The Unlikely Spy
Prior Rhys beckoned the two monks
out of the shade. With Prior Rhys and Prince Rhun assisting, they
loaded the body into the largest of the handcarts waiting by the
entrance to the mill. Gareth finished his drawing and returned to
Gwen’s side.
    After the men heaved the body into the cart,
Gwen pointed to the man’s face. Despite the movement required to
lift and load him, no pink foam trickled out of the corner of his
mouth. “He really was dead when he went into the water.”
    “You thought you’d made a mistake?” Gareth
said.
    Gwen shrugged. “Sometimes it feels like all
we have are guesses. I’m comforted when they appear to be good
ones.”
    “What are you talking about?” Rhun said,
ever curious.
    “When a man drowns, he spits up the water he
took into his lungs, even after death,” Gwen said. “This man is
missing that telltale sign, once again confirming our initial
supposition.”
    While Gareth stowed the picture of the dead
man in the bag with his paper and charcoal, Gwen said, “Give me a
moment,” and hurried away towards the mill, disappearing
inside.
    Everyone stopped, looking after her and
uncertain as to what she was doing. Then she returned with a bundle
of cloth in her arms, which turned out to be several large bags
used for carrying grain.
    “None of us wore cloaks today so we have
nothing to cover him with, but we don’t want him on display as we
travel down the road,” she said.
    “That was thoughtful of you,” Prior Rhys
said. “Thank you.” And between the two of them, they laid the sacks
over the body to cover it completely.
    Gareth signaled to the monks to start
pulling the cart. Prince Rhun and Prior Rhys tugged on the bridles
of their horses, but like Gareth, neither man mounted, choosing to
walk behind the cart with Gwen. The monks got the cart rolling, and
the companions began the half-mile walk back to the monastery.
    As they walked, Gareth could just hear the
sound of music coming up from the festival grounds on the other
side of the river. Music came more clearly from travelers moving
along the road, whether from a bard warming up his voice and his
fingers on his instrument, or spectators singing the latest ballad
they’d heard. Regardless, each person turned his or her head as the
cart passed, peering curiously into the bed to see what had
prompted such a somber walk by three monks, a knight and his lady,
and a prince.
    Most of the looks—and many bows—were
directed at Rhun, who acknowledged them without fanfare.
    “Gwen, it might be a good idea not to
discuss any of this with Mari,” Gareth said.
    Gwen and Mari had rooms in the guest house
because Mari’s quarters at the castle, approximately a mile and a
half away from the monastery as the crow flies, were less than
adequate to her current needs. She was pregnant again and sicker
even than with her first child. Six months after Tangwen’s birth,
Mari had been delivered of a healthy boy whom she and Hywel had
named Gruffydd after Hywel’s grandfather. Thankfully—and despite
the difficult pregnancy—Gruffydd had been born without
complications and was now a very active one year old.
    But Mari’s pregnancy meant that she could
bear neither the press of humanity at the castle nor the smell. The
latrine, in particular, wasn’t functioning as it should, and Mari
had found the stench unbearable every time she walked outside,
prompting her to lose whatever was in her stomach. Prince Hywel had
arranged for Gwen to stay with her at the monastery guest house
until the heat wave passed, the festival was over, the latrine was
redesigned and fixed, and/or Mari managed to get her pregnancy
sickness under control.
    It would have been more appropriate for Mari
to stay at the local convent, but that was no longer possible.
Although Alice, Prince Cadwaladr’s wife, had given birth to their
daughter there three years ago, it had been in serious decline
since before the 1136 war and had failed the previous year. None of
the

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