The Lost Brother (5 page)

Hywel looked at his brother, who was
behaving very much the
edling
today. “You know how good at
this they are.”

In adulthood, the brothers had become closer
than they’d been as children, providing each other with real
support and without a shred of jealousy or acrimony. Though Gwen
had never had a sister herself, Hywel had been like a brother to
her at times, and she recognized real camaraderie when she saw
it.

“I do.” Rhun contemplated Gwen and Gareth
for another few heartbeats, and then he nodded his consent.

Gwen gave a small sigh of relief. Father
Alun had been right to come to King Owain’s headquarters, since he
was the new ruler of the region, but control of that lordship
remained precarious. If King Owain was going to rule in fact as
well as name, he needed to be seen doing so. And that meant solving
a murder in his lands.

Gareth held out a hand to Godfrid. “It was
good to see you. Hopefully Gwen and I can clear this matter up
quickly and return before the assault on Mold begins.”

“But—” said Godfrid.

Gwen almost laughed at the look of
consternation on his face, which was mirrored in Hywel’s and Rhun’s
expressions as well. The part about Gareth and Gwen going alone
hadn’t sunk in until this moment. All three had been involved in
Gareth’s and Gwen’s murder investigations at one time or another,
and each man wanted to come on this journey. She could appreciate
the tug of intrigue and discovery, though she herself wasn’t
looking forward to examining the dead body of a possible
sister.

But then Rhun gave way to the necessities of
his station and said, “Be careful.”

Hywel sighed and punched Godfrid’s upper
arm. “This time we’ll have to leave them to it, old friend.”

Though his eyes remained on Gareth and Gwen,
assessing them, Godfrid grunted his assent. “At a minimum, a
conference with the king shouldn’t wait.”

“I agree, Godfrid,” Rhun said. “While my
father hasn’t been receiving visitors today, perhaps he will make
an exception for you.”

“He is unwell?” Hywel stepped closer to
Rhun.

“So much so that he admitted it.” Rhun
tipped his head to Godfrid, indicating that the Dane should come
with him.

His brow furrowed in concern, Godfrid patted
Gareth’s shoulder, nodded at Gwen, and followed Rhun into the
monastery, leaving Hywel with Gareth and Gwen.

“I don’t like hearing that your father is
ill,” Gwen said.

“Neither do I, but you’ll have to leave him
to Rhun and me for now.” Like Godfrid’s, Hywel’s face showed worry.
“I suspect you understand what is happening here as well as I, but
I’m going to spell it out for you anyway, just to be clear: you are
to solve this murder in the name of the king while at the same time
keeping your ear low to the ground. Our scouts have not reported a
withdrawal from the region around Mold, which they should have if
it were true.”

“Maybe this just happened,” Gwen said.

“Prince Cadwaladr’s men have had the duty
these past few days,” Gareth said, though he looked down at the
ground as he said it, not meeting Hywel’s eyes.

Prince Cadwaladr, King Owain’s younger
brother, had arrived on the border with Chester before King Owain’s
forces last summer, having hastily departed Ceredigion in advance
of the king. Gwen and Gareth had met during a time when Gwen’s
father sang in Cadwaladr’s hall, and Gareth had served him as a
man-at-arms. Both had left Cadwaladr’s court years ago—in Gwen’s
case because she went where her father went, and in Gareth’s for
refusing what he believed to be a dishonorable order. Gwen and
Gareth had caught the wayward prince out in wrongdoing several
times since then.

“I know,” Hywel said.

“I don’t like leaving you under these
circumstances,” Gareth said.

“I trust no one more than you two to get to
the bottom of this,” Hywel said, “but it would be good if you could
hurry.”

Gwen

“I
will send a
query to Lord Goronwy’s men on the chance they know more about
Ranulf’s movements than Cadwaladr’s men have reported,” Hywel
said.

“Where is Lord Goronwy camped?” Gwen
said.

“Farther south,” Hywel said, “beyond
Cadwaladr’s forces and alongside some of the other lords from
eastern Gwynedd.”

Gareth nodded. “Meanwhile, Gwen and I will
question the people we meet.” He paused. “Some may not like
it.”

“My father rules these lands,” Hywel said,
“and if Earl Ranulf wants to take them back, my father is prepared
to meet him. Father would prefer to avoid the necessity, however.
Our focus is on Mold Castle, not on the little villages and hamlets
between here and there. We aren’t interested in fighting
hand-to-hand and house-to-house.”

“We understand,” Gwen said. “You want us to
go to Cilcain to solve this murder and spread goodwill, while at
the same time spying out the lay of the land. You’d prefer, also,
that we don’t call attention to ourselves such that one of Earl
Ranulf’s informers hears of it and tells him where we are.”

Hywel studied her a moment. “This is an old
tune for you, Gwen. You should know it by heart by now.”

Gwen just managed to refrain from making a
face at him like she might have done had they still been ten and
twelve. Or even nineteen and twenty-one. He was right, of course.
She’d spied for him before she’d investigated murders for him,
though this wouldn’t be the first time one task had blended with
another.

Gareth was chewing on his lower lip. “Now
that you agree, I’m having second thoughts. I hate to leave the men
and you so close to the time for real battle.”

“Evan is here, and while he is not you, he
will do for now. You need to go,” Hywel said. “I would send only
you, Gareth, if this dead girl wasn’t possibly Gwen’s sister or
relation.”

“I need to go with Gareth,” Gwen said.

“I know,” Hywel said. “I won’t bar you from
seeing her into the ground with a proper burial.”

“Besides, as a couple, we will cause less
comment,” Gwen said. “Now that I think about it, it wouldn’t be a
bad idea for Gareth to travel as a common man.”

Gareth put a hand on the hilt of his sword,
which stuck out from underneath his cloak. “I will not sneak around
like a thief. Either I’m representing King Owain and the rule of
law, or I’m not.”

“You are,” Hywel said. “Wear your
sword.”

“We’ll try not to get caught between
opposing forces,” Gwen said, a smile on her lips. “Or get you
caught between them.”

Hywel pointed a finger at her. “That isn’t
amusing. If you come upon Earl Ranulf’s forces, you turn and
run.”

“What if we can’t run?” Gareth said.

“You are a knight and my father’s
representative. You speak for me.”

Gareth bowed, acknowledging the burden Hywel
had placed on him, though truthfully, he carried that burden every
day.

Hywel touched Gwen’s shoulder briefly. He
didn’t speak, but she saw concern and love there, and then the
prince grasped Gareth’s forearm. “Good luck.”

Gwen and Gareth mounted their horses to
follow the priest, who’d watched their conversation from his perch
on his mule.

“How far is it to Cilcain?” Gwen said as she
began to follow the priest down a different pathway from the one on
which Gwen and Gareth had ridden to the monastery. Instead of
heading north, back towards the camp, they rode south. The trail
here was slightly narrower than the one from the
camp—understandable since that road had experienced an upswing in
traffic in recent weeks—but still well-trodden.

The ground had been churned up during the
spell of rainy weather they’d had, but the ruts had dried today in
the colder air, becoming more rigid and easier to stumble over.
Tree branches overhung the road as well, and Gwen kept having
either to swerve to avoid them or to duck under them.

“A little more than three miles as the crow
flies, but we need to take the pass that runs south of Arthur’s
mountain, so it will take a little longer. Thanks to King Owain,
Gwynedd now runs to within a mile of Mold. We breathe easier under
Welsh rule.”

“Which puts the border of Wales how far from
Cilcain?” Gwen said.

“Another three miles east,” Father Alun
said. “I know your prince is concerned for your safety, but even
when Earl Ranulf’s forces controlled the area, they never bothered
us. You will be perfectly safe.”

Father Alun might be only trying to comfort
her because she was a woman, but it never paid to be complacent,
especially when one lived on the border between two warring lords.
And while on first acquaintance Gwen had liked Father Alun, all of
a sudden he seemed more self-satisfied than he ought to for someone
who’d found a murdered woman in his graveyard. Godfrid could be
right about the misinformation and the trap.

Still, Father Alun had said his parish was
poor, and Gwen consoled herself with the reminder that Ranulf of
Chester wanted to rule these people too. Sacking a village that
tithed to you, whether or not the inhabitants were Welsh, wasn’t a
good way to ensure that the people continued to obey.

The journey required nearly two hours of
riding, in large part due to the slow pace set by Father Alun’s
mule. A horse couldn’t run at a gallop for long, but if they’d at
least been able to ride more quickly than at a walk, they could
have reached the chapel in half the time. On another day, the delay
between learning of the existence of a dead girl who looked like
her and seeing her body might have set Gwen’s teeth on edge. But
she was perfectly willing to put off what lay ahead of her as long
as possible.

During the first part of the journey, the
hills which rose up on either side of them and the thick woods that
surrounded the road sheltered the riders from the cold wind. But
once they reached the open fields that characterized the land east
of the Clwyd Mountains, the road widened, which Gwen preferred, but
the wind picked up too, screaming down the valley towards them from
the north.

Gwen cinched her hood closed under her chin,
such that the only part of her body that showed was her face. She
was sure her nose was red, though with the light starting to fade
as the end of the day neared, soon nobody would be able to tell.
The close of autumn in Gwynedd meant that they had less daylight
every day, until by the time of the winter solstice, the days were
hardly more than seven hours long.

Here in late November, that date was rapidly
approaching. It wasn’t any wonder that King Owain wanted to move on
Mold in the next week rather than continue to fight through the
long winter months in the dark and the cold. Victory by Christmas
sounded wonderful to Gwen too.

As the road continued to descend into the
lush valley, green even at this time of year, they approached the
village of Cilcain from the west. Villages were few and far between
in most of Wales, but in eastern Gwynedd, they were more common
because the most prevalent livelihood for the people was farming
rather than herding. When people were able to live in one place
year round, communities were more likely to spring up. The village
of Cilcain consisted of three dozen houses clustered around a
central green.

A small tavern, which was hardly more than a
few wooden benches and tables set outside someone’s home, occupied
pride of place at the entrance to the village. Its benches were
full tonight, and as Gwen and the others passed by, every single
head in the place turned towards them to watch their progress down
the road.

Father Alun raised his hand to the crowd and
gave an extra nod to the tavern keeper, who came to stand in the
doorway to the hut, the light from the fire behind him making him
little more than a silhouette in front of it.

Cilcain didn’t have an inn, which weren’t
common in Wales anyway. They hadn’t passed one on the road either.
With no castle nearby, she and Gareth would have to beg for a bed
tonight from Father Alun or one of his parishioners.

From the tavern, the road led Gwen, Gareth,
and Father Alun past the southern side of the green to a
crossroads, at which point they turned north, effectively passing
through the bulk of the village in order to reach the chapel, which
was located on the north side of Cilcain. Along the way, women and
children came out to inspect them.

Gareth had fallen back a length or two, his
intent expression one he wore when he was carefully studying his
surroundings. In particular, he would be committing the faces of
the villagers to memory and taking note of any who looked quickly
away as he passed or disappeared from among the onlookers before he
could make them out.

Gwen settled back into her saddle and lifted
a hand shyly to several women as she passed by. Father Alun
gestured to a little chapel fifty yards ahead of them, and his
mule, sensing home, picked up speed such that he outpaced her
horse’s walk.

“So much for being discreet,” Gareth said
from his new position on her left side, having caught up to her
again. “Any spy of Ranulf’s can see for himself that a Welsh knight
from Gwynedd has come to Cilcain.”

“At least their glances aren’t resentful,”
Gwen said.

“The people here are Welsh,” Gareth said.
“Let’s hope they know it, and nobody is running right now to the
Earl of Chester to tell him we’re here.”

Far too knowledgeable about intrigue and
treachery to wonder why someone might report their presence, Gwen
looked down at her hands as they once more clenched the reins. The
answer would be for the usual reasons: because the spy was paid to
do so, or because he believed in his cause. And she had to admit
that if she lived in Cilcain, and Ranulf had sent his knights to
the village, she would have been the first to tell Hywel of it if
she could. Loyalty and treason were two sides of the same coin.