The Good Knight

by Sarah Woodbury

  Chapter Nine

  Gwen lay still and silent on her pallet, thinking of Gareth and hoping he wasn’t too uncomfortable in his cell. When she’d returned to Hywel, he’d laughed off her concerns about Gareth’s well-being, but she didn’t think he was quite as complacent as he conveyed. Hywel had to know that even though King Owain had lost his temper and acted rashly, the king might not want to admit he was wrong about Gareth, even if they never found proof of his guilt.

  In addition, King Owain should have known by now that his brother, Cadwaladr, didn’t always relate the most accurate version of events. As she gazed up at the ceiling, she had a vision of that day five years ago when she’d lain in a room very like this one, but in Ceredigion, sobbing her eyes out over the loss of Gareth. Prince Cadwaladr had summarily dismissed him, and Gareth had ridden away with only his sword and his horse. Cadwaladr hadn’t even allowed him a moment to return to his quarters to gather the rest of his things.

  It was Gwen who’d done that. Though Gareth didn’t know it, she still had one of his spare shirts, stuffed into the bottom of her satchel, and wore his mother’s cross around her neck. She should have given it to him first thing, but had forgotten about it until this moment. She pulled it out and clenched it in her fist.

  To be fair, she had to acknowledge that Prince Cadwaladr had been beset at the time and much like his brother, may have allowed his temper to run away with him. Not long before, the Normans had beheaded Gwenllian, a younger sister to Owain and Cadwaladr, for leading a rebellion against them. Gwenllian’s husband—who just happened to be Anarawd’s father—had been in Gwynedd at the time, seeking an alliance against the Normans. As a result, Cadwaladr and Owain Gwynedd had gone south to avenge her death. Their losses had been compounded by the death of Gruffydd, their father, not long after in 1137.

  These past realities made Anarawd’s murder all the worse. Not only was he a strong ally and the King of Deheubarth, but he was a nephew-by-marriage to both Owain and Cadwaladr since Gwenllian had been Anarawd’s step-mother. These family ties were powerful and compelling, not just for King Owain and Cadwaladr, but for any Welshman. While the victory over the Normans had allowed King Owain to annex Ceredigion, it could not replace what they’d lost. It was Cadwaladr, now, who ruled those lands. And if Cadwaladr had something to do with Anarawd’s death—

  Thinking of the possibility made Gwen’s stomach ache.

  The next morning, after a restless night in which she feared she’d repeatedly woken many of the other women, Gwen forced herself from her pallet and back downstairs. Chaos confronted her in the hall. Men, huddled in groups small and large, talked and gesticulated to other men who nodded sagely back. The news of Anarawd’s death was not easy for any of them to encompass.

  “Will our tribulations never cease!”

  That was Cadwaladr, holding court near the fire with three other barons. Taran, Owain Gwynedd’s steward, stood a few feet away, speaking grimly with several other men. Hywel was alone by the door. Gwen headed towards him.

  “What’s going on here?” a woman’s voice said.

  Gwen looked past Hywel to see Elen, the bride, at the entrance to the great hall. At only sixteen, her marriage would have been a May-December match, but Gwen hadn’t heard that she’d complained about it to her father. Her golden hair glinted in the sunlight, forming a halo around her head. As a bride, she had the right to wear it loose, and it cascaded down her back in a bright mass.

  Hywel caught her arm. “Come with me, Elen. I’ve something to tell you.”

  He tugged her in Gwen’s direction, and Gwen hurried to greet them. Their ages were too different to have allowed them to be actual friends growing up, but Gwen had cared for Elen many times in the years she lived at Aber. Too often, Elen’s elders had alternately spoiled and ignored her. Gwen had tried to make up for that, just a little.

  “Gwen!” Elen embraced her. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  Gwen eased back, still with her arm around Elen’s waist, and filled with regret at what she was going to have to say next. “We have some bad news.”

  Elen’s face paled. “Father—”

  Hywel moved closer, a finger to her lips. “Not Father. Anarawd. He’s dead.”

  “He’s—”

  “Damn it,” Hywel said as Elen’s eyes rolled up in their sockets, and she collapsed unceremoniously into Gwen’s arms. Gwen staggered under her burden, which Hywel eased by catching his sister around the shoulders before Gwen dropped her. Between the two of them, they carried Elen to a bench set against the wall behind them. Hywel laid her on her back, and Gwen pulled up her knees.

  “It’s all right, cariad,” she said, her lips on Elen’s forehead. “You’re going to be all right.”

  Elen had never been good with sudden shocks—whether the event was a finger prick from a sewing needle or her grandfather’s death. Gwen had nursed her through both in her time.

  Cadwaladr had noted his niece’s arrival and strode toward them, his gaze fixed on Elen’s supine form. The expression on his face was stern but sympathetic, and Gwen catalogued in her head the number of times she’d seen him come up with exactly the right outward manifestation, regardless of his inward feelings. Then again, the whole royal family was good at hiding what they thought—even King Owain had a devious mind when he chose to use it. He was the King of Gwynedd after all. By necessity, he’d learned deception in the cradle.

  Hywel glanced up and allowed exasperation to cross his face for a heartbeat before schooling his expression. Gwen wondered how many people in the room would have preferred to be anywhere but where they were right now. Then King Owain blew in from his upstairs chamber.

  “What’s all this noise?” He surveyed his domain with sharp eyes.

  At his interjection, Cadwaladr changed course, heading towards his brother.

  Elen opened her eyes. “Oh, Father!”

  As if she’d never been ill, she spun off the bench and ran towards King Owain, who clasped her to him. He gazed over her head to Hywel, meeting his eyes, and then jerked his head in the direction from which he’d just come. That must have meant something to Hywel because he grasped Gwen’s arm and dragged her with him to a doorway a few paces away leading to a side passage.

  “What are you doing?” Gwen tried to pull away from him, but his grip was too firm. They entered the hallway and Hywel swung her around so her back pressed against the wall of the hall.

  “Cadwaladr shouldn’t see you with me.” Hywel moved his hand to her shoulder, holding her still, and peered around the door frame. “Another moment and he would have.”

  “Why does it matter if Cadwaladr sees me with you?” Gwen said. “He knows we grew up together.”

  Hywel tsked at her under his breath. She found it annoying that so many of the men in her life had a tendency to do that, not to mention drag her wherever they wished like a half-trained sheep at a village fair.

  “You found King Anarawd’s body, remember? And you did it with Gareth.” Hywel ran his hand through his hair and turned to pace in front of her, even if hampered by the confined space. “Cadwaladr is very sensitive to his dignity and views Gareth as a mortal enemy.”

  “I still don’t—”

  Hywel hissed into her face. “Cadwaladr doesn’t know you work for me, and I’d rather he didn’t learn of it today. I’m thankful my father thought of it in time.”

  Gwen subsided. “I think you’re being foolish. I sang in his hall three months ago. I’ll sing here tonight. He knows who I am.”

  “My father obviously shares my concern.”

  That gave Gwen pause. “Fine. But is Gareth safe from Cadwaladr? His cell is designed to keep him in, not others out.”

  Hywel stared at her. “I hadn’t thought of that either.” Then he nodded. “I’ll double guard him so no soldier has to deal with any visitors alone.”

  Gwen relaxed against the wall, studying her employer, who continued to pace as he thought. “Did she love him?”


  “Who? Elen?” Hywel said. “She’d only met him once. But she loved the idea of getting married, for all that he was many years her elder. She would have been a princess of Gwynedd and queen of Deheubarth.”

  Gareth’s friend Evan poked his head around the corner, just as a keening wail rose up from Elen. Hywel rolled his eyes at Gwen before acknowledging Evan. “What is it now?”

  “Madog has come with the body.”

  If Hywel hadn’t sworn again, Gwen might have. Then he canted his head to Gwen. “Come.”

  Gwen trotted after Hywel, towards the far door through which she and Gareth had entered the building last night, with Evan at her heels.

  Madog and ten men from his garrison milled about a cart with Anarawd’s wrapped body in the bed. His face expressionless, King Owain, Cadwaladr beside him, gazed down at the body. A portion of the crowd from the great hall had followed him out the door and now clustered behind him, unsure of what to do. News of King Anarawd’s death had been an opportunity for speculation and gossip, but its reality was something else entirely.

  “Enough!” King Owain said. “This is not a market stall. Be about your business.”

  Mumbling among themselves, the people in the crowd dispersed. Cadwaladr clapped a hand on King Owain’s shoulder in apparent sympathy and turned away, leaving King Owain and Madog alone by the cart. King Owain lifted his head and looked around the courtyard until he spied Hywel, still standing by the side door with Gwen. With a wave of his hand, he gestured them over.

  “You know what to do,” he said when Hywel reached him.

  “Yes, Father.”

  King Owain turned away.

  “Where shall we put him, my lord?” Madog said. “The weather has been so warm he stinks already.”

  “Unfortunate but unavoidable,” Hywel said. “We’ll try to make this quick. Bring him to the barracks.”

  More curious than she wanted to admit, Gwen went with Hywel and the men-at-arms carrying Anarawd’s body. The long, low building sat by the gatehouse. It contained a large, open sleeping space, but also dozens of small rooms. Just as they approached it, Hywel’s elder brother, Rhun, stepped from the main doorway. Hywel pulled up short.

  He held out his hand to Rhun, who took it, and the two men embraced. “I’m sorry this isn’t going to end in a wedding,” Hywel said. “You can imagine how upset Elen is with this news.”

  “Where is she?” Rhun said.

  “In the hall,” Hywel said. “I saw her greet Uncle Cadwaladr after Father dismissed him.”

  Rhun choked on a laugh. “I’ll rescue her in a moment.” He surveyed Anarawd’s body and then turned to Gwen who stood quietly to one side. “Are you sure you want to be present when my brother examines him?”

  “I’ve already seen the body,” she said. “Sir Gareth and I were the ones who found him.”

  She didn’t say anything of what she and Gareth had discovered about his murder, however. If Hywel was secretive to a fault, Rhun was too open and might reveal what he knew to the wrong person. Everyone might hear about the knife wound soon enough, but she’d wait to tell anyone else until she’d spoken to Hywel about it.

  “Then I leave him in good hands.” Rhun clapped Hywel on the shoulder and walked away.

  Once inside the tiny chamber, Hywel lit the lamps and dismissed the guards. Together, he and Gwen stripped Anarawd of his fine clothes and armor, revealing a well-muscled but oft-wounded body. “This must have hurt.” Gwen traced a thick scar under the man’s right rib.

  “That came from the 1136 war when we defeated the Normans in Deheubarth,” Hywel said. “I was fighting alongside him, although I was only sixteen at the time.”

  “How old is—was—Anarawd?” Gwen circled the table to survey the body from every angle. The man seemed smaller now, more fragile. So he’d proved to be in the end. As they all were.

  “Seven years ago he was in his early thirties. He’s forty now, maybe,” Hywel said. “His father was nearly this age when he married my aunt, who was only fifteen at the time. They eloped.” He grinned. “I would have liked to have been there to see my grandfather’s face when he found out.”

  “Your grandfather didn’t approve of the union?” Gwen had begun sorting through Anarawd’s clothes, emptying the contents of his pockets and now looked up.

  “Well—” Hywel said. “You know fathers.”

  Gwen laughed. “I do.”

  A moment of silence. And then Hywel added, “Your father was a good teacher.”

  “He was and is, but being his daughter hasn’t been easy.” Gwen shot Hywel an irritated look. “And you haven’t helped matters.”

  “You don’t have to work for me,” Hywel said.

  “Oh, I don’t regret that,” she said. “But he loved you like a son, and yet you’ve not spoken to him more than a handful of times since we left Aber. It hurts him.”

  “I know, but he is not my father, and Owain Gwynedd is. My need to please the king is greater.” He paused, and then added, “I am looking forward to seeing Meilyr back at Aber where he belongs.”

  “Father was at Caerhun. Since he didn’t travel with Madog, I’m sure he’ll be along soon. Still, he is wary of this meeting with the King.”

  “My father invited him, didn’t he?” Hywel said. “For all that he has a temper, he’s not one to hold a grudge.”

  “It’s my father who’s held it all these years,” Gwen said, “not yours.”

  Hywel nodded. “Pride has undone many a lesser man.”

  Gwen refocused on the body in front of her. “You see the slit between his ribs? That was the killing blow.”

  Hywel bent to examine Anarawd’s skin. “Are you sure? It’s very small—too small to be from a sword blade.”

  “Yes,” Gwen said. “That’s exactly my point. Or rather, Gareth’s, since he was the one who showed it to me.”

  “But that means—” Hywel broke off. He lifted his head to study Gwen’s face.

  “That he was ambushed and murdered,” Gwen said.

  Hywel returned his gaze to the body. He stood with one arm supporting his right elbow, his hand rubbing his chin. “Let’s walk through what we know: Anarawd leaves Dolwyddelan with twenty-some men. Strangers from Ireland set upon them, slaughtering them all. Anarawd, however, does not die by the sword, but by a secret knife, slipped between his ribs.” Hywel looked up.

  “Which means that he knew his killer,” Gwen said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Look at his clothes.” Gwen lifted Anarawd’s shirt, which they’d discarded. “Here’s the wound”—she wiggled her fingers through the hole in the shirt, “—but see how the blood flowed down the front of the shirt? He was standing when the killer stabbed him, not lying on the ground.”

  Hywel nodded his agreement. “If he’d been lying down, the blood from his wound would have soaked his side.”

  “Gareth says the killer murdered him in the woods and then dragged him back to the road.”

  Hywel stared at Gwen. “How does he know that?”

  “The blood again, and the dirt and scuff marks on the toes of Anarawd’s boots.”

  “Did he find the location where it happened?” Hywel said.

  Gwen shook her head. “We ran out of time. Too many men and horses had churned up the ground.”

  Hywel turned back to the body. “So… do we have two villains here, or just one?”

  “Someone paid for the ambush, that we know,” Gwen said, “but do we have a second man who murdered him? Why not simply let the Danes do it?”

  “Perhaps the first paid the second specially to ensure the deed was done,” Hywel said.

  “But whose man was he?” Gwen said. “Obviously, Gareth’s milk-brother betrayed Anarawd, or so it seems right now, but was there another traitor in Anarawd’s party?”

  “That would be a diabolical plan,” Hywel said.

  Gwen glanced at him, disturbed that he sounded, if anything, admiring.
/>   “Let’s not get carried away,” she said. “Perhaps Anarawd was attempting to plead for his life.”

  “Or flee, even,” Hywel said.

  “He wasn’t stabbed in the back.” Then Hywel’s words sank in. “Was Anarawd the type of man to flee from battle?”

  Hywel shrugged. “Any man might choose that route if his companions were dead and dying. It isn’t always ignoble.”

  “Hmm,” Gwen said, not sure what kind of explanation Hywel was giving her.

  “Is there anything in his clothing or on his person that can help us?” Hywel said.

  “Only a ring.” Gwen held it up. “By the way, there’s something else you should note on the body: the left edge of the wound is a bit uneven. The knife caught at the skin instead of sliding neatly through.”

  Hywel gazed down at the body. “You’re saying—”

  “The blade isn’t smooth. It has a notch along one edge,” she said. “Either it was poorly made or very old. Either way, the metal has been worn down—enough to sustain damage.”

  Hywel narrowed his eyes at her. “You’ve seen too many murdered men, I think.”

  Gwen laughed. “It was Gareth who pointed it out, but I’d learned it already from killing a few too many chickens.”

  “Lord Ednyfed of Powys told me you solved the murder of Llywelyn ap Rhys.”

  Gwen sighed, remembering. “And that poor boy Rhodri hanged for it. I almost wish I hadn’t.”

  “Rhodri killed a man.”

  “I know,” Gwen said.

  Rhodri had been poaching on his lord’s land—not a terrible offense, or at least not a hanging one—but he’d shot another man thinking him a deer. It was his bad luck that the river near which he’d buried the body had flooded three days later and exposed his crime.

  “And worse, tried to cover it up,” Hywel said.

  “And it’s for that they hanged him. Men kill other men for every reason under the sun, but when it’s an accident—”

  “My lord!”

  Gwen and Hywel turned to see Evan poke his nose between the door and the frame.

  “What is it, Evan,” Hywel said. “I asked not to be disturbed.”

  “Prince Cadell—” Evan stopped, cleared his throat, and continued, “King Cadell of Deheubarth, Anarawd’s brother, has arrived.”

  Hywel met Gwen’s eyes. “Has he?” Hywel surveyed the body. “Come, Gwen. We’ll leave Anarawd for now. You can meet your latest suspect.”

  Gwen couldn’t tell if he was serious, or only teasing her. “He inherits Deheubarth?”

  “He does,” Hywel said.

  “Why wasn’t he riding in Anarawd’s company?”

  “That, I couldn’t tell you,” Hywel said.

  “Cadell is another with strong Irish connections,” Gwen said. “His father fled to Ireland when the Normans took Deheubarth forty years ago.”

  “As did my own grandfather.” Hywel glanced at her, a wry smile on his lips. “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that my entire family is descended from the Dublin Danes and Brian Boru, the High King of Ireland.”

  Gwen bit her lip. This put how many names on her list of potential traitors? She followed Hywel out the door and back to the courtyard, where the as-yet-uncrowned King Cadell was dismounting from his horse, accompanied by his own company of men, at least a dozen by her count.

  “Welcome to Aber.” Hywel walked up to Cadell, who looked a bit like Hywel himself, but shorter and slighter. Here was another second son who found himself possessed of a kingdom on no notice at all.

  “Thank you, Prince Hywel.” Cadell bowed. “It is my great pleasure to see you again. Bards still sing of your exploits in Deheubarth in the last war.”

  Hywel blinked. “Thank you.”

  “Has my brother arrived?” Cadell peered past Hywel to the keep. It looked like he expected Anarawd to appear on the steps at any moment.

  Hywel cleared his throat. “In a manner of speaking.” He glanced once at Gwen as he took Cadell’s elbow. “I would have you speak to my father.” Everyone in the courtyard bit their tongues as Hywel steered Cadell towards the side entrance rather than into the great hall.

  Evan came to a halt beside Gwen. “Who did kill King Anarawd?”

  Gwen shook her head. “I wish I knew.”