The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

When Gwen was ten and her mother died at Gwalchmai’s birth, she’d taken over Gwalchmai’s care—and her father’s too, truth be told—the best way she knew how, lavishing all the love she had on her little brother. Her father had been undone by grief and had never thanked her, never mentioned her mother or their mutual loss that whole first year. They’d barely spoken to each other beyond brief discussions of court politics, about which Gwen hadn’t cared in the slightest.
    By the time she reached womanhood, Gwen and her father had come to a grudging accommodation, which had been instantly undone by Meilyr’s rejection of Gareth. Gwen had said things to her father then—things she couldn’t take back or amend because they were the truth—but which she later regretted. At the time, she paid for them and maybe that had made her father feel better and allowed him not to face his own neglect. That he was the adult and she the child had mattered little in the end.
    Gwalchmai’s value, however, was undeniable. When Meilyr thought of him, he was thinking also of his own livelihood, which would come to depend more and more on Gwalchmai in the coming years. Meilyr was growing old, and while he taught as well as he sang, few households but those of high lords and kings could afford him. Gwalchmai’s voice, a voice which came along perhaps once in a generation, could support them all.
    “Whose men were they?” Meilyr got to his feet and brushed grass and leaves from his cloak and vest.
    “We don’t know,” Gwen said. “At least one of them was from Ireland. It’s possible they all were. Gareth will find out.”
    Her eyes went automatically to Gareth, who was working side-by-side with Madog. They’d taken on the gruesome task of sorting through their own men: who was alive, who was going to die, and whom they could save. Gwen’s throat constricted at the horrors she’d seen today. It was all too much . Tears pricked her eyes again. She swallowed them back, gritting her teeth and telling herself that she would shed them later, when nobody was watching.
    “Is that so?” Meilyr’s eyes turned thoughtful as he looked at her. “This move is not what I would expect from the Irish—or those Dublin Danes for that matter—not when attacking King Anarawd’s band and ours means inciting the wrath of King Owain Gwynedd.”
    “They were over-confident,” Gwalchmai said. “Do you remember that time I sang in King Padern’s hall? I’d sung that particular song so many times I could do it in my sleep. But because of that, I didn’t prepare as you taught me and when I opened my mouth, no sound came out.”
    Battling over-confidence was something Gwalchmai would have to deal with his whole life, but Gwen could appreciate his point. “They attacked us because they thought they could ensure that nobody lived to tell the tale,” she said. “They must have been paid a great deal to be willing to sacrifice their lives in Wales for such an ignoble cause.”
    “No Welshman would have done this,” Meilyr said. “We are ignoble often, but not as willing to die so far from home. We’re far more practical.”
    “How much time have you spent with Irishmen to know them so well?” Gareth came to stand beside Gwen. His hand hovered for a moment at the small of her back and then dropped to his side. The pounding of her heart, which had eased once she knew her family was safe, sped up again.
    “We’ve sung along the west coast of Wales for many years. Gwalchmai is right, as far as it goes.” Gwen gestured to the carnage before them. “It would be interesting to know how much of this their master ordered, and how much they took upon themselves.”
    “That’s the Irish for you,” Gareth said. “A lord might bring them here, but then not be able to control them.”
    “And how do you know that?” Gwen said.
    “I’ve spent time in the Emerald Isle,” Gareth said. “Hywel’s mother was Irish and we traveled there together to renew his family ties.”
    “He’ll need them if he ever has to fight his younger brothers for the throne of Wales.” Meilyr surveyed the battle scene and what was left of their goods. “Them or his Danish cousins.”
    The horse who’d drawn their cart had panicked, upending their possessions on the way to pulling the cart off the road. He’d come to rest between two trees but had been unable either to force his way between them or free himself from his traces. He stood now, head