The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

thanks for the fulfillment of his arduous duties for so many years, I have given Lord Tomos the estate of Nefyn in Arfon, for himself and for his heirs.”
    A communal gasp blew around the hall. That was friendship indeed.
    Cristina rose to her feet. “Thank you, my lord. You have given me more than I deserve and have been generous beyond all expectation.”
    Cristina gave the king a deep curtsey, her head bowed in apparent submission. Owain stepped past her father’s chair to reach her for her hand and raise her up. Cristina tipped her cheek for a kiss. Applause echoed throughout the room. Owain seated Cristina again and went back to his chair. Gwen turned to smile at the young man next to her, to comment on how lovely the scene had been, only to find him unsmiling.
    And then he pulled a blade from the sheath at his waist and started forward.

Chapter Two

    W hen the youth had entered the hall at the beginning of King Owain’s speech, Gareth had noted the mulish set to his jaw. He’d assumed the boy resented his servitude, but had then dismissed him from his thoughts—until the boy’s face coalesced into a rictus of hate. It took Gareth a moment to register the expression, and then his eyes flashed to Gwen’s. The smile which she’d given the youth at the conclusion of the ceremony had turned to a look of stark horror.
    Gareth surged forward, knocking aside a servant who was pouring a glass of mead into a cup for one of the diners and sending him sprawling across the man’s lap. The youth’s attention, however, remained entirely on King Owain, and he didn’t glance in Gareth’s direction. Gareth thought he had a chance.
    Gareth reached the dais in four strides. As the knife descended towards the king’s back, the blade glittering in the light of the candles that lit the table, Gareth threw himself forward to bridge the last yards to the king. His torso hit the table with a thud, extinguishing two candles and sending food and dishware flying in all directions. Gareth skidded across it, reached out, and caught the youth around the waist.
    They fell to the floor on the other side of the table and landed hard, Gareth on top and the would-be assassin beneath. The impact knocked all the air from Gareth’s lungs but also flung the youth’s arm upward with such force that he released the knife. It sailed across the room and skittered under the table near where Gwen had been standing.
    Gareth lay as he’d fallen for a moment, sprawled at a diagonal across the body of the boy, with his forehead resting on the smooth planks of the floor. He coughed. Then he pushed to his knees so he straddled the youth’s midsection and punched a fist to his own chest, trying to get his breath back. The assassin moaned and tried to twist away but Gareth held him down. His head lifted and fell back, his eyes opening once and then closing.
    The instant Gareth had seen the knife aimed at King Owain’s back, his ears had closed to the hubbub in the hall. Now the crescendo of sound overwhelmed his senses. People around him shouted and screamed their shock, but their words made no sense to Gareth. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Lifting his eyes from the youth’s face, Gareth found Gwen a few feet away, her hands to her mouth and her eyes wide. His shoulders sagged in relief to see her unhurt.
    The diners at the high table had pushed back their chairs and risen to their feet. Of the small circle of onlookers, Hywel was the first to speak. He dropped a hand to Gareth’s shoulder. “Praise be to God. You saved the king.”
    King Owain’s eyes tracked from Gareth, to the man on the ground, to Gareth again.
    Gareth cleared his throat. “He tried to kill you, my lord.”
    “I see that.”
    Gareth allowed himself a deep breath. For one heartbeat—only one but it had felt like a lifetime—he’d feared King Owain might misunderstand what had just occurred and think the youth had merely been bringing him a knife for his meal. It would have been so easy for Gareth to have misread the situation and been in the wrong again.
    But no. Gareth hadn’t been wrong. He had acted on instinct because the expression on the youth’s face—and the upraised knife in his hand—had been impossible to misinterpret.
    A man-at-arms stooped to pick up the assassin’s knife where it had lodged under the serving table. He brought it to Hywel who took it and then held it out to his father, the blade flat against his palm. Despite the earlier