The Good Knight

by Sarah Woodbury

  Chapter Thirteen

  “My lord.” Meilyr bowed before King Owain’s seat that evening.

  “Meilyr, my friend,” King Owain said. “I trust you are well?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Meilyr said. “You remember my son, Gwalchmai?”

  “Of course.” King Owain nodded his head in a brief acknowledgement of their obeisance.

  Meilyr and Gwalchmai bowed once more before stepping back from the table and turning away. Gareth watched Meilyr scan the crowd for available seats at a lower table: above the salt as was their due, but not among the nobles, of which Aber still housed many.

  Gareth was amused at how undramatic this much-worried-over meeting had been, a counterpoint to all the events that had led to it. Perhaps that was why it had gone so well—it seemed ridiculous to bear a grudge over a six-year old argument when Anarawd was dead and the reason for their reconciliation—the wedding—would not come to pass.

  “That went better than I expected,” Gwen said, in an undertone.

  “You mean ‘feared’,” Gareth said.

  Gwen turned to smile at him, but then King Owain spoke, loud enough for all to hear, stopping Gwalchmai and Meilyr in their tracks. “I was hoping for a song.”

  Meilyr turned back to the King. “Of course, my lord. It would be our pleasure. We have several prepared.” Though he’d been looking for seats away from her, Meilyr’s eyes immediately went to Gwen. He jerked his head to indicate that she should join them.

  Gwen rose from her seat, and then startled Gareth by placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once, and leaning in to whisper to him: “Now everyone will see what all the fuss was about.”

  It felt so normal to have her touch him, as if they were once again as good friends as they’d been five years ago, before his disgrace and subsequent banishment. Looking back, she’d touched him often over the last few days—just a brush of his arm or a bump with her shoulder: affectionate but undemanding. He didn’t know whether to be pleased and hopeful, or curse himself for noticing, because now that he had, he’d be on the lookout for it and undoubtedly drive himself mad interpreting every move she made.

  As Gareth stewed about that, Gwen made her way to the dais, a portion of which had been cleared of chairs to make room for the three musicians. And, of course, Gwen was right about the song. Three notes after opening his mouth, Gwalchmai had made a place for his family at Aber. He sang a piece from Aneirin’s Y Gododdin:

  Three hundred horses galloped into battle

  Garlands round their necks

  Three hundred men rode them

  Swords raised high

  Three kings led them

  The pride of the Cymry

  Alas! None returned.

  Although Gareth focused his attention on Gwen, he acknowledged that it was Gwalchmai’s soprano that soared above the others. The song had brought tears to listeners’ eyes for five hundred years. Under normal circumstances, grown men cried at the ending. But in Gwalchmai’s hands, none could withstand the beauty of it, including King Owain himself, who wept openly. Noblemen on either side of him sobbed, their faces in their arms that they’d folded on the table.

  Gareth waited until the last verse, tears tracking down his cheeks despite his best efforts to contain them, before slipping down the side passage to the hall and outside to the castle courtyard. A quick turn around the perimeter of the keep showed him what he’d feared: not a soul—not a guard, servant, noble, or peasant—was in evidence. Gareth had made it his business to know who was on duty tonight, and when each of the men in turn had entered the hall to listen to the singing, Gareth had felt a prickling at the back of his neck he couldn’t ignore.

  Under these circumstances, a thief or a spy would have ample opportunity to do whatever he liked. Steal a body, maybe? Or murder a servant? Gareth stilled, not sure what he was listening for, but disliking the lack of discipline among King Owain’s men, even if many of them were his friends. Aber might be one of the most secure of King Owain’s dominions, but to leave the hall unguarded? The front gate unattended? It made no sense.

  And then Gareth sighed to see Cristina, the King’s beloved, crossing the courtyard at a run. She entered the main building through a side door. He followed, and a moment later found his seat still available and Gwen, flushed from the heat and the singing, returned to him. The appreciation of the diners in the hall was palpable.

  “Where have you been?” Gwen said as he sat down.

  “Outside,” he said. “I listened to your family sing until nearly the end, and then thought I’d follow a hunch.”

  “And that was—?”

  “That Aber was, for a time, unguarded. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Gwalchmai’s voice is beautiful,” she said.

  “As is yours.”

  Gwen shook her head, though he could tell she was pleased at his compliment. She continued, “You can’t blame the guards for wanting to listen to it. They must have thought nobody would notice if they were gone for a short while.”

  “Of course,” he said. “But all of them at the same time?”

  “I suppose—” Gwen had been gazing towards the high table as she spoke, and now her brow furrowed. “Where is—?” She cut off the words just as Cristina appeared, a coquettish smile on her lips, and sat down a few seats from King Owain.

  Gareth leaned close to whisper into Gwen’s ear. “She returns. A moment ago I saw her leaving the barracks.”

  “No!” Gwen hunched her shoulders at how loud that had come out and modulated her tone. “All by herself?”

  “So it seems,” Gareth said.

  “But King Owain has been here the whole time,” Gwen said.

  “That he has.”

  Gwen bit her lip. “Why was she in the barracks? Whom did she meet?” Gwen rested her elbows on the table and put her chin in her hands, still studying Cristina. “I don’t like this.”

  “There’s no doubt she’s conniving,” Gareth said. “Though I suspect King Owain softened his stance against me because of her defense. I can’t dislike her for that.”

  “Could she have been with another man?” Gwen said. “It’s so unlik—”

  King Owain’s baritone interrupted their conversation. He rose to his feet, his cup raised and his voice booming to all corners of the hall. “We have feasted today in memory of Anarawd, the King of Deheubarth, the man who was to be my son. He was a brave man, a good king, and would have made a noble husband.”

  The hall fell completely silent at his words. Even Elen, who’d begun to sob again at the mention of Anarawd’s name, quieted herself. Cristina, seated next to her and three seats down from King Owain, wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

  “Anarawd was murdered by a band of Danes from Ireland. Although I do not yet know why, I will know, and then the perpetrators will be punished! I swear this!” King Owain raised a clenched fist and then his cup. “To Anarawd!”

  “To Anarawd!”

  Everyone drank, and then King Owain gestured to Gwalchmai and Meilyr, who prepared to sing again.

  “The killer has seriously underestimated this king,” Gareth said.

  “You know him better than I,” Gwen said. “Will he ask someone else to pursue this mystery since we’ve discovered nothing of use today? Is there anyone else to ask?”

  “He always turns to Hywel,” Gareth said. “And Hywel turns to me. We still have time. The Council will meet tomorrow morning, and the meeting should take all day. You know how these things go.”

  “I’m sure they will talk about Anarawd,” Gwen said. “Will you have to attend Hywel?”

  “God forbid!” Gareth said. “Hywel knows I’m no good in council. He has other men for that. He doesn’t want me within eye or ear shot of his father either. Hywel may have to face him all day tomorrow, but I have no intention of putting myself in the path of King Owain’s wrath again.”

  “I’m glad,” Gwen said. “That’s definitely not a g
ood place for you to be.”