The Fallen Princess (23 page)

“We bury our dead near the chapel at the
base of the mountain,” Ifon added. “If you would consent to stay
until we see Madog in the ground, I would be grateful. The grave
diggers will begin work immediately.”

“Of course,” Hywel said, not sure what he
was agreeing to—if anything beyond respect for an old man who had
the misfortune to die at Hallowmas.

Madog had been sleeping in the barracks with
dozens of other men, but while twenty had lain on the floor last
night, Madog had been given a bottom bunk. He lay on his side,
facing the wall. Ifon approached the body first and put a hand on
his shoulder. The old guard didn’t move, not that Hywel expected
him to, and after a respectful pause, Hywel moved closer and helped
Ifon roll Madog onto his back.

Madog’s eyes were closed as if he were still
sleeping. Hywel lifted one eyelid. The man’s eyes were rheumy, but
neither bloodshot nor bulging. Nor did his face show signs that
he’d been smothered in the night, which had been Hywel’s first
thought. An overdose of poppy juice was his second, and Hywel
leaned forward, sniffing for the sweet aroma that often lingered
around the face after death. He straightened, not finding it, his
eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the body.

“He liked his mead,” Ifon said, indicating a
splotch staining Madog’s shirt.

“Who doesn’t?” Hywel sucked on his teeth.
“He seems to have died in his sleep.”

“Soldiers claim to want to die in battle
with their boots on, but I would choose this if I could,” Ifon
said.

“Was he ill?” Hywel said.

Ifon lifted one shoulder. “He had an old
man’s ailments, but none that I thought were pressing, though over
the last few days, he had developed a nasty cough.”

“Would your healer have given him something
to help him sleep?” Hywel said.

Ifon looked Hywel speculatively. “Are you
thinking that he took—or was given—too much poppy juice?”

Hywel kept his gaze steady on Ifon’s
face.

Ifon expelled a sudden snort of laughter.
“You think
I
ordered his death? For what purpose could I
possibly have done so?”

“To prevent me from questioning Madog about
what he saw five years ago,” Hywel said.

“Do you think me that foolish—or
desperate?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” Though
when Ifon put it that way, it made less sense than it had in
Hywel’s head.

“I suppose you wouldn’t be the man I know
you to be if you didn’t think I could have had a hand in Madog’s
sudden death,” Ifon said, his surprise and amusement subsiding.
“But surely you don’t think I killed Tegwen?”

“Did you?”

“No.” Ifon’s answer was immediate and
without equivocation. He gestured towards the door of the barracks.
“Please come with me. I have something to show you.”

Hywel nodded, as curious about Ifon now as
he’d ever been about another man’s thoughts. All these years, Ifon
had been hiding here at Bryn Euryn in obscurity, guiding his people
and managing his estates with little oversight and no expectation
of raising his standing. Provided Ifon had nothing to do with
Tegwen’s death, after today that should change. Hywel was going to
have a talk with his father. Men with Ifon’s intellect were few and
far enough between; it would be a waste to allow Ifon to languish
another day in obscurity in his backwater cantref. Gwynedd could
use
him.

Ifon and Hywel climbed the ladder to the
wall-walk above the gatehouse. The sun put in a brief appearance,
playing hide and seek with the clouds that mostly covered the sky.
It had rained in the night, so the ground was wet and soft, which
the gravediggers would appreciate, though Hywel hoped for a dry
ride home to Aber.

The tips of the wooden palisade were at chin
height for both of them. Ifon pointed east over the top of them.
“What do you see?”

“The sea,” Hywel said.

“Yes, my lord, the sea. But can you see the
beach?”

Hywel squinted into the morning sun, holding
up one hand to block the light from shining directly into his eyes.
“No.” He turned to look up at the mountain behind him. “What about
from the summit?”

“In good weather, you can see the beach from
up there, but you can’t see individual people. Madog’s story was
that he was on duty and saw the Danish boat come in to take Tegwen
on board.” Ifon nodded his head at Hywel’s unasked question. “Yes,
obviously someone should have wondered why he didn’t raise the
alarm from the first.”

Hywel gazed over the rampart. His eyesight
was excellent, but five years ago, Madog had already been an old
man. Hywel would have been surprised if Madog could have
distinguished individual trees two hundred yards away, much less
spied a longboat out on the water.

“What about the maid who said she witnessed
Tegwen’s departure?” Hywel said.

“She claimed to have seen what Madog saw,
but from the village,” Ifon said.

“Would that have been possible?” Hywel
said.

“Possibly.” Ifon scanned the land around
Bryn Euryn, not looking at Hywel. “But I think now that my
sister-in-law no more ran off with a Dane than she joined that
convent.” Ifon waved a hand towards a cluster of buildings tucked
together along a river winding to the northwest of Bryn Euryn.
Hywel could just make out a bell tower poking above the trees.

“Then what do you think happened?” Hywel
said. “If Madog’s story wasn’t true, why did he tell it?”

“It could only be because someone made him
or even that he had a hand in her disappearance,” Ifon said. “Until
today, I told myself that Tegwen ran off with another man because
my brother was a fool not to see what he had. Madog’s story was
full of holes, but I wanted to believe it.”

“And now?”

Ifon let out a long breath through his nose.
“Now I question if Madog died by chance or was murdered, and I
wonder where my brother was when Tegwen died.”

Ifon gave Hywel a deep bow and turned away,
stepping down the ladder first. Once at the bottom Hywel turned to
face Ifon, who’d waited for him. “You didn’t have to tell me the
truth. You could have sent me on my way with all my questions
unanswered.”

“But you would have come back with even
more, my lord,” Ifon said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“How do you mean?”

“All of Gwynedd knows that you always catch
your man,” Ifon said.

Hywel just managed to hide his smirk. That
was a reputation he would gladly embrace.

“My lord! My lord!” A squat man with a full
beard came around the corner of the keep. He puffed up to Ifon and
bowed deeply. “I am so sorry, my lord. I just heard the news.”

Ifon raised the man up. “Of Madog’s death,
you mean?”

“Yes, my lord,” he said. “It’s all my
fault.”

“I’m listening.” Ifon’s voice had turned
cold.

Nobody could miss Ifon’s tone, and the
healer put out a trembling hand towards his lord before bringing it
back to his side an instant later. “Madog had been coughing, with
great pains in his chest. I had given him poppy juice three nights
running to quiet it.”

“You’re the castle’s healer,” Hywel
said.

“Yes, my lord.” The man ducked his head, not
looking into either lord’s eyes.

“You gave him some last night?” Ifon said.
“At what hour?”

“It must have been close to midnight,” the
healer said.

Ifon sent a sharp glance at Hywel. That was
hours after Ifon had told Hywel that Madog was already asleep. And
well after Ifon had informed the hall of Tegwen’s death.

“That’s not all.” The healer hurried on as
if anxious to get the full story into the open as quickly as
possible, which he probably was. “I checked my stores just now and
the larger vial from which I’d poured his smaller dose is missing.”
He wrung his hands in front of him. “I slept in the herb hut all
night. I don’t see how anyone could have come in and taken it.”

“Then what’s your explanation for its
absence?” Hywel said.

“I think—I think Madog took the vial himself
before he left, in a moment when I’d turned away and wouldn’t see
him.”

Comprehension was dawning on Hywel. He
glanced at Ifon, who pointed at one of his men. “Check around
Madog’s bed—I’m guessing under it—for a vial. It would have held
poppy juice.”

The man ran off.

Ifon turned to Hywel. “If he took it—”

“If he took his own life rather than submit
to my questions—”

Ifon put a hand on Hywel’s arm. “Please,
don’t say any more, my lord.”

Then the soldier Ifon had sent into the
barracks returned, bringing with him the vial in question. Ifon
sniffed it and gave it to the healer, who took it, nodding. “This
is it.” He peered inside. “It’s empty. No man could survive such a
dose.”

Ifon caught the healer’s upper arm in a
strong grip. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

They stared at each other through several
heartbeats, and then the healer nodded. “Of course, my lord. The
original dose I gave him must have confused him. He was an old man
and must have taken the rest by mistake.”

Hywel clasped his hands behind his back. His
throat was thick around all the words he wasn’t going to say.

“Exactly.” Ifon dismissed the healer, gave
Hywel a long look, and then took a step towards the great hall.
“Come, my lord.”

But Hywel put out a hand to stop him. “I’m
sorry, Ifon, but I have yet another question I must ask you.”

Ifon stiffened, but he turned back. “There’s
more?”

“Regarding your brother’s death,” Hywel
said. “Please tell me what you know of it.”

Ifon opened his mouth, closed it, and then
said, “Do you think Tegwen’s death and Bran’s could be related?”
Relief crossed his face. “If that were true, then Bran could be
absolved of Tegwen’s death.”

“I can’t know until I start asking
questions,” Hywel said. “As far as I am aware, nobody investigated
the ambush that killed your brother.”

“He died two years after Tegwen ran off—”
Ifon stopped and then gave Hywel a rueful smile. “I’m used to
saying that.” He gazed over Hywel’s shoulder towards the gatehouse,
but Hywel didn’t think he was seeing it. “For what reason might
someone have killed both of them?”

“I can’t answer that yet, but I have to
consider it,” Hywel said. “At the very least, knowing who killed
Bran could lead me to who killed Tegwen and vice versa. Obviously,
Bran didn’t shoot himself. What of his enemies?”

Ifon gave a tsk of disgust. “My brother was
a hard man, as you know. He angered many a man from here to Powys.
It could have been anyone who held a grudge. We are all archers
here.”

“Even you?” Hywel held his breath. There
couldn’t be a greater violation of the law of hospitality than to
accuse a man of murder in his own castle—for the second time within
the hour.

Ifon regarded Hywel for a moment. “I didn’t
kill my brother.” He made a broad gesture to include all of Bryn
Euryn. “I wouldn’t be the first man to envy his brother’s holdings,
but I have my own lands and my own people in eastern Rhos. As the
third son, I would have had to kill three people—my father and my
two elder brothers—to inherit. I never dreamed of it; I never
wanted it.”

Cadwaladr could lie with a sincerity to
which Hywel had grown accustomed over the years, but Ifon’s
frankness and steady gaze had Hywel believing him despite his
misgivings. “Then who did?”

Ifon shook his head. “I just don’t
know.”

Both silent, they walked side by side across
the courtyard until, out of the corner of his eye, Hywel saw Evan
appear in the doorway to the stables and lift one finger.

“Excuse me,” Hywel said.

Ifon nodded and continued towards the hall
door, which a guard opened for him.

“I apologize, my lord, but I didn’t want to
shout to gain your attention.” Evan’s face colored as Hywel
approached him. Hywel knew he was referring to the lifted finger,
though he should have known better by now than to think that Hywel
would be bothered by the gesture. Hywel demanded that his men treat
him with respect, but he didn’t have patience for obeisance for its
own sake.

“Never mind that. What is it?” Hywel
said.

“I have been inquiring of Ifon’s men—gently,
I assure you—as to their knowledge and feelings about their former
lord, Bran,” Evan said.

“I’m glad to know you’re working on our
second murder,” Hywel said. “I just accused Ifon of murdering not
only the guard but his brother too—and he still treated me with
courtesy. I don’t know if I can ask him for more. Not today.”

“What of the guard?” Evan said.

“He is dead, possibly by his own hand.
Whether it was by accident or to avoid my questions, I can’t tell
you,” Hywel said.

“The former would be a strange coincidence,”
Evan said.

Hywel’s jaw tightened. “I have no further
avenue to pursue in this regard, and I have no interest in
preventing a long-suffering servant to be refused burial in
consecrated ground.”

Evan took in a breath. “The men here tell me
that Bran was not a pleasant man to work for. But that word is
still mostly hearsay.”

“Like every other piece of evidence,” Hywel
said. “How so in this instance?”

“Of the twenty men in Bran’s
teulu
,
only three remain at Bryn Euryn.”

Hywel rubbed his chin. “Ifon said something
about that to me last night. Discomfort in being guarded by another
man’s former men, I think.”

“The transition from Lord Cynan to Bran was
troubled, or so two of the fellows tell it,” Evan said. “Bran found
places for most of his father’s men elsewhere, as did Ifon when he
assumed the lordship. From what those here tell me, the men who
served Bran are scattered about Wales, some as far south as
Gwent.”

“What of the remaining three?” Hywel
said.

“Two were no more than boys at the time,
sons of lesser lords who joined Bran’s ranks a few weeks before he
died. The third is an older fellow who begged to remain at Bryn
Euryn,” Evan said.