The Unlikely Spy (5 page)

Rhun had the grace to look abashed. He
bobbed his head in a semblance of a bow, which was more than Gareth
deserved for chastising a prince—especially when that prince wasn’t
even his own master but his lord’s brother. “I stand corrected. And
before you ask, no—Hywel didn’t know that I rode out alone
today.”

“Why did you?” Gareth said.

Rhun pressed his lips together, such that
Gareth thought he wasn’t going to answer or had an answer that
Gareth wasn’t going to like. Maybe he’d been seeing a woman.

At that thought, Gareth put up both hands
and took a step back. “Never mind, my lord. Your doings are not my
concern.”

Rhun gave a short laugh and shook his head.
“I’m getting rusty, Gareth. That’s all.”

“I don’t understand.”

Prince Rhun’s eyes skated to Prior Rhys for
a heartbeat and then came back to Gareth. “In Gwynedd, of late the
people have been looking to me for leadership. Some have been
treating me like I’m already king. It isn’t—” the prince paused,
thinking, “—good for me.”

Gareth took in a deep breath through his
nose and let it out, embarrassed at the way he’d dressed Rhun down,
even though he was right. He gave Rhun a bow. The prince usually
had more sense, but Gareth could understand how stifling it must be
to have guards accompany him everywhere he went, and how it might
not be good for him to be treated like a prince all the time, even
if he was one.

“It won’t happen again,” Rhun said, “so you
don’t have to tell my brother.”

“Yes, my lord,” Gareth said.

“Have you spoken to my brother recently?”
Rhun said.

“I was with him for much of the day, but he
sent me to the monastery saying he had some business at the
castle,” Gareth said. “His brow was furrowed as he left.”

“He has many concerns, especially since our
father should have arrived already and isn’t here,” Prince Rhun
said. “I will find him after we’re done here and share the
load.”

Hywel had acquired a great number of worries
since he’d taken over the rule of Ceredigion. Both Prince Rhun and
Gareth had spent much of the summer trying to lift some of those
burdens, the greatest of which, truth be told, was the festival and
of Hywel’s own making. Hywel had conceived the idea at the
beginning of the summer, and it had consumed him ever since. He
wanted it to be perfect; he wanted to impress his father; he wanted
to be remembered.

Hywel’s other worries—namely the security of
Ceredigion and its people—were ongoing. But once he’d opened his
heart to his father two years ago and received advice and
assistance, much of his anxiety had been lifted from him. Mari’s
steady influence—and the birth of his son—had gone a long way
towards keeping him on an even keel in every other way too.

Gareth bowed again to Rhun and turned back
to his wife. “Why don’t you talk me through what you know about
this death.”

Gwen swept aside some stray locks that had
come loose from the bindings holding back her hair and gestured to
Prior Rhys. “I wasn’t the one to find the body. Prior Rhys came to
the guest house to find you and got me instead.”

Gareth transferred his gaze to Prior Rhys,
glad to change the subject back to the task at hand. “So you found
the body?”

“No,” Prior Rhys said.

“A laborer did,” Rhun said. “We have already
questioned and dismissed him.”

Gareth held back a sarcastic request for
someone
to tell him what was going on before the body in
question rotted behind them. Fortunately, it lay in the shade at
the water’s edge. It wouldn’t matter if it took a little more time
before they transported it inside.

Gareth tipped his head in Prince Rhun’s
direction. “My lord, perhaps you could begin by saying how you
became involved. Why were you at the mill?” He didn’t add
without your guards
, deciding he’d already said enough on
that score.

“I was returning to the castle after
finishing an errand for my brother—nothing important, just a
message to one of his overseers—when a boy raced down the road
towards me, waving his arms with a story about finding a body in
the millpond. I turned in, of course, and saw Prior Rhys’s horse
cropping grass by the mill entrance.”

“Why were you here, Prior Rhys?” Gareth
said.

“I was visiting the mill because the prior
of St. Padarn’s asked me to inspect it.”

“Inspect it? Why is that?” Gareth said.

“While I came to Aberystwyth on behalf of my
abbot to confer about a spiritual matter, when Prior Pedr learned
that I was the prior of St. Kentigern’s, he asked for my advice on
the running of St. Padarn’s.”

The arcane point of doctrine in question was
one about which Gareth, fortunately, cared nothing. It didn’t
appear that Rhys thought it was important either, but he was under
orders and was obeying them. Gareth was happy to leave matters of
the Church to the Church. And he thought the prior of St. Padarn’s
was showing remarkably good sense in employing Prior Rhys in more
practical matters while he was here.

“It is a rare man who can ask for
assistance, and an even rarer one who is as open to new
information,” Gareth said.

Rhys bowed his head. “Both of which I have
found Prior Pedr to be.”

Being open to new information was a quality
that Prior Rhys had proven himself to possess in large measure, to
Gareth’s benefit. A former soldier and spy, Prior Rhys had a
checkered past which he’d put behind him—mostly successfully—since
he’d given his life over to the Church.

“I dismounted and walked to the water,”
Prince Rhun said, continuing his story, “and there was the body,
just as the boy had said.”

“Where was it when you saw it, my lord?”
Gareth said.

“Bobbing in the shallows on the eastern end
of the pond. It had been caught up in an eddy,” Rhun said. “While
Prior Rhys rode for the monastery to find you, the boy and I
rounded up men to retrieve the body from the water. We have so far
kept whatever we have learned to ourselves.”

Then Prince Rhun related his interview with
the miller, and Gwen and Prior Rhys described what they’d found by
the edge of the pond. Gareth listened intently to all three before
finally crouching beside the body himself. He’d learned over the
years that more eyes were better than fewer, and he was glad they’d
done what they could to preserve the scene until either he or Hywel
could arrive. Gwen knew exactly what to do, of course. He was
pleased that Prior Rhys and Prince Rhun had learned as well.

With a wave of his hand, Gareth suggested
that the two monks wait in a cooler spot under a tree, and then he
looked at the prince. “I appreciate your discretion, my lord. The
fewer people who know the details of an investigation, the
better.”

“That is as Gwen said,” Rhun said. “Your
thanks should be given to her and to Prior Rhys.”

“Don’t listen to him, Gareth,” Gwen said.
“The prince has been nothing but helpful.”

Rhun ignored the accolade. “What do you
see?”

Gareth surveyed the body, pleased that Gwen
had gotten it right again. Not only was it clear the man didn’t
drown, but the stab wound that Gwen had pointed out was
unmistakable. He raised the hem of the dead man’s shirt to examine
it, but what he saw had him tsking through his teeth. “He knew his
killer.”

“I agree. When we find out the man’s name,”
Gwen said, “we should be able to limit the suspects to those he
knew.”

Prince Rhun bent forward, his hands on his
knees. “Why are you so sure of that? In the dark, two strangers
might speak to one another and stand close enough for one to stab
the other.”

“That might be true in a crowd,” Gareth
said, “but would it be true when they’re beside the millpond in the
dark of night?”

Gwen swung her hands in a two-foot circle
around her body. “How often do you allow someone to move into this
space, my lord?”

Prince Rhun frowned. “I would allow a woman
to come that close.”

“But a man?” Gwen said.

“Other than my brother, only when I greet
him,” Rhun said.

“For which you use your right hand.” Gwen
pointed at the wound. “No man could die from that wound while
greeting another. The angle is impossible if struck with the knife
in the left hand.”

“Besides which,” Prior Rhys said, “if one
stranger intends to kill another, he would know that he would find
it hard to get close. He would have sprung upon him, surprising him
if he could.”

Rhun sucked on his teeth. “All right. You’ve
convinced me. He knew his killer.”

Gareth laughed. “We’d better be correct
about this, Gwen, or we’ll never live it down.”

Gwen crouched beside Gareth, laughing under
her breath too. Having his wife so close jumbled Gareth’s thoughts
for a moment. Almost absently, he traced the wound with one finger.
Then, in a rush, what he was seeing came into focus. His brow
furrowed. “That looks similar to—” He leaned in to examine the
wound more closely and found Gwen gripping his wrist. He glanced at
her, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly.

He sat back, a chill running up and down his
spine.

Gareth

G
areth stood, and
as he helped Gwen to her feet, his fingers entwined with hers, both
of them holding on tight.

“We should move the body inside.” Gareth
turned to Prior Rhys. “Is it customary here to place a body in the
chapel or somewhere else?”

“They have a small room off the nave set
aside for it,” Rhys said.

“Good,” Gareth said. “It will be far cooler
inside than out here. As it is, he’ll have to be put in the ground
by the end of the day tomorrow at the very latest. It’s just too
hot.”

“Probably before,” Gwen said.

“Hopefully, we’ll know his name before
then,” Prince Rhun said.

“We’ll do our best,” Gwen said.

“Surely someone will have missed him,”
Gareth said, “but at the very least, I can draw his face.”

“That’s a good idea.” Gwen nodded
approvingly. “Any loved one will find him unpleasant to look upon
as he is now. Better to show them the image instead.”

Gareth went to his saddlebag and removed
paper and charcoal. With quick movements, he sketched a rough image
of the dead man’s face, trying to draw him as he would have been in
life, not bloodless and cold from the water as he was now.

Meanwhile, Prior Rhys beckoned the two monks
out of the shade. With Prior Rhys and Prince Rhun assisting, they
loaded the body into the largest of the handcarts waiting by the
entrance to the mill. Gareth finished his drawing and returned to
Gwen’s side.

After the men heaved the body into the cart,
Gwen pointed to the man’s face. Despite the movement required to
lift and load him, no pink foam trickled out of the corner of his
mouth. “He really was dead when he went into the water.”

“You thought you’d made a mistake?” Gareth
said.

Gwen shrugged. “Sometimes it feels like all
we have are guesses. I’m comforted when they appear to be good
ones.”

“What are you talking about?” Rhun said,
ever curious.

“When a man drowns, he spits up the water he
took into his lungs, even after death,” Gwen said. “This man is
missing that telltale sign, once again confirming our initial
supposition.”

While Gareth stowed the picture of the dead
man in the bag with his paper and charcoal, Gwen said, “Give me a
moment,” and hurried away towards the mill, disappearing
inside.

Everyone stopped, looking after her and
uncertain as to what she was doing. Then she returned with a bundle
of cloth in her arms, which turned out to be several large bags
used for carrying grain.

“None of us wore cloaks today so we have
nothing to cover him with, but we don’t want him on display as we
travel down the road,” she said.

“That was thoughtful of you,” Prior Rhys
said. “Thank you.” And between the two of them, they laid the sacks
over the body to cover it completely.

Gareth signaled to the monks to start
pulling the cart. Prince Rhun and Prior Rhys tugged on the bridles
of their horses, but like Gareth, neither man mounted, choosing to
walk behind the cart with Gwen. The monks got the cart rolling, and
the companions began the half-mile walk back to the monastery.

As they walked, Gareth could just hear the
sound of music coming up from the festival grounds on the other
side of the river. Music came more clearly from travelers moving
along the road, whether from a bard warming up his voice and his
fingers on his instrument, or spectators singing the latest ballad
they’d heard. Regardless, each person turned his or her head as the
cart passed, peering curiously into the bed to see what had
prompted such a somber walk by three monks, a knight and his lady,
and a prince.

Most of the looks—and many bows—were
directed at Rhun, who acknowledged them without fanfare.

“Gwen, it might be a good idea not to
discuss any of this with Mari,” Gareth said.

Gwen and Mari had rooms in the guest house
because Mari’s quarters at the castle, approximately a mile and a
half away from the monastery as the crow flies, were less than
adequate to her current needs. She was pregnant again and sicker
even than with her first child. Six months after Tangwen’s birth,
Mari had been delivered of a healthy boy whom she and Hywel had
named Gruffydd after Hywel’s grandfather. Thankfully—and despite
the difficult pregnancy—Gruffydd had been born without
complications and was now a very active one year old.

But Mari’s pregnancy meant that she could
bear neither the press of humanity at the castle nor the smell. The
latrine, in particular, wasn’t functioning as it should, and Mari
had found the stench unbearable every time she walked outside,
prompting her to lose whatever was in her stomach. Prince Hywel had
arranged for Gwen to stay with her at the monastery guest house
until the heat wave passed, the festival was over, the latrine was
redesigned and fixed, and/or Mari managed to get her pregnancy
sickness under control.