The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

For the rest, find our other scouts and see how many more are down. Evan and I will follow the Danes. At a minimum, we can make sure they’re gone for good, back to Dublin as Prince Hywel intends.”
    Gareth threw himself on Braith who navigated the descent to the beach far more fluidly than Gareth could have on foot. As they raced down the hill from the plateau, the figures of two dozen Danes coalesced out of the murk. They were already at the water’s edge, loading their goods into two boats. At the sight of Gareth and Evan, several moved to intercept them, giving the remainder time to stow their loot.
    A man in one of the boats waved an arm and called something in Danish. The six men broke out of their intimidating stance and returned, climbing awkwardly over the rail since the boats were already pushed back from the shore.
    “Wait!” Gareth shouted one of the few words he knew in Danish and spurred Braith faster. “We mean you no harm!”
    “Are you out of your mind?” Evan said, trying to keep up.
    At Gareth’s call, one of the Danes put up a hand and his rowers stopped pulling on the oars. He stood in the stern, his hands on his hips, defiant. He’d cropped his hair and beard so short he looked less like a Dane than a Saxon. Fortunately, he also spoke some Welsh.
    “What do you want?” he said. “Why do I not kill you?”
    Gareth reined Braith at the water’s edge. “You sail for Ireland?”
    “We did not come to defend a castle without Cadwaladr in it,” the man said. “We take his gold and go home.”
    “And the men on the bluff that you harmed?” Gareth said.
    The man shrugged. “They were in the way. That is all.”
    Gareth nodded, the reply within the realm of the expected. These Danes had no feelings about harming his men one way or the other. They were in the way . “I have a message for someone in Dublin.”
    The man didn’t reply, just waited, impassive, not promising anything.
    “A girl. Her name is Gwen. She’s Welsh. Cadwaladr stole her from Aber. He left our shores with three longboats. The captain who commanded them was larger than average, blond.”
    The Dane nodded. “Godfrid, son of Ragnall. My brother.”
    “Tell Gwen that Gareth said he will come for her.”
    “Tell her yourself. Come with us if you dare.” He grinned and gestured to his ship. “As guest.” He thumped his chest. “I am Brodar, son of Ragnall, and I will take you to Dublin.”
    Gareth stared at him. Evan had come up beside him by now and grasped his arm. “What did he say?”
    “He challenges me to come with him. To Dublin.”
    Gareth gazed out over the water. He desperately wanted to go with Brodar, to see to Gwen’s safety, but his duty lay in Wales, serving his prince. He also, deep inside, feared that if he went to Dublin, he would not return.
    “Go.” Evan flicked the reins in a sort of dismissal. “I will explain to Hywel what has happened.”
    Evan’s urging was all Gareth needed. He dismounted, threw Braith’s reins to Evan, and then walked into the water that slapped around the stern of Brodar’s longboat. He heaved himself over the rail.
    A grin split Brodar’s face. “Brave man.”
    Brodar roared at his men, something again in Danish that Gareth didn’t catch, and they picked up the oars again, falling almost instantly into a unified rhythm.
    Brodar pushed at Gareth’s shoulder. “Sit there.”
    Gareth obeyed, finding a place at the prow. He settled onto a wooden seat and faced east. Evan remained as Gareth had left him, Braith’s reins in his hand and her empty saddle a stark reminder of Gareth’s impulsive choice. Gareth lifted a hand and Evan returned the salutation.
    Once out of the bay, the wind rose and the Danes hoisted sail. They’d have two days of hard sailing before they’d reach Dublin. And Gwen. If she still lived.

Chapter Thirty

    O ver the next few days, Godfrid didn’t mention his suggestion that Gwen stay in Dublin. Her lack of answer for him didn’t seem to interfere with the ease with which he spoke with her either. He remained attentive, even springing questions on her about her life in Wales, her family, and her music, which she’d sung to great applause—and apparent surprise—that third evening in Dublin. When she’d walked off the dais, Godfrid had looked at her as if she was a creature he’d created especially himself. It was flattering, if nothing else, but…
    She couldn’t delay talking to him about herself, and about them, if such