The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

subsided. “I think you’re being foolish. I sang in his hall three months ago. I’ll sing here tonight. He knows who I am.”
    “My father obviously shares my concern.”
    That gave Gwen pause. “Fine. But is Gareth safe from Cadwaladr? His cell is designed to keep him in, not others out.”
    Hywel stared at her. “Bloody hell! I hadn’t thought of that either.” But then he nodded. “I’ll double guard him so no soldier has to deal with any visitors alone.”
    Gwen relaxed against the wall, studying her employer, who continued to pace as he thought. “Did she love him?” Gwen said.
    “Who? Elen?” Hywel said. “She’d only met him once. But she loved the idea of getting married, for all that he was many years her elder. She would have been a princess of Gwynedd and queen of Deheubarth.”
    Gareth’s friend Evan poked his head around the corner, just as a keening wail rose up from Elen. Hywel rolled his eyes at Gwen before acknowledging Evan. “What is it now?”
    “Madog has come with the body.”
    If Hywel hadn’t sworn again, Gwen might have. Then he canted his head to Gwen. “Come.”
    Gwen trotted after Hywel, towards the far door through which she and Gareth had entered the building last night, with Evan at her heels.
    Madog and ten men from his garrison milled about a cart with Anarawd’s wrapped body in the bed. His face expressionless, King Owain, Cadwaladr beside him, gazed down at the body. A portion of the crowd from the great hall had followed him out the door and now clustered behind him, unsure of what to do. News of King Anarawd’s death had been an opportunity for speculation and gossip, but its reality was something else entirely.
    “Enough!” King Owain said. “This is not a market stall. Be about your business.”
    Mumbling among themselves, the people in the crowd dispersed. Cadwaladr clapped a hand on King Owain’s shoulder in apparent sympathy and turned away, leaving King Owain and Madog alone by the cart. King Owain lifted his head and looked around the courtyard until he spied Hywel, still standing by the side door with Gwen. With a wave of his hand, he gestured them over.
    “You know what to do,” he said when Hywel reached him.
    “Yes, Father.”
    King Owain turned away.
    “Where shall we put him, my lord?” Madog said. “The weather has been so warm he stinks already.”
    “Unfortunate but unavoidable,” Hywel said. “We’ll try to make this quick. Bring him to the barracks.”
    More curious than she wanted to admit, Gwen went with Hywel and the men-at-arms carrying Anarawd’s body. The long, low building sat by the gatehouse. It contained a large, open sleeping space, but also dozens of small rooms. Just as they reached it, Hywel’s elder brother, Rhun, stepped from the main doorway. Hywel pulled up short.
    He held out his hand to Rhun, who took it, and the two men embraced. “I’m sorry this isn’t going to end in a wedding,” Hywel said. “You can imagine how upset Elen is with this news.”
    “Where is she?” Rhun said.
    “In the hall,” Hywel said. “I saw her greet Uncle Cadwaladr after Father dismissed him.”
    Rhun choked on a laugh. “I’ll rescue her in a moment.” He surveyed Anarawd’s body and then turned to Gwen who stood quietly to one side. “Are you sure you want to be present when my brother examines him?”
    “I’ve already seen the body,” she said. “Sir Gareth and I were the ones who found him.”
    She didn’t say anything of what she and Gareth had discovered about his murder, however. If Hywel was secretive to a fault, Rhun was too open and might reveal what he knew to the wrong person. Everyone might hear about the knife wound soon enough, but she’d wait to tell anyone else until she’d spoken to Hywel about it.
    “Then I leave him in good hands.” Rhun clapped Hywel on the shoulder and walked away.
    Once inside the tiny chamber, Hywel lit the lamps and dismissed the guards. Together, he and Gwen stripped Anarawd of his fine clothes and armor, revealing a well-muscled but oft-wounded body. “This must have hurt.” Gwen traced a thick scar under the man’s right rib.
    “That came from the 1136 war when we defeated the Normans in Deheubarth,” Hywel said. “I was fighting alongside him, although I was only sixteen at the time.”
    “How old is—was—Anarawd?” Gwen circled the table to survey the body from every angle. The man seemed smaller now, more fragile. So he’d proved to be in the