The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

could I forget?”
    “Your arrival distracted me, but I was studying how his body was laid on the road. Remember how I said that the murderer had dragged it?”
    “From the scuff marks on his toes,” Gwen said.
    “That and because there wasn’t enough blood on the ground beneath his body,” Gareth said. “If he’d bled out like his companions, it would have soaked the ground. It hadn’t rained the night before and although the earth in the road was damp, it wasn’t damp enough to indicate he’d died there.”
    “But there’s more,” she said. “You think there’s something else?”
    “Yes,” Gareth said. “Did you notice that his nails were full of dirt?”
    Gwen gazed at him. “No. I didn’t.”
    “Anarawd scrabbled in the dirt. Maybe he tried to crawl away from his killer before he died.”
    Gwen shivered at how cold the killer’s heart must be. “You never mentioned this before.”
    “I thought there was plenty of time to make certain,” he said. “I should have inspected the body straight away, but with the singing in the hall, and the dark, I assumed this morning would be soon enough.”
    Gwen gave him a half-smile. “Do you know the first thing that Hywel told me after he asked me to spy for him?”
    “What?”
    “Never assume.”
    Gareth snorted laughter—more in disgust than amusement Gwen thought—and led the way down the stairs to Hywel’s rooms. Just like the night they arrived, Hywel appeared to have slept alone. He stood before the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked up as they entered.
    “You were still abed?” he said, taking in Gwen’s night braid. Although she’d pulled on her boots, she hadn’t yet attended to her hair. “It’s nearly dawn.”
    “One of us got to bed later than she liked,” Gwen said. “And that would be your fault.” Even though she’d gone to bed earlier than Gareth and the men that Hywel had set to protect him, she’d stayed in the hall with him far too late, listening to Hywel sing. His tenor had filled the air with song after achingly beautiful song. Gwen’s father, had he been there, would have been pleased with the progress his student had made, even if Hywel had taken what Meilyr had taught him and made the art his own. Most of his songs—the ones he’d written himself—had an unusual meter and rhyme.
    “I assume Gareth has told you that Anarawd’s body is missing, along with all his possessions.”
    “Yes,” Gwen said.
    “Like an idiot, I didn’t leave a guard on the room,” Hywel said.
    Gareth shook his head. “You couldn’t have foreseen this, my lord, any more than an attempt to poison me. We’ve seriously underestimated our opponent. I believe it’s time we took all this to the king.”
    “We must do a complete search of the castle, not only for the body and Anarawd’s possessions, but belladonna as well,” Gwen said. “We’ll need his permission to do that.”
    Hywel turned back to the fire, hesitated, and then nodded. “I urged something like this on my father after we discovered you’d been poisoned. Now we have to act.”
    “We should start now, before the nobles and their lackeys are awake,” Gwen said. “We might get more assistance from the kitchen and the craft halls when there’s nobody watching.”
    “You two begin the interviews; I’ll organize men from the garrison to do a search for the body,” Hywel said. “It may be that the culprit was forced to stash it in an out-of-the-way spot inside the castle.”
    “Yes, my lord,” Gareth and Gwen said together and left the room, heading for the kitchens. They’d find breakfast there, warmth, and the loquacious cook, Dai.
    “I can’t believe I have to do this again,” Gwen said. “And at Aber, no less.”
    “Tell me about the murder Meilyr was charged with,” Gareth said.
    Gwen shook her head, mentally going over the disaster that week had been, remembering her fear and her struggle to help her father. “I never believed he did it,” she said, “though perhaps it was marginally more likely than you murdering Anarawd.”
    “What happened?”
    “During one of our visits to the south of Wales—all the way to Carreg Cennan—a man was found dead, garroted with one of my father’s iron harp strings.”
    “A few twists and one of those could cut through most anything,” Gareth said.
    “Including the culprit’s fingers,” Gwen said. “My father always wears gloves when he strings his harp because without them he