The Good Knight

by Sarah Woodbury

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Gwen 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. Hesitantly, 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 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 Strait.”

  “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 Strait 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 him to Owain, 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 him: Godfrid’s ship was sailing into the cove. His distinctive sail with a hind in its center—indicating it was the ship of a prince of 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 in 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.