Hywel’s
teulu
, and this is Prince Rhun of
Gwynedd.”

The man’s face paled, as it should have, and
he bent fully at the waist in a bow. “My apologies, my lord. I am
not from around these parts. I did not know.”

Rhun dipped his chin slightly in
acknowledgement and moved a hand to indicate that the man could
straighten. “We are here about the death of your niece’s husband,
Gryff.”

Iolo stared at them for a count of five, to
the point that Gareth was wondering if Rhun should repeat what he’d
said. Then Iolo said, “I see.” He turned to look into the recesses
of the tent behind him. “As you can see, Madlen is distraught.”

“I can only imagine what she must be
feeling,” Rhun said.

Gareth took the picture he’d sketched of
Gryff and handed it to Iolo. “Just to be clear, this is Gryff?”

Iolo took the paper. “That is well done!
Yes, that is Gryff.”

“What was Gryff’s relationship to you?” Rhun
said.

Gareth was happy to let the prince keep
speaking. He was good with people and had made Iolo feel at ease
with grace, especially given that they’d gotten off on the wrong
foot at the start.

Iolo’s brows drew together. “Is there some
purpose to these questions, my lord? Gryff is dead. What more is
there to say?”

“We’re just following up. A man died,”
Prince Rhun said. “We want to be thorough.”

Iolo continued to look puzzled. “I thought
Gryff drowned in the millpond?”

Gareth grunted. He didn’t like to lie
outright to anyone, even suspects in a murder investigation. Lying
was for criminals, and if Gareth lied to them, pretty soon it might
be hard to tell who was who. “Any time a man dies prematurely,
questions must be asked. The monks, for example, are concerned
about the nature of his death.”

Iolo had a naturally ruddy complexion, and
with this comment, some of the color left his face. “Are they
wondering how Gryff got there? Do you think he might have—” Iolo
swallowed hard, “—done himself in?”

That wasn’t what Gareth had been thinking at
all. He’d just been trying to deflect Iolo’s queries, but his
question gave Gareth a moment’s pause. Since he had known it was
murder from the start, he hadn’t considered the various reasons a
man might die if it wasn’t, and the specifics of what people might
think. “We are pursuing every line of inquiry.”

“How else does a man end up dead in a
millpond in the middle of the night?” Rhun said, taking up the
questioning again.

“Slipped, perhaps,” Iolo said. “Gryff often
drank more than was good for him.”

“While the idea that Gryff took his own life
surprises you, the idea Gryff might have died because he was too
drunk to save himself would not?” Rhun said.

Iolo shrugged and began rearranging the
piles of cloth in front of him. It was as if he’d lost interest in
the conversation, but his hands shook before he clenched them into
fists and stilled them. “It isn’t as if he could swim, and a drunk
man, as we all know, has little control over his limbs.”

“Do you have any idea what he might have
been doing at the millpond in the early hours of the morning?” Rhun
said.

“The pond is on the road between here and
Aberystwyth village, is it not?” Iolo said. “Maybe he got lost on
the way to our lodgings from the fair.”

“Maybe,” Rhun said.

“I’m sure you know your business, my lord,”
Iolo said, suddenly turning affable. It was the third persona he’d
put on in what was still a relatively short conversation. “Gryff
was a dreamer. Why he did or did not do anything has never been
clear to me.”

“Yet you kept him on,” Rhun said. “He
married your niece. So we ask again, what was his relationship to
you?”

“He was my apprentice—” Iolo waggled his
head, his eyes turned upward for a moment, “—well, my journeyman. I
had hope that he would take on more and more of the duties of a
master draper, but—”

Rhun tipped his head. “He was not doing
so?”

“He never proved as capable as I would have
liked,” Iolo said.

Silence fell for a moment, punctuated by
Madlen’s sobs, still ongoing in the background. Gareth could see
her, hunched over on a stool with her face in her hands. Prince
Rhun had done an excellent job questioning Iolo so far, but when
after another pause he didn’t have another question on the tip of
his tongue, Gareth said, “You had hopes of something different from
Gryff at one time?”

“I brought him into my business after a
chance meeting on the road. He was looking for a trade, and I had
need of an apprentice. One thing led to another. I took him on
permanently.”

“When did he and Madlen marry?” Gareth
said.

At first Gareth wasn’t sure Iolo had heard
the question, since he didn’t respond right away, but then he said,
“They weren’t together long, a few months only.”

“Please describe exactly how you and Gryff
met,” Gareth said.

“My cart was stuck in the mud,” Iolo said.
“Gryff helped me to become unstuck, stayed around to help that day
and the next, and then stayed permanently. His circumstances had
taken a turn for the worse after he’d had a falling out in his
previous situation.”

It was a common story, even up to the part
where Iolo and Gryff had met by chance. Two strangers could strike
up a friendship or form a business relationship if they journeyed
together. A trader such as Iolo, who might return to his home
village once every few months, would have long experience turning
strangers into friends, and for Madlen to marry Gryff made sense,
since they were together all day every day.

“I see,” Gareth said. “When did you last see
Gryff?”

“Last night before I retired,” Iolo said
promptly. “We had a great deal to do and a short amount of time to
do it in. As you can see, Madlen and I are run off our feet. Gryff
was supposed to have arranged the fabrics last night, not to
mention that he should have slept in the stall to guard it.” Iolo
put out a hand to Gareth. “Not that I am in any way criticizing the
watchfulness of your men, my lord. But a man has to protect what
little he owns.”

“We understand,” Rhun said. “What happened
next?”

“I went to the latrine and returned to find
him gone. I didn’t see Gryff again.”

“When did you arrive in Aberystwyth?” Rhun
said.

“We’ve been in the area for two weeks. We
arrived in Aberystwyth three days ago to set up the stall.” Iolo
leaned forward, looking at Rhun. “My lord—all these questions—what
is this really about?”

“As I said,” Prince Rhun said, “we have
questions about how Gryff came to be in the millpond. That is
all.”

Iolo glanced at Gareth before looking back
to the prince. It occurred to Gareth all of a sudden that Iolo had
been speaking so openly to Rhun not out of respect but because he
thought him a soft touch. Iolo seemed more wary of Gareth, never
mind that so far they had no indication he’d done anything
wrong.

“We are simply making inquiries. Thank you
for your time,” Gareth said.

“Please let me know when the body is set to
be buried and where.” Iolo gestured to where Madlen sat sobbing.
“Madlen is suffering in this matter.”

“That reminds me—” Gareth had been saving
the questioning of Madlen until the end, “—we need Madlen to return
Gryff’s purse to us, or at least allow us to view its
contents.”

Madlen’s sobs ceased in mid-breath, proving
that she’d been listening to every word that had passed between her
uncle and Gareth and Rhun.

Iolo said, “What?”

“Before Madlen arrived at the chapel where
Gryff’s body lay,” Gareth said, “Gryff had a small purse at his
waist. After she left, it was gone.”

Iolo’s cheeks grew ruddy, his initial
surprise turning to anger. He glared at his niece. “Is this
true?”

Madlen gaped at the men, all of whom were
looking at her. Tears were still wet on her cheeks but no new ones
fell. Her hand went to her heart, and her breathing quickened. “I
don’t-I don’t know—”

Rhun made a gesture to indicate that he
would like to come around the table and enter the tent. “If I
may?”

Iolo shrugged. “Of course, my lord.” His
voice was calm again, and Gareth might have thought him composed
except for the way one hand fidgeted with the hem of his tunic.
Soon he might wear a hole in the fabric. Then Iolo saw Gareth
looking, and he hurriedly clasped his hands behind his back.

Meanwhile, Rhun entered the tent. Madlen hid
her face in her apron, as if that would somehow stop her from
having to answer any more questions.

Rhun crouched before her. “Madlen.”

As with Hywel, Madlen couldn’t ignore the
prince. The tears for Gryff may well have been genuine, but she
didn’t seem to be able to resist the attentions of a handsome man,
and today she’d been graced by two powerful and charismatic
princes.

Gareth looked down at the picture he’d
sketched. In life, Gryff may well have been handsome too. And in
fact, if he were handsome, that would explain a great deal—in
particular, how he could win a place beside Iolo when he seemed to
lack any of the skills required, and win Madlen’s heart, she who
was beautiful, wealthy, and more well-bred than he appeared to
be.

“Madlen,” Rhun said, “I imagine you want us
to discover the circumstances surrounding your husband’s
death?”

After a moment of hesitation, she
nodded.

“We’d like to know why Gryff was at the
millpond, if he was with someone at the time, and how it was that
he ended up in it. Don’t you want to know that too?” Rhun said.

Madlen nodded again.

“So, we need you to show us the purse you
took from Gryff’s body this morning and tell us why you took it.”
Rhun was speaking to Madlen as if she were only a little older than
Tangwen, each word simple and clear in its meaning. As with the
earlier questioning of Iolo, Rhun’s instincts were good, and Gareth
was glad he’d come along. His ability to woo women was an
unexpected bonus.

Usually, everyone thought of Hywel as the
brother who was able to turn the head of every woman he met. In
fact, before his marriage, he
had
turned every woman’s head,
whether he intended to or not, and coaxed any woman he wanted into
his bed simply by smiling at them. Rhun had always had more
restraint than Hywel, though Gareth was realizing only now that he
had the same skill.

After another long pause, Madlen turned on
her stool and felt inside a sewn leather bag set on the ground
behind her. She pulled out the small leather purse Gareth had seen
at Gryff’s waist earlier that afternoon and handed it to Rhun. “He
owned very little, you know. I didn’t want to leave what he did
have in the chapel overnight in case someone took it.”

Gareth thought Prior Pedr might have
something to say about her distrust, but Rhun nodded. “I
understand, Madlen, but you should have asked us first.” Rhun stood
and handed the purse over the table of fabrics to Gareth, who took
it.

Madlen’s face crumpled, threatening tears
again. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Finally, in the first sign of sympathy he’d
shown her, Iolo went to his niece and patted her on the shoulder.
Rhun left the tent through the open flap, and Gareth untied the
strings on the purse. The contents were unchanged from what Gwen
had described, and despite Madlen’s concerns about theft, few would
have bothered with what Gryff possessed.

Gareth showed the items to Rhun, whose upper
lip lifted in something of a sneer. He opened his mouth to speak,
glanced at Madlen and Iolo, and then closed it. Gareth nodded and
said in an undertone, “We’ll speak of this later, my lord.” Then he
tied up the purse again. “Thank you. She can keep this now if she
wants.” He held the purse out to Iolo.

He took it, and the action seemed to decide
something for him because he clenched it in one hand and lowered
his voice so it wouldn’t carry. “Please forgive my niece. She isn’t
herself.”