The Lost Brother (7 page)

Reasonable had never been a word Gareth
would have applied to Earl Ranulf of Chester, but he’d met him only
that one time at Newcastle, and the circumstances had certainly
been tension-filled. Stuck in England, they’d been faced with
traitors, spies, and dead bodies—though come to think on it, Earl
Ranulf had been one of the few people who turned out to be exactly
as he seemed: arrogant, ruling his lands as an almost-king, and
resentful of any encroachments on his own power.

Father Alun continued, “The earl would
understand if your inquiries took you to Morgan’s doorstep, but if
you wish, I will come with you in the morning to introduce you to
Morgan and explain your task.”

“I would appreciate that. Thank you—”

“Gareth.” Gwen’s voice carried to him from
within the woods.

“Coming.” It was dark enough now that Gareth
couldn’t see more than a few paces into the trees. He picked up the
lantern and carried it with him, keeping it low to the ground so it
would illumine the dirt, grass, and fallen leaves. It was
impossible to make out much beyond the small circle of light, but
Gareth wasn’t worried about an attacker hiding in the darkness. He
wanted to catch a glimpse of a piece of cloth, torn from the corner
of a cloak, or the glint of light off metal.

He saw nothing useful, however, and found
Gwen crouched on the far side of the patch of trees, next to a
stone wall that demarcated a farmer’s pasture. She pointed to the
ground.

Father Alun had come with Gareth, and he
peered at the place Gwen was pointing. “I see churned earth. What
are you seeing that I don’t?”

“At least three sets of boot prints,” Gareth
said, instantly recognizing why Gwen had called him over, “and the
hoof prints of three horses.”

Gwen gestured to one set. “Those belong to a
big man, not just one with big feet.”

“I would say so too.” Gareth moved at a
half-squat among the tracks to look for another that he could
distinguish clearly from those around it.

“How is it you can determine something like
that?” Father Alun peered at the tracks with an intent look on his
face. “Just because a man has large feet doesn’t mean he’s big. One
of the tallest men I know has smaller feet than I do.”

Gwen straightened to answer him. “A heavier
man sinks more deeply into the ground than one who is lighter,
regardless of the size of his feet.”

Father Alun’s expression blanked for an
instant, but then cleared, and he smiled. “Of course. I should have
known that. I have been unobservant.”

“He would also sink if he was carrying
something heavy, Gareth,” Gwen said.

“Something like a body.” Gareth held the
lantern close to another one of the prints and measured his boot
against it. Gareth’s feet were of average length and width, and so
was this print. He shot a quick grin at Gwen, pleased to have
acquired a piece of solid information already. “They never learn,
do they?”

Gwen smiled. “Don’t play your harp before
it’s tuned, my love.”

“Who never learns?” Father Alun said. “And
what is it they don’t learn?”

Gwen gestured to the prints. “Murderers
always think they’re more intelligent than anyone else. They
believe they can hide their tracks, or that the body they buried
won’t be found. But here we are.”

Gareth nodded. “As a priest, you probably
see the worst of people too, like Gwen and I do, but honestly, I
don’t believe most men are suited to great evil. It weighs on them.
They feel shame or guilt. Even a man who doesn’t, who has become so
accustomed to the loss of his soul that he doesn’t notice its
absence anymore, still can’t think of everything. He slips up. He
can’t help it.”

“He betrays himself, you mean?” Father Alun
said.

“Exactly,” Gareth said.

Father Alun lifted one shoulder. “I don’t
know if I can agree, Sir Gareth. I have seen great evil in my
time.”

“Surely great good too.” Gwen tipped her
head to Gareth. “We have.”

“I’m not saying that in the heat of the
moment a man can’t do the most heinous deed imaginable. I’m just
saying that it eats at him afterwards. What’s left of his soul
prevents him from thinking his actions through to the end—and as a
result, you end up with this.” Gareth gestured to the ground around
him, a little embarrassed about discussing theology with a priest.
Something about Father Alun’s manner invited confidences. “You end
up with a woman buried inexpertly in another man’s grave and clear
marks of boot and hoof prints, which might lead us ultimately back
to the one who killed her.”

Gwen tipped her head, calling Gareth’s
attention to the fence. “See here? Many of the stalks are shorter
than the surrounding vegetation. It looks to me like the horses
were tied here and cropped the grass while they waited.”

Father Alun looked from Gwen to where she
indicated. “Prior Rhys was right.”

“What was he right about?” Gwen picked up
the lantern and began to walk along the fence line, her eyes on the
ground.

“That men should beware of committing murder
in your vicinity,” Father Alun said. “I see now that you know your
business, and I understand why Prior Rhys speaks so highly of your
skills. King Owain was right to place his trust in you.”

Gareth pressed his lips together, feeling
satisfaction himself. The more men who thought as Prior Rhys and
Father Alun did, the fewer murders Gwen and he would have to solve.
That their reputation preceded them could only be a good thing.

Even if Prior Rhys had exaggerated his
skills to Father Alun, he and Gwen had a history of success. That
wasn’t to say that dozens of men hadn’t succeeded in getting away
with murders nobody knew anything about.

“Is there more to find here, or would you
like to see the body now?” Father Alun said.

Gareth looked at Gwen, who put her hand to
the small of her back and stretched, before straightening and
sighing. “I suppose we should see the body.” She returned to his
side, the lantern swinging from her hand.

Gareth put an arm around her shoulders and
squeezed. “You don’t have to see her if you don’t want to.”

“Yes, I do,” Gwen said.

Gareth didn’t question her decision again.
She had more courage than most men, of a kind that had less to do
with the strength of her arms than with her mind and character.

They walked back through the woods, past the
open grave, which the grave diggers would now be able to fill in,
to the churchyard, and then into the vestibule of the little
chapel. One foot inside the door, Gareth caught the first whiff of
the smell left by a dead body. Gwen, whose nose was more sensitive
than his, recoiled on the threshold. Putting the back of her hand
to her nose, she took a step outside, drew in a deep breath, and
then started forward again.

“You’ll need to bury her in the morning,”
Gareth said. “It really shouldn’t wait another hour, but it’s too
late in the day now.”

“I can sense that,” Father Alun said, dryly.
“The body didn’t smell at all when I left this morning.”

“It’s only a guess, but I’d say we’re still
in the first full day since her death, putting her murder yesterday
before midnight.” Gareth said. “The earliest part of the decaying
process occurred while she was in the ground, so the smell was
something you might not have noticed at first.”

“Why is that?” Father Alun said.

Gareth glanced quickly at Gwen, who wore a
tense look on her face and didn’t seem to be listening. “The body
releases its fluids—” Gareth broke off at the way Father Alun
flinched.

The priest held up a hand. “Say no
more.”

“It isn’t something most people spend any
time thinking about,” Gareth said. “We usher our people into the
ground within a day, usually, and I imagine it is the women of the
parish who clean and dress the body, not you.”

“It is as you say,” Father Alun said. “I
will pay more attention in the future.”

“As it is, it’s a blessing the weather has
turned cold,” Gwen said, proving that she’d been listening to their
conversation after all. “If it were a summer’s day instead of
almost winter …” her voice trailed off, and Gareth was glad she’d
decided not to regale the priest with any more of what she knew
either. She could have said that a body decayed much faster in hot
weather. Likely Father Alun knew that instinctively already.

Fortunately, the priest was already moving
across the flagstones that made up the floor of the church and
didn’t comment on what Gwen had said.

The body was being kept to one side of the
nave in a little alcove. The chapel was really only one large room,
smaller than many great halls, with a central area in which people
could worship and an altar that lay at the eastern end on a raised
platform. It was a far cry from some of the more ornate churches in
which Gareth had examined bodies over the years.

Gareth and Gwen followed Father Alun to
where the woman lay on a table, covered from head to foot by a
sheet. One candle guttered in its sconce on the wall above her, but
as Gareth and Gwen gazed down at the body, Father Alun busied
himself with lighting whole banks of them, arranged in four
candelabras, until the area around the body was lit up nearly like
day.

Despite his earlier revulsion, Father Alun
had turned matter-of-fact, which Gareth appreciated. If he was
going to have to examine the body in the presence of someone other
than Gwen or Hywel, he would prefer the onlooker wasn’t losing his
dinner on the floor beside the table.

“May I ask why you rode all the way to King
Owain to tell him of this murder instead of going to Lord Morgan in
the first place?” Gareth said, still not pulling back the cloth
that covered the woman’s face. Gwen remained a few paces away, her
eyes unfocused. “He is the local lord.”

Father Alun’s expression turned somewhat
sheepish. “I took this matter to King Owain because I was looking
for you specifically, with the hope that the king would consent to
relieve you of your other duties and send you home with me.”

Gareth looked up at him. “This is because of
your conversations with Prior Rhys?”

“Yes. I realized that the king couldn’t
involve himself in every incident, but as this was murder …” Father
Alun’s voice trailed off as Gareth continued to study him. He’d
known intellectually that word of their investigations may have
traveled far and wide across Wales, but he hadn’t given Father
Alun’s interest in him much thought beyond that simple notion.

“How did you know I was with the king’s
company?” Gareth said.

“It is well known that you lead Prince
Hywel’s men,” Father Alun said. “At the very least, if you had been
otherwise occupied, I hoped that King Owain could find someone else
he could task with the investigation. I didn’t know that I would be
fortunate enough to acquire the services of both you and your lady
wife.”

Gareth didn’t mind at all that Father Alun
wanted them to investigate the murder—he just didn’t understand why
he hadn’t said so up front, back at the monastery. Then again,
maybe he had mentioned it to Rhun and the prince hadn’t seen the
need to talk to Gareth or Gwen about it.

“Despite what you said in the graveyard, am
I to understand, then, that you don’t trust Morgan?” Gareth
said.

Father Alun raised both hands, palms
outward, in a gesture of defense and denial. “I felt the girl
deserved the best, and we have no experience with murder here,
neither in the village nor the castle.”

Father Alun hadn’t actually answered
Gareth’s question, suggesting to Gareth what he’d already
concluded: this Lord Morgan had Norman leanings. It wouldn’t be an
uncommon position to take, not along the border. Welsh and Norman
had mingled for a hundred years. In good times, intermarriages
created valuable alliances. In bad, it split families in two. By
now, most of the nobility in the March—what everyone called the
border region between Wales and England—had mixed ancestry.

“I wish we didn’t have that experience,
Father Alun,” Gwen said, “but since we do, and we’re here, we’ll do
our best for you and for her.”

Gareth glanced at his wife. “Are you
ready?”

Gwen took in a shallow breath and
nodded.

Father Alun took the last three paces to the
table where the body lay and folded back the cloth that had been
covering the woman’s face.

Gwen and Gareth reacted at the same
instant—Gwen with a gasp and Gareth with a muttered curse, which he
immediately swallowed back and apologized for to the priest.

“I did warn you,” Father Alun said, sadness
in his voice, “though now that I have seen the two of you together,
your resemblance to her, Gwen, is more a sense of similarity in
size and shape, rather than your specific features.”

Gareth circled around the body, peeling back
the rest of the sheet as he went. The body had already been washed
and dressed in a white shift for burial. The woman had been dumped
unceremoniously in a shallow grave, unshrouded. Had someone not
cared for her since she was found, her clothes would have been
reeking and her tissues crawling with tiny insects and creatures
that lived in the ground. The act of cleaning her might have erased
evidence that could have led to her killer, but Gareth couldn’t be
sorry that Gwen didn’t have to see her in such an extreme
state.

Besides, any damage to her body beyond her
throat would be easier to spot and wouldn’t require them to strip
her, an act that would surely make the priest—and Gareth
himself—uncomfortable.

Gareth focused on the body, aware even as he
did so that Gwen was still standing a few feet back from the table.
He was worried about her, but he also knew that if he didn’t make a
thorough examination of the body now, he would never get another
chance. He told himself to take his time, that he was growing used
to her resemblance to Gwen, and that this strange reluctance to
touch the woman’s body could be worked through.