The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery) (32 page)

There was her father, scowling as always, his arms folded across his chest, though what concerned him today, Gwen didn’t know. Maybe he’d heard from Gwalchmai that Gareth had returned.

And there was Gareth
. He pushed through the front door and elbowed his way along the side wall. He must have washed, as his face was clean and his close-cropped hair wet. When Gwen had known him before, Gareth’s hair had been longer. She couldn’t decide which look she liked better.

He hadn’t changed his clothes, however, and the mail underneath his travel-stained cloak glinted in the torchlight. When he reached her father’s position, Meilyr actually had the grace to stick out his hand, which Gareth shook. They spoke a few words before Gareth moved on. By some miracle, their exchange had been civil.

Gareth edged further down the hall, making for her (Gwen hoped) or at least trying to get closer. Her heart warmed with every step he took. Although it wouldn’t be seemly for him to stand behind the high table or to wait on it with her, he deserved a seat above the salt if he could find a space to sit. He was a knight in Prince Hywel’s company after all.

Waiting on the high table wasn’t usual for her either, but the serving girls had been run off their feet just keeping up with the lower tables this week, and today was the last feast before the wedding. Taran, King Owain’s steward, had hired more workers, but Cristina had asked specifically for Gwen to serve her. How could Gwen refuse her future queen?

At the time, Gwen had been somewhat put out that Cristina would expect such a service from her, but now Gwen was glad, since it meant she’d taken special care with her appearance. Serving Cristina meant Gwen would have to spend the evening on the dais, and thus be visible to everyone in the hall. Knowing this, Cristina had given Gwen permission to wash in the bath room, with its elaborate tiles and sunken pool, a legacy of the Roman nobleman who had built his manor long ago on the very spot on which Aber now stood. Gwen wore her second-best dress which happened to be Gareth’s favorite color—a deep blue. She was saving her finest dress (which she actually liked less well) for the wedding tomorrow.

The room quieted, and after an appropriate pause, Owain Gwynedd lifted his glass. Gareth halted, having advanced to a position thirty paces from Gwen. The servants had arranged the tables to leave a gap between the dais and the three long tables that stretched the length of the hall, parallel to each other and perpendicular to the high table.

Gareth glanced at Gwen, his eyes lit with good humor and a smile. Several men of the garrison shifted to make room for him and he settled back against the wall.

“Welcome to you all.” King Owain raised his glass higher and the diners followed suit. Those without glasses, Gareth and Gwen among them, put a hand to their hearts. “Tomorrow, you will witness an event that has been a long time coming. Tomorrow, I will be joined forever with my beloved, Cristina.”

At these words, Lord Goronwy stood to clasp King Owain’s forearm in an expression of solidarity. When King Owain released him, he moved to stand behind his daughter’s chair. Owain then reached across the space Goronwy had vacated and touched his glass to Cristina’s. They both drank, Cristina looking at King Owain over the rim of her cup with a smile in her eyes and on her lips.

It was a smile Gwen had seen before, and one that she trusted just about as far as she could throw her soon-to-be queen. That Cristina cared primarily for herself was a certainty. That she saw marriage to King Owain as a pinnacle of achievement—which it would be for any woman—was unquestionable. Gwen wished her well. For all that Gwen was thankful to find herself in the good graces of both bride and groom, she wouldn’t have wished marriage to King Owain on anyone. For her part, Gwen had her hands full with a certain young knight.

One of the serving men, a youth of less than twenty, came through the door to the kitchen with a tray of food to replenish the dishes at the tables. He stopped short at the solemnity of the diners and shifted from one foot to the other. Gwen didn’t know him—Aber’s steward had hired many men for the week whom she didn’t know—but she motioned for him to stand at the wall so as not to interrupt the ceremony. The man set his tray on a small table next to the door and took his place beside her. He dipped his head to Gwen. “Thanks.”

Cristina and King Owain faced the room again and Goronwy retook his seat. Cristina tipped her head characteristically to one side as she gazed at her future subjects. From her relaxed shoulders and folded hands, Gwen could tell that she was pleased.

King Owain put down his glass and spread his arms wide in an expansive gesture. “First, thanks to you all for coming to witness this blessed day. I would especially like to extend my appreciation to my long-time companions who will stand with me tomorrow: Lord Goronwy,” Owain dropped a hand to his friend’s shoulder, “Lord Taran, my brother Cadwaladr, and Lord Tomos, a true friend if there ever was one.” Taran, seated on Hywel’s right, raised his glass and both Cadwaladr and Tomos lifted a hand in acknowledgment of the King’s words.

Gwen smiled as she recognized this final friend. Tomos was one of the few barons in the hall who was consistently polite to all, baseborn, royal, or somewhere in between. He nodded to the king from his seat one down from Cristina.

The crowd in the hall raised their glasses and everyone drank. Before the noise level could rise, King Owain lifted his hands again. “Tonight I also wish to announce the first of many gifts to my bride.”

Cristina’s head whipped around so fast to look at the king it was a wonder she didn’t strain herself. And then she recovered, facing forward and straightening in her seat. She hadn’t known the time had come for gift-giving, for all that Owain must have made her and her family promises when Lord Goronwy signed the papers of betrothal.

King Owain continued his announcement: “The moment we are wed, I bestow upon Cristina ferch Goronwy my estate of Rhuddlan in the cantref of Tegeingl. It once belonged to her grandfather and it is my pleasure to return it to her family. Many thanks to my friend, Lord Tomos, who has kept it well these many years.”

King Owain lifted his glass in the direction of Tomos. What King Owain didn’t say, and this was why the Church was opposed to his wedding, was that Cristina’s grandfather was also Owain’s grandfather, and the man for whom he was named. His mother (who had died last spring) and Cristina’s father had been siblings.

The control of Rhuddlan was a plum appointment, one that Tomos had to regret losing. Cristina, when she took over the estate, would want to bestow the stewardship of it on someone of her own choosing, probably a family member. Such was the way of kingly largess. Gwen wouldn’t have expected Tomos to cheer at this announcement, but as he raised his glass to Owain, a huge smile spread across his face. Then King Owain explained the reason for Tomos’ pleasure: “In thanks for the fulfillment of his arduous duties for so many years, I have given Lord Tomos the estate of Nefyn in Arfon, for himself and for his heirs.”

A communal gasp blew around the hall. That was friendship indeed.

Cristina rose to her feet. “Thank you, my lord. You have given me more than I deserve and have been generous beyond all expectation.”

Cristina gave the king a deep curtsey, her head bowed in apparent submission. Owain stepped past her father’s chair to reach her for her hand and raise her up. Cristina tipped her cheek for a kiss. Applause echoed throughout the room. Owain seated Cristina again and went back to his chair. Gwen turned to smile at the young man next to her, to comment on how lovely the scene had been, only to find him unsmiling.

And then he pulled a blade from the sheath at his waist and started forward.

Chapter Two

W
hen the youth had entered the hall at the beginning of King Owain’s speech, Gareth had noted the mulish set to his jaw. He’d assumed the boy resented his servitude, but had then dismissed him from his thoughts—until the boy’s face coalesced into a rictus of hate. It took Gareth a moment to register the expression, and then his eyes flashed to Gwen’s. The smile which she’d given the youth at the conclusion of the ceremony had turned to a look of stark horror.

Gareth surged forward, knocking aside a servant who was pouring a glass of mead into a cup for one of the diners and sending him sprawling across the man’s lap. The youth’s attention, however, remained entirely on King Owain, and he didn’t glance in Gareth’s direction. Gareth thought he had a chance.

Gareth reached the dais in four strides. As the knife descended towards the king’s back, the blade glittering in the light of the candles that lit the table, Gareth threw himself forward to bridge the last yards to the king. His torso hit the table with a thud, extinguishing two candles and sending food and dishware flying in all directions. Gareth skidded across it, reached out, and caught the youth around the waist.

They fell to the floor on the other side of the table and landed hard, Gareth on top and the would-be assassin beneath. The impact knocked all the air from Gareth’s lungs but also flung the youth’s arm upward with such force that he released the knife. It sailed across the room and skittered under the table near where Gwen had been standing.

Gareth lay as he’d fallen for a moment, sprawled at a diagonal across the body of the boy, with his forehead resting on the smooth planks of the floor. He coughed. Then he pushed to his knees so he straddled the youth’s midsection and punched a fist to his own chest, trying to get his breath back. The assassin moaned and tried to twist away but Gareth held him down. His head lifted and fell back, his eyes opening once and then closing.

The instant Gareth had seen the knife aimed at King Owain’s back, his ears had closed to the hubbub in the hall. Now the crescendo of sound overwhelmed his senses. People around him shouted and screamed their shock, but their words made no sense to Gareth. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Lifting his eyes from the youth’s face, Gareth found Gwen a few feet away, her hands to her mouth and her eyes wide. His shoulders sagged in relief to see her unhurt.

The diners at the high table had pushed back their chairs and risen to their feet. Of the small circle of onlookers, Hywel was the first to speak. He dropped a hand to Gareth’s shoulder. “Praise be to God. You saved the king.”

King Owain’s eyes tracked from Gareth, to the man on the ground, to Gareth again.

Gareth cleared his throat. “He tried to kill you, my lord.”

“I see that.”

Gareth allowed himself a deep breath. For one heartbeat—only one but it had felt like a lifetime—he’d feared King Owain might misunderstand what had just occurred and think the youth had merely been bringing him a knife for his meal. It would have been so easy for Gareth to have misread the situation and been in the wrong again.

But no. Gareth hadn’t been wrong. He had acted on instinct because the expression on the youth’s face—and the upraised knife in his hand—had been impossible to misinterpret.

A man-at-arms stooped to pick up the assassin’s knife where it had lodged under the serving table. He brought it to Hywel who took it and then held it out to his father, the blade flat against his palm. Despite the earlier tone of dry amusement in the King’s voice, color had yet to return to his face. But he took the knife, and then passed it to his steward, Taran. “Keep this safe for me, will you?”

Taran nodded. Like everyone else, his eyes were too wide and the lines at the corners of his mouth were accentuated as he gazed down at the youth from beside the king. “This is my fault—”

Cristina pushed past her father to reach King Owain. He saw her coming and put out his arm to draw her to him. “I’m all right, my dear.”

She seemed genuinely distraught and pressed her face to his chest. The cynical part of Gareth believed she was upset because someone had tried to kill the king
before
he married her. If he’d died, she would never have become the Queen of Gwynedd. “How-how-how could this happen?” she said.

“That is something we will have to find out,” King Owain said, his eyes on Hywel.

The uproar in the hall was ongoing. Ten people had been seated at the high table, but the dais had fifty on it now. Even Prince Cadwaladr appeared shaken, with a pinched look to his eyes and mouth. He held his arm around Alice, his wife, who like King Owain, seemed to have forgiven him his past misdeeds. Or rather, she had chosen to ignore them.

Lord Tomos had risen and come closer to support the king. He reached for Cristina, whom King Owain gratefully passed off to him. “My dear, let me get you away from all this,” Tomos said.

Cristina pressed Tomos’ hand and even managed a small smile. “Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Goronwy, Cristina’s father, still sat in his chair to the left of the king’s, a stunned expression on his face, incapable of aiding his daughter. Gareth found it curious the different ways in which people responded to unexpected events. Some, like Tomos, seemed to recover smoothly no matter what happened. It didn’t look to Gareth as if Goronwy was a good man in a crisis.

 “There’s blood on your shirt, Father.” Rhun pointed to a blotch of red on his father’s otherwise spotlessly white shirt. King Owain had forgone his customary mail vest in favor of finery in honor of the occasion. The assassin must have known that would happen and taken his only chance to bring Owain Gwynedd down.

“Do I?” King Owain twisted to look at his shoulder, but the place where the point of the knife had gone in was too far down his back and near his spine for him to see it. “I didn’t even feel it.”

“It would have entered your heart, but for Gareth.” Hywel held out his hand to Gareth who clasped it and used Hywel’s strength to haul himself to his feet. His knees trembled at the effort of staying upright but he locked them so as not to sway. Hywel’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t comment or make Gareth find a chair.

The youth remained as he’d fallen, arms and legs akimbo, still unconscious. Or was he feigning it? Now that the initial shock had passed, Gareth’s heart began to slow and instead of his muscles, his brain, with its investigative instincts, began to function. He wanted to know who this boy was and whether this act had been his own idea or if he was working for someone else. Why would a peasant boy want to murder the King of Gwynedd? From the threadbare state of his breeches and shirt, he didn’t come from money, and that made it more likely that the boy hadn’t conceived the idea to kill the king on his own, but that someone had hired him.