The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

they’re abandoning the fort? A woman would be a needless hindrance on a sea journey, and since Hywel had obviously followed Cadwaladr from Aber, Cadwaladr could surely gain nothing by keeping her prisoner. “Are you going to let me go? Surely there’s no sense in following Cadwaladr in this?”
    Irritation—and something else, disbelief?—crossed the man’s face, but still he didn’t speak and time stretched out with every beat of Gwen’s heart. Then, finally, the man straightened, looking towards a door at the far end of the hallway that led to the battlements and Gwen focused on it too. A moment later, the door burst open. Cadwaladr himself bounded into the building. He reached her in three strides and lifted her bodily off her stool.
    “Let me go!” Gwen hadn’t fought when his men had taken her from Aber, but now she instinctively resisted. She kicked at him and tried to wrench away.
    “You will do as I say!” Before she could speak again, Cadwaladr had her pressed against the wall, his fingers around her neck. “Do as I command or you will die.”
    Gwen struggled for breath, staring into Cadwaladr’s face. He held her there for a long count of ten before releasing her and stepping back. Her neck stung from where his fingernails had bit into her skin and she gagged, holding her throat with one hand and breathing hard.
    “Will you obey?” He stared down at her, his hands on his hips, as she bent over, still gasping.
    “I will,” Gwen said. Better to give in now while he still seemed to want her alive, on the chance she could escape later.
    Cadwaladr grabbed her arm. “Damn right you will.”
    He half-dragged, half-carried her down the hall to the far door that he’d just come through. Men, both Danish and Welsh, lined the battlements leading to the upper storey of the gatehouse. The Danes with their smirks and long, untied hair were a contrast to the Welshmen, many of whom had hair shorn short and trim beards. At Cadwaladr’s appearance and the sight of Gwen’s struggles, they wore expressions ranging from a completely blank face, for those who’d spent more time in Cadwaladr’s service, to outright horror—quickly suppressed as Cadwaladr and she approached.
    Gwen, for her part, once they were outside, stopped dragging her feet and walked with him, since there was no way for her to escape with so many of his men about. Cadwaladr urged her along the wall until he stood with her at the top of the gatehouse. He placed himself directly behind her, using her as a shield. The wind had picked up since Gwen first stood in her window and the flag above her head streamed full out, pointing east, towards Aber. Below them, Gareth, Hywel, Rhun, and four others—all Hywel’s men—sat astride their horses. She tried not to be disappointed that they weren’t backed by more soldiers, though three had their bows up and arrows nocked.
    “Release those arrows and the girl dies,” Cadwaladr said.
    Nobody moved. Hywel kept his face impassive. Gareth swallowed hard. Rhun opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it as Hywel made a slight movement with his hand to stay him.
    “In truth, why should I care?” Hywel said. “We have bowmen and knights among us. Properly positioned, we can cut down any who attempt to leave Aberffraw. In a day, the King will be here with an army. Kill the girl or not. Our orders will not change.”
    “You can’t fool me,” Cadwaladr said. “You don’t mean what you say. Not when Gwen carries your child.”
    Jaws dropped on both sides of the wall. Gwen hastily closed her mouth before Cadwaladr became aware of her shock, but even Hywel couldn’t keep the surprise out of his face. He stared at Cadwaladr, transferred his gaze to Gwen who tried to stare stonily back, and then turned to speak to his brother and Gareth. They pressed close in brief consultation. Gareth became animated, gesticulating with one hand and stabbing a finger towards Cadwaladr.
    Cadwaladr’s decision to kidnap instead of kill her now made a lot more sense. For all Hywel’s liaisons, he’d yet to father a child that lived, mortality among infants and mothers being what it was. Rhun, too, had produced no children. Although he was two years older than Hywel—approaching twenty-five—he was more circumspect in his liaisons. If Gwen was genuinely pregnant, it would be King Owain’s first grandchild. Cadwaladr was right to think that Hywel—and the King—would take that very seriously.
    “Who told