The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

end. As they all were.
    “Seven years ago he was in his early thirties. He’s forty now, maybe,” Hywel said. “His father was nearly this age when he married my aunt, who was only fifteen at the time. They eloped.” He grinned. “I would have liked to have been there to see my grandfather’s face when he found out.”
    “Your grandfather didn’t approve of the union?” Gwen had begun sorting through Anarawd’s clothes, emptying the contents of his pockets and now looked up.
    “Well…” Hywel said. “You know fathers.”
    Gwen laughed. “I do.”
    A moment of silence. And then Hywel added, “Your father was a good teacher.”
    “He was and is, but being his daughter hasn’t been easy.” Gwen shot Hywel an irritated look. “And you haven’t helped matters.”
    “You don’t have to work for me,” Hywel said.
    “Oh, I don’t regret that,” she said. “But he loved you like a son and yet you’ve not spoken to him more than a handful of times since we left Aber. It hurts him.”
    “I know,” Hywel said. “But he is not my father and Owain Gwynedd is. My need to please the king is greater.” He paused, and then added, “I am looking forward to seeing Meilyr back at Aber where he belongs.”
    “Father was at Caerhun. Since he didn’t travel with Madog, I’m sure he’ll be along soon. Still, he is wary of this meeting with the King.”
    “My father invited him, didn’t he?” Hywel said. “For all that he has a temper, he’s not one to hold a grudge.”
    “It’s my father who’s held it all these years,” Gwen said, “not yours.”
    Hywel nodded. “Pride has undone many a lesser man.”
    Gwen refocused on the body in front of her. “You see the slit between his ribs? That was the killing blow.”
    Hywel bent to examine Anarawd’s skin. “Are you sure? It’s very small—too small to be from a sword blade.”
    “Yes,” Gwen said. “That’s exactly my point. Or rather, Gareth’s, since he was the one who showed it to me.”
    “But that means—” Hywel broke off. He lifted his head to study Gwen’s face.
    “That he was ambushed and murdered,” Gwen said.
    Hywel returned his gaze to the body. He stood with one arm supporting his right elbow, his hand rubbing his chin. “Let’s walk through what we know: Anarawd leaves Dolwyddelan with twenty-some men. Strangers from Ireland set upon them, slaughtering them all. Anarawd, however, does not die by the sword, but by a secret knife, slipped between his ribs.” Hywel looked up.
    “Which means that he knew his killer,” Gwen said.
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Look at his clothes.” Gwen lifted Anarawd’s shirt, which they’d discarded. “Here’s the wound”—she wiggled her fingers through the hole in the shirt—“but see how the blood flowed down the front of the shirt? He was standing when the killer stabbed him, not lying on the ground.”
    Hywel nodded his agreement. “If he’d been lying down, the blood from his wound would have soaked his side.”
    “Gareth says the killer murdered him in the woods and then dragged him back to the road.”
    Hywel stared at Gwen. “How does he know that?”
    “The blood again, and the dirt and scuff marks on the tops of Anarawd’s boots.”
    “Did he find the location where it happened?” Hywel said.
    Gwen shook her head. “We ran out of time. Too many men and horses had churned it up.”
    Hywel turned back to the body. “So… do we have two villains here, or just one?”
    “Someone paid for the ambush, that we know,” Gwen said. “But do we have a second man who murdered him? Why not simply let the Danes do it?”
    “Perhaps the first paid the second especially to ensure the deed was done,” Hywel said.
    “But whose man was he?” Gwen said. “Obviously, Gareth’s milk-brother betrayed Anarawd, or so it seems right now, but was there another traitor in Anarawd’s party?”
    “That would be a diabolical plan,” Hywel said.
    Gwen glanced at him, disturbed that he sounded, if anything, admiring.
    “Let’s not get carried away,” she said. “Perhaps Anarawd was attempting to plead for his life.”
    “Or flee, even,” Hywel said.
    “He wasn’t stabbed in the back.” Then Hywel’s words sank in. “Was Anarawd the type of man to flee from battle?”
    Hywel shrugged. “Any man might choose that route if his companions were dead and dying. It isn’t always ignoble.”
    “Hmm,” Gwen said, not sure what kind of explanation Hywel was giving