The Renegade Merchant (22 page)

“Such as Luke and this brothel,” Gareth
said.

“Yes, sir,” John said.

“Why didn’t he take Luke with him?” Gareth
said.

“He took four of the six whom he distrusted
most,” John said. “The worst ones, actually.”

Understanding rose in Gareth. John had
hinted at this earlier but hadn’t managed to state clearly what had
been the sheriff’s intent. “You’re saying that for the sheriff to
take all six men would all but have guaranteed dissent among his
men where it could do even more harm—such as on the long march
across England. How is it that the garrison contains so many bad
apples in the first place?”

“The sheriff is the military authority in
Shrewsbury, but even he doesn’t have free rein over his men. He
serves the king, but he also must work with Shrewsbury’s town
council and the Earl of Ludlow, and that requires a certain
willingness to smooth ruffled feathers when he has to.”

“Thus, he took on one or more men, whom he
would have preferred had been given other duties, in order to
maintain friendly relations. Your sheriff would see it as a minor
point,” Gareth said, “compared to possibly larger ones that have
more significance in the long run.”

“It was of less significance when he was
here to manage them,” John said. “My sheriff is a wise man, and
this summons from King Stephen came at a bad time.”

“I am coming to see that.” Gareth understood
those instances when duty warred with duty. A man had to choose the
lesser of the evils presented to him. And nobody could disobey his
king, no matter how important his duty at home seemed to be,
especially not one such as the Sheriff of Shrewsbury who served
entirely at the king’s behest. “You should be honored he left you
in charge.”

“More than anything, I’m afraid to let him
down.” John’s tone was no longer embarrassed—more matter-of-fact
than anything else—as if confessing the whole of the truth of his
elevation to Deputy Sheriff had relaxed him. It would have been
easier if John had told Gareth all this from the start, but that
wasn’t the Englishman’s way.

“To be honest, I know the feeling.” Gareth
started walking towards the brothel again.

Even before this frank conversation, Gareth
and John had concluded that they needed to leave John’s men behind.
It seemed necessary, seeing as how Luke frequented the brothel
himself, and there was no reason to think other guards wouldn’t as
well. Neither Gareth nor John wanted to question the manager of the
brothel in the presence of someone she knew—and especially not if
she had bribed that person specifically to avoid awkward questions
like the ones they intended to ask her.

It was one of those ironies of commerce
that, while it was a consortium of men that owned the brothel, a
woman managed it. Gareth didn’t know if that was because she’d once
been a whore herself and had been promoted when she became too aged
to sell herself, or if she’d been hired simply because the owners
believed a woman would know best how to handle other women. Either
way, it was a unique situation in Gareth’s experience.

Unlike the night before, no guard blocked
the door at this hour of the morning, which gave John no recourse
but to knock. His rapping at first brought no one running, but
finally a frazzled maid, wiping her hands on a food-stained apron,
answered the door.

She took the appearance of two men wearing
swords and stern demeanors in stride, saying, “We’re not open at
this hour. Come back after noon.” She made to close the door
again.

John put a hand on the door and his booted
foot between the door and the frame. “We’re not here for custom. We
need to speak to the manager.” Other than John’s interaction with
Luke, it was the most forceful Gareth had seen him. It was good to
see that the younger man was capable of speaking authoritatively,
and it gave Gareth hope that it was one aspect of being Deputy
Sheriff that John had mastered, despite his inner misgivings. “Tell
her the Deputy Sheriff is here.”

“She’s—” The girl stopped. “If you could
wait.” She tried again to shut the door in their faces, but John
had left his foot where it was, and the door popped open and banged
against the inner wall.

Gareth poked his head past the doorway, but
he couldn’t see anything beyond three curtains: one to his right,
another to his left, and a third straight ahead, which the girl had
ducked around without looking back.

Gareth brushed aside the curtain on the left
and groaned inwardly when he saw that it enclosed a narrow space
all of six feet long and three wide containing a single pallet on
the floor. The curtain provided a bare minimum of privacy to
watching eyes, and nothing to listening ears. The right hand
curtain revealed the same arrangement. From what Gwen had said,
Meilyr had disowned her mother’s brother, Pawl, because of his
tendency to frequent places such as this.

John pursed his lips. “What do you say to us
walking straight in without waiting for an invitation?”

“I have no objection,” Gareth said, “but
perhaps we should wait a moment. No need to antagonize anyone
unnecessarily, especially if the owners are the esteemed members of
the town you say they are. We can offend them later if we need
to.”

That got a slight easing of tension and even
a smile from John, and he removed his foot from the threshold.

Fortunately, they didn’t have long to wait.
Before John became impatient again, the same maid returned and
beckoned them past the curtains. They walked through the central
room, which bore a strong resemblance to a tavern common
room—except for the curtains. Gareth counted six more enclosed
areas around the perimeter of the room, presumably for the same
purpose as the two he’d already noted.

The maid didn’t stop but continued on into
what could have been the dining area for wealthier clients, also
much like a tavern might have for serving noble or high-ranking
guests.

More buildings were visible through the
open, rear door. As with many homes and shops in Shrewsbury, the
brothel included a large yard. A quick glance out the door revealed
that it contained a small storehouse; what could be a common
sleeping and dressing house for the girls—like a castle barracks; a
stable where a man could leave his horse during whatever interlude
he spent at the brothel; and a kitchen.

Due to the danger of fire, cooking generally
took place a safe distance from the other buildings. It was the
same everywhere—from the largest castle to the smallest croft, in
the hope that if something did catch fire, or heaven forbid, the
oven exploded, the damage could be confined to a small area and the
fire contained before it spread to the rest of the complex.

That did not mean, of course, that fires
were never lit inside the other buildings. People had to keep warm,
after all. Most, if not all, croftwives cooked porridge or stew and
roasted a rabbit over the same fire pit that warmed their house. A
baking oven was another matter entirely, however, burning far
hotter than any open fire. Thus, the danger of the fire getting out
of control was that much greater.

A goat and a flock of chickens wandered
around the yard too. With at least eight girls, the maid, and the
manager, and who knew how many other employees, the brothel had
many people to house and mouths to feed. And seeing as how the
complex abutted the palisade, it also had a gate through which the
residents could gain access to the river.

Gareth turned back to the room as a
black-haired woman in well-maintained middle age entered. She
couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. “How may I be of
assistance, my lords?” She took a seat by the fire and then looked
up at them, her gracious smile a flash across her mouth, signifying
politeness—nothing more. Her eyes were flat, revealing nothing
either.

Faced with such politeness, John fell back
on his own proper manners. He put his hand to his chest. “I am John
Fletcher, Deputy Sheriff of Shrewsbury, and this is Gareth ap Rhys,
of Gwynedd. I would be pleased to be informed of your name,
madam.”

“Agatha,” she said immediately. “I
understand you’ve recently been elevated to your position.
Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” John’s chest swelled.

Gareth could hardly believe that John had
been won over so easily, but then, Gareth shouldn’t have been
surprised that a woman of Agatha’s experience would know how to
handle a young man such as John. She didn’t seem to want to direct
her attentions to Gareth, however, for which he was grateful. Gwen
would want to know exactly what passed here this morning, and he
would hate to think he would fail to maintain his dignity.

Thus, before John lost his head completely
and forgot what they were here for, Gareth brought out Conall’s
coin. “It is our understanding that this coin allows a man entrance
to this establishment?”

“It does,” Agatha said.

“You are not the owner, however?” Gareth
said.

“I am not.” She paused for a heartbeat.

Gareth looked at her curiously, noting the
hesitation in her voice and posture. “But?”

Agatha gave a slight cough. “Recently I have
purchased a small stake.”

“Who are the other owners?” John said.

She rattled off a half-dozen names, three he
didn’t know and three he did: Rob Horn, the owner of The Boar’s
Head Inn; Martin Carter; and Tom Weaver.”

John’s jaw dropped at the mention of his
brother-in-law. Gareth eyed him. “You didn’t know?”

“Absolutely not,” he said.

Gareth turned back to Agatha, his mind
churning. “You name Martin Carter but not his brother, Roger. He
wasn’t involved?”

“No.” She frowned. “I heard he died
yesterday. I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.”

Gareth’s brow furrowed. “What makes you say
that?”

“He always treated me with respect. To him,
money was money, and he didn’t hold what I did for a living against
me. Or,” she amended, “if he did object, he didn’t allow me to know
it.”

Gareth studied Agatha, knowing from her
expression that she was in earnest. It seems Roger had been a
contradictory man. She was the second person to say that Roger had
been kind, as Martin had said the same thing in regards to Jenny.
But he’d beaten his apprentice for misdeeds, real or imagined, and
he’d browbeaten many others, including members of the town
council.

“Did he ever come here?” John said.

“No,” Agatha said.

“You are very sure,” John said.

“I am,” Agatha said. “It wasn’t his way. I
respected that.”

“What about Martin Carter?” Gareth said.

Agatha narrowed her eyes slightly, but she
answered willingly enough. “I’m sure that neither brother ever came
here for entertainment.”

Implying that Martin, at least, might have
come for business reasons, which would make sense given that he was
part owner.

Gareth was more glad with every moment that
passed that he and John had come to the brothel. He had a brief
thought that, had Agatha’s profession been anything else than
brothel keeper, Gwen would have liked her forthright nature.

“What exactly does this coin buy?” Gareth
said.

Agatha smirked slightly before smoothing her
lips into the polished smile again. “Are you interested in sampling
our wares first hand? We don’t get too many Welsh knights
here.”

Gareth kept his gaze steady on hers. “I
wouldn’t have thought you’d get any.”

The woman’s lips pinched, as if she was
holding back a genuine smile this time, instead of pretending to be
amused. “You’d be surprised.”

“Would I?” A sudden shiver coursed down
Gareth’s spine, prompting him to raise one hand to indicate a point
even with the top of his own head. “Did a Welshman as tall as I but
in his forties, blond going gray and thickening around the waist,
ever come here? You might have noticed that he judges his own worth
as very great.”

Agatha blinked.

Gareth couldn’t even say what had prompted
him to describe Prince Cadwaladr, but the impulse had been there so
he’d followed it.

Then Agatha cast her eyes down so he
couldn’t read what was in them. “I cannot reveal the identities of
my clients, or soon I wouldn’t have any, would I?”

Gareth grunted his acknowledgement of that
reality, frustrated because he wasn’t able to tell for certain if
she had seen Cadwaladr or not.

“Do you have knowledge of this man?” John
thrust the image of Conall under Agatha’s nose.

She reared back slightly, taking more of the
light into her face, and Gareth realized that she was older than
he’d first thought. Rather than in her middle forties, she was now
revealed to be fifteen years older than that, and he could see more
strands of gray amongst the black of her hair.

Agatha pushed away the paper. “He is
unfamiliar to me.”

Gareth frowned. Her response to his
description of Cadwaladr aside, for the first time since she’d
smiled at John, he had a clear sense that she was lying. It also
occurred to him only now that it was absurd for him to describe
Cadwaladr when all he had to do was draw a picture of him. The
treacherous prince’s supercilious smirk was burned into Gareth’s
memory, and he could render it with his eyes closed.

John pressed on. “Are you sure? He would be
a stranger to you. Irish, with hair like fire.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Irish? We don’t
get many more of them here in Shrewsbury than Welsh knights.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” John said,
“except that we’ve encountered our fair share in recent days.”

“Why would you show his picture to me?” she
said.

“We found the coin among his belongings,”
John said.

“But that means he didn’t use it,” Agatha
said.

“But he bought it,” John said.

Agatha shrugged. “He could have done that at
any number of locations. It wouldn’t have had to be at my front
door.”