The Unexpected Ally (8 page)

Pedr met Gwen’s eyes, and he made a rueful
face. He was a monk and secluded from the world, but he wasn’t a
fool. It had occurred to him too that Deiniol’s assumptions about
what had gone on in Wrexham weren’t necessarily the real facts.

Because they both continued to smile gently
at Deiniol, he knew nothing of their disbelief, and he said, “I am
relieved to know that the king has come to the monastery in peace.
The Church can call him to account for what his men have done,
rebuild our monastery, and return our wealth to us.”

Pedr patted Deiniol on the shoulder.
“Meanwhile, we will find a bed in the dormitory for you.”

Deiniol managed a genuine smile, and the act
transformed his face from a fairly weathered and severe visage to
one far more open. “If not, I am not above sleeping in a stable. If
it was good enough for our Lord, I can hardly argue.”

More as a distraction while they waited for
Evan to return with Abbot Rhys than because she thought she might
learn something from him, Gwen pulled out the sketch of Erik. “Do
you recognize this man?”

Deiniol’s brow furrowed as he took the paper
from her, looking from Erik’s picture to her face. “Does this have
anything to do with what happened to my brothers?”

“I didn’t learn of the destruction of your
monastery until you told us. This is a different matter.”

Deiniol returned his attention to the image.
Like many men of his age, his eyes troubled him, and he stretched
his arm out as far as it would go in order to better see what
Gareth had drawn. “My goodness, I think I do recognize him. I saw
him on the road a few days ago. I had stopped to rest at a village
well in order to slake my thirst, and he came following after. It
was only a quarter of an hour before he was heading west again at a
rate far faster than my old nag could travel.”

“You spoke to him?” Gwen’s heart sped
up.

“Very briefly. I can’t say I know anything
about him.” He paused, hesitating.

“What is it?” Pedr urged.

Deiniol licked his lips. “I hate to speak
ill of any man, but—”

Deiniol hadn’t had a problem speaking ill of
the men of Gwynedd, but as he was from Powys, that prejudice would
have been instilled from birth. Gwen let the gross untruth pass
without comment and said instead, “We really do need to know
anything you can tell us about your encounter with him.”

Deiniol gave a curt nod and handed the paper
back to her. “He was very gruff, unpleasant even. He wouldn’t look
me in the eye when I spoke to him and had no interest in
conversing. He left in a hurry, as if someone was chasing him.”

Gwen could have said,
or as if he had
urgent news to deliver
, but again held her tongue. That was
information she didn’t need to share with anyone but Gareth, Hywel,
and Conall.

Then Evan appeared out of a side door of the
church, Brother Anselm rather than Abbot Rhys in tow. She didn’t
know Anselm at all, he didn’t like her, and thus she didn’t want to
question Deiniol in front of him. So she had time for only one more
question. “Where did this sighting take place?”

“In a little village north of
Llangollen.”

As Deiniol spoke, Evan reached the shelter
of the gatehouse. Taking in the sketch of Erik in Gwen’s hand and
her intent expression, he said, “Llangollen did you say? That is
the seat of King Madog’s power. My king will want to speak to you
of what you saw along the way.”

He couldn’t have forgotten Deiniol’s fear of
him, but he was as dismissive of the idea that men of Gwynedd were
responsible for the sacking of Wrexham as Gwen was. Deiniol,
however, held up his hands in a gesture that implied both ignorance
and that he wanted to keep Evan away from him. “I know nothing of
this war and want nothing to do with it.”

Evan’s eyes narrowed, but Gwen sighed. “You
forget that Gwynedd is here looking for peace.”

“So you say.” Deiniol let out a breath. “You
cannot blame me for being distrustful.”

“Surely any further conversation need not be
had in the rain.” Anselm shot Evan an irritated look. From what
Gwen had gleaned about Anselm so far, it was a common expression
for him. To his credit, Anselm was right. It had been rude of her
to keep Deiniol outside all this time rather than inviting him
inside to warm his hands at Pedr’s grate or in the guesthouse
common room.

Deiniol turned to Anselm. “I would be most
grateful to shed these wet robes and warm myself at a fire—and if
someone could care for my horse? He has come a long way.”

“I’m surprised you had a horse to ride if
these bandits destroyed everything as you say,” Evan said.

Deiniol’s breath quickened in the face of
Evan’s renewed skepticism. “He was the only one not taken by the
marauders. They saw him for what he was—an old fellow who’d been
put out to pasture and was no longer useful even for riding. It has
taken me so long to get here because he needed to rest—and truth be
told, I fell ill and had to take shelter in a village for over a
week. It might have been better to have walked directly here, but
once he and I started out, I couldn’t abandon him, nor he me, no
matter how urgent my task.”

The bell in the tower tolled, indicating
that afternoon prayers were finally over. As soon as one of the
younger monks, who served as a stable boy, left the church, Anselm
snapped his fingers at him, and he changed direction to answer
Anselm’s summons. Then Anselm held out an arm to Deiniol in a
welcoming gesture. “This way, brother, if you will.”

Deiniol set out into the rain, but then he
hesitated in midstride before he’d gone more than three or four
paces and turned back. “Oh—another thing—” he retraced his steps,
“—that man you asked me about wasn’t alone. Another rode with
him.”

Gareth

T
he near drowning
aside, being thrown on the ground had not done Gareth’s shoulder
any favors, and he was trying very hard not to think about how much
pain he was in, which was why he hadn’t said anything to Gwen about
it. Not that she didn’t know, of course, but he felt as if talking
about it would only make what he was feeling more real—and force
him to address the pain rather than ignore it.

Besides, it was only pain. The wound was
bandaged again and not bleeding (much), and while the damage he’d
sustained today might have set his progress back a few days, his
heart was still beating. As long as he could breathe, he could
work. Working was better, in fact, than lying in bed feeling sorry
for himself.

Of all the people in St. Asaph, Conall was
the one person who understood intimately how he was feeling, so it
was with some camaraderie that the two of them walked (rather
stiffly) side by side in the rain. Although they didn’t have far to
go initially, because of the ground they had to cover today and
their various ailments, they had saddled their horses and now led
them through the monastery gardens.

Once outside the back gate, they mounted and
rode towards the barn. They’d spent all morning canvassing the
village for anyone who’d seen Erik, and they’d spoken to the miller
regarding his whereabouts the previous night. So far nobody had
witnessed anything unusual or, if they had, they weren’t talking
about it. They’d had no luck so far with any witnesses, and now
Abbot Rhys—in Gareth’s mind he would always be
Prior
Rhys
—had arranged for the brother who served as a milkman to
meet them at the barn where he’d found Erik’s body.

“Are you sure about not returning to
Ireland?” Gareth said to Conall. They were keeping their horses to
a walk so as not to jar any of their injuries. “Is your king really
so sanguine about where you go and what you do?”

Conall laughed and instantly sucked in a
breath at the pain. “The king gives me free rein to serve him as I
see fit. Given that the issue of the slave ring is resolved, my
immediate return home seems less necessary. The king will find that
no more women are being taken from Ireland, and that was the point
of the entire endeavor.”

“And you see nothing wrong with establishing
a relationship between Leinster and Gwynedd.”

Conall raised his eyebrows. “Would you?”

“Not at all. Owain and
Diarmait are cousins, both descended from Brian Boru, but I
don’t think they’ve met for many years, and certainly not since
Owain took the throne of Gwynedd.”

“Men of power can always use a friend
though.”

“As can less elevated men.”

Conall grunted his assent. “Yes, they
can.”

Gareth was liking this Irish spy more and
more, and he truly hoped he could trust him. So far, Conall had
given him no reason not to. Gareth had taken a similar risk four
years ago in befriending Godfrid, one of the princes of Dublin, and
he’d had no cause to regret it. Still, he would be fighting on
Godfrid’s behalf sometime in the near future, at the behest of both
Hywel and Owain. If the relationship with Leinster developed
through Conall, he wondered if someday he could expect to do the
same for Diarmait.

Ireland had always been a source of strength
for Gwynedd’s kings. Over the years, many had retreated there when
pressed, using it as a place to gather support or even an army with
which to return to Gwynedd. Cadwaladr had done exactly as had his
father before him—three times. However, while King Gruffydd had put
his mercenaries to work overthrowing Norman control of Gwynedd,
Cadwaladr had brought an army of Danes to pressure his brother into
absolving him of murder.

But Gwynedd had not often returned the
favor, for reasons that were not clear to Gareth, unless it was
simply that Ireland was a quagmire of shifting political alliances.
Despite what Hywel said about needing allies should things go awry
in Gwynedd, beyond what was strictly necessary, he should not allow
himself to become involved in what went on there. Ruling a kingdom
adjacent to England was bad enough without being caught in the
middle among warring Irish clans and Danes.

As had been the case for King Owain, the
unexpected death of Diarmait’s older brother had raised Diarmait,
the second son, to the throne. Unlike King Owain, however, Leinster
was subject to a greater lord, Tairrdelbach, the King of Connaught
and the high king of Ireland, who did not approve of Diarmait’s
ascension and who’d sent his armies rampaging through Leinster
rather than accept it. Hywel believed Tairrdelbach feared Diarmait
and saw him as a rival for the high kingship. Which he probably
was.

Further complicating matters for Gwynedd’s
loyalties, both Tairrdelbach and Diarmait believed themselves to be
the rightful rulers of Dublin and its Danish citizens. Ottar had
gone on bended knee to Diarmait and paid tribute for his kingship.
Once Brodar and Godfrid overthrew Ottar, as they planned to, they
would have to bow to Leinster as well.

“Who are you to King Diarmait, really, such
that he trusts you so completely?” Gareth said.

“I am his sister’s son,
which could be a reason
not
to trust me, I admit,” Conall laughed under his
breath, “but I saved his life once. For all that King Diarmait is—”
here Conall paused, searching for the right word, “—thought to be
cold, even heartless at times in his dealings with his people, he
sees through his own eyes and makes his own judgments.”

“Any man who does so deserves respect.”
Gareth canted his head. “I didn’t know you were a nobleman. I
apologize for my familiarity.”

Conall made a dismissive gesture. “You
earned your knighthood on the field of battle. There is no
difference between us.” He glanced at Gareth. “I am fortunate that
Diarmait trusts me enough to give me freedom of action few kings
allow. It is something like the freedom you have, it seems, and you
are not noble.”

“Thank goodness!” Gareth laughed.

Conall nodded. “Even better to be trusted
for the man you are. In my experience, it is a rare man who values
his own conscience above his lord’s.”

Gareth tsked through his teeth. “It isn’t
like that.”

“Actually, I think it is.”

Gareth hadn’t told Conall anything of his
wanderings as a younger man, and he wondered where he had heard of
them. Evan, perhaps, who was known for having a too loose tongue
where Gareth was concerned. Regardless, Gareth made no reply
because they had arrived at the barn. As arranged in advance, not
only was the monk who’d found Erik’s body waiting for them, but two
young soldiers as well—and very welcome ones at that. Llelo and
Dai, Gareth’s adopted sons, grinned at him as he dismounted, and
then Dai broke ranks and wrapped his arms around his father’s
waist.

Gareth rocked backwards as
he took Dai’s weight and let out a
whuf
of air. “Easy now.” He patted
Dai’s back and distanced himself somewhat gingerly.

“Sorry!” Dai looked his father up and down,
glaring at him. “I heard you were injured in Shrewsbury. You should
have brought us with you.”

“Maybe I should have, but you were needed at
Mold, and I didn’t anticipate trouble.”

“You should know by now, Father, that if you
don’t find trouble, it finds you,” Llelo said.

Gareth smiled as he reached out his good arm
to pull Llelo into a hug as well. “I’ve missed you both.”

The boys had been ten and almost twelve when
Gareth and Gwen had encountered them stranded in England. Three
years on, they were learning to be soldiers under the tutelage of
Cynan, Hywel’s younger brother, who oversaw these lands from
Denbigh. Both had grown a foot since they’d come to him. At nearly
fifteen, Llelo could look Gareth in the eye, and even though he was
two years younger, Dai wasn’t far behind.

Gareth introduced the boys to Conall and
then all of them to the milkman. His name was Mathonwy, a fine old
name that belonged to the great Welsh god-hero and father of all
Gwynedd.