The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

appearance—black hair, deep blue eyes with long lashes (ridiculously long if Gareth’s female observers could be trusted), and muscular physique—had drawn women to him from before he’d even become a man.
    One of the most treacherous battles Gareth had ever been in was when he’d ended up defending Hywel from a horde of angry farmers, roused by a cuckolded husband. They’d been outnumbered twelve to one, and yet managed to escape by luck and the timely appearance of a priest who told the farmers off. Had he known the reason for their anger, he might have felt differently, but at the time, all he’d seen was peasants confronting a prince.
    As they entered, Hywel looked up from the household accounts on his desk in front of him. A grin split his face. “This is a surprise.” Hywel’s eyes tracked from Gwen to Gareth.
    Gareth gritted his teeth. His lord had a tendency to perception and just now, his relationship with Gwen was not something Gareth wanted acknowledged, or worse, discussed. “My lord.” Gareth put his feet together and gave Hywel a stiff bow. Gwen curtseyed beside him.
    “I hoped to have seen Gwen earlier today—and you not until tomorrow, Gareth,” Hywel said. “How is it that you arrive together, and so late?”
    Gareth and Gwen exchanged a look. Her expression told him that she’d prefer him to speak. Choosing nobility, he plunged on: “We’ve ridden through the night to tell you—and your father—of a terrible event that has transpired. King Anarawd was ambushed by Danes on the road just north of Dolwyddelan. He is dead.”
    “What!” Hywel was on his feet. “By the Saints, say it’s not true!”
    “I’m sorry, my lord,” Gwen said. “It is true.”
    “Who, what—tell me more!”
    Gareth and Gwen relayed the story, including their search and the second ambush, taking turns with the parts they knew best. By the end, Hywel had settled into his chair again, a horrified expression on his face. Made worse by his news for them: “You should know that I and some of my men tracked these Danes across Gwynedd today, nearly to the road from Dolwyddelan where you tell me Anarawd died.”
    Gareth took a step forward. “But, then—”
    Hywel shook his head, in what Gareth interpreted to be stunned disbelief. “You know those hills are full of paths. We thought we had them—we followed them for some distance—but lost them when they backtracked west. Or, rather, we thought they went west. By the time we reached the Roman fort, we found no sign of them. Instead, they must have taken a different route north to ambush you.”
    “You heard nothing?”
    “There is a river there, running through a series of falls. The path runs beside it. It would have drowned out any noise of battle. And since the Danes didn’t ever reach the road, or so we thought…”
    “But they did,” Gwen said.
    Hywel sighed. “Why was Anarawd even there? He shouldn’t have been. He wasn’t due until tomorrow.”
    “He was in a hurry to reach his bride, apparently,” Gareth said.
    “Was there any sign, any token, of who could have ordered this?” Hywel said.
    “No,” Gareth said. “Not that we’ve found so far. I’d like to return to the initial site without the feet of fifty other men treading on it.”
    “You’ll have that chance,” Hywel said, “if I have any say in it.”
    “Whoever paid for this crime has incredible power and reach, my lord,” Gwen said. “The Irish connection is critical.”
    Hywel got up and began to pace in front of the open window by his desk. They both knew better than to interrupt his thoughts, but then he halted in front of them. “This news cannot wait. We must wake my father. It will be worse for everyone if even one more hour goes by without him hearing of it.”

Chapter Seven

    O wain Gwynedd, however, was not asleep, though he was less than pleased to see Hywel stride into the room, interrupting his late night meal with Cristina. They sat together at the high table in the great hall, alone but not private, an odd paring at first glance, his middle-aged bulk a contrast to her petite youthfulness.
    Gareth bent his head to Gwen’s. “As far as I’ve seen, she refuses to dally for more than a few moments alone with the King. She has her eye on the main chance.”
    “He’s obviously smitten.”
    “It seems to me since everyone’s here for Anarawd’s wedding,” Gareth said, “they might as well go ahead and marry themselves instead.”
    “Don’t