The Good Knight

by Sarah Woodbury

  Chapter Three

  How can it be that he’s here? Gareth of all people? As she followed Gareth through the woods, Gwen cursed herself for her muddy hem and unkempt hair—and the fact that instead of greeting him and throwing herself into his arms as she wanted to, she was examining a murder scene for Hywel. That was so like her and her luck. How many nights had she lain awake, imagining herself in her best dress, her hair perfectly coifed, singing without mistake for a company of noble lords in a hall. Halfway through the evening, Gareth would appear and fall in love with her all over again.

  It had never happened, of course, and she’d long since given up hope of ever seeing him again. She’d half-convinced herself that he’d died in some far away land, fighting someone else’s battle.

  “What’s this about you spying for Hywel?” Gareth said, as they picked their way among the trees.

  “Who told you that?” Gwen said.

  “Gwalchmai,” Gareth said.

  Gwen sighed at her brother’s too-free tongue. “Hywel’s position in his father’s household has always been precarious. It was bad when we left and has gotten worse since then. Not long after I last saw—” she stopped, swallowed, and rushed on, “—I last saw you, Hywel visited the home of his cousin in Powys and it happened that we played there that winter. He spoke to me then about keeping an eye out for trouble and I said I’d see what I could do.”

  “And have you?” Gareth said. “Seen what you could do, I mean.”

  “I can’t say what value I’ve been to him. My reports are mostly on the comings and goings of his people, both high and low,” Gwen said. “Who conspires with whom; who has sued whom over what land; whose marriage bed is colder than it should be.”

  “Your father said you’ve been among the dead before.”

  “I never thought to involve myself in anything dangerous,” Gwen said. “But we served in many households, and … things kept happening. My father was even accused of murder once, and it was up to me to find the truth because nobody else would.”

  “If I’m ever accused of murder, I would be delighted if you would extend me the same courtesy,” Gareth said.

  Gwen smiled, as she was sure he meant her to, but then she sobered, looking over her shoulder at the men strewn along the road. “Nearly two dozen men, all dead, all put to the sword either in battle or once they lay stunned on the ground. All except Anarawd, who was killed with a knife.”

  Gareth crouched low to the ground. “Here.” He brushed away a few fallen leaves to reveal a man’s footprints, clearly embedded in the soft earth. Farther on were more footprints, and then more again.

  “How many men in the party, do you think?” Gwen said, glad they could talk about something else, even if it was murder.

  “More than enough to surprise Anarawd’s troop. Anarawd and his men stood little chance, taken unawares as it appears they were.” Gareth eyed the road and the woods beyond. “The attackers waited here—probably here and in the trees opposite—for Anarawd’s company to ride past. King Anarawd and his men would have been unconcerned and unsuspecting of danger. They were well within the confines of King Owain’s territory and only an hour out of Dolwyddelan. They’d gone—what?— four miles at most?”

  “Something like that.” Gwen and her family had ridden that distance at a walk, which was all the horse who drew the cart could manage most days.

  They’d left two hours after Anarawd and his men. That meant the ambush had occurred at least two hours before this moment and more likely three, which made sense since the bodies were still warm. Unmolested, the company would have nearly reached Aber by now.

  Gwen pursed her lips as she studied the footprints. “You knew what to look for. You’ve seen this type of thing before?”

  “Ambushes are the easiest way to eliminate a rival. And like yours, my tenure with Hywel has been—” Gareth paused to glance up at Gwen, an actual smile hovering around his lips as he sought for the proper word, “—irregular.”

  “My father told me that you’d hired yourself out to the highest bidder,” Gwen said. At the renewal of Gareth’s uncanny stillness, she kicked herself for not keeping that question to herself, but she had to know. “You fought as a mercenary.”

  Gareth took in a breath that was almost a curse. Throughout their conversation, Gwen had found it difficult to look into his face because she was afraid of what she might see there, but now it was impossible. She scuffled at the fallen leaves and dirt that made up the floor of the forest. No glint of metal or other indication of men appeared, other than their trampling footprints.

  “That’s true as far as it goes,” he said. “When I left Prince Cadwaladr’s service, I had nowhere to go. I was skilled with a sword and such men are always needed in Wales, with the Vikings, the Irish, and the ever-present English hemming us in on every side.”

  “I wasn’t criticizing you.” Gwen’s voice went soft. “Just asking. How long have you worked for Hywel?”

  “Almost four years,” he said. “Despite what your father might think, I’m good at what I do, and those for whom I fought recognized it. Hywel was one of several lords who offered me a permanent place in their teulu.”

  “You wear a fine ring,” Gwen said.

  “A gift.” Gareth fisted the hand that wore it. “It was given to me along with my horse when I joined Hywel’s band. Prince Hywel’s brother, Rhun, knighted me six months ago after a skirmish with the Normans near Chester.”

  Six months. He’s been a knight for six months, and yet … Gwen shook herself and held her tongue. Five years was a long time to carry the memory of someone in your heart—someone you’d not seen and had no reason to think still loved you. It wasn’t surprising that he’d not bothered to find her.

  The sharp twang of an untuned note carried through the heavy air. With his legs swinging nearly to the ground, Meilyr sat in the bed of the cart, holding a lyre. He could always find comfort with an instrument in his hands.

  “I would have brought more bowmen than the attackers did.” Gareth turned back to their task. “I find it odd they had so few. It seems shortsighted to me. It makes the success of an ambush less certain.”

  “Maybe none of the men our murderer trusted were archers,” Gwen said.

  “Yet he found enough men to do his dirty work,” Gareth said. “That sounds like a man with noble blood—with power and reach.”

  “It doesn’t sound very noble to me,” Gwen said.

  “You and I both know that many ignoble men inspire fierce loyalty in those who serve them,” Gareth said.

  “Or fear.”

  “Or the lord who ordered this made promises his men thought he could keep. Damn it.” Gareth spun on one heel to look back to the road. “We need answers now. Owain Gwynedd won’t want to wait until some lord’s men are curiously richer or rewarded more than their due. We will be bringing King Anarawd’s body to him at Aber today.”

  Gwen’s heart turned cold at the memory of King Owain’s temper, and then even colder as another thought struck her. “What if the man who ordered King Anarawd’s death is Owain Gwynedd?”