The Fallen Princess Read Free Page B

between my uncle, Prince Cadwallon, and a girl named Ilar,
the daughter of a man-at-arms turned knight of my father’s
generation. His name is Gruffydd.”
    Gareth’s brows drew together. “Do I know
him?”
    “You should,” Hywel said. “Tegwen’s
grandfather still lives. He’s the castellan at Dolwyddelan.”
    Gareth’s expression cleared. “He’s a good
man. He was very helpful last year when Anarawd—” Gareth broke off
as Hywel glanced at him, his mouth twisting in wry amusement.
    “Yes. Exactly,” Hywel said. “Ilar died
birthing Tegwen, so Gruffydd and his wife raised her themselves. My
grandfather appointed Gruffydd to be the castellan at Dolwyddelan
at Uncle Cadwallon’s request, in remembrance of Ilar and so
Gruffydd could raise Tegwen as befitted her station as a princess
of Gwynedd.”
    Gareth would have wondered why Cadwallon
hadn’t brought the child to Aber and raised her himself if he
hadn’t been a prince. Any peasant would have, but Cadwallon was a
warrior and was often absent from home. It was common practice to
foster out royal children, either at birth if the mother was dead
and the parents hadn’t married, or at the age of seven when a child
began to prepare for his adult life.
    “That was why I barely knew her,” Gwen said.
“I was only eleven when Cadwallon died, twelve years ago now.
Tegwen lived mostly with her mother’s family, and I saw her in
court only a few times.”
    “When she was fifteen years old, Tegwen
married Bran ap Cynan, whose father was the Lord of Rhos.” Hywel
looked at Gwen. “You attended the wedding, didn’t you?”
    Gwen shook her head. Rhos, a sub-kingdom to
Gwynedd with the lord’s seat at Bryn Euryn, was a little more than
ten miles from Aber Castle. “My father provided the entertainment,
but Gwalchmai was a small child, and Meilyr left me at Aberffraw to
mind him. Don’t you remember? You came home with your head full of
new songs, though you’d sung none of them because your voice was
still changing and my father didn’t trust it.”
    “I was fifteen myself.” Hywel had gone back
to a crouch beside the body, his head bent.
    Gareth wasn’t sure if he should speak since
it appeared that Hywel was struggling to control his emotions
again. He cleared his throat. “My lord, why are you so sure this
woman is Tegwen?”
    “By her dress, her belongings.” Hywel threw
out one hand, the gesture halfway to despair, pointing at the
necklace at the woman’s throat. “She never took that necklace off.
It was a gift from her husband.”
    The body lay as Gwen had left it, the cloak
spread out in the sand, and now Hywel flipped back the edge of the
cloak to reveal a hem embroidered with tiny red lions, half
obscured by sand and dirt. “This is her cloak. The lions were a
tribute to her father’s personal coat of arms. My father gave it to
her the day she became betrothed to Bran. I don’t know what has
been done to her or how she came to look like this, but …” Hywel’s
voice trailed away.
    It was obvious to Gareth that Tegwen could
have discarded the cloak and necklace at any time between her
wedding and her disappearance, making this a completely different
girl, but he kept his lips together. It would be one thing if what
she was wearing was the only piece of evidence, but if Hywel
thought he recognized her shape as well, Gareth wasn’t going to
argue with him.
    He’d never seen Hywel so shaken by a death.
It worried him that if this was Hywel’s reaction—a man who wore
stoicism and cynicism like a cloak—the effect of the news of
Tegwen’s death on the rest of the inhabitants of Aber would be far
more tumultuous.
    Gareth put his hand on Gwen’s arm. “Gwen,
you should ride ahead and tell the king that we will be bringing
Tegwen’s body into Aber as soon as we’ve finished examining the
scene.”
    “What? Why me? Gareth, please—”
    Gareth moved his arm up to her shoulders and
bent his head so he could speak gently in her ear.