The Lost Brother (32 page)

Father Alun raised his hands into the air,
speaking in Welsh and then in Latin, which comforted the listeners
with the familiar ritual. Even those villagers who’d been neutral
in this dispute between Earl Ranulf and King Owain, or resented the
intrusion onto their lands and the disruption of their livelihood,
were staunchly with Gwynedd today.

Of Cadwaladr, of course, there was no
sign.

Father Alun dropped his hands, having
finished the closing prayer. Silence descended upon the
funeral-goers. In the past, it would have been in this moment that
Hywel would have lifted his voice in song. He remained resolutely
silent, however. And still, nobody moved. It was as if they were
waiting for something, though Gareth didn’t know what.

So it was that Gwen stepped forward,
answering the call the people hadn’t voiced. Since her marriage to
Gareth, she rarely performed, and then only under pressure from her
father. But now she moved to the foot of Rhun’s grave, which lay a
few yards from where the rest of the men were buried. The song she
chose was an ancient one, written by a long dead Welsh poet, whose
words had been passed down from one bard to the next until someone
had written them down in one of the books Taran kept so carefully
in his office:

Praise be to God

in the beginning and the end.

He will neither despise nor refuse

those who supplicate to him.

And to Mary, intercede

for thy great mercy’s sake,

With thy Son,

Before I go into the earth to my fresh
grave,

In the dark without a candle to my reckoning
…

Gwen finished the song. Gareth wished her
father could have heard her, for she had done as much for King
Owain and his people in that moment as all the warriors who’d so
stoutly defended Rhun yesterday. As the people dispersed, Gareth
walked to his wife and silently put his arms around her, while she
put her cheek against his chest and held on.

Supported by Lord Goronwy, King Owain
disappeared inside his tent to lie down and await the final
dismantling of the camp. Gareth wanted Gwen to do the same, but the
staccato of hooves coming up the road from the village had him
telling her to stay where she was. He strode towards the camp’s
entrance. Riders had come and gone along the road in a nearly
continuous stream, except during the hour for the funeral, but this
sounded more like a cavalcade.

Gareth’s hand went instinctively to the hilt
of his sword, and he pulled it from its sheath without conscious
thought. The soldiers in the camp who could still stand followed
his lead, pushing through what remained of the funeral goers to
form a phalanx across the entrance and protecting everyone behind
them. The saliva in Gareth’s mouth tasted bittersweet, and he
acknowledged that he was relishing the thought of battle.

Anything to take his mind off Rhun’s
death.

The riders didn’t come all the way to the
entrance. The line of soldiers that faced them made clear the
danger of any kind of move Gareth didn’t like. Instead, the
horsemen halted just past the last switchback. There were only six
of them, and thus not the threat Gareth had at first feared, and
they were dressed in the livery of the Earl of Chester. One of them
held a flag of peace on a spear. Lord Morgan of Cilcain was among
them.

Dafydd led them.

Gareth stepped in front of his men, his
sword still in his hand, though pointed down at the ground.

Both Dafydd and Lord Morgan dismounted and
approached. Dafydd held his hands palms outward. “We come in peace,
Sir Gareth.”

Gareth sheathed his sword. “It’s hard to
think of peace after yesterday.”

Dafydd looked past Gareth to the hardened
expressions on the faces of the Welshmen behind him. “I understand
your animosity. I am not here to add to it. My lord Ranulf sends
his condolences at the loss of Prince Rhun and has instructed me to
confirm a temporary peace between Gwynedd and Chester.”

“On the same terms as yesterday?” Gareth
said.

Dafydd pressed his lips together, telling
Gareth the answer was ‘no’ before Dafydd actually said the word. “I
have brought Lord Morgan with me, in hopes that you will listen to
him if not to me.”

Gareth didn’t speak, unable to think of any
response that could convey the depth of his grief, hatred, and
anger. They had been so close, though it hardly mattered now.

He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see
Prince Hywel at his shoulder, buttressed by Cynan and Madoc. “I am
here,” Prince Hywel said. “What are Ranulf’s new terms?”

Dafydd bowed. “Gwynedd will withdraw beyond
the Clwyd mountains, and Chester will restrict itself to current
lands. Earl Ranulf will retain Mold Castle. We stand here on
neutral ground, ruled by Lord Morgan, until such a time as a more
permanent peace can be established.”

Lord Morgan bowed but didn’t speak.

“This peace will hold for four months, until
the spring,” Dafydd said. “You will have time to mourn your
dead.”

Gareth almost wished he hadn’t put away his
sword. He was furious at Ranulf for taking advantage of Rhun’s
death to change the terms of their agreement and hated this talk of
peace when he had so much anger inside him. But part of him knew
that Gwynedd was weakened, the bulk of the men-at-arms and knights
in King Owain’s court killed or wounded in a single day. Of Prince
Rhun’s
teulu,
only fifteen could stand this morning.

Ranulf was under no obligation to sue for
peace, and while King Owain still had enough men through those
loyal to him and from his allies to pursue the assault on Mold, it
had less chance of succeeding now than it had yesterday.

“Why does Ranulf offer this?” Hywel
said.

“The death of Prince Rhun was never his
intention,” Dafydd said. “He respects the magnitude of your loss,
and desires to give your king a chance to grieve in peace.”

“And he would prefer not to have to
surrender Mold today,” Hywel said.

Dafydd canted his head. “As you say.”

Hywel directed his gaze at Lord Morgan.
“What say you?”

“I am here because I too grieve the loss of
Prince Rhun,” Morgan said. “I agreed to ride here with Ranulf’s men
because I played a role in all this, even if it was never my
intention, and I had no knowledge of Prince Cadwaladr’s activities.
He murdered two people on my land.”

Hywel studied Morgan through a count of ten
and then turned back to the emissary. “Gwynedd accepts.”

Dafydd bowed. He and Morgan backed down the
hill, mounted their horses, and rode away. Hywel stood watching the
road long after the small company had disappeared around the bend.
Gareth stood beside him, watching too—and not with impatience.
Anything that Hywel did or felt was fine by Gareth.

“Did I do the right thing?” Hywel said.

“Yes,” Gareth said without hesitation.

“I am all anger, Gareth.” Hywel turned to
him. “Though I surprise myself at how little of that anger is
directed at my uncle. I am angry that my brother is dead, but
Cadwaladr doesn’t merit anger. He is of as little importance—of
less importance—than an ant, even as I make plans to squash him
beneath my boot.”

Hywel looked towards the center of the camp.
Most of the tents were down, the carts loaded for travel. “We go to
Merionnydd to deprive my uncle’s sons of their inheritance. Will
you come with me?”

He didn’t have to ask, but Gareth
appreciated the respect Hywel showed him by asking. “Of course, my
lord.”

Hywel placed hand on Gareth’s shoulder and
shook him slightly. “Never doubt my trust in you, Gareth. I’m
afraid—” He took in a breath. “You have taught me that honor can
carry a man through any trial, but I fear what my heart tells me to
do. This rage inside is the only thing keeping me on my feet.”

“My lord—” Tears pricked at the corners of
Gareth’s eyes, just when he didn’t want them to fall, and he fought
them back.

“You are my conscience.” Hywel’s voice was
as full of pain and desperation as Gareth’s heart. “You and Gwen.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to have lost all honor
by the time we’re done. Don’t let that happen to me, Gareth. Even
in my anger, I don’t want to fall into perdition as Cadwaladr has
done. I haven’t traveled this far only to lose everything at the
last pass. Cadwaladr has taken what my father most loved. Don’t let
him take what honor I have left too. All my life I have striven to
be like Rhun, and it can’t be because of his death that I fall
short.”

“You have nothing to fear, my lord.” Gareth
gestured to the bend in the road around which Ranulf’s emissaries
had disappeared. “Your first act as
edling
was to put
Gwynedd’s interests above your own and make peace with your enemy.
Rhun would have been proud.”

Hywel closed his eyes, taking in a breath
and easing it out slowly.

It seemed to Gareth that some of the weight
was lifted from his prince’s heart, and he gripped Hywel’s hand as
it rested on his shoulder. “Come, my lord. We have work to do.”

I
have known since
I wrote the first line of
The Good Knight
that I would
eventually have to write this book. Rhun, eldest son of King Owain
Gwynedd, was killed at the end of 1146. In the aftermath, Cadwaladr
deserted his family and his men and fled to England to find refuge
at the English court—where King Owain and Hywel couldn’t reach him.
Subsequently, Hywel and his brother, Cynan, marched on Merionnydd,
the last of Cadwaladr’s lands that King Owain had allowed him, and
took them back—in much the same way that Hywel had marched on
Aberystwyth three years earlier.

Up until 1146, King Owain had always
forgiven his brother for his misdeeds, even to the point of
overlooking murder and treason. Only a terrible act such as
bringing about Rhun’s death could have prompted the king to ban
Cadwaladr from Wales and send Hywel and Cynan to Merionnydd.
Cadwaladr—who’d spent his life carrying out brazen and terrible
deeds—had finally committed a crime so heinous that he fled Wales
rather than face his brother’s wrath.

Though the loss of Rhun is grievous, the
story of Gareth and Gwen—and Prince Hywel—continues. The next book
Gareth & Gwen Medieval Mystery
releases September 15,
2015!

March 1147
. Determined to escape the
gloom that has descended on Aber, Gareth and Gwen travel to
Shrewsbury in an attempt to find answers about Rhun’s death, about
the whereabouts and plans of Prince Cadwaladr, and about Gwen’s
family ties to England.

But when John Fletcher, now Deputy Sheriff
of Shrewsbury, asks Gareth to help him investigate a pool of blood
for which he has no body. Gareth can’t refuse. And when the
investigation points to a conspiracy involving some of the leading
citizens of Shrewsbury, Gwynedd’s foremost investigators go looking
for answers—and find that trouble isn’t far behind.

The Renegade Merchant
is the seventh
Gareth & Gwen Medieval Mystery.

_____________

Chapter One

March 1147

Gareth

G
areth knelt by the dark liquid,
careful not to come close enough to stain his breeches. The morning
sun shone brightly down and glimmered off the film that had formed
on the surface of the little pool.

This particular road was narrower than most
Gareth had seen so far in Shrewsbury, more of an alley than an
actual street, though it was still wide enough for a single cart to
pass. The ground was so smoothed by the passage of years and many
feet that the hard-packed earth had been worn nearly to the
bedrock. Thus the liquid was taking its time to sink into the
soil.

He hesitated briefly before dabbing the tip
of one finger into the liquid. It was lukewarm to the touch, a
second indication that it hadn’t been there very long. Holding his
finger to his nose, he sniffed it before touching his tongue. The
taste made Gareth’s heart sink. A half-hour ago, when John
Fletcher, the newly appointed Deputy Sheriff of Shrewsbury, had
requested that he come to the alley, Gareth had assented. But even
as he’d agreed, inside he’d been thinking
please God, don’t let
this be a murder
.

“Blood,” Gareth said. “It’s still warm,
too.”

“How long could it have been here?” Beside
Gareth, John bent forward with his hands on his knees.

Gareth lifted one shoulder, not really sure
how to calculate such a thing, but he gave it his best guess
anyway. “An hour or two before dawn.”

“You can see why I requested your
assistance, Sir Gareth.” John spoke more formally than he might
have four months ago when he was only an inexperienced
undersheriff. Given the sheriff’s absence, John was temporarily
the
law in Shrewsbury, so Gareth didn’t begrudge him his
pomposity. “I was hoping you could help me discover whose blood
this is.”

“Perhaps it isn’t human blood at all.”

Gareth looked up at the man who’d spoken.
His name was Luke, and he was one of John’s underlings, a watchman
nearing fifty, with a graying beard that hid most of his face.

“You are perfectly correct to wonder that,”
Gareth said, “and I would like nothing more than for you to be
right. While it is my experience that human blood tastes different
from pig blood, one can never be sure without a body. Still, I
would say this is human.”

“But you could be wrong.” Luke spoke with a
snide tone that Gareth couldn’t help thinking was due to Gareth’s
Welshness.

Calling upon his very limited well of
patience for such behavior, Gareth decided to look upon Luke with
amusement rather than irritation. “Indeed. Though, sadly, I think
we can all agree that it would be surprising to learn that a pig
had been butchered in this alley.”