The Unlikely Spy by Sarah Woodbury

eyes, brows, and lashes, and an upturned nose.
In short, she had the most even features Gareth had ever seen on
anyone, man or woman, and was, for lack of a better word,
beautiful. But then her face crumpled, she gave a sobbing gasp, ran
towards the dead man, and threw herself across his body. “Gryff! Oh
Gryff!”
    Gareth looked at his lord, one of the most
handsome men in Gwynedd himself (according to Gwen), with deep blue
eyes and a voice that could charm any woman who looked at him. At
the moment, his face was showing an expression closer to impatience
than sympathy. Prince Rhun moved to his brother’s side. “Who’s
this?”
    “I met her at the gatehouse. She claimed to
have heard in the village that a body had been found in the
millpond. She feared it was her husband and—” Hywel gestured
towards the woman still prostrated over the body, “—it seems she
was right.”
    “At least we now have his name.” Gareth
observed the woman impartially. Instead of abating, her sobs rose
in volume. He frowned, deciding that the woman wasn’t doing Gryff
or herself any good from that position. Gareth gently peeled her
off Gryff’s body and made her take a few steps back from it. The
woman’s eyes streamed with tears, but the sobbing reverted to
occasional hiccupping gasps.
    Gareth patted her back. “I’m sorry for your
loss.”
    The woman didn’t seem to hear him, just
continued to sob. Then she gave another gasp, said, “I can’t bear
it!” and then turned on her heel as if preparing to leave.
    Hywel was planted in the doorway, however,
and she pulled up at the sight of him.
    “Please—” she began.
    “We really do need to ask you a few
questions before you go,” he said.
    The woman looked at the floor. “If I
must.”
    Hywel took the woman’s elbow and guided her
to one of the nearby chairs. She sat, and Hywel pulled the second
chair close. “I’m sorry you have lost your husband, but I have a
few questions before I can leave you to mourn him in peace. Please
tell us your name.”
    “I am Madlen. His name is Gryff.” She sobbed
into her cloth anew, though even as she did so, her eyes flicked to
the prince’s face. “Was Gryff.”
    Gareth felt a smirk forming on his lips.
Hywel was so handsome and personable, he could charm a widow at her
husband’s laying out.
    “When did you last see your husband,
madam?”
    Madlen looked fully into Hywel’s face, tears
streaming down her cheeks. “Yesterday evening. He had been working
at our booth at the fair, which was open late, so I didn’t think
anything of it when he hadn’t returned to our lodgings by the time
I went to sleep.”
    “And this morning?” Hywel said.
    “He wasn’t next to me, but he often rises
before I do. It was only after I went to our booth myself and spoke
to my uncle that we realized something was amiss.” Madlen’s voice
gained in strength the more she spoke, and her story became more
coherent. “When I asked my uncle when he’d last seen him, he said
he’d dismissed Gryff well before midnight and hadn’t seen him since
then. I didn’t know what to do.”
    She’d finally mastered her tears, which was
all to the good as far as Gareth was concerned. When they’d arrived
at the chapel with the body, he’d been almost at a loss as to where
to begin the search for the man’s identity. The population of the
region was growing with every hour as travelers continued to stream
into Aberystwyth for the festival. Even with knowing Gryff’s name
as they now did, sorting through the people to find the murderer
was going to be difficult. It would have been far worse without his
name, however, and Gareth was grateful to Madlen that she’d come
forward so quickly.
    “Who is your uncle?” Gareth said.
    “Iolo. He has come to the festival to sell
his cloth.”
    “And your husband worked for him?” Gareth
said.
    “Yes.” The word came out a sob as Madlen
fell apart again.
    Like most types of traders, cloth merchants
ran the