The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery)

strength and she thought about the various ways she might get herself free, now that she was back in Wales. King Owain’s camp wasn’t far. Might she find a moment when the guards were inattentive and escape?
    But then she glanced to where Godfrid sat with his men and thought better of it. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the virtue in staying—the honor that seemed to emanate from Godfrid in particular, but it applied to her as much as it had to Gareth when he’d come to Dublin. To escape would imply that she was Godfrid’s prisoner, and that he couldn’t trust her, and somehow that felt wrong. Still occupied with these thoughts, Gwen tucked herself into her blankets and closed her eyes.
    She was almost asleep when footfalls in the sand had her opening her eyes again and searching beyond the rim of the dying fire for whoever had made the noise. She glanced towards Godfrid’s fire. More time must have passed than she’d realized because the men had lain down to sleep, leaving only a single sentry awake who wasn’t looking her way. She eased to her feet, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and took two steps away from the fire. Another few steps and darkness encompassed her. What had she heard?
    She was about ready to give up and dismiss the footsteps as her imagination, when she spied a black shape flitting across the sand, heading away from the camp. Fearing the worst, she followed, peering into the dimness ahead and hardly able to make out the person’s shape in the darkness. A moment later, however, a white face looked back towards her and she stilled. Cadwaladr. She hoped he couldn’t see her silhouetted against the light behind her.
    And then the shape disappeared into the scrub to the east of the beach. Her thoughts whirling, Gwen let out a deep breath. Should she follow him, or did honor mean that she should turn back and warn Godfrid that Cadwaladr had gone?
    She headed back to the camp at a run, past the spot where she’d slept, and pulled up at Godfrid’s campfire. She knelt, her hand to Godfrid’s shoulder, and shook once.
    Godfrid’s thick hand fisted around her forearm and he sat up. “What is it?”
    “It’s Cadwaladr. He’s gone,” she said.
    “Stinking Welsh traitor!” Ottar’s rough hand grasped her arm and yanked her away from Godfrid.
    “What—?” she said, in reflex, her voice going high.
    Ottar loomed over her, shouting words she couldn’t understand. Godfrid sprang to his feet and spoke rapidly. Never had Gwen wished she understood Danish more. The argument became heated very quickly—not that Ottar wasn’t already fired up—and didn’t resolve in Godfrid’s favor. As she struggled to stay on her feet, Ottar hauled her with him through the darkness and the seething mass of angry men to his tent, one of the few the Danes had brought.
    When they reached it, he forced her inside and shoved her to the ground. She landed on a fur rug that formed the floor of the tent. She twisted to look back at him. He glared at her, a knife in his hand. Nearly hysterical with fear, she crab-walked towards the back of the tent to get away from him. By the time Godfrid pushed inside, Brodar right behind him, she cowered in the far corner. Taking in the scene at a glance, Godfrid grabbed Ottar’s arm but in a flash, Ottar pressed the knife to Godfrid’s throat instead of Gwen’s. Godfrid’s hands came up and he stepped back, retreating towards the entrance he’d just come through and almost stepping on Brodar’s toes.
    King Ottar spat out an order to someone outside the tent whom Gwen couldn’t see. Gwen’s heart threatened to beat right out of her chest while she waited for whatever would happen next. She blanked her mind, trying not to think and to focus only on her breathing. I will get through this. Then, a man entered with a length of rope and wound it around Gwen’s wrists and ankles until she was tied like a pig for the spit. At this, Ottar seemed to calm and Gwen herself gave in to relief. Tying her up was minor, compared to what he could have done to her.
    Brodar had been speaking fiercely to him, and now Ottar laughed and put away his knife. He clapped Brodar on the back, sneered something into Godfrid’s stony face, and left the tent without another glance at Gwen.
    “Why is he doing this?” Gwen said to Godfrid before he too could leave. She was sick of these silent men who tossed her around like a sack of turnips with little regard for her wishes,