The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery) (11 page)

Gwalchmai went up on his toes and back down. “I am.”

Chapter Thirteen

“
M
y lord.” Meilyr bowed before King Owain’s seat that evening.

“Meilyr, my friend,” King Owain said. “I trust you are well?”

“Yes, my lord,” Meilyr said. “You remember my son, Gwalchmai?”

“Of course.” King Owain nodded his head in a brief acknowledgement of their obeisance.

Meilyr and Gwalchmai bowed once more before stepping back from the table and turning away. Gareth watched Meilyr scan the crowd for available seats at a lower table: above the salt as was their due, but not among the nobles, of which Aber still housed many.

Gareth was amused at how undramatic this much-worried-over meeting had been, a counterpoint to all the events that had led to it. Perhaps that was why it had gone so well—it seemed ridiculous to bear a grudge over a six-year old argument when Anarawd was dead and the reason for their reconciliation—the wedding—would not come to pass.

“That went better than I expected,” Gwen said, in an undertone.

“You mean ‘feared’,” Gareth said.

Gwen turned to smile at him, but then King Owain spoke, loud enough for all to hear, stopping Gwalchmai and Meilyr in their tracks. “I was hoping for a song.”

Meilyr turned back to the King. “Of course, my lord. It would be our pleasure. We have several prepared.” Though he’d been looking for seats away from her, Meilyr’s eyes immediately went to Gwen. He jerked his head to indicate that she should join them.

Gwen rose from her seat, and then startled Gareth by placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once, and leaning in to whisper to him: “Now everyone will see what all the fuss was about.”

It felt so normal to have her touch him, as if they were once again as good friends as they’d been five years ago, before his disgrace and subsequent banishment. Looking back, she’d touched him often over the last few days—just a brush of his arm or a bump with her shoulder: affectionate but undemanding. He didn’t know whether to be pleased and hopeful, or curse himself for noticing, because now that he had, he’d be on the lookout for it and undoubtedly drive himself mad interpreting every move she made.

As Gareth stewed about that, Gwen made her way to the dais, a portion of which had been cleared of chairs to make room for the three musicians. And, of course, Gwen was right about the song. Three notes after opening his mouth, Gwalchmai had made a place for his family at Aber. He sang a piece from Aneirin’s
Y Goddodin
:

Three hundred horses galloped into battle

Garlands round their necks

Three hundred men rode them

Swords raised high

Three kings led them

The pride of the Cymry

Alas! None returned.

Although Gareth focused his attention on Gwen, he acknowledged that it was Gwalchmai’s soprano that soared above the others. The song had brought tears to listeners’ eyes for five hundred years. Under normal circumstances, grown men cried at the ending. But in Gwalchmai’s hands, none could withstand the beauty of it, including King Owain himself, who wept openly. Noblemen on either side of him sobbed, their faces in their arms that they’d folded on the table.

Gareth waited until the last verse, tears tracking down his cheeks despite his best efforts to contain them, before slipping down the side passage to the hall and outside to the castle courtyard. A quick turn around the perimeter of the keep showed him what he’d feared: not a soul—not a guard, servant, noble, or peasant—was in evidence. Gareth had made it his business to know who was on duty tonight, and when each of the men in turn had entered the hall to listen to the singing, Gareth had felt a prickling at the back of his neck he couldn’t ignore.

Under these circumstances, a thief or a spy would have ample opportunity to do whatever he liked. Steal a body, maybe? Or murder a servant? Gareth stilled, not sure what he was listening for, but disliking the lack of discipline among King Owain’s men, even if many of them were his friends. Aber might be one of the most secure of King Owain’s dominions, but to leave the hall unguarded? The front gate unattended? It made no sense.

And then Gareth sighed to see Cristina, the King’s beloved, crossing the courtyard at a run. She entered the main building through a side door. He followed and a moment later found his seat still available and Gwen, flushed from the heat and the singing, returned to him. The appreciation of the diners in the hall was palpable.

“Where have you been?” Gwen said as he sat down.

“Outside,” he said. “I listened to your family sing until nearly the end, and then thought I’d follow a hunch.”

“And that was…?”

“That Aber was, for a time, unguarded. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Gwalchmai’s voice
is
beautiful,” she said.

“As is yours.”

Gwen shook her head, though he could tell she was pleased at his compliment. She continued, “You can’t blame the guards for wanting to listen to it. They must have thought nobody would notice if they were gone for a short while.”

“Of course,” he said. “But all of them at the same time?”

“I suppose—” Gwen had been gazing towards the high table as she spoke and now her brow furrowed. “Where is—?” She cut off the words just as Cristina appeared, a coquettish smile on her lips, and sat down a few seats from King Owain.

Gareth leaned close to whisper into Gwen’s ear. “She returns. A moment ago I saw her leaving the barracks.”

“No!” Gwen hunched her shoulders at how loud that had come out and modulated her tone. “All by herself?”

“So it seems,” Gareth said.

“But King Owain has been here the whole time,” Gwen said.

“That he has.”

Gwen bit her lip. “Why was she in the barracks? Whom did she meet?” Gwen rested her elbows on the table and put her chin in her hands, still studying Cristina. “I don’t like this.”

“There’s no doubt she’s conniving,” Gareth said. “Though I suspect King Owain softened his stance against me because of her defense. I can’t dislike her for that.”

“Could she have been with another man?” Gwen said. “It’s so unlik—”

King Owain’s baritone interrupted their conversation. He rose to his feet, his cup raised and his voice booming to all corners of the hall. “We have feasted today in memory of Anarawd, the King of Deheubarth, the man who was to be my son. He was a brave man, a good king, and would have made a noble husband.”

The hall fell completely silent at his words. Even Elen, who’d begun to sob again at the mention of Anarawd’s name, quieted herself. Cristina, seated next to her and three seats down from King Owain, wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“Anarawd was murdered by a band of Danes from Ireland,” King Owain said. “Although I do not yet know why, I will know, and then the perpetrators will be punished! I swear this!” He raised a clenched fist and then his cup.

“To Anarawd!” the King said.

“To Anarawd!”

Everyone drank and then King Owain gestured to Gwalchmai and Meilyr, who prepared to sing again.

“The killer has seriously underestimated this king,” Gareth said.

“You know him better than I,” Gwen said. “Will he ask someone else to pursue this mystery since we’ve discovered nothing of use today? Is there anyone else to ask?”

“He always turns to Hywel,” Gareth said. “And Hywel turns to me. We still have time. The Council will meet tomorrow morning and the meeting should take all day. You know how these things go.”

“I’m sure they will talk about Anarawd,” Gwen said. “Will you have to attend Hywel?”

“God forbid!” Gareth said. “Hywel knows I’m no good in council. He has other men for that. He doesn’t want me within eye or ear shot of his father either. Hywel may have to face him all day tomorrow, but I have no intention of putting myself in the path of King Owain’s wrath again.”

“I’m glad,” Gwen said. “That’s definitely not a good place for you to be.”

Chapter Fourteen

A
s it turned out, however, that’s exactly where Gareth did find himself the next morning, corralled on one side by Hywel and on the other by Rhun. It was an uncomfortable feeling, to say the least.

“You’re expected.” Hywel grasped Gareth by the elbow.

“Me?” Gareth said, tempted to pull away. “Why?”

“The Council has already heard a version of the story from Meilyr, and now it’s your turn,” Rhun said.

“Did Meilyr mention me? Did he accuse me of anything?”

Rhun gave Gareth a puzzled look and Gareth forced himself to clear his expression. Rhun was one of those men who went through life loved by everyone. He couldn’t understand why other men didn’t have the same experience. It wasn’t that he wasn’t intelligent, because he was, but he was completely guileless.

“All is well, Gareth,” Rhun said. “Neither Meilyr nor my father bear a grudge against you. The Council just needs to hear your perspective.”

Gareth glanced at Hywel. As usual, a smile hovered around his lips and Gareth thought he could read skepticism in his face, but then Hywel nodded encouragingly. “My brother speaks the truth. Just tell them what you told me.”

So, for the third time, Gareth relayed the story of witnessing the battle, returning with Madog and his men, having Gwen and her family come upon them shortly thereafter, and the details of the second ambush. Madog, too, was among the audience and he nodded his agreement at the point where he came in.

“He tells it as it was, my lord,” Madog said. “I also might add, that when the mercenaries ambushed my men, Gareth saved my life.”

“And now Anarawd’s body has been stolen,” Cadwaladr said from his seat beside King Owain.

“Yes.” That was from Hywel, who stepped into the center of the ring of men. His face filled with an earnestness and sincerity that might have fooled those who didn’t know him well, but which, if a man looked more closely, never reached his eyes. Gareth was just grateful to have the council’s attention off him. “It happened sometime in the night after Madog brought him here. I regret that I didn’t place a guard on the door, not thinking it necessary. I was wrong.”

At this bold acceptance of fault, the men around the table eased back in their seats, lowering the tension in the room. Hywel was well-thought of among the nobility, generally well-liked, and in some quarters, pitied. He, of the two brothers, had served as their father’s primary emissary to their kingdoms. These lords were comfortable with Hywel and knew him well—or thought they did.

Over the years, Gareth had learned to watch Hywel’s other face—the one that showed only in the eyes. When Rhun had knighted him, Gareth had felt Hywel’s eyes boring into his brother. Gareth still hadn’t decided if it was hatred he saw in them or resentment that Rhun had, as usual, usurped Hywel’s prerogative. It was hard to resent Rhun for long, however, and Gareth had never noted that particular look on Hywel’s face again. Hywel had accepted Gareth’s advancement and even accorded him a small manor house within his own domains on Anglesey.

Although Hywel was telling the Council the truth (as far as Gareth knew it, anyway), his eyes said he wasn’t telling all of it. That wouldn’t normally have been a cause for concern, since Hywel was Gareth’s lord and had protected Gareth as best he could up until now, but this venture was unique in Gareth’s experience. Maybe he should see to finding out what secrets his lord was keeping.

For now, Hywel had convinced the Council of his sincerity and Rhun took it further. “I must assure you that Gareth had nothing to do with Anarawd’s death. Some of you may have thought it, especially given the presence of his milk-brother, Bran, in the Danish company.”

Gareth was disconcerted to see some nods around the table. These men, too, had questioned Gareth’s role. It was Cadell, newly crowned by King Owain’s hand, who spoke for them. “I understand that King Owain accused him of the deed, yet this man’s present freedom indicates you have rejected that notion?”

Rhun plowed on. “While he was locked in the stables, someone put poison in Sir Gareth’s mead, nearly killing him. We released him for his own protection. Anarawd’s body was stolen that same night, but at that point, Gareth was still recovering and under the guard of several of my brother’s men. Unless this conspiracy is far vaster than we presently understand—or are prepared for—he must be absolved of that crime, and thus of the murder as well.”

A few different heads nodded and Gareth allowed himself to relax, if just a little. Even Prince Cadwaladr, seated beside his brother, shrugged his grudging admission. Perhaps King Owain had done Gareth a favor by imprisoning him after all. Then Hywel spoke again, stepping into the fray with his wicked smile and a laugh that disarmed everyone with whom he came in contact. “Gareth is a fine swordsman, but even under my tutelage, he’d be hard pressed to coordinate a plot against Anarawd and keep it secret, especially from me!”

Laughter accompanied the comment.
They’re going to let me go.
Gareth eased towards the wall, into the shadows. King Owain noticed Gareth’s movement, and to Gareth’s astonishment, raised his goblet in salute. Gareth bowed. As he straightened, he caught sight of Cadwaladr’s face. He was directing a glare of such malevolent loathing—for once not at Gareth but at the King—that Gareth feared it would skewer King Owain then and there.

Having finished speaking to the Council, Hywel had come to stand nearby. Gareth turned to him to tell him what he’d seen, but the young prince put a hand on his arm to stop him speaking—and perhaps to restrain him from leaping between the two brothers to protect King Owain.

“I see it,” he said.

Chapter Fifteen

“
I
’ve something you need to see,” Cristina said.

Gwen turned, surprised to find anyone—much less the woman who would soon be wife to the King of Gwynedd—in the bath room with her. She was so stunned, in fact, that she didn’t answer, just stared at Cristina stupidly.