The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery) (28 page)

Godfrid and his men trotted quickly behind them, making for Aber beach where they’d left their boat. Godfrid had decided that open warfare was not in his best interest, not yet. He would return to his fleet, circling far around Anglesey instead of sailing down the Menai Straits, so as to disguise the true direction from which he was coming.

“I should be returning with you,” Gareth said.

Godfrid shook his head vigorously. “You are a warrior. If it comes to battle, your life would be forfeit. You will do better with your own people.”

Gareth ground his teeth, but had to give way before the determined Dane. “Please tell Gwen that I love her. Tell her it was better not to come myself this time.”

“I will tell everyone but her that you drowned in the night; that you were a foolish sailor. You stood up when you shouldn’t have and we lost you overboard.”

Gareth laughed despite himself, and waved the Danish prince—and unexpected friend—away. He had a feeling they would meet again before this was over.

Chapter Thirty-Two

G
wen moaned. She lay as she’d been thrown by the storm. The morning after the storm had brought sunshine with it and Gwen had fallen asleep at last, her cloak over her face to protect it from the sun.

Gradually, Gwen came more awake. The boat wasn’t rocking as badly as before and her stomach was more settled than at any time in the last two days. In fact, the boat seemed hardly to be moving at all. Hesitant, hardly daring to believe they’d really arrived at their destination and half afraid that they’d suffered another disaster, this time no wind instead of too much, she lifted her head to look over the side of the boat.

The craft was pulled onto the beach far enough to keep it secure but with the stern still rocked by the steadily rolling waves. Gwen pushed to a sitting position and then stood, resting her hands on the rail of the ship so she could stay upright. As when they’d crossed the Irish Sea in the other direction, she felt hollowed out—her stomach, her heart, her eyes. For all that she hated being separated from Gareth while on board ship, part of her was glad that he hadn’t been with her in her darkest hours, for his sake, if not for her own.

The last two days had consisted of unending hours of misery and little else. She supposed her illness had one single benefit: none of the Danes, nor Cadwaladr, had shown any interest in approaching her. And she’d slept so long that either everyone had forgotten about her, or they were too preoccupied with their own concerns. Fine with her.

Gwen scanned the beach, counting the ships on the shore and then the men moving around them. She counted again. Only six ships were drawn up on the beach. Two boats were missing. Where were they?

Another check of the symbols carved into the ships’ bows and she realized that Godfrid’s flagship was one of the missing. Unable to dampen her rising panic, Gwen clambered out of the ship and fell to her knees when her legs wouldn’t hold her up. The grittiness of the sand was welcome in her clenched fists, along with its warmth. She checked the sky. It was late in the day, nearly sunset, which meant that she’d endured two full days of sailing, despite the easterly wind.

Cadwaladr had found a post on the top of a dune that gave him a good view of the land to the east of the beach. Gathering herself and careless of his status, which she’d never respected anyway, Gwen marched up to him, pleased to see his usual, perfectly-turned-out apparel ruined by salt and spray. She cleared her throat, forcing the words through the parchedness. “Where’s G—”

“We’ve seen no sign of his ship since the storm,” Cadwaladr said, not waiting for her to clear her throat again. “Godfrid’s is the only one missing. We’ve another scouting a possible landing site to the south of the Menai Straits.”

“Why would we want to move?”

And then Gwen didn’t need an answer because she saw what had caught Cadwaladr’s attention: a line of tents and cooking fires, a quarter of a mile away. The flag flying above the tents showed the unmistakable Gwynedd lions. Owain Gwynedd had come, unannounced and unlooked for. It must have been very disappointing to Cadwaladr to find himself caged. He’d raged for most of the night at the Fates for causing the storm, and now had cause to curse them again.

Owain had placed his tents in such a way that Cadwaladr’s company couldn’t leave the beach except by sea. His choice now was to take his Danes and flee again—whether south to his burned castle at Ceredigion where he could try to marshal support among his subjects against his brother (unlikely), or to the other side of the Straits so that he’d have free rein for a time near Caernarfon. Or he could negotiate. Cadwaladr had to know, however, that loosing his Danes on the local populace would not endear Owain to him, and might permanently sever their relationship. He’d brought the Danes to threaten his brother, not because he thought he could conquer Gwynedd with them.

“What’s your plan?” Brodar had pushed his helmet back from his face and now scratched his ear with a sandy hand.

“I must speak to my brother,” Cadwaladr said. “I will go alone.”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Brodar caught Cadwaladr’s arm in a tight grip, as if he thought Cadwaladr planned to set off towards King Owain’s lines at that very moment. Maybe Cadwaladr would have if Brodar hadn’t stopped him. “What’s to prevent you from turning on us, now that you’re here? You owe us two thousand marks!”

“Then what do you propose?” Cadwaladr gestured towards Owain Gwynedd’s lines. “My brother has come too soon.”

It looked to Gwen as if Cadwaladr had just realized the truth of his situation: that the Danes weren’t his servants. He was their hostage, held against his will until he paid what he owed. He should have known better than to think he could get the better of his Nordic cousins.

 “I will go,” Brodar said. “Or King Ottar will, to speak to Owain Gwynedd on your behalf.”

“King Ottar knows no Welsh.” Cadwaladr sniffed and stuck his nose into the air. “And if you think—”

A shout from the shore distracted Cadwaladr from his unfinished sentence, and before he could conclude it, Brodar left him at a run. Gwen turned to see what had excited them: Godfrid’s ship was sailing into the cove. His distinctive sail with a hind in its center—indicating it was the ship of the prince and heir to Dublin—grew larger with every stroke of the oars. Godfrid himself perched at the front of the boat like a conquering hero. The ship reached the beach and pulled up. Among general shouting and jubilation at his survival, nobody seemed to notice Gwen’s state of near collapse.

Finally, she was able to pull Godfrid aside, tears already pouring down her cheeks at the news she’d yet to hear. “Where’s Gareth, Godfrid?”

He leaned in, brushing her cheek with his lips and whispered close to her ear: “Alive.” Then he straightened and cuffed Cadwaladr’s shoulder. “Your countryman fell overboard; didn’t know when to huddle in the boat like a sane man.”

Cadwaladr’s eyes narrowed. “He is your only loss?”

“Not much of one,” Godfrid said, “though if you were his friend, I am sorry.”

“No friend of mine.” Cadwaladr turned away and strode back up the beach to resume his post on the dune.

Brodar moved in close, allowing the other men to disperse out of earshot. Gwen stayed where she was. Brodar glanced at her and then back at his brother, prompting Godfrid to put his arm around Gwen’s shoulder.

“Speak so Gwen can understand,” Godfrid said.

Brodar obliged. “All is well, brother?”

“We play a greater game,” Godfrid said. “Two thousand marks is hardly worth our time in comparison to what I have planned; what Father has planned.”

“What of Prince Cadwaladr?” Brodar looked past Godfrid’s shoulder at the Welsh prince. “Owain Gwynedd has come. His men stand just there…” Brodar gestured to the east. “I told Cadwaladr that we wouldn’t give him leave to go to him; that I would speak to King Owain for him.”

“Good,” Godfrid said. “We shouldn’t let him out of our sight. We cannot trust him.”

The trio headed up the beach towards the campfires. Gwen’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten anything since they’d left Dublin, and not much even then because she knew it would end up in the sea anyway. At their approach, other men stood, including Ottar, who rubbed his hands together—
in anticipation?
Godfrid nodded his greeting and released Gwen. “The men must discuss the future. Don’t wander off.”

Gwen made a moue of irritation, her eyes never leaving his, but obeyed. She moved towards another fire pit, noting as she did that Cadwaladr had left his post. It was dark enough now that he couldn’t see anything, other than the cooking fires of his brother’s men. They were at a stalemate, if a temporary one. She gazed eastward herself, wondering what was going to happen next, and hoping
next
included Gareth.

Chapter Thirty-Three

G
odfrid had come back from his meeting with Ottar and Cadwaladr in a foul mood. He’d worked for over an hour, making Gwen a bower of a sort, hollowed out of a dune with driftwood forming a makeshift roof. And hadn’t spoken more than a grunt to Gwen the whole time.

“You’ll be all right for tonight,” he said, finally breaking his silence. “I’ll be keeping watch not far away, and Brodar too.”

“Thank you, Godfrid,” she said. “It’s more than I expected.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be,” he said.

“And Gareth?” Gwen lowered her voice. “How did you get him safe?”

“Suffice that he is. Better you don’t know.” Godfrid grumbled something she didn’t catch in Danish, and then stalked away to a campfire Brodar had lit and now sat next to with half a dozen of Godfrid’s men.

Gone was the merry Dane and in his place was a very serious and worried prince. Gwen watched him go, more concerned than she wanted to admit.
How much should she be worried too?
She’d eaten and drunk just enough to feel comfortable for the first time in a week. It gave her renewed energy and strength and she thought about the various ways she might get herself free, now that she was back in Wales. King Owain’s camp wasn’t far. Might she find a moment when the guards were inattentive and escape?

But then she glanced to where Godfrid sat with his men and thought better of it. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the virtue in staying—the honor that seemed to emanate from Godfrid in particular, but it applied to her as much as it had to Gareth when he’d come to Dublin. To escape would imply that she was Godfrid’s prisoner, and that he couldn’t trust her, and somehow that felt wrong. Still occupied with these thoughts, Gwen tucked herself into her blankets and closed her eyes.

She was almost asleep when footfalls in the sand had her opening her eyes again and searching beyond the rim of the dying fire for whoever had made the noise. She glanced towards Godfrid’s fire. More time must have passed than she’d realized because the men had lain down to sleep, leaving only a single sentry awake who wasn’t looking her way. She eased to her feet, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and took two steps away from the fire. Another few steps and darkness encompassed her. What had she heard?

She was about ready to give up and dismiss the footsteps as her imagination, when she spied a black shape flitting across the sand, heading away from the camp. Fearing the worst, she followed, peering into the dimness ahead and hardly able to make out the person’s shape in the darkness. A moment later, however, a white face looked back towards her and she stilled.
Cadwaladr.
She hoped he couldn’t see her silhouetted against the light behind her.

And then the shape disappeared into the scrub to the east of the beach. Her thoughts whirling, Gwen let out a deep breath. Should she follow him, or did honor mean that she should turn back and warn Godfrid that Cadwaladr had gone?

She headed back to the camp at a run, past the spot where she’d slept, and pulled up at Godfrid’s campfire. She knelt, her hand to Godfrid’s shoulder, and shook once.

Godfrid’s thick hand fisted around her forearm and he sat up. “What is it?”

“It’s Cadwaladr. He’s gone,” she said.

“Stinking Welsh traitor!” Ottar’s rough hand grasped her arm and yanked her away from Godfrid.

“What—?” she said, in reflex, her voice going high.

Ottar loomed over her, shouting words she couldn’t understand. Godfrid sprang to his feet and spoke rapidly. Never had Gwen wished she understood Danish more. The argument became heated very quickly—not that Ottar wasn’t already fired up—and didn’t resolve in Godfrid’s favor. As she struggled to stay on her feet, Ottar hauled her with him through the darkness and the seething mass of angry men to his tent, one of the few the Danes had brought.

When they reached it, he forced her inside and shoved her to the ground. She landed on a fur rug that formed the floor of the tent. She twisted to look back at him. He glared at her, a knife in his hand. Nearly hysterical with fear, she crab-walked towards the back of the tent to get away from him. By the time Godfrid pushed inside, Brodar right behind him, she cowered in the far corner. Taking in the scene at a glance, Godfrid grabbed Ottar’s arm but in a flash, Ottar pressed the knife to Godfrid’s throat instead of Gwen’s. Godfrid’s hands came up and he stepped back, retreating towards the entrance he’d just come through and almost stepping on Brodar’s toes.

King Ottar spat out an order to someone outside the tent whom Gwen couldn’t see. Gwen’s heart threatened to beat right out of her chest while she waited for whatever would happen next. She blanked her mind, trying not to think and to focus only on her breathing.
I will get through this.
Then, a man entered with a length of rope and wound it around Gwen’s wrists and ankles until she was tied like a pig for the spit. At this, Ottar seemed to calm and Gwen herself gave in to relief. Tying her up was minor, compared to what he could have done to her.

Brodar had been speaking fiercely to him, and now Ottar laughed and put away his knife. He clapped Brodar on the back, sneered something into Godfrid’s stony face, and left the tent without another glance at Gwen.