The Good Knight

by Sarah Woodbury

  Chapter Four

  They were still arguing about it two hours later as they led their horses down the road towards Caerhun. Every man walked, while his horse had a dead man flung over it, even Meilyr’s borrowed horse, Gwen’s pony, and Gareth’s Braith. As Gareth had hoped, Gwalchmai had convinced the castellan at Dolwyddelan to help and had returned at the head of a half dozen carts, one of which now held Anarawd, lying in state. Gareth held his horse’s reins in his right hand and was sorely tempted to clasp Gwen’s hand in his left, but refrained, even though it would have assuaged some of the ache in his heart.

  Too soon.

  “Why would he have contracted with Anarawd for his own daughter if he was going to kill him before the wedding?” Gareth said, exasperated that Gwen was suspicious of the one person he was certain couldn’t have ordered the ambush. “His daughter doesn’t even inherit King Anarawd’s domains now.”

  Gwen wrinkled her nose, clearly not wanting to admit he was right, but nodding her grudging acceptance. “All right. I can’t argue with that, though I submit he could have changed his mind. My question is, if not King Owain, who? Who knew King Anarawd’s travel plans? Who benefits from Anarawd’s death, commands enough power to order it, and is secure enough in his own dominions to withstand King Owain’s displeasure when he eventually finds out? Because he will. You know he will.”

  “Our culprit might not know King Owain as well as we do,” Gareth said. “He might not realize the extent of his determination and reach. Arrogance is not in short supply among our nobles.”

  “I guess I have to grant you that too,” Gwen said, with a laugh.

  “The first item, however, isn’t too hard to figure,” Gareth said. “Anarawd’s list of enemies was long. He’s fended off the English barons in Deheubarth for years, and in addition, while his Welsh rivals aren’t too many to count, they’re numerous. He controls rich farmland in the south, not to mention herds, mines, and trade routes.”

  “It’s the other two characteristics that will narrow the possibilities,” Gwen said. “Who has the power and the reach? That’s why I suggested it could be King Owain.”

  “For now, we must look beyond him.” Gareth glanced at Gwen. “And you mustn’t even hint at your suspicions to Prince Hywel.”

  “Why ever not?” Gwen said. “He’s used to the machinations at court. If I don’t bring it up, he will. Given his position, and for his own survival, he has to suspect everyone, even his own father.”

  “That may be true,” Gareth said. “It is certainly why he recruited you and who knows how many others to spy for him. But let him come to this on his own, if that’s what he’s going to think. It serves you not at all to impugn his father’s name.”

  “I still don’t agree,” Gwen said. “He needs those of us he trusts to see the arrow flying towards him before it hits. If I tell him what I suspect, he’ll trust me later when it counts for more.”

  Hywel was many things: reckless, brave, impractical, creative, imaginative, and intelligent. But also could be dreadfully irresponsible about other people’s thoughts and feelings. Except when it came to serving his father. To him fell the lot of the younger son, always passed over in favor of his elder brother Rhun—for attention, for honors—always trying to live up to the pre-set standard. And admittedly, Hywel didn’t often fail.

  But he didn’t tug his father’s heartstrings like Rhun did and Hywel knew it. He’d always known it. Gareth didn’t know if it was because Hywel’s mother, whom King Owain had apparently loved, had died at his birth, or because he and his father were far too much alike. Both of Gareth’s parents had fallen ill and died when he was five years old, so what he knew about families he’d learned from watching others.

  In addition, Hywel was Owain Gwynedd’s bastard second son. While the Welsh accounted a man legitimate if his father acknowledged him, the lords of Wales had a growing sense that the Welsh royal family must bow more and more to the dictates of the English Church. An illegitimate son might become king if no legitimate son was available, but King Owain had legitimate sons, with more, undoubtedly, in the works.

  “He already has younger brothers, as you know,” Gareth said. “But have you heard that they’ll be more still? King Owain woos again.”

  Gwen nodded. “It’s no secret.”

  “There are barriers to the match, however,” Gareth said.

  “Because King Owain and Cristina are cousins?” Gwen said.

  “Because she’s a witch.”

  Gwen laughed and choked at the same time. “Don’t say that within King Owain’s hearing. He’d have your head.”

  “All I know is that he only has eyes for her and he trails after her like a lost puppy.”

  “Does she share his bed?” Gwen said.

  If Gareth had underestimated the work Gwen had done for Hywel, that question put to rest to any uncertainties in that regard. Gwen was no longer the sixteen-year-old innocent he’d known and sought to marry. “Not yet—not until the contracts are signed is my guess, no matter how persuasive he can be.”

  “Then all is not yet lost,” Gwen said. “He might change his mind.”

  Gareth was opening his mouth to express his skepticism when Braith stopped in the middle of the road. The rest of Owain Gwynedd’s men filed around them, some of them smirking at Gareth’s stubborn horse as they passed. Gareth tugged on Braith’s reins, but the beast refused to budge. Rather than hanging her head as Gareth might have expected, given her unhappiness with her present burden, Braith lifted it and pricked her ears forward.

  Gwen, who had walked a few paces on, came back to Gareth. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  They’d not yet left the mountains, though they’d descended some distance from the highest point on the path, which was a mile beyond the ambush site. The road led down from this point to the Conwy River valley. When the road had run through the old slate mines some distance back, it had been a good fifteen feet wide. A quarter of a mile ahead of them, however, it narrowed to accommodate the gorge through which the road ran, and was just wide enough for the carts to pass in single file, with a man walking beside.

  Gareth moved his gaze to the hills on either side of the road. Braith wasn’t as temperamental a horse as some. Gareth had learned to listen to her. By now, he and Gwen had fallen twenty paces to the rear of the company. Those in front were nearing the narrow point in the road. From his journey south in the early hours of the morning, Gareth remembered that the path curved in on itself just ahead, following the creek on their right that flowed towards a fall.

  “Madog!” Gareth shouted above the rush of the water and the sound of feet and horses’s hooves.

  At the front of the line, just about to enter the narrow gap, Madog put up a hand and turned on a heel to look back at Gareth and Gwen. Owain Gwynedd’s forces, well acquainted with the chain of command, stopped immediately. Silence descended, with each man listening as hard as he could for anything amiss. The forest around them quieted too, which gave Gareth no comfort. It meant the animals and birds were on alert. Other than the occasional whicker of a horse in the middle of the company, the pounding in his own ears was all Gareth could hear.

  “Gareth! Watch out!”

  Gareth spun around, recognizing the voice but stunned that its owner could be here. Then, an eerie scream split the air, trailing off at the end as the crier caught his breath.

  Madog shot out a hand. “Move!”

  The entire company obeyed: every man pulled out his sword, crouched into a defensive posture, and turned to face outward, shields up.

  They’d reacted just in time.

  Arrows flew from the peaks on either side of the road, hurtling into the company. The rain of arrows didn’t last long but as soon as it stopped, men followed, flying into Owain Gwynedd’s men as if they themselves were shot from hidden bows. The trees on both sides of the road erupted and, in a heartbeat, more enemy soldiers appeared between Gareth and h
is friends. With Gwen to protect, Gareth didn’t try to rejoin his company.

  Thrusting out his arm, Gareth shoved the body off Braith, launched himself onto her back, and pulled Gwen up after him. From his vantage point, Gareth quickly surveyed the field and saw that, unlike Anarawd’s company, he and his companions outnumbered their attackers.

  Sword in hand, Gareth hesitated, looking towards Meilyr, who twisted in his seat on the cart and waved his arm in a shooing motion, his face contorted. “Ride! Get her out of here!” Without waiting to see if Gareth obeyed, Meilyr launched himself from his seat into Gwalchmai who’d been walking beside the cart, and rolled with him into the ditch beside the road.

  Gareth turned Braith’s head, but his initial hesitation cost him his opportunity. Two men appeared around the turn in the road behind them, galloping towards the battle from the south, swords raised high. Forward or back, Gareth had no choice but to fight. He urged Braith into the seething mass of men.

  Using the advantage being mounted gave him, he swung his sword at the first enemy soldier he came upon. As it sliced through the man’s shoulder, Gareth tried to remain contained, breathing steadily to control the rush of energy that poured through him. It worked about as well as it usually did, which was to say, hardly at all. Instead, he felt as if he were flinging his sword about uncontrollably.

  A second man attempted to waylay them, and Gareth killed him with a sharp thrust to the throat. Gwen, meanwhile, clung to him, her arm clenched around his waist, while she slashed with her belt knife at any man who came at them from Braith’s other side. Again Gareth thrust his sword, this time at a man who was trying to catch Braith’s reins. Gareth killed two more men before he reached Madog, who, though heavily beset, was holding his own.

  Gareth swung at an assailant’s head and then launched himself from Braith’s back, taking down a second attacker. Without pausing for breath, he pushed to one knee and shoved his sword through the man’s midsection. And with that, the flow of battle moved away from him, and his senses began to work again.

  He turned, looking for Gwen. She’d managed to gather Braith’s reins and stay on the horse’s back. Gwen’s breath came in gasps and her eyes were wide with fear, but like Braith, her head was up and she wasn’t screaming. Beyond, men and horses pushed back and forth at each other, some in such close combat that their swords weren’t doing the fighters any good. Despite the ferociousness of the attack, Owain Gwynedd’s men had been able to withstand the initial assault. Even the two horsemen who’d ridden into the fray from behind had gone down.

  “They overestimated their ability to surprise us,” Gareth said, “and we had the greater numbers.”

  Madog grunted and moved towards the thick of the fight, calling to the men, “Keep one alive!”

  “If they can’t hear you, we’ve got one here.” With his boot, Gareth toed the side of one of the men he’d downed.

  Madog turned back and crouched beside the wounded man. A gash in his side bled heavily, but he was still conscious.

  “Who sent you?” Madog said.

  The man grinned, revealing blood-stained teeth, and answered in Welsh, but with a thick accent. “Why should I tell you?”

  Madog glanced up at Gareth, who nodded. Just by speaking, the man had told them plenty. Now, they were looking not only for a rich, powerful lord, but one with the wherewithal to buy mercenaries from Ireland. Either that, or someone from Ireland wanted Anarawd dead and had put great effort into ensuring it.

  “You should tell me who it was, because no matter how much he paid you, you won’t collect the money now. Why not bring him down with you?” Madog said. “No use dying here for nothing.”

  The man grinned again and seemed about to speak, but then choked as blood from his lungs bubbled into his mouth. He coughed, tried to lift his head, and then fell back, his mouth slack.

  “Cachiad,” Madog said. “We’ll have to find another.”

  Gareth turned, prepared to search among the other fallen men for one who was still alive. Then Gwen, who still sat astride Braith, gave a cry. “Father!” She spurred Braith back the way they’d come.