The Bard's Daughter (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery) (4 page)

“
It comes from a potion from the east that will put a man into a deep sleep with a few sniffs,” Gwen said.

“
I find that unlikely.” Robert adjusted his fine, deep green tunic with a jerk. As steward for Lord Cadfael, he was a wealthy man in his own right and dressed accordingly.

Gwen gazed at Robert and then back to Gruffydd, her own patience stretched to the limit. “Let’s say he was dosed with it. Where could the murderer have gotten such a rare potion?”

Gruffydd shrugged. “I respect Saran’s wisdom, but with the mead your father had consumed …”

Robert rocked back and forth on the balls on his feet. “He was very drunk.”

“
That is exactly my point, my lords.” Gwen forced herself to moderate her tone before it rose. It was all very well and good for Saran to chastise Gwen for not actively trying to help her father, but it was quite another to get these men to listen to her. But then, she was a girl, and Robert was Cadfael’s right hand man, while Gruffydd ruled the garrison. Why
should
they listen to her?

Then Cadfael surprised Gwen by saying, “It can’t do any harm to search the pantry. If the girl is right and her father is innocent, then the real murderer could have dosed her father. You might find the cloth or bottle nearby.”

Gwen curtseyed. “Thank you, my lord—”

Cadfael cut her off, baring his teeth. “And if you don’t find it, we can dismiss this as the nonsense it is.”

“
But, my lord—” Robert said.

“
She’s a pretty girl who loves her father.” Lord Cadfael pushed to his feet. “Humor her, Gruffydd. At least look for a sign that what she says might be true.”

“
Thank you, my lord,” Gwen said, again. “Really, my father didn’t kill this man. Collen was his friend. He had no reason to kill him.”

Robert smirked. “Didn’t he, my dear? It looks to me as if he was caught red-handed … so to speak.”

Cadfael waved a hand. “Don’t try to complicate what is really very simple.” He left the room.

Gwen bent her head to gaze at her toes, hating that they were treating her like a little girl but unable to do anything about it. “My father didn’t kill Collen.”

“
Then who did?” Robert said. “If you’re so sure, you find him.” Robert turned on one heel to follow Cadfael.

Gwen’s head came up.
What?
Although Saran had said as much—perhaps more as a goad than because it was a reasonable thing to do—the very fact that Robert would suggest the same thing left Gwen gasping. Wasn’t this Gruffydd’s job? Did none of these men care that if Meilyr hadn’t killed Collen, a murderer remained loose in the castle?

Whenever he saw her, Prince Hywel of Gwynedd, Gwen’s friend since childhood, loved to question Gwen about the details and gossip of life outside of Gwynedd. They’d grown up together at Aberffraw, King Owain’s seat on Anglesey in the northwest of Wales. Hywel, as the second, bastard son of the King, found his place in the order of things at the royal court precarious and collected information as a way to stay one step ahead of anyone who might challenge him or his father.

The last time she’d seen Hywel, he’d questioned her particularly closely. Since then, she’d begun to pay attention to the less savory aspects of court life, which were more common than she would have liked to admit. She’d never thought her discoveries would go beyond unfaithful wives or straying husbands, into the world of thievery and smuggling—such as Collen had asked of her father—or murder.

“
I suppose I will have to see to this,” Gruffydd said to no one in particular, since both of his superiors had already left the room.

Gwen curtseyed to Gruffydd, desperate to smooth his ruffled feathers. He merely nodded that she should follow him, so she trailed behind him, out of the hall and to the kitchen, behind which lay the entrance to the pantry. They entered the kitchen through a wide doorway that was kept open to the winter air at all times. Even so, the kitchen was warm and smoky—hot even—with its two fireplaces going at once, one for baking and another for the stew that simmered in its pot. The fires burned the day long and into the night, necessary for feeding all the residents of the castle.

The interior of Carreg Cennen Castle was relatively simple, with the usual complement of keep, stable, barracks, blacksmith works, kitchen, and craft huts. To protect the great hall from fire, the kitchen was separated from the main buildings by a covered pathway. Gwen’s only complaint was that her family had very little privacy here, which was why she and Gwalchmai had resorted to the herbalist’s hut to rehearse their music. When her father hadn’t appeared to practice with her the previous evening as he’d promised, she’d had to go over the particularly difficult piece they were singing tomorrow by herself.

When she’d gone as far with the song as she could, she’d left the hut to search for him, but nobody had seen him. The performance would be for the birth day feast of Lord Cadfael’s eldest son, who was turning fourteen, and what puzzled her particularly about her father’s absence was that it was he who had asked her to meet him, intent on getting the song exactly right. A boy became a man only once in a lifetime, and for Cadoc, that would be tomorrow.

Because of the upcoming celebration, the kitchens were busier than usual, in that they were not only preparing meals to feed the several dozen residents of the castle, but to fill the stomachs of guests who had come from miles around. Among these guests were farmers and merchants who tithed to Cadfael, plus peasants, laborers, and shepherds, none of whom wanted to miss the opportunity for several satisfying meals.

Gwen felt the eyes of every person in the kitchen on her. The people here had always been friendly to Gwen, but another shiver of dread trailed down her spine at their distrustful looks. Gruffydd took her elbow and she walked with him to the rear door and then along the path that led to the underground pantry. Her knees trembled as she descended the ladder behind Gruffydd.

Gwen had hoped never to enter here again, and was relieved to see that the body had been removed to the chapel in preparation for burial, though that might not be possible until the winter cold let up and the ground softened. From the look of the floor, someone had attempted to scrub the stones clean of Collen’s blood, with minimal success. The blood itself was gone. The stain remained.

“
What are we looking for?” Gruffydd said. “A vial?”

“
And a cloth or sponge, maybe?” Gwen said. “According to Saran, they would smell sweet and nutty.”

Gwen felt she had made significant progress just in getting Gruffydd to come search with her. She began peering behind discarded barrels and patting her hand into the crevices in the stones and under the empty shelves. Gruffydd pulled aside the curtain that blocked the entrance to the long tunnel at the far end of the room that led deeper into the mountain. He walked down the passage until Gwen lost sight of him and could see only the bob and weave of his lantern.

After he’d returned and they’d covered both sides of the room, they met again in the center. Gruffydd stood glaring down at the blood stain on the floor. Gwen waited.

“
No vial,” he said.

“
Not that I can find. But my father was dosed.” Gwen’s hands fisted. He
was
.

Gruffydd grunted. “We’ll see.” He turned away, but Gwen clutched at his sleeve.

“
Have you questioned the kitchen staff? Has anyone come forward to say they saw my father?”

“
No.”

Despite what Saran had suggested, Gruffydd’s accompanying shrug caught Gwen off guard. “You haven’t talked to anyone about what happened last night, have you?” she said.

“
We know who murdered Collen.”

“
Please … please. Don’t make any judgments just yet,” Gwen said.

Gruffydd fingered his chin and gazed at Gwen. Then, he took in a deep breath and let it out. “I will make some inquiries.”

Gwen eased out a sigh. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Gruffydd looked down at her. “You have a little time. Lord Cadfael has said that he will not sully his son’s birth day tomorrow with a hanging.”

“
A hanging?” Gwen had used the word with her father, more to shock him into making sense than because she’d really thought Cadfael would hang him. To hear the word come from Gruffydd’s mouth turned her stomach to stone. “What about payment of
galanas
?”

“
In certain instances, payment isn’t enough. You know that. It never has been. King Anarawd said as much at the Christmas feast when he called all his barons to him. He is specifically concerned about treason, but he has hung men for murder in the past.”

“
How can that be?” Gwen said. “The law—”

“
The law of Wales is clear,” Gruffydd said, “but the Normans encroach on us at every turn. If a lord doesn’t maintain a tight control on his people—and his lands—he might lose them.”

Gwen ground her teeth. Norman law stated that a man must hang for the murder of another man, but the laws of Hywel Dda said that each individual person—each man, woman and child—had a value. In Wales, a man paid
galanas
—compensation—to the family of the one he’d killed.

“
We are Welsh, not Norman!” Gwen said.

“
Lord Cadfael feels that he must make an example of Meilyr, lest others equally lose their way.” Gruffydd touched one finger to Gwen’s shoulder and then dropped his hand. “We live in difficult times, Gwen. The old ways are no longer sufficient.”

“
How can you say that?”

“
You have until the day after tomorrow. Meilyr will stand before Cadfael then and receive his sentence.”

As Gruffydd departed, Gwen sagged to her knees on the cold stone of the floor. She had two days.

Chapter Four

G
wen understood that it was often difficult for men to admit they were wrong, especially to a woman, so she didn’t follow Gruffydd when he left the pantry or press him further. She had never thought him an ignorant man, nor one who would willfully hang a man out of convenience. But it seemed he intended to do so this time. At least Cadfael had allowed him to search for evidence of a different killer.

Gwen didn’t really know how to proceed, but she decided that her first task was to question those who knew Collen, under the principle that his death was not a random act of a complete stranger. Gwen didn’t have any idea how she would know when she learned something that would help her, but she didn’t know where else to start. She had to hope that she would recognize a clue when she saw it.

Collen had traveled Wales with a small cart, which he’d parked in a lean-to attached to the stable. Either he or his servant, Ifan, who traveled with him, always guarded it. Ifan had come to Collen at the age of eight. He was eighteen now, and after ten years of working with Collen, was more like a son than a servant. His presence allowed Collen to work his deals without leaving his possessions unprotected. Ifan always slept in, on, or near the cart. In fact, when Gwen thought about it, she realized that the only time she’d seen him leave it was to use the latrine.

As she expected, this morning he sat where he always did: on a short stool, whittling a piece of wood with a small knife. His hands were encased in thick gloves, as were those of every other man in the castle on this winter day.

Gwen came to a halt in front of him. Now that she was here, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She managed to speak around it. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Ifan looked up at her, ducked his head once, and went back to his whittling, whistling tunelessly through his teeth. Even with only the brief glance, Gwen couldn’t miss the dirty tracks of tears on his cheeks. Not long ago, he’d been weeping.

Gwen pursed her lips, feeling intensely uncomfortable, but she felt she must continue what she’d started. “Where were you last night?” Gwen tried to keep the question casual, hoping to deceive Ifan into thinking that she was merely curious, instead of intensely interested.

Ifan shrugged. “Right here. It’s where I always am.”

“
Always?” Gwen said.

Ifan stopped his whittling to look up at her again. He barked a laugh. “Are you accusing me of having something to do with Collen’s death?”

“
We don’t know when Collen died exactly,” Gwen said. “Maybe you were the one to kill him. Maybe you’ve grown tired of being his servant.”