The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

serve the others right, but the smell would probably only make her more ill. The moment of spite wouldn’t be worth it.
    The big square sail flew above her head and men scrambled all over the boat as they maneuvered the rigging, tacking their way towards Ireland. As soon as they’d left the immediate vicinity of the shore, the leader—the same man who’d carried her—had ordered his men to hoist it. It puffed out now—satisfactorily it seemed from the looks on the sailors’ faces. In addition, the wind hadn’t lessened since they’d left Wales, which seemed to please them all no end.
    Watching it, the leader turned to Gwen with an enormous smile. “A good wind. If it keeps up, we will reach Dublin before two full days have passed.”
    Gwen stared at him, horror churning in her gut instead of fear. She rested her forehead on the rail, feeling the coolness of the sea spray blowing into her face, but overcome by despair that with the disappearance of the shore behind them, she had no choices at all. She had to continue with the Danes.
    And Gareth … she shivered. Surely he knew that Hywel hadn’t touched her—had never touched her for reasons that had never been entirely clear to her, but by now were set in stone. Hywel would tell him so, but sometimes men didn’t think clearly when it came to women. And with that, she acknowledged that she loved Gareth—and wanted him to love her. Maybe when she saw him again she’d have the courage to tell him. She fingered his cross which she still wore around her neck. The time had never seemed right to give it to him. As it had every day for the last five years, it comforted her to have something of his always with her.
    Whatever August heat had warmed her on shore had disappeared the moment they’d pulled out of the bay. A new guard hung onto her waist—this time, a young one named Olaf. He grinned through perfectly white teeth and spoke no Welsh, nor any other language it seemed. His grip tightened as her shoulders shuddered, as if he feared she would throw herself overboard even though they were in the middle of the sea. She couldn’t even see Mt. Snowdon anymore. As they tacked towards the setting sun, the direction of the wind confirmed what she’d feared: they’d continued sailing directly west, towards Dublin, and not south to Ceredigion as she’d initially hoped.
    It had been a faint hope anyway, with Cadwaladr on the run from his brother and in the company of four dozen Danishmen. He would be as safe as he could be in Ireland. Ceredigion was another matter and he knew it. She wondered how his wife would react, knowing she had a coward for a husband. Then again, she probably already knew.
    Finally, Gwen had nothing left in her stomach to come up, so her guard left her with her eyes closed, curled on a blanket near the stern of the boat so she’d be out of the way of the oarsmen and the rigging. Her illness gave her two advantages: one, they left her alone, and two, it perpetuated the myth that she carried Hywel’s child.
    She hoped she could keep up the façade long enough for them to either lose interest in her, or take her back home, though that thought in and of itself was enough to make her gag. It was only because she’d left her family behind—and Gareth—that she could even contemplate a return journey. Gradually the sun lowered in the sky until it shone directly into Gwen’s face. She shut her eyes, feeling the warmth on her eyelids.
    All of a sudden, the sun disappeared. Gwen opened her eyes to find the big Dane blocking the light. He gazed down at her, his hands on his hips. Gwen curled up tighter, not wanting him to look at her, speak to her, or touch her. The Dane didn’t appear to get the message.
    “No sea legs, eh.” He crouched in front of her and reached a hand to her shoulder.
    Gwen twitched away.
    “You’re afraid of me?”
    “Shouldn’t I be?” Gwen said. “You’ll do whatever Cadwaladr says and I know of what he’s capable.”
    The Dane snorted. “I don’t take orders from Cadwaladr.”
    Gwen had been staring at his boots so as not to look into his eyes, but the disgust and assured tone in his voice made her chance a glance at his face. “What do you mean?”
    “You think us barbarians,” he said, “but I reckon my Latin is better than yours.”
    Despite herself, Gwen smiled. “Don’t tell my father that.”
    “See,” the Dane said. “Already your fear leaves you. I am Godfrid mac Ragnall, descended from