The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

know!” King Owain said, the storm returning. “Where’s Rhun?”
    “At Aberffraw, my lord,” Hywel said. “He was to escort Elen here tomorrow.”
    “ Cocoen !” King Owain said. “This is just what I need.”
    At his flagrant profanity, Cristina rose to her feet, risking his wrath far more than Gwen could have imagined she might, and put a hand to his arm. “There is nothing more to be done tonight. Madog will come from Caerhun tomorrow with Anarawd’s body. Until then, strategy is best conceived with a cool head.”
    King Owain turned on her at the implied criticism of his temper but she stood steady before him, gazing unblinking into his eyes—and raising her standing considerably in Gwen’s estimation. He glared at her for another count of ten, and then his shoulders relaxed and he even laughed. “I bow to your wishes, my dear. We will retire.”
    Hywel took a step forward. “About Gareth, my lord—”
    “He will stay where he is,” King Owain said. “He has not told me as much as he will.” He strode from the room, Cristina on his arm.
    It was as though the fire had gone out of the hall. It was colder, darker, and far, far calmer without King Owain’s presence. Gwen moved to Hywel’s side. “Is there something Gareth knows that he’s not telling the king?”
    Hywel gave her a cryptic look. “Many things, but since you confirm his story, I don’t see what more he can tell us about Anarawd’s death.”
    “Does Gareth really have to stay in a cell tonight?”
    “You’re asking me to defy my father? You’ve spent all of a half of an hour in his company in the last six years but already you should know better,” Hywel said.
    “But, my lord—”
    “You’ve felt only a taste of my father’s wrath. I cannot release Gareth on my own accord—not yet—not until pressed to absolute need. Besides, it sounds worse than it is for him. We don’t actually have any cells here. This isn’t the Tower of London.”
    “Yes, my lord.” Gwen cast her eyes down so she wouldn’t have to look at him—or embarrass herself with begging.
    She could feel Hywel’s eyes on her. “We will speak in the morning,” Hywel said. “I’ll have my father’s steward find you a place to sleep.”

Chapter Eight

    J esus! In his wildest imagination, it hadn’t occurred to Gareth that the result of being the one to tell Owain Gwynedd that King Anarawd was dead was that he’d end up here. What if King Owain leaves me here? I’ll rot while Gwen is left to wander the castle alone. The thought of her on her own amongst the garrison was enough to have him punching his fist into the wall again. That it was wooden and not stone was the only thing that saved him from a broken hand. Of course, it also showed him how easily he could kick his way out of his rickety prison if he had to. He could take some comfort in that.
    His cell sat at the back of the stables. It was ten feet on a side with knot holes and slits in the wood that allowed him to see through the slats to the curtain wall. This section had already been replaced with stone, indicating that freedom, were he to pursue it on his own, wouldn’t be as immediate as he might hope. The pungent smells of horse and excrement were making him lightheaded in the confined space and he paced around his cell, trying to stay awake until someone came. Hywel? Gwen? A guard to beat the truth out of him? At the very least, he was looking for someone to talk to him, to come and tell him this was all a mistake.
    Fortunately, the guards hadn’t yet roughed him up. Hell—they weren’t even guards, but friends. Evan had brought him a flask, a crust of bread, and dried meat, with an unspoken apology in his eyes. None of his friends had been happy with their appointed task, but they did it. They did it because their lord ordered it and it wasn’t their place to question Owain Gwynedd’s orders. If Gareth had learned that lesson sooner, he might have married Gwen. They might have had those three children she’d mentioned.
    After an hour alone, a light appeared on the other side of the door. Gareth braced himself—whether for fight or flight he hadn’t yet decided—but it was Hywel who appeared. To his credit, he didn’t bother to apologize for Gareth’s predicament, but stood with his hands on his hips in the doorway with the door open wide behind him.
    “You won’t run, I assume,” he said.
    Gareth eyed the space behind his prince. He could knock Hywel over; maybe