The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

didn’t see Gwen again until they were loading the boats for the voyage to Wales. The martial nature of the expedition was immediately obvious. The Danes took on supplies, although by Gareth’s estimate, only food for the journey and the initial day or two in Wales. Either the Danes were assuming this would be over quickly, or that they could plunder the countryside. As it was late August, the pickings would be easy.
    “You will sail with me,” Godfrid said to Gareth, as they heaved crates and satchels into the ship, to be stored in the prow or stern.
    Danish ships had no below-decks, since their keels were so shallow. It allowed them to pull right up to a beach and push off just as easily, but meant that pillaging—or foraging, as Godfrid preferred to call it—was a way of life. Two dozen men settled easily into their rowing positions. As this was a fighting ship, even though it was large enough to cross the Irish Sea, there was no space for men who couldn’t do double-duty. Or triple. Warriors rowed as easily as slaves and it kept them busy through the long days and nights of travel.
    Godfrid stood on the edge of the dock and gazed out to sea, his eyes tracing the clouds that were rarely absent, even in August.
    “What is it?” Gareth stepped forward to look with him.
    “Rain and a little wind,” Godfrid said. “Nothing with which to concern yourself.”
    Gareth’s thoughts went to Gwen and her fragile stomach and his own clenched. Many Welsh were fishermen, but he was not and though he’d travelled to Ireland and back twice now, he’d not fallen in love with sea journeys as some did. Perhaps if Gareth had spent his life on the sea as Godfrid had, he’d be as familiar with its moods as he was with the mountains of Snowdonia. There, he could find a trail or track a deer across woods, moor, and fields. Here, all he saw was water.
    Gareth had been given no chance to speak to Gwen, though he’d tried. He’d caught a glimpse of her a moment ago, standing in the prow of Cadwaladr’s ship. She’d looked over and lifted a hand to him, though she didn’t smile and he supposed he couldn’t blame her.
    “She’s all right. I made sure of it.” Godfrid grunted as he set down the last sack and shot him a glance from under his bushy eyebrows. “She sleeps in a room with Ottar’s women. No one has touched her.”
    Gareth nodded his thanks. Fear for her had sickened him throughout the last two days. He’d had to force back thoughts of storming into Ottar’s hall and demanding her return. But Gwen herself would have been angry at him for that—for calling attention to himself and putting himself at risk over nothing. Or what she might call nothing. To Gareth’s mind it was nothing short of torture.
    Godfrid raised his fist and the ship got underway. As when they’d sailed west, the men rowed until they reached more open sea, and then hoisted the sail. Their ship was one among eight, nearly two hundred and fifty men in all, bought with Cadwaladr’s promise of money.
    “Has he paid anyone any gold yet?” Gareth asked Godfrid. He was watching Gwen, three boats over, and noted the moment she sank to her knees by the rail. She faced away from him, probably on purpose.
    “Brodar took gold from Aberystwyth before it burned,” Godfrid said. “Cadwaladr promised us two thousand marks this time, but according to Brodar, the five hundred he took from the castle was all Cadwaladr had.”
    “The men who attacked Anarawd’s company carried no gold either,” Gareth said. “Cadwaladr must not have paid them yet.”
    “As he has not paid us.” Godfrid eyed Gwen’s boat. Cadwaladr stood proudly at the helm.
    “He will double-cross you too, if it suits him,” Gareth said.
    “We won’t let him.”
    Gareth shrugged. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop him, especially since he appears to have Ottar’s trust.”
    “Let’s just say that my father is not Ottar,” Godfrid said. “I spoke to him of Cadwaladr’s treachery, of the murder and Owain Gwynedd’s reaction.” Godfrid glanced at Gareth. “What troubled my father the most was the sloppiness of Cadwaladr’s plans. He is more unreliable than we’d thought.”
    “I’ve been doing some thinking myself these last few days,” Gareth said. “About that murder, and the aftermath.”
    “Tell me.” Godfrid’s eyes flicked from one aspect of his domain to another in rapid movements—to the oarsmen, to the cargo, to his men working in the