Chapter Thirty-Six
Alone on her pallet in an otherwise deserted room at Aberffraw, Gwen stared at the blade in her hand. It glittered in the light of the fire, almost transparent in places, the notch along the top edge glaringly apparent. She wished Gareth were here to help her decide what to do, but Hywel had sent him south within an hour of rescuing her from the Danish camp, with orders to gather the two thousand marks worth of goods and cattle from Cadwaladr’s lands to pay the Danes. She and Gareth hadn’t had a chance for more than a fleeting goodbye.
But he would return, and they would talk then; they’d talk about their future instead of Hywel’s—which faced her now. She took in a deep breath, stood, and walked down the hall to Hywel’s rooms. He was still awake, as she’d felt certain he would be, maybe even waiting for her.
“Good evening, Gwen.” Hywel looked up from the documents on his desk. Contracts maybe, or reviews from the law courts. Without answering, she set the knife on the edge of his desk and stepped back. Silent, they gazed at it together, and then Hywel nodded. “You see it, then.”
“Too much didn’t make sense in the end for it to all be Cadwaladr,” she said, “but the knife gave the game away.”
“It wasn’t a game, Gwen,” he said.
“Wasn’t it?” she said. “You manipulated everyone—me, Gareth, your father—from the start.”
“It was necessary,” he said.
“That’s what you think?” she said, her voice rising. Then she forced herself to moderate the tone so the sound would only carry to Hywel and not to neighboring rooms. “That’s your excuse for killing Anarawd?”
Hywel shook his head. “You misunderstand. That’s not how it was.”
“You mean you didn’t kill him?”
“Oh, I killed him all right.” Hywel leaned back in his chair, an elbow on the arm, as if discussing manor accounts instead of the death of the King of Deheubarth. “But there’s more to it than that.” He gestured to the knife. “I could have thrown it away.”
“You should have.”
“But then you wouldn’t have ever known the truth, would you?”
Gwen swallowed hard. “Why did you want me to know?”
Hywel turned his head to look out the window. “I don’t know. I’d put the knife away and only wore it tonight on impulse.”
“So tell me.”
Hywel pointed to the chair across from him, and Gwen obeyed, out of habit maybe, or because she was tired. Hywel, however, stood. He paced around his desk to stand at the window, staring out. It was open onto the green fields beyond the castle. The moonlight made a square of light on the floor behind him.
“Word reached me that a band of men from Ireland—Danes or Irishmen the messenger didn’t know—had landed near Caernarfon the day before Anarawd reached Dolwyddelan. That concerned me, of course, as my western cousins aren’t known for their gentle passage through a countryside.”
Despite herself, Gwen smiled. Even his excuses were more droll than those heard from the average man.
“I gathered several of my men—Gareth not among them as you know—and picked up their trail. I went myself, on a whim. I had no idea what their plan was, or mine for that matter, or if I had a plan at all. But it seemed like a good idea at the time. We headed south from the standing stones at Bwlch y Ddeufaen, avoiding the roads and instead taking a trail that led into the mountains and would intersect the main road.” He shrugged. “We reached one of the many falls tucked into the hills, and I called a rest to water the horses. It was a mistake to stop, of course, because in those moments of rest, the mercenaries attacked Anarawd’s band.”
Gwen sat up, confused. “What are you saying? You weren’t there?”
“I wasn’t tired or hungry, and I had a tickling in the back of my neck I’ve learned not to ignore. So I left my men to personally scout the ridge above the falls that overlooked the road. The Danes timed the attack perfectly. Anarawd hadn’t the least notion of their presence. The Danes killed them all.”
“But—” Gwen stopped, trying to picture the scene in her mind’s eye: Hywel lurking above the ambush site while the Danes descended on Anarawd’s men. “What happened next?”
“Gareth crested a more northern ridge, in my line of sight, but his eyes were only on the battle. Then he raced back the way he’d come, I presumed to go for help.”
“You saw Gareth and didn’t—?” The rest of the question caught in Gwen’s throat.
Hywel gave Gwen a pained look. “You think so badly of me, do you?” And then went on, not requiring an answer. “He could do nothing other than what he did. Anarawd’s men weren’t outnumbered, just unprepared. And when danger came, instead of fighting, Anarawd ran, leaving his men to fight the Danes alone.”
Gwen leaned forward. “You’re telling me King Anarawd abandoned his men to save himself?”
Hywel tsked through his teeth. “Even if he wasn’t the man I knew him to be, it could have been the right choice. His life was valuable, more valuable than that of his men. At times, running is the only option.”
“But not in this case?”
Hywel shook his head. “Anarawd’s captain was killed in the first onslaught, and his men were never able to organize themselves properly for a counterattack. By the end, it was a slaughter.”
“And where was King Anarawd by this time?”
“Cowering in the woods,” Hywel said. “The Danes didn’t notice he’d run. They searched among the bodies—for the seal, it seems—left the dead as they lay in the road, and beat a retreat west, as I told you. My choice was to return to my men and track them immediately, or—”
“Or to find Anarawd,” Gwen said.
“As you say,” Hywel said. “He was so happy to see me that he held out his arms to greet me. I put my knife into his chest instead. It was quite a job getting him back on the road without getting his blood all over me, I can tell you. That’s why I dragged him face down.”
“And left a trail for Gareth to find,” Gwen said. “Along with dirt and scuff marks on Anarawd’s toes.”
“Oh yes,” Hywel said. “I was worried when Gareth so quickly identified that the body had been moved. Admittedly, Gareth’s skills are the reason I brought him into my company in the first place, but that he could read the signs so easily—”
Understanding grew in Gwen’s mind. “So once we all were at Aber, you hid Anarawd’s body yourself to prevent Gareth from making further discoveries. That was you.”
“I buried him in unconsecrated ground,” Hywel said. “Anarawd was a coward. I couldn’t allow my sister to marry him.”
“And Anarawd’s seal?” Gwen said.
“Ah yes, the seal.” He tapped a staccato on the window sill. “The Danes realized they were never going to get their money if they didn’t bring the seal to Cadwaladr. I imagine he’d demanded it as proof they’d done the deed. When they didn’t find it among the dead, they may have believed they’d ambushed the wrong party, which is why they returned to the road for the second ambush.”
“Perhaps I can shed light on that, at least,” Gwen said. “One of Cadwaladr’s guards was at Dolwyddelan. I saw him there and at Aber. Later, he was one of my guards at Aberffraw, after Cadwaladr abducted me. If he met the Danes after the first ambush, he could have ordered them to finish the job. Bran, Gareth’s milk-brother, implied as much before he died, though we didn’t understand his meaning at the time.”
“And thus, my men and I were unable to pick up their trail. They didn’t head west, back to their boats, but took another route north to intercept you.”
“So it was you who took the seal from Anarawd’s body and hid it in Cadell’s room to divert suspicion.”
For the first time, Hywel looked slightly guilty. “How was I to know that Cristina would come snooping?”
“That’s—” Gwen tried to find the word but the best one she could come up with was diabolical and just couldn’t quite say it.
Hywel gazed at her intently. �
��Do not forget that it was Cadwaladr who sent the Danes to murder Anarawd, not I. That they did not succeed does not absolve him of his crimes.”
Gwen studied Hywel’s face. She wanted to believe him. She’d served him because she believed what he’d told her. But now … something still didn’t add up.
“Tell me the real reason you killed Anarawd,” she said. “There’s something more, something you haven’t said. Was it personal gain? Your father has given you Ceredigion.”
“Again, you think so little of me?”
“Is this really about Anarawd?” Gwen said. “Or about Cadwaladr?”
“It’s always been about Anarawd.”
“What grudge did you hold against him?”
A long silence followed through which Hywel held his expression, and then his eyes darkened. “Cowardice isn’t enough?” He gave her a small smile. “No. For you, it’s only the truth that is enough, isn’t it?” He walked back to his desk and sat heavily in his chair. He picked up his pen and then dropped it.
“Six years ago, I fought beside my father in Deheubarth in the rebellion that put Anarawd on the throne. Even all these years later, the brutality of that war haunts me.” He paused, seeming to search for the words. “Anarawd’s father was old, but not to death, not like my grandfather, who was blind and could no longer travel. The King of Deheubarth’s sword arm was still strong. But in the midst of some heavy fighting along the Teifi River—the last battle we fought that turned into a victorious rout for us—Anarawd came upon his father from behind and murdered him.”
Gwen blinked. “Just like that? And you a witness?”
The rueful smile was back. “The whole truth, eh? It was the last of the fighting but my first real experience in war. I was puking my guts out behind a tree—dry heaving by then—when Anarawd’s father came to rest some ten paces from me. He put a hand on a tree, holding his heart and breathing hard. We were fifty yards from the fighting—not exactly safe, but out of it. Anarawd came up to his father, all solicitous, and then stabbed him through the heart.”
“As you did Anarawd.”
“Yes,” Hywel said. “I call it justice.”
“Why didn’t you tell your father?” Gwen said. “He would have listened to you.”
“Would he?” Hywel said. “You know my father. The alliance with Deheubarth was well-established by then; Anarawd was in his confidence and when he brought the body of his father into the hall and laid him in state upon the table, tears pouring down his cheeks at what the Normans had done, how could I stand then and gainsay him?”
“But in private—”
“It was done,” Hywel said. “More of my ancestors than I can count took the throne by patricide. Some say that my own father killed his brother, the edling, in battle much the same way.”
“I don’t believe that!”
“Don’t you,” Hywel said. “Why don’t you? You’ve seen my father’s temper.”
“Do you believe it?” Gwen said.
Hywel shook his head, more in resignation than because he was saying no. “I don’t believe it, but the rumors were rife ten years ago when my uncle died in battle. I couldn’t stir them up again.” He paused. “And then there was my sister. I couldn’t stand by and see her hurt. It was my last chance to protect her.”
Gwen met Hywel’s eyes, and neither looked away.
“I saw an opportunity, and I took it. It was impulse, but still, I cannot regret my decision.”
They sat together, silent, Hywel genuinely relaxed in Gwen’s company, for perhaps the first time since he was ten. He had no false front to keep her from seeing him as he really was, no mask to wear. Instead, his face revealed resignation, and perhaps acceptance of who he was and the role he played in his father’s world. For it was Owain Gwynedd’s world, and Hywel was, and perhaps would always be, the son who did his father’s bidding.
Hywel cleared his throat, and when he spoke next, his voice came so softly, she almost couldn’t hear him. “When Cadwaladr claimed you bore my child, I told Gareth that I had never taken you to my bed.”
Gwen gazed at him, waiting. Those words meant something to him. She could hear it in his voice.
“Do you know why?” he said.
“I’ve wondered why,” she said. “I loved you when we were children, and there were times I would have come willingly since my father left your father’s service. But you never asked.”
Hywel looked up from fingering the documents on his desk and met her eyes. “It is not in my nature to be faithful, Gwen. I loved you too much to hurt you.”
Gwen swallowed. As she’d suspected. The truth.
“I leave tomorrow for Ceredigion. Do I have your blessing? Are you still with me?”
Gwen met his gaze. “I’m still with you, Hywel.” She stood. “I wish you the best.” She was at the door a heartbeat later, for the first time ever without asking permission or looking back.
But before she’d gone two more steps, Hywel’s parting words reached her. “As I do you, Gwen. As I do you.”
The End
Historical Background
The events related in The Good Knight are, amazingly enough, based on historical fact. The premise of the book, the murder of King Anarawd of Deheubarth, did take place at the behest of Owain Gwynedd’s brother, Cadwaladr. Prince Hywel was tasked with rousting his uncle out of Ceredigion, and did burn his uncle’s castle to the ground. Cadwaladr had retreated to Ireland and returned to Wales at the head of an army of Danish mercenaries to the extreme displeasure of his brother. This was only one of the first of many betrayals by Cadwaladr. Owain Gwynedd did accept his brother back into his favor, after he paid the Danes what he owed them.
Many of the other characters in The Good Knight are historical figures as well, including Cristina, Rhun, Gwalchmai, and Meilyr. The fiction comes from all that we don’t know about the events that transpired, whether because nobody wrote them down, or because any such documents were destroyed in the intervening years. There is a story that one of the more recent owners of Castle Aber found a collection of papers stashed in a wall cavity in the old part of the castle—and burned them because they were in Latin, and she couldn’t read them.
Owain Gwynedd was born sometime before 1100 AD, the second son of Gruffydd ap Cynan. Owain ruled from 1137 to 1170 AD. His rule was marked by peace initially, at least with England, as Owain took advantage of the strife between King Stephen and Empress Maud for the English throne to consolidate his power in Wales. That conflict lasted for nineteen years, finally resolving in rule by Stephen but with the inheritance of the throne upon his death by Maud’s son, Henry.
Owain had many wives and lovers. His first wife, Gwladys, was the daughter of Llywarch ap Trahaearn; his second was Cristina, his cousin, to whom he remained constant despite the active disapproval of the Church (which opposed what they viewed as consanguine relationship). Owain Gwynedd had many sons and daughters. The eldest two, from his first relationship with Pyfog of Ireland, were Rhun and Hywel, as related in The Good Knight. They were both illegitimate children, but according to Welsh law at that time, that was no obstacle to their nobility or their inheritance, provided their father acknowledged them, which King Owain did.
For Hywel’s part, he was a genuine warrior-poet. He and Gwalchmai, who became chief bard to King Owain Gwynedd’s court, are revered as two of the foremost Welsh poets of the twelfth century.
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