Chapter Thirty-Three
Godfrid had come back from his meeting with Ottar and Cadwaladr in a foul mood. He’d worked for over an hour, making Gwen a bower of a sort, hollowed out of a dune with driftwood forming a makeshift roof. And hadn’t spoken more than a grunt to Gwen the whole time.
“You’ll be all right for tonight,” he said, finally breaking his silence. “I’ll be keeping watch not far away, and Brodar too.”
“Thank you, Godfrid,” she said. “It’s more than I expected.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be,” he said.
“And Gareth?” Gwen lowered her voice. “How did you get him safe?”
“Suffice that he is. Better you don’t know.” Godfrid grumbled something she didn’t catch in Danish, and then stalked away to a campfire Brodar had lit and now sat next to with half a dozen of Godfrid’s men.
Gone was the merry Dane and in his place was a very serious and worried prince. Gwen watched him go, more concerned than she wanted to admit. How much should she be worried too? She’d eaten and drunk just enough to feel comfortable for the first time in a week. It gave her renewed energy and strength, and she thought about the various ways she might get herself free, now that she was back in Wales. King Owain’s camp wasn’t far. Might she find a moment when the guards were inattentive and escape?
But then she glanced to where Godfrid sat with his men and thought better of it. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the virtue in staying—the honor that seemed to emanate from Godfrid in particular, but it applied to her as much as it had to Gareth when he’d come to Dublin. To escape would imply that she was Godfrid’s prisoner and that he couldn’t trust her, and somehow that felt wrong. Still occupied with these thoughts, Gwen tucked herself into her blankets and closed her eyes.
She was almost asleep when footfalls in the sand had her opening her eyes again and searching beyond the rim of the dying fire for whoever had made the noise. She glanced towards Godfrid’s fire. More time must have passed than she’d realized because the men had lain down to sleep, leaving only a single sentry awake, who wasn’t looking her way. She eased to her feet, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and took two steps away from the fire. Another few steps and darkness encompassed her. What had she heard?
She was about ready to give up and dismiss the footsteps as her imagination, when she spied a black shape flitting across the sand, heading away from the camp. Fearing the worst, she followed, peering into the dimness ahead and hardly able to make out the person’s shape in the darkness. A moment later, however, a white face looked back towards her, and she stilled. Cadwaladr. She hoped he couldn’t see her silhouetted against the light behind her.
And then the shape disappeared into the scrub to the east of the beach. Her thoughts whirling, Gwen let out a deep breath. Should she follow him, or did honor mean that she should turn back and warn Godfrid that Cadwaladr had gone?
She headed back to the camp at a run, past the spot where she’d slept, and pulled up at Godfrid’s campfire. She knelt, her hand to Godfrid’s shoulder, and shook once.
Godfrid’s thick hand fisted around her forearm, and he sat up. “What is it?”
“It’s Cadwaladr. He’s gone,” she said.
“Stinking Welsh traitor!” Ottar’s rough hand grasped her arm and yanked her away from Godfrid.
“What—?” she said, in reflex, her voice going high.
Ottar loomed over her, shouting words she couldn’t understand. Godfrid sprang to his feet and spoke rapidly. Never had Gwen wished she understood Danish more. The argument became heated very quickly—not that Ottar wasn’t already fired up—and didn’t resolve in Godfrid’s favor. As she struggled to stay on her feet, Ottar hauled her with one arm through the darkness and the seething mass of angry men to his tent, one of the few the Danes had brought.
When they reached it, he forced her inside and shoved her to the ground. She landed on a fur rug that formed the floor of the tent. She twisted to look back at him.
He glared at her, a knife in his hand. Nearly hysterical with fear, she crab-walked towards the back of the tent to get away from him. By the time Godfrid pushed inside, Brodar right behind him, she cowered in the far corner.
Taking in the scene at a glance, Godfrid grabbed Ottar’s arm but in a flash, Ottar pressed the knife to Godfrid’s throat instead of Gwen’s. Godfrid’s hands came up and he stepped back, retreating towards the entrance he’d just come through and almost stepping on Brodar’s toes.
King Ottar spat out an order to someone outside the tent whom Gwen couldn’t see. Gwen’s heart threatened to beat right out of her chest while she waited for whatever would happen next. She blanked her mind, trying not to think and to focus only on her breathing. I will get through this.
Then a man entered with a length of rope and wound it around Gwen’s wrists and ankles until she was tied like a pig for the spit. At this, Ottar seemed to calm, and Gwen herself gave in to relief. Tying her up was minor, compared to what he could have done to her.
Brodar had been speaking fiercely to him, and now Ottar laughed and put away his knife. He clapped Brodar on the back, sneered something into Godfrid’s stony face, and left the tent without another glance at Gwen.
“Why is he doing this?” Gwen said to Godfrid before he too could leave. She was sick of these silent men who tossed her around like a sack of turnips with little regard for her wishes, thoughts, or feelings. “I could have run like Cadwaladr, but I didn’t!”
Godfrid hesitated, half in and half out of the doorway. “It would have been better if you had.” He didn’t look at her, and she realized he was afraid—he, Godfrid, a prince of Dublin. He spoke over his shoulder. “You are now the only leverage Ottar has against Owain Gwynedd. Let’s hope that King Owain has more honor than his brother.”
“But—”
“Don’t speak another word. It isn’t safe.” He shook his head at her, just once, and was gone.
The transition from asleep and free to bound prisoner had happened so fast Gwen was having a hard time keeping up with the change. She took in a deep breath, trying to slow her frantic thoughts and assess her situation. She’d gone from being Cadwaladr’s prisoner to being Ottar’s; from hovering on the edge of Ottar’s consciousness, to landing smack in the center of it.
Like Cadwaladr, he still thought she was pregnant with Hywel’s child. It seemed that was the only reason she was still alive.
The Good Knight Page 35