The Fallen Princess (21 page)

“It is a complicated matter, and to tell you
all would give you more details than you might want to know, but
suffice to say, the king has seen her, as have her grandparents,
Gruffydd and Sioned. We have no doubt that the body is that of my
cousin.”

“Well—” Ifon let out a
whuf
of
expelled breath and sat still for another moment, thinking. “Of all
the things you could have told me, I would never have expected
this.”

“I’m sorry,” Hywel said.

Ifon tapped three fingers on the table in
front of him. “What I don’t understand is why you, of all people,
came here to tell me this, especially the night before Hallowmas?
While Tegwen was a lady of Rhos, she disappeared a long time ago.
You could have sent a message through someone of lesser
stature.”

“I needed to come,” Hywel said.

Ifon canted his head, his attention focusing
more closely on Hywel’s face. “There must be something about
Tegwen’s body—or perhaps the manner of her death—that is
troubling.”

Hywel sighed. “Tegwen was murdered.”

Ifon leaned closer. “You’re sure?”

“There can be no doubt,” Hywel said.

“How did she die? When did she die?” Ifon
said.

With every sentence Ifon spoke, Hywel
revised his estimation of Ifon’s intelligence, which seemed to have
developed since Hywel had seen him last. Ifon must have been hiding
it all these years when he was in Bran’s shadow. In fact, thinking
back, Hywel was sure of it.

“She was bashed on the head, though from the
condition of the body, it happened a long time ago, perhaps years.
Perhaps even within a day or two of her disappearance.” Hywel
didn’t like imparting such crucial information to potential
suspects, but Ifon was hardly a suspect in Tegwen’s murder, and his
cooperation was vital if Hywel was going to get anywhere in
Rhos.

Ifon expression showed distaste. “Hell.”

Hywel nodded. “The finding of her remains
has complicated my life considerably.”

“As it will mine.” Ifon slapped his palm
onto the table in front of him. “Tell me, what do you want from
me?”

“I need permission to speak to your people,”
Hywel said. “Everyone at Aber believed that Tegwen had run away
with a Dane. I need to talk to whoever reported that event.”

“That would be her maid and a guard,” Ifon
said. “The maid is dead, but the guard still lives. I will arrange
a meeting for you tomorrow.”

“I have other questions too,” Hywel said.
“Who was this Dane? When did she meet with him? And what about her
children? By all accounts, she was devoted to them. How could she
have left them so precipitously?”

“All good questions. I always thought that
part strange too,” Ifon said. “I spent very little time at Bryn
Euryn during those years, but I was aware that Tegwen wouldn’t
visit her parents without them, and of course, my brother wouldn’t
permit the girls to leave Bryn Euryn.”

Hywel was glad to have that bit of
information confirmed straight away. When Gruffydd had spoken to
him of it, Hywel had thought it in keeping with Bran’s character.
“How well did you know Tegwen?” Hywel wanted to ask as many
questions as he could while he had Ifon’s full attention. Given the
upcoming festivities and the demands on Ifon’s time, Hywel might
not get another chance as private as this.

Ifon raised one shoulder. “Not as well as
you might think for a woman who was married to my brother for four
years.” He waggled his hand back and forth at the wrist.
“Admittedly, I spent most of those years overseeing my own estates,
and once my father died and my brother assumed the mantle of Lord
of Rhos—”

“—that was shortly before Tegwen’s
disappearance, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ifon said. “At Epiphany. After my
father’s funeral, I made myself particularly scarce.”

“And why was that?”

Ifon eyed Hywel. “You know why.” But when
Hywel didn’t help him with his explanation, Ifon folded his arms
across his chest and leaned back in his chair, his chin sticking
out. “My brother was a tyrant. I became a man in his shadow, made
worse after my eldest brother died and my father turned to Bran as
his heir. He could never see Bran’s flaws—or at least he couldn’t
admit to them.”

Within Welsh law, lands and wealth were
split among all sons upon a man’s death, but when lordships were at
stake, usually it wasn’t quite that simple. Only one man could wear
the mantle of Lord of Rhos. “Where are your lands?”

“To the east. I kept them and have defended
them with my own men, despite my brother’s insistence that all of
Rhos should belong to him.” Ifon tipped his chin towards Hywel.
“Your father came to my assistance before my brother and I came to
actual blows.”

Hywel was glad to hear it. He was liking
this third son of Rhos more and more but told himself to remain
wary. Ifon was looking like a better candidate for the hand behind
Bran’s death with every word he spoke. “When did you last see
Tegwen?” Hywel said.

Ifon rubbed at his jaw with thumb and
forefinger. “I wasn’t here when she disappeared. I’d have to say it
was when we marshaled our forces to march on Powys.”

Hywel sat up straighter. “You were in Powys
with the fighting?”

Ifon snorted in apparent disgust. “I was,
though my brother did everything in his power to ensure that I was
kept to the rear. Again, it was your father who intervened and gave
me command of a small force he used to scout for enemy locations
around the River Dee. My brother didn’t want me anywhere near him.”
He shrugged. “Your father trusted me, but I am able to admit that
while I have a knack for managing men, my hand with a sword—” Ifon
shook his head. “Let’s just say that I am not a fearsome
sight.”

That must have been yet another strike
against Ifon in Bran’s eyes, but Ifon’s ability to admit his flaw
elevated him in Hywel’s. “Where was Bran?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Ifon said. “I didn’t
see him more than once or twice that entire spring. He was with the
main body of your father’s army.”

“After Tegwen disappeared, did he return to
Bryn Euryn?” Hywel said.

“I suppose he did. I couldn’t tell you when
or how he heard the news, though come to think on it, it must have
been fairly immediately afterwards since he was involved in
organizing a party of searchers.”

“Can you tell me anything about that day?
Anything about where Tegwen went and what she did?” Hywel said.

Ifon shook his head regretfully. “I can tell
you only what I was told. She was here over breakfast. Nobody saw
what she did or where she went afterwards until she sailed off with
that Dane. That’s all I know.”

“Was that unusual?” Hywel said. “Bran wasn’t
at home. Surely she had the run of the place. Someone must have
seen her.”

“You can’t be unaware of her—” Ifon stopped
with a wary look at Hywel.

“Her what?” Although Hywel thought he knew
what Ifon was implying, he wasn’t going to help him out in this
either.

“She was a very unhappy woman and left most
of the raising of her children to the maids and nannies. That’s not
unusual, of course. Many women of her station do, but those mothers
have other tasks to see to. Tegwen did not manage Bryn Euryn. She
drank wine.”

“I had heard that,” Hywel said without
apologizing for not saying so earlier. “You’re telling me that she
kept to herself?”

“Most days, from what I understand, she
wandered the beaches and the woods around the castle. Frankly, when
the maid and guard said she’d run off with a Dane, we thought she’d
met him on the beach and went off with him on a whim. If she was
drunk enough, she could have.”

“There’s a piece missing here,” Hywel said.
“Don’t you see it?”

“What do you mean?”

“No Danish longship could close in on Aber’s
beach without the castle marshaling its forces to meet it. How
could one approach Bryn Euryn without raising an alarm?”

“I-I don’t know. I guess I never thought
about it. And of course, I wasn’t here when it happened.” Ifon
hesitated.

“What?” Hywel said.

“I confess that I wanted the story to be
true because I knew Tegwen was unhappy and … my brother was not
good to her,” Ifon concluded in a rush.

“I’d heard that too. How was he not good to
her? Did he beat her?” Hywel said, looking for confirmation of
Gruffydd’s version of events.

Ifon pursed his lips. “No. Not that I heard
or saw, but then, I didn’t spend much time here, as I said. It was
more a matter of disregard. Certainly, he wasn’t faithful to
her.”

Hywel nodded. Tegwen’s grandfather had said
that he beat her, but so far he was the only one to make that
accusation. “Do you have any thoughts regarding how her body ended
up half a mile from Aber?”

Ifon looked down at the table in front of
him. Hywel let the silence draw out, trying to be respectful of
Ifon’s own emotions but sensing for the first time that what might
come next out of Ifon’s mouth would be something less than the
truth.

“I have no idea,” Ifon said.

“Is there anybody I can talk to this
evening?” Hywel said. “Why can’t I speak to this guard now?”

“He is elderly and has already retired for
the night. In addition, he is hard of hearing. He may have trouble
understanding what you say to him.”

“Then I will take whomever you can find me,”
Hywel said.

Ifon bit his lip. “There’s no one, my
lord.”

Hywel’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean
no one?
”

“No one lives at Bryn Euryn, other than the
guard, who lived here when Tegwen was its lady.”

A wave of unease rose in Hywel. “How is that
possible? Surely not everyone from that time is dead?”

“Some are dead. Many have relocated to other
areas of Rhos,” Ifon said. “I hadn’t ever given it much thought,
but my brother made some changes when he returned from the fighting
in the east that summer. He said he wanted to distinguish his rule
from our father’s. In truth, I felt the same after my brother died.
I didn’t want to be surrounded by his former men.”

Hywel bowed to Ifon’s greater knowledge of
his cantref, but whatever the current strength of Ifon’s rule, he
couldn’t help thinking that all had not been well in Rhos in the
year Tegwen disappeared.

Gwen

T
he revelry among
the diners was waning, and many of the guests had begun to disperse
to their crowded bed chambers. The barracks were full to bursting
with men, and twice that number would sleep on the floor of the
hall. Tomorrow evening would bring Hallowmas. Tegwen would be put
into the ground before then. Gwen wasn’t looking forward to the
ceremony, not with the grief so fresh and close to the surface.
Earlier, when the king had finally stood at the high table and
announced Tegwen’s death (though not that she was murdered) and
then when Gwalchmai sang a lament without accompaniment, the
outpouring of emotion had left Gwen stricken along with everyone
else.

She had told Mari that she pitied Tegwen and
was trying not to judge her. But Gwen wished Tegwen had shown a
little more spine. Gwen understood that Tegwen loved Bran—or had at
one time—but love should have set her free, rather than cowing her
as it seemed to have done.

“Why me?” Gareth said, bringing Gwen’s
attention back to the table where she was sitting with him and
Godfrid.

“You are good at finding things,” Godfrid
said.

Gareth leaned forward. “You want something
found?”

“The Book of Kells.”

Gwen’s mouth dropped open. “The Book of
Kells is missing?” The Book of Kells was a three-hundred-year-old
manuscript containing the first four gospels of the New Testament.
The monks had so beautifully illuminated it that the book was
treasured by all the peoples of Ireland, regardless of what kingdom
they lived in.

“It has been stolen,” Godfrid said, “by
Ottar’s son, Thorfin. I believe he brought it to Wales.”

“You’d better start at the beginning,”
Gareth said.

“Like you did with your story?” Godfrid said
and then pursed his lips, his eyes raised to the ceiling as he
thought. “You are aware of the troubles in my country?”

“I am aware of the conflicts between the
kingdom of Dublin and the four kingdoms of Ireland,” Gareth said.
“It seems to me that with your people holding only Dublin and all
the kings of Ireland after it like a prize, you are in a precarious
situation.”

“They eye us like dogs with only one bone
among them,” Godfrid said.

“I gather that things have grown more
difficult in the year since we were there?” Gwen said.

“My father maintained a tenuous peace, and
he was happy to allow the Irish kings to fight among themselves for
the high kingship,” Godfrid said. “In turn, they did not actively
object to his rule of Dublin.” He made a motion as if to spit on
the ground. “Since last year, however, we have grown weaker under
Ottar.”

“Ottar?” Gwen said. “I hear you speak of
your father as if he is no longer king. I thought Ottar and Torcall
shared power.”

“Not anymore. My father is unwell, and my
brother and I have been unable to win over to our side enough of
the men who once supported my father and now support Ottar. They
see my father’s illness and call him weak.”

That was a sin of the greatest magnitude—for
any king, though more for the Danes than for some.

“It is Ottar who threatens our very
existence,” Godfrid said.

“How so?” Gareth said.

“He fails to strategize and use our men and
resources wisely. He fights when he should run and retreats when he
should stand.”

While Godfrid’s body remained relaxed in his
seat, his words belied his external calmness. This was important to
him. In fact, there might not be anything more important to him
than this. He’d been born a Prince of Dublin, raised to believe
that the throne would one day be his, and now found himself to be a
grown man without a kingdom.