The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery) (26 page)

Godfrid canted his head towards his father’s chair. Cadwaladr had found a seat on Ragnall’s left, with Ottar on the right, and the three huddled together, deep in conversation.

“Long odds that this conference bodes well for my king,” Gareth said.

Gwen almost cried aloud, so glad was she to hear that subtle mockery again. The only person with whom she’d been able to converse had been Godfrid, but his Welsh wasn’t sophisticated, though perhaps in his own language he was just as clever as Gareth.

Godfrid, for his part, still had other things on his mind. “How is it that Cadwaladr was able to abduct Gwen?” He accompanied his query with a belligerent set to his chin.

“I can’t answer that.” Gareth eyed Gwen. “I still don’t know exactly what happened because I’ve not had a chance to speak to her since he took her from Aber.”

“Wasn’t your fort protected?” Godfrid said, not yet backing down. “Don’t you look after your women?”

Gwen put a hand on Gareth’s arm in hopes it would stop him from throttling Godfrid in frustration and turned to the big Dane. “Cadwaladr’s men-at-arms threw Gareth in prison and Owain Gwynedd allowed it. King Cadell, Anarawd’s brother, had false information pointing to
Gareth
as the killer of Anarawd, instead of Cadwaladr. Prince Cadwaladr, of course, supported him.”

Godfrid’s eyes flashed to Gareth, who still glared at him, and then he barked a laugh, the sound coming from that constant well of amusement inside him. “That sounds so much like Cadwaladr, it’s a wonder you didn’t see it coming yourselves. I had to put up with him for years in my father’s hall when he lived in Dublin. Still, coupled with the other things you’ve told me, it is clear he has become more devious since he returned to Wales. That, I wouldn’t have expected.”

“Nor I, to tell the truth,” Gareth said.

“How is it that you got free?” Godfrid waved his hand to encompass the space Gareth took up. “You are not imprisoned now. You stood with Prince Hywel at Aberffraw when he confronted Cadwaladr.”

“Prince Hywel released me from my confinement, once it was clear that Gwen was missing,” Gareth said. “Owain Gwynedd had instructed Hywel to track down Gwen—along with Cadwaladr if indeed it was he who had taken her—and my lord deemed me necessary to the task.”

Godfrid’s eyes lit again at that. “I see. And here you are in Dublin, and you have my brother to thank for it.” He gestured towards Brodar who broke away from another table to come to theirs.

“That is true,” Gareth said, though Godfrid wasn’t listening anymore.

Godfrid stood so he and his brother could clasp hands. They slapped each other on the back. “How is it that you are here?” he said, still speaking in Welsh, even though both men would have been more comfortable in Danish.

“Ahh,” Brodar said. “He hasn’t told you yet? Prince Hywel came to Aberystwyth and burned us out.”

Gwen turned to Gareth. “Is that true?”

Gareth nodded. “King Owain stood before the nobles of Wales and disowned Cadwaladr for acts beyond forgiveness.”

“So what happens next?” Gwen said.

Gareth nodded towards the three lords at the front of the hall. “Cadwaladr plans to return to Gwynedd at the front of a horde of Danes.”

“Horde?” Godfrid caught the derogatory term.

Gareth held out a hand. “Company. Army. Contingent. I spoke without thinking.”

“But it is what King Owain will be thinking, Godfrid,” Gwen said. “You must know this. Your people raided our shores for centuries before Gwynedd and Dublin made peace. King Owain’s father sought asylum with you, much as Cadwaladr has, but his was a rightful claim to the throne of Gwynedd, not the shameful retreat of a man disgraced and honorless.”

“I know it.” Godfrid glanced over his shoulder at Cadwaladr, laughing now beside Ragnall. “Anarawd was to be King Owain’s son-in-law?”

“Yes,” Gwen said.

Brodar took a drink. “Cadwaladr has got us all in a right mess this time, hasn’t he?”

Nobody could argue with that.

Gwen leaned close to Gareth. “What did Cadwaladr say when he saw you?”

“He went for his sword, but Brodar told him to put up, since I’d come to Dublin as his guest.” Then Gareth grinned. “He cast aspersions on my antecedents.”

“And you—” Gwen was almost afraid to ask.

“I am a better man than he,” Gareth said. “He’ll get his comeuppance soon enough.”

Those in the hall ate and drank in merriment, and as the meal came to an end, Ragnall stood to silence the crowd and speak to his people. Gwen didn’t understand his words, but Godfrid leaned in and translated quietly underneath his father’s speech: “I have spoken with my friends, Cadwaladr of Gwynedd, and my fellow ruler of Dublin, Ottar. They tell me that Cadwaladr has been dispossessed of his lands in Wales.”

“How do we know this is true?” This came from one of the men near the front.

Ragnall looked to Brodar, who raised a hand. “I saw it myself.”

Ragnall continued: “Prince Cadwaladr has informed me that he will pay us two thousand marks to come with him to Gwynedd and persuade…” Here, Ragnall paused, allowing for general laughter around the room, “… his brother to reinstate him.”

Cadwaladr nodded sagely, still seated at the table on the dais.

“I say we go!” Ottar raised a fist into the air.

“So say I,” Ragnall said, in a more level voice. “We leave in two days’ time.”

Two days.
Gwen glanced at Cadwaladr, expecting him to look expansive and satisfied as before, but now he glared at their table. He wasn’t looking at her, however, so much as at Gareth, who was talking to Godfrid and Brodar and didn’t notice. Still not looking at her, Cadwaladr stood, excused himself from the two kings, and strode towards Gwen’s table. All three men looked up at his approach, and all three rose to their feet.

“The girl stays with me,” Cadwaladr said. “Now that we are returning to Wales, I insist upon it.”

“You gutless bastar—” began Gareth, but Godfrid had already stepped in front of Gwen, his hand to Cadwaladr’s chest.

“You will not touch her,” he said, all amusement gone.

Cadwaladr snorted. “What would I want with her? She’s Hywel’s whore, not mine.”

Before the debate grew even more heated, Ragnall and Ottar appeared on either side of Cadwaladr. Ragnall edged between Cadwaladr and Godfrid, his eyes on his sons. “We agree with Cadwaladr that she was part of his protection,” Ragnall said, and then added something in Danish that Gwen didn’t understand. Godfrid, at least, eased away from both his father and Cadwaladr, who reached forward to grasp Gwen’s arm.

“Let go of me!” Gwen jerked her arm, trying to twist it out of Cadwaladr’s grip.

Gareth had his arm around her waist again, looking daggers at Cadwaladr.

Cadwaladr put his hands up. “Ragnall. See to this bitch.”

Gareth’s hand went to the hilt of his sword but before he could draw it, Godfrid had his forearm in a tight grip while Brodar tugged at the back of Gareth’s hair.

“She goes with him,” Ragnall said, not looking at Gwen but at his sons and Gareth.

“You’re going to let her go? Just like that?” Gareth said to Godfrid.

Godfrid, for his part, let go of Gareth in order to grab Gwen’s chin so he could look into her eyes. “My father assures me that you will be safe.”

Gwen shook them all off. While some part of her couldn’t be unhappy that men were fighting over her, it would only get Gareth in trouble. “All right; all right. Heaven forbid any of you come to grief because of me. I will go.” Her stomach roiled at the thought of leaving Gareth so soon after reuniting with him, but Cadwaladr had proven to be a fearsome, yet fickle, foe. If her going could protect Gareth, she could bear his presence for a while longer.

“Gwen—”

Gwen grasped the edges of Gareth’s cloak. “Stand down.” And then softened her words by going up on her toes and pecking Gareth on the cheek. “I’ll be fine.”

Ragnall tugged her away from Gareth. With a last glance back at the three men, all of whom looked murderous, she allowed Cadwaladr to lead her out of the hall.

Chapter Thirty-One

G
areth didn’t see Gwen again until they were loading the boats for the voyage to Wales. The martial nature of the expedition was immediately obvious. The Danes took on supplies, although by Gareth’s estimate, only food for the journey and the initial day or two in Wales. Either the Danes were assuming this would be over quickly, or that they could plunder the countryside. As it was late August, the pickings would be easy.

“You will sail with me,” Godfrid said to Gareth, as they heaved crates and satchels into the ship, to be stored in the prow or stern.

Danish ships had no below-decks, since their keels were so shallow. It allowed them to pull right up to a beach and push off just as easily, but meant that pillaging—or foraging, as Godfrid preferred to call it—was a way of life. Two dozen men settled easily into their rowing positions. As this was a fighting ship, even though it was large enough to cross the Irish Sea, there was no space for men who couldn’t do double-duty. Or triple. Warriors rowed as easily as slaves and it kept them busy through the long days and nights of travel.

Godfrid stood on the edge of the dock and gazed out to sea, his eyes tracing the clouds that were rarely absent, even in August.

“What is it?” Gareth stepped forward to look with him.

“Rain and a little wind,” Godfrid said. “Nothing with which to concern yourself.”

Gareth’s thoughts went to Gwen and her fragile stomach and his own clenched. Many Welsh were fishermen, but he was not and though he’d travelled to Ireland and back twice now, he’d not fallen in love with sea journeys as some did. Perhaps if Gareth had spent his life on the sea as Godfrid had, he’d be as familiar with its moods as he was with the mountains of Snowdonia. There, he could find a trail or track a deer across woods, moor, and fields. Here, all he saw was water.

Gareth had been given no chance to speak to Gwen, though he’d tried. He’d caught a glimpse of her a moment ago, standing in the prow of Cadwaladr’s ship. She’d looked over and lifted a hand to him, though she didn’t smile and he supposed he couldn’t blame her.

“She’s all right. I made sure of it.” Godfrid grunted as he set down the last sack and shot him a glance from under his bushy eyebrows. “She sleeps in a room with Ottar’s women. No one has touched her.”

Gareth nodded his thanks. Fear for her had sickened him throughout the last two days. He’d had to force back thoughts of storming into Ottar’s hall and demanding her return. But Gwen herself would have been angry at him for that—for calling attention to himself and putting himself at risk over nothing. Or what she might call nothing. To Gareth’s mind it was nothing short of torture.

Godfrid raised his fist and the ship got underway. As when they’d sailed west, the men rowed until they reached more open sea, and then hoisted the sail. Their ship was one among eight, nearly two hundred and fifty men in all, bought with Cadwaladr’s promise of money.

“Has he paid anyone any gold yet?” Gareth asked Godfrid. He was watching Gwen, three boats over, and noted the moment she sank to her knees by the rail. She faced away from him, probably on purpose.

“Brodar took gold from Aberystwyth before it burned,” Godfrid said. “Cadwaladr promised us two thousand marks this time, but according to Brodar, the five hundred he took from the castle was all Cadwaladr had.”

“The men who attacked Anarawd’s company carried no gold either,” Gareth said. “Cadwaladr must not have paid them yet.”

“As he has not paid us.” Godfrid eyed Gwen’s boat. Cadwaladr stood proudly at the helm.

“He will double-cross you too, if it suits him,” Gareth said.

“We won’t let him.”

Gareth shrugged. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop him, especially since he appears to have Ottar’s trust.”

“Let’s just say that my father is not Ottar,” Godfrid said. “I spoke to him of Cadwaladr’s treachery, of the murder and Owain Gwynedd’s reaction.” Godfrid glanced at Gareth. “What troubled my father the most was the sloppiness of Cadwaladr’s plans. He is more unreliable than we’d thought.”

“I’ve been doing some thinking myself these last few days,” Gareth said. “About that murder, and the aftermath.”

“Tell me.” Godfrid’s eyes flicked from one aspect of his domain to another in rapid movements—to the oarsmen, to the cargo, to his men working in the rigging of the ship—but he was listening.

“Anarawd left Dolwyddelan a day earlier than he’d originally planned,” Gareth said. “It wasn’t by design but because he was impatient to reach Aber and his bride. As it turns out, Cadwaladr’s mercenaries were ready for him anyway. This you know.”

Godfrid nodded.

“Later, however, three more people died: a servant at Aber, a Dane, knifed and skewered through the belly in an abandoned fort not far from the ambush site, and a young stable boy at Dolwyddelan Castle.”

Now, Gareth had Godfrid’s full attention. “And Cadwaladr killed all these too? Or had them killed?”

“It’s hard to see that Cadwaladr was actually at the ambush, even if he paid for it. He’s never been fond of getting his hands dirty—but the others? I don’t know.” Gareth shook his head.

Godfrid sniffed. “Anarawd was dead. That was all that mattered. Cadwaladr should have been satisfied with that.”

“Cadwaladr has never been one for measured thinking,” Gareth said.

“Were you numbered among Owain Gwynedd’s men who killed the mercenaries?” Godfrid said.

“Yes,” Gareth said. “As was Gwen, though she was caught up in all this innocently enough, since her family was traveling the same road as Anarawd for the same reason—to attend the wedding. They were to provide the entertainment.”

“Huh,” was all Godfrid said.

“The stable boy and the servant are different matters. Their deaths were clearly designed to cover up wrongdoing: the servant because she was paid to poison me, and the stable boy because he was paid to sabotage Anarawd’s horse, whether to delay him until the mercenaries had readied their ambush, or to make him an easy target when they came upon him. But he nobbled the wrong horse.”