The Unlikely Spy by Sarah Woodbury Page A

nose was in the air. “It was
only a matter of time before you came to me for answers. It’s a
wonder that your father has never seen fit to commission me to
investigate these unlawful deaths. I would do it better.”
    Hywel stared at his uncle, horrified by the
vision that rose before his eyes of Cadwaladr stomping through a
crime scene and then all over the witnesses. Not to mention, the
fact that it would be a travesty to make him the lead investigator
in a crime he himself committed. Before he could stop himself,
Hywel said, “You take too much on yourself.”
    “You can never seem to think beyond me.”
    Hywel straightened his tunic with a jerk.
“If you are referring to the several instances in which you have
been questioned during an investigation, you might remember that
you were involved.”
    “Not the last time.”
    Hywel gaped at his uncle, incredulous. “You
left the body of my cousin on Aber’s beach!”
    “It was a small matter. A mistake,”
Cadwaladr said. “In the end you know as well as I that I had
nothing to do with her death. It is the same here. I didn’t even
know the man.”
    Hywel snorted. “It was you who brought up
the death, not I.”
    Cadwaladr sniffed and turned away. Hywel
watched him go, shaking with rage, not only at what his uncle had
said, which was bad enough, but that he would confront him in his
own hall. Hywel turned away too, knowing that he should leave
before he said or did anything more rash.
    Before he exited by a rear door, however, he
shot a look over his shoulder at his uncle. Cadwaladr had returned
to his chair, kicking it back and putting his feet on a nearby
table. With his hands clasped behind his head, he was the very
picture of a calm and collected lord of his domain.
    He hoped Cadwaladr’s outward expression was
a front for inner turmoil, because after that exchange, Hywel was
anything but calm and collected. Then again, his uncle may have
been plotting that ambush for weeks and had merely used Gryff’s
murder as a means for getting it done. Cadwaladr wasn’t
unintelligent (regretfully), just unwise.
    Before Hywel returned to the festival
grounds below the castle, he sought out his steward, a man named
Morgan. His father’s steward, Taran, had recommended Morgan for the
position, and Hywel had found nothing in their two-year association
to make him regret that choice. The man was built like a
boar—apparently Morgan was the champion arm wrestler among Hywel’s
soldiers—but he had never used his strength in battle, having
learned to read, write, and account as a youth before his physical
prowess became clear. As Hywel thought about it, Morgan rather
looked like a boar too, with curly brown hair from the top of his
head to the tops of his feet. His brown eyes were the one
exception, looking at everyone and everything around him with dry
amusement.
    Hywel found Morgan supervising the turning
of the spit upon which a sheep was roasting. With a jerk of his
head, Hywel pulled him aside. “Thank you for seeing to my uncle’s
wellbeing.”
    Morgan looked at him gravely, bushy eyebrows
raised. “It was my duty.”
    “I will speak to Gareth about setting a man
to watch him,” Hywel said, “but I would ask you as well to inform
me if my uncle meets with anyone unusual—or does anything
unusual.”
    “Can you define unusual, my lord?”
    Hywel found his teeth grinding together—not
at Morgan’s request for clarification but at having this
conversation at all. “My uncle, as you know, has conspired with
many of my father’s foes over the years. He hasn’t come to
Ceredigion because he loves music. He is here for something else. I
want to know what it is.”
    “Does this have to do with the death of that
merchant, Gryff?” Morgan said, showing that his usual astuteness
hadn’t deserted him.
    “I do not know. My uncle claims not.”
    “As one might expect,” Morgan said.
    Hywel eyed his steward. “You should know
that we believe Gryff was