The Unlikely Spy (9 page)

Fychan didn’t seem to want to look at her,
but by taking a step closer and lowering her voice she forced him
to look into her eyes. “If you are right that this is the man you
knew, then you have done not only him, but Prince Hywel, a great
service.”

The boy’s head came up at that, and his
expression lightened, which was what Gwen had hoped for. “I
shouldn’t have been at the brook. Dafydd and I missed Vespers.”

“I guessed as much.” Then Gwen let out a
sigh of relief as both priors appeared, stepping out of the doorway
to the chapter house. “Hopefully, in a moment, where you were or
what you were doing won’t matter in the slightest. I’ll be sure to
put in a good word for you too.”

Fychan shook his head. “Thank you, but Prior
Pedr never forgets anything. I’ll be mucking out the latrine
tomorrow, you can be sure.”

Gwen hid a smile at the boy’s morose
expression. “Just tell the truth. What happens after that is out of
our hands.”

Hywel

H
ywel had been
feeling unsettled all day. Days ago he’d sent a scout up the road
to the north to let him know when his father, King Owain, crossed
into Ceredigion. That morning, the man had returned to report that
Hywel’s uncle, Cadwaladr, would be arriving ahead of the king.
Earlier, Hywel had dismissed Gareth and returned to the castle in
order to determine whether Cadwaladr had arrived. Consequently,
he’d missed the initial finding of the body.

Now, as he rode through the gatehouse of his
castle, his heart sank to see it full of his uncle’s men. Hywel
closed his eyes before dismounting, gathering his internal strength
and preparing himself to withstand whatever snide comments or
outright ugliness his uncle threw at him.

The passion with which he hated his uncle
was something that Hywel rarely allowed anyone to see, and it was
important that today not be an exception. Nobody could ever know
how Hywel felt. They could guess all they wanted, but if he kept
those feelings hidden, when the time came for him to bring evidence
against his uncle for his next crime, he could claim impartiality.
Some would distrust Hywel’s motives. Cadwaladr certainly would. But
the day would come when Cadwaladr would do something so heinous
that his father would have no choice but to cast his uncle out of
Gwynedd forever. Hywel was going to make sure that his own emotions
didn’t stand in the way.

So far, his uncle’s most grievous crimes
included hiring Danish mercenaries to ambush King Anarawd of
Deheubarth and conspiring with the Earl of Chester to overthrow
Hywel’s father as King of Gwynedd. Beneath those major sins were
dozens of minor ones including throwing Gareth out of Ceredigion
for disobeying an order. Gareth had refused to cut off a boy’s hand
for stealing a pig. Given that Gareth had ended up in Hywel’s
service, with knighthood, land, and honors commensurate with his
skills and intelligence, Hywel was willing to give Cadwaladr a pass
on that one.

As Hywel strode across the packed earth of
the courtyard and up the steps into the keep and the great hall, he
endeavored to clear his mind and place a neutral expression on his
face. It wouldn’t do to focus on Cadwaladr’s villainy if he was to
greet him cordially.

Aberystwyth Castle was built in wood rather
than the stone that was being used in some of the newer Norman
castles. The wood construction had facilitated Hywel’s burning of
it three years ago, but it had also allowed him to rebuild it
quickly once he took over Ceredigion from Cadwaladr. Hywel’s plan
was for a castle larger in scale—larger than most of the Norman
stone castles, with a more expansive palisade and many buildings
within it. Wood burned, of course, but it was far less expensive
than stone. Wood or stone, Hywel intended for this castle to be the
pride of all Ceredigion.

Upon entering the hall, Hywel at once
spotted his uncle, who (as usual) was impossible to miss. Always
the center of attention in every room he entered, he reclined in a
chair halfway down the hall, surrounded by other guests. He was
holding court as if he owned the castle again, an attitude that
burned Hywel’s gut and forced him to take in another deep breath to
clear his mind. There was no point in avoiding this first meeting,
and better that it happen now than when the hall was even more full
of guests.

Anyway, if Cadwaladr could come without
shame or compunction to Ceredigion, a land he had once ruled
through fear and intimidation, Hywel could pretend that all was
well too. Striding forward, his arm outstretched in greeting, he
said, “Welcome to Aberystwyth, Uncle.”

Cadwaladr stood and grasped Hywel’s forearm
in a strong grip. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the
various hangers-on who’d gathered around him. Hywel wasn’t sorry
the conversation would be witnessed only from afar, in case his
façade of welcome slipped.

“Nephew. I see the rebuilding continues
apace.”

“Yes.” Hywel couldn’t quite bring himself to
add ‘sir’ on the end and was glad his father wasn’t here to witness
this meeting either. All Hywel had done so far was greet his uncle,
but he was already teetering on the edge of his hatred, a hair’s
breadth from falling off the knife edge he walked. He gritted his
teeth in the semblance of a smile. “I see you have been given food
and drink. Are your quarters satisfactory?”

“Indeed. The room is fine,” Cadwaladr
said.

“Alice did not come?” Hywel said.

“She is with child again and cannot travel,”
Cadwaladr said.

Hywel nodded, experiencing an unexpected
moment of understanding and accord with his uncle. Mari was
pregnant again too. It was inconvenient, but it was the way of
marriage. “If you’ll excuse me, I must see to the arrangements for
tonight’s meal.” Hywel dipped his head in a bow, congratulating
himself on the quickness of their exchange and its cordiality. A
small victory.

But with a lifted hand, Cadwaladr stopped
Hywel from moving towards the rear door. “I hear a body has been
found in the millpond.”

Hywel hesitated, half-turned away, cursing
the speed at which rumor traveled in a small community. And then he
suppressed his irritation as best he could, meeting Cadwaladr’s
gaze. “That is true.”

“Who died?” Cadwaladr said.

Hywel reminded himself yet again that until
three years ago, Cadwaladr had been the steward of these lands.
Poor ruler or not, he would know many of its inhabitants. “A man
named Gryff, an apprentice to a cloth merchant,” Hywel said. “Did
you know him or know of him?”

Cadwaladr frowned. “No. He drowned?”

Hywel kept his face perfectly composed—or
hoped he did. Leave it to his uncle to go straight to the salient
point. Everyone else was assuming Gryff had drowned because he was
found in the millpond, and neither Gareth nor Hywel had said
differently. Hywel supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that
his uncle was curious. Men could be thrown into the water after
death. Perhaps Cadwaladr had done it himself.

Hywel had no compunction about lying to
Cadwaladr, but whatever lie he told needed to be credible, and lies
were always better when they contained a grain of truth. “We are in
the early hours of making inquiries. It does appear that he
drowned.”

Cadwaladr’s frown deepened. “A bad business.
All men should know how to swim.”

“My father feels as you do.” Hywel made
another move towards the door, congratulating himself yet again for
getting out of this initial meeting unscathed. He had a vested
interest in not humiliating himself. Hywel’s father would prefer
that Hywel not humiliate Cadwaladr either, and Hywel obeyed his
father in all things, even when it grated.

He’d almost reached the exit when footfalls
came up behind him, and a hand caught his arm. Hywel hadn’t stopped
at the sound of his uncle’s boots, hoping against hope that
Cadwaladr wasn’t really coming for him. But now he turned again,
resigned to his fate, only to blink and jerk back at finding his
uncle’s face right in his. Cadwaladr was a few inches taller, which
forced Hywel to look up at him. He hated that. “What?” The word
came out sharply before he could stop it.

“You’re lying. I can see it,” Cadwaladr
said. “You know something about the way that man died that you
aren’t saying.”

“No,” Hywel said. The lie was purely
defensive.

Cadwaladr’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying
now. He was murdered, wasn’t he? That’s why you were so evasive in
your answer to me.”

Hywel looked past his uncle to make sure
that none of the onlookers were close enough to overhear and took
his tenth deep breath since he’d walked into the hall. Then he
looked back, his gaze steady on his uncle’s face. “We think
so.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I had
anything to do with the death?”

“No,” Hywel said.

Cadwaladr sneered. “Why not?” When Hywel
didn’t answer, he continued, “You believe I did have something to
do with it, don’t you? That’s why you lied to me. You would have
brought it up in some unguarded moment, hoping to catch me
out.”

Hywel rolled his eyes. “That is not it,
Uncle. We are keeping the fact of the murder a secret in order to
lull the murderer into a sense of security.”

“So you treated me like you would the
murderer,” Cadwaladr said.

“Why do you twist my words?” Hywel said. “We
aren’t telling anyone.”

“Who do you mean by ‘we’? Gareth?” The sneer
was fixed to Cadwaladr’s face.

“Of course,” Hywel said, not backing down.
“His skills in these matters are legion.”

“Since I’m here, you need to ask me
now.”

Hywel swallowed down a scoff and decided to
do as his uncle asked, despite his determination not to let him get
the better of him. He gave his uncle a short bow—in parody of the
greeting he’d given him before—straightened, and put his heels
together. “Did you have anything to do with Gryff’s death?”

“Of course not.” Cadwaladr dropped Hywel’s
arm, reverting without warning to his usual air of unconcern and
disdain.

“Than why did you mention it?” Hywel
said.

Cadwaladr’s nose was in the air. “It was
only a matter of time before you came to me for answers. It’s a
wonder that your father has never seen fit to commission me to
investigate these unlawful deaths. I would do it better.”

Hywel stared at his uncle, horrified by the
vision that rose before his eyes of Cadwaladr stomping through a
crime scene and then all over the witnesses. Not to mention, the
fact that it would be a travesty to make him the lead investigator
in a crime he himself committed. Before he could stop himself,
Hywel said, “You take too much on yourself.”

“You can never seem to think beyond me.”

Hywel straightened his tunic with a jerk.
“If you are referring to the several instances in which you have
been questioned during an investigation, you might remember that
you
were
involved.”

“Not the last time.”

Hywel gaped at his uncle, incredulous. “You
left the body of my cousin on Aber’s beach!”

“It was a small matter. A mistake,”
Cadwaladr said. “In the end you know as well as I that I had
nothing to do with her death. It is the same here. I didn’t even
know the man.”

Hywel snorted. “It was you who brought up
the death, not I.”

Cadwaladr sniffed and turned away. Hywel
watched him go, shaking with rage, not only at what his uncle had
said, which was bad enough, but that he would confront him in his
own hall. Hywel turned away too, knowing that he should leave
before he said or did anything more rash.

Before he exited by a rear door, however, he
shot a look over his shoulder at his uncle. Cadwaladr had returned
to his chair, kicking it back and putting his feet on a nearby
table. With his hands clasped behind his head, he was the very
picture of a calm and collected lord of his domain.

He hoped Cadwaladr’s outward expression was
a front for inner turmoil, because after that exchange, Hywel was
anything but calm and collected. Then again, his uncle may have
been plotting that ambush for weeks and had merely used Gryff’s
murder as a means for getting it done. Cadwaladr wasn’t
unintelligent (regretfully), just unwise.

Before Hywel returned to the festival
grounds below the castle, he sought out his steward, a man named
Morgan. His father’s steward, Taran, had recommended Morgan for the
position, and Hywel had found nothing in their two-year association
to make him regret that choice. The man was built like a
boar—apparently Morgan was the champion arm wrestler among Hywel’s
soldiers—but he had never used his strength in battle, having
learned to read, write, and account as a youth before his physical
prowess became clear. As Hywel thought about it, Morgan rather
looked like a boar too, with curly brown hair from the top of his
head to the tops of his feet. His brown eyes were the one
exception, looking at everyone and everything around him with dry
amusement.

Hywel found Morgan supervising the turning
of the spit upon which a sheep was roasting. With a jerk of his
head, Hywel pulled him aside. “Thank you for seeing to my uncle’s
wellbeing.”

Morgan looked at him gravely, bushy eyebrows
raised. “It was my duty.”

“I will speak to Gareth about setting a man
to watch him,” Hywel said, “but I would ask you as well to inform
me if my uncle meets with anyone unusual—or does anything
unusual.”

“Can you define unusual, my lord?”

Hywel found his teeth grinding together—not
at Morgan’s request for clarification but at having this
conversation at all. “My uncle, as you know, has conspired with
many of my father’s foes over the years. He hasn’t come to
Ceredigion because he loves music. He is here for something else. I
want to know what it is.”

“Does this have to do with the death of that
merchant, Gryff?” Morgan said, showing that his usual astuteness
hadn’t deserted him.