The Unlikely Spy by Sarah Woodbury

he
suppressed his irritation as best he could, meeting Cadwaladr’s
gaze. “That is true.”
    “Who died?” Cadwaladr said.
    Hywel reminded himself yet again that until
three years ago, Cadwaladr had been the steward of these lands.
Poor ruler or not, he would know many of its inhabitants. “A man
named Gryff, an apprentice to a cloth merchant,” Hywel said. “Did
you know him or know of him?”
    Cadwaladr frowned. “No. He drowned?”
    Hywel kept his face perfectly composed—or
hoped he did. Leave it to his uncle to go straight to the salient
point. Everyone else was assuming Gryff had drowned because he was
found in the millpond, and neither Gareth nor Hywel had said
differently. Hywel supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that
his uncle was curious. Men could be thrown into the water after
death. Perhaps Cadwaladr had done it himself.
    Hywel had no compunction about lying to
Cadwaladr, but whatever lie he told needed to be credible, and lies
were always better when they contained a grain of truth. “We are in
the early hours of making inquiries. It does appear that he
drowned.”
    Cadwaladr’s frown deepened. “A bad business.
All men should know how to swim.”
    “My father feels as you do.” Hywel made
another move towards the door, congratulating himself yet again for
getting out of this initial meeting unscathed. He had a vested
interest in not humiliating himself. Hywel’s father would prefer
that Hywel not humiliate Cadwaladr either, and Hywel obeyed his
father in all things, even when it grated.
    He’d almost reached the exit when footfalls
came up behind him, and a hand caught his arm. Hywel hadn’t stopped
at the sound of his uncle’s boots, hoping against hope that
Cadwaladr wasn’t really coming for him. But now he turned again,
resigned to his fate, only to blink and jerk back at finding his
uncle’s face right in his. Cadwaladr was a few inches taller, which
forced Hywel to look up at him. He hated that. “What?” The word
came out sharply before he could stop it.
    “You’re lying. I can see it,” Cadwaladr
said. “You know something about the way that man died that you
aren’t saying.”
    “No,” Hywel said. The lie was purely
defensive.
    Cadwaladr’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying
now. He was murdered, wasn’t he? That’s why you were so evasive in
your answer to me.”
    Hywel looked past his uncle to make sure
that none of the onlookers were close enough to overhear and took
his tenth deep breath since he’d walked into the hall. Then he
looked back, his gaze steady on his uncle’s face. “We think
so.”
    “Aren’t you going to ask me if I had
anything to do with the death?”
    “No,” Hywel said.
    Cadwaladr sneered. “Why not?” When Hywel
didn’t answer, he continued, “You believe I did have something to
do with it, don’t you? That’s why you lied to me. You would have
brought it up in some unguarded moment, hoping to catch me
out.”
    Hywel rolled his eyes. “That is not it,
Uncle. We are keeping the fact of the murder a secret in order to
lull the murderer into a sense of security.”
    “So you treated me like you would the
murderer,” Cadwaladr said.
    “Why do you twist my words?” Hywel said. “We
aren’t telling anyone.”
    “Who do you mean by ‘we’? Gareth?” The sneer
was fixed to Cadwaladr’s face.
    “Of course,” Hywel said, not backing down.
“His skills in these matters are legion.”
    “Since I’m here, you need to ask me
now.”
    Hywel swallowed down a scoff and decided to
do as his uncle asked, despite his determination not to let him get
the better of him. He gave his uncle a short bow—in parody of the
greeting he’d given him before—straightened, and put his heels
together. “Did you have anything to do with Gryff’s death?”
    “Of course not.” Cadwaladr dropped Hywel’s
arm, reverting without warning to his usual air of unconcern and
disdain.
    “Than why did you mention it?” Hywel
said.
    Cadwaladr’s