The Renegade Merchant (7 page)

He sighed and assented, and they left the
room.

Gwen liked leaving Gareth even less than
Cedric did, but Gareth was right, and she had the additional duty
of checking up on Tangwen. Gwen would have brought Tangwen’s nanny,
Abi, on this journey, which would have meant that Tangwen would
have been safe to leave for days at a time. Unfortunately, only a
few days before they were to set out for Shrewsbury, Abi had
received word that her mother had fallen ill and needed tending.
Gwen could hardly insist that Abi neglect her mother and, after
further consideration, decided that it was for the best. Abi had
never been outside Gwynedd in her life—and had hardly traveled more
than ten miles from Aber itself. The trip then became an
opportunity for Gareth and Gwen to be together with their immediate
family, just the five of them.

She and Gareth hadn’t yet told anybody at
Aber what the future held for them, not with the risk of
miscarriage so high and the mourning still ongoing. Even if Gwen
would have loved to break the somber mood that filled the great
hall like smoke from burned cooking, she didn’t feel it was her
place to do so.

Some—Queen Cristina among them—might also
have thought that Gwen’s pregnancy should have precluded her coming
on the journey—which was another reason Gwen hadn’t said anything
about it to anyone earlier. She’d had no intention of being left
behind. When Gareth had taken her and Tangwen to their small house
on Anglesey in February, Hywel had recalled them to Aber after a
few short weeks. But even that brief absence had made her see how
important it was to get Tangwen away from the grief that hung over
Aber.

Once back at the monastery gate, Gwen let
Cedric go, and with a grateful wave, he hastened back towards the
east bridge and into Shrewsbury.

Gwen then walked into the courtyard,
expecting to find her daughter and Gwalchmai there, in the
guesthouse, or at the very least in the adjacent garden. A quick
search revealed no sign of them, however. Before she had to quarter
the entire abbey to find them, however, a monk exited the church,
and the sound of Gwalchmai’s tenor poured into the courtyard
through the open door. Mocking herself, because she should have
known he would find his way to the place with the best acoustics in
Shrewsbury, she entered to see her brother standing before Abbot
Radulfus himself.

Gwen hoped that Gwalchmai had asked
permission before he took up his position in the center of the
nave, but perhaps it didn’t matter, given the abbot’s rapt
attention. Her brother’s soprano voice had been known to make grown
men cry, and even though his voice had deepened with manhood, it
had lost none of its quality, timbre, or tone.

As Gwen hovered in the doorway of the
church, Gwalchmai stood in the middle of the transept and filled
the space with song. The abbot, meanwhile, sat on the step below
the altar, Tangwen beside him, and Gwen didn’t think she mistook
the disguised movement that swept a tear from his cheek.

Her brother was well on his way to becoming
one of the greatest bards Gwynedd—or maybe all of Wales—had ever
produced. But despite that fact, and his enormous natural talent,
he never allowed the adulation to go to his head. He seemed to view
the act of singing in front of an audience as a service to them and
to God rather than behaving, like some bards did, as if he were a
lord bestowing a gift on his people.

Few professions were more celebrated in
Wales than that of bard. The role cut across all classes, all types
of people. This was one of the reasons that Gwen, a bard’s daughter
and a musician in her own right, had been allowed more freedom
during her childhood and early womanhood than almost any other
woman she knew. A bard could go anywhere, be forgiven anything
(except maybe murder), as long as he could sing.

Gwalchmai knew all that. He’d been treated
like the heir to the throne his whole life. He could have behaved
like a spoiled child—or at the very least like an entitled
princeling—but he did neither. He could sing for his audience of
two with as much joy—more joy even—than when he’d performed the
previous summer for half of Wales at Prince Hywel’s festival in
Ceredigion.

Gwen waited until Gwalchmai had finished his
song before moving through the nave to the altar where her daughter
sat. At the sight of Gwen, Tangwen toddled over to her, holding out
her arms so Gwen could pick her up. Radulfus rose to his feet too,
though not without a slight grunt of effort and the crack of aging
knees.

“Father.” Gwen bent to scoop up Tangwen.

“I have been enjoying your brother’s music.
It is an honor to hear such a voice raised in God’s praise in my
church. And for him to sing as he does in Latin—” Radulfus broke
off, shaking his head, though in awe not in dismay.

“My father is the court bard for King Owain
Gwynedd, and he instructed both of us,” Gwen said, deciding not to
take offense that Radulfus might have believed them more ignorant
than they were—because they were Welsh, or just because he didn’t
encounter many lay people who knew Latin. “He was the first teacher
to Prince Hywel of Gwynedd as well.”

“I’m sorry to say that most of the brothers
here do not know Latin beyond the recitations of the hours, and
none of the laymen are lettered.” Abbot Radulfus bent slightly at
the waist. “I had no idea until now who had favored my abbey with a
visit. It is our charge as God’s servants to treat all who come
through this abbey equally, as we are all God’s creatures. And yet,
it would be a waste of talent and time not to use what He has given
us. I apologize for mistaking any of you for less than you are.” He
looked past Gwen to Gwalchmai. “It is my hope that you will sing
during mass on Sunday.”

“I would be honored to do so,” Gwalchmai
said, though his brow furrowed. “Are you sure? Nobody has ever
asked me to sing during mass before.”

“I am sure.” Abbot Radulfus pressed his lips
together in a thin line in displeasure—or maybe simple
disbelief.

It was true that while bards were renowned
throughout Wales, they weren’t often called upon to sing in church,
singing being viewed in this context as a more secular activity.
Gwalchmai had become friends with Aber’s new priest, a jovial man
who liked his mead, who had taught Gwalchmai several hymns of
praise because singing was what Gwalchmai did for fun. But even
Father Elis hadn’t asked Gwalchmai to sing at mass, believing it
the purview of the ordained.

“Please see me in the sacristy before mass,
and we can discuss the order of the service.”

Gwalchmai bowed. “As you wish.” He beckoned
with one hand to Tangwen, who wriggled to get down from Gwen’s arms
in the boneless way of a two-year-old.

Gwen could hardly have continued to hold her
if she’d tried, and she let Tangwen run across the floor to her
uncle. They left together. Then Gwen turned back to Radulfus.
“Thank you.”

Radulfus didn’t pretend to misunderstand.
“Oh no. It is I who should be thanking you. It has been many years
since I heard a voice such as his. It is my understanding from a
few words he let slip that Gwalchmai used to have a surpassingly
beautiful soprano.”

“It is true. I wish we could have preserved
it somehow, just to hear it one more time” Gwen said.

“Like a treasured vintage of wine. Yes,”
Radulfus said. “Wouldn’t that be a feat? Alas, such is the
condition of man that we cannot return to our younger selves. As it
is, perhaps a child’s voice is more precious, like life itself, in
that it is fleeting.”

Gwen smiled. “Honestly, I’m surprised my
father didn’t say anything to you about Gwalchmai when we arrived.
He is so very proud of what Gwalchmai has become.”

“As any father would be.” Radulfus gestured
towards the rear door, indicating that they should walk towards it.
“As our Father in heaven surely is as well. But I have a feeling
you did not come here to discuss your brother and his music, no
matter how beautiful.”

Gwen took in a breath. “No, Father. There’s
been a murder. Maybe even two. What’s more, one of the dead men is
Roger Carter, a member of Shrewsbury’s town council.”

“My dear, what are you saying?” Radulfus
halted before the door. “Roger Carter has been murdered?”

“Strangled, I’m afraid.”

“How is it you came to know of it?”

Gwen took in a quick breath. “John Fletcher,
the Deputy Sheriff, has asked my husband to consult on the
matter.”

Radulfus rubbed his chin. “Sadly, we are no
stranger to murder here, as we’ve witnessed several over the years,
but I’m afraid that with the sheriff absent, we may be much at a
loss in solving it until he returns.”

“That is why my husband has become
involved,” Gwen said, trying not to take offense. “He has a
regrettable amount of experience in that regard, and he is
assisting John Fletcher with his inquiries even now.” She paused,
looking searchingly into the abbot’s face, hoping for a sign that
he understood her English, which she felt was failing her as she
tried to explain. “Gareth was hoping you wouldn’t mind if he sent
the body here to await burial and—” She hesitated again.

“And what?” Radulfus’ face remained a mask
Gwen was struggling to read. It was generally accepted that the
Welsh were expressive and the English impassive. Radulfus was
Norman and also had noble blood. He had probably learned in his
cradle how to prevent his emotions from appearing on his face.

“I am asking this of you with the idea that
housing the body here would allow Gareth and John Fletcher to
examine it without inconveniencing anyone or offending the family,”
Gwen said. “The fact that Master Carter was an important man in the
town complicates matters.”

“Has the family been notified?”

“Gareth and John Fletcher are doing it now,”
Gwen said. “Gareth sent me to you instead.”

Radulfus bowed his head, pursing his lips
and staring at the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “Did you know Roger
well?”

Radulfus looked up. “No. Not personally, but
his family has had enough troubles this year, what with Adeline’s
death—” He gestured to Gwen.

“I know. I look like her.”

“I’m glad you came to me. I agree that it
would be best if Roger awaited burial here. His family will want to
see him and to see to him, of course.”

“Gareth will be discreet, I promise you,”
Gwen said. “His family won’t have any objections to his treatment,
though—” Gwen found herself pausing again.

Radulfus canted his head, waiting for her to
continue

“Roger’s neck is bruised,” Gwen said.
“Strangling is an ugly way to die, and it isn’t possible to hide
it.”

“I will speak to Martin and his wife when
they arrive and make sure they understand the severity of Roger’s
wounds. Perhaps a few of the brothers could take from them the
burden of washing the body for burial.” Radulfus’ gaze was
piercing. “It is kind of you to think of Roger’s family. Meanwhile,
I will see that a room is set aside for the body.”

“Thank you,” Gwen said.

Radulfus made a motion as if to suggest that
the interview was over and that he intended to return to his other
duties, but then he hesitated too. “Didn’t you say there were two
deaths?”

“The possibility of the first is what
brought John Fletcher looking for Gareth this morning—except, all
that we’ve found so far is a pool of blood and no body,” Gwen
said.

Radulfus studied her. “Your
news grows more disturbing by the moment. I am also concerned about
your continued use of the word
we
. Don’t tell me that you have been a
party to these events?”

“Not a party so much as an assistant to my
husband in his investigation,” Gwen said, and at Radulfus’
continued stare, she added. “I have served Prince Hywel in that
capacity for several years, alongside Gareth, of course.”

Radulfus blinked, but he didn’t object
further, merely straightened his shoulders. “Prayers will be said
for these poor souls—and those who sent them to an early
grave—beginning immediately.”

Gwen would have expected no less, and she
was glad that Radulfus wasn’t openly objecting to her
participation, for now anyway. “Thank you, Father.” She reached
into her purse and pulled out the string of rosary beads she’d
found. “Do you recognize these as belonging to one of your
people?”

Radulfus took the rosary in both hands and
inspected it before glancing up at Gwen. “We, as an order, decry
individual possessions, but that doesn’t extend to rosaries, and
every monk possesses one. This is roughly made, which I would
expect from a monk’s rosary. Though I don’t recognize it
specifically, I wouldn’t deny that it could belong to a member of
my order. Where did you find it?”

“We discovered it in the alley where the
pool of blood was found,” Gwen said. “As you can see from the
smoothness of the ends, if the victim lost it as he was running, it
wasn’t because it broke but rather because it became untied. It
could also have been there for some time and wouldn’t necessarily
have belonged to the victim.”

“Did you clean the beads before you put them
in your purse?” Abbot Radulfus asked.

“Not beyond picking a few leaf scraps from
between them,” Gwen said, somewhat warily. “Why?”

“If the rosary had lain in the alley for
some time, as you suggest, the wood and leather would have become
stained, don’t you think?” Radulfus gestured to Gwen herself. “You
wear a gold cross on a chain. How long could it have lain in the
street before dirt would have adhered to it?”

“Not long. I see now that what you said is
true: you are no stranger to murder.”

Radulfus gave a slight laugh. “It isn’t
murder I know, but rosaries.”

That prompted a smile from Gwen. “Perhaps
you can help me with this too.” She reached again into her purse
and pulled out a sketch of Conall that Gareth had made on the
guidance of the innkeeper. Gwen was inordinately proud of Gareth
for his artistry, which was among the many skills he’d developed
over the years on the way to bettering himself, such that he’d
risen from a man-at-arms to become the captain of Prince Hywel’s
guard. They wouldn’t know if the sketch was a good likeness,
however, until they found Conall.