The Good Knight Page 5

  Chapter Five

  “Thanks be to God, you’re all right.” Gwen fell to her knees beside her father and Gwalchmai. The latter sat up, rubbing the side of his head.

  Meilyr patted Gwalchmai all over. “You’re not hurt? Your chest, your fingers—” Meilyr clasped both of Gwalchmai’s hands in his.

  “We’ve routed them.” Gwen put a hand to her chest, feeling her heart slow.

  “I’m fine, Father.” Gwalchmai pulled away. “And so is Gwen.”

  “I can see that.” Meilyr glanced at his daughter once before turning his attention back to Gwalchmai.

  Gwen smiled inwardly at the usual pattern: her father ignored her, and Gwalchmai remembered. It was always he who reminded their father that he had another child. When Gwen was ten and her mother died at Gwalchmai’s birth, she’d taken over Gwalchmai’s care—and her father’s too, truth be told—the best way she knew how, lavishing all the love she had on her little brother. Her father had been undone by grief and had never thanked her, never mentioned her mother or their mutual loss that whole first year. They’d barely spoken to each other beyond brief discussions of court politics, about which Gwen hadn’t cared in the slightest.

  By the time she reached womanhood, Gwen and her father had come to a grudging accommodation, which had been instantly undone by Meilyr’s rejection of Gareth. Gwen had said things to her father then—things she couldn’t take back or amend because they were the truth—but which she later regretted. At the time, she paid for them and maybe that had made her father feel better and allowed him not to face his own neglect. That he was the adult and she the child had mattered little in the end.

  Gwalchmai’s value, however, was undeniable. When Meilyr thought of him, he was thinking also of his own livelihood, which would come to depend more and more on Gwalchmai in the coming years. Meilyr was growing old, and while he taught as well as he sang, few households but those of high lords and kings could afford him. Gwalchmai’s voice, a voice which came along perhaps once in a generation, could support them all.

  “Whose men were they?” Meilyr got to his feet and brushed grass and leaves from his cloak and vest.

  “We don’t know,” Gwen said. “At least one of them was from Ireland. It’s possible they all were. Gareth will find out.”

  Her eyes went automatically to Gareth, who was working side-by-side with Madog. They’d taken on the gruesome task of sorting through their own men: who was alive; who was going to die; and whom they could save. Gwen’s throat constricted at the horrors she’d seen today. It was all too much. Tears pricked her eyes again. She swallowed them back, gritting her teeth and telling herself that she would shed them later, when nobody was watching.

  “Is that so?” Meilyr’s eyes turned thoughtful as he looked at her. “This move is not what I would expect from the Irish—or those Dublin Danes for that matter—not when attacking King Anarawd’s band and ours means inciting the wrath of King Owain Gwynedd.”

  “They were over-confident,” Gwalchmai said. “Do you remember that time I sang in King Padern’s hall? I’d sung that particular song so many times I could do it in my sleep. But because of that, I didn’t prepare as you taught me, and when I opened my mouth, no sound came out.”

  Battling over-confidence was something Gwalchmai would have to deal with his whole life, but Gwen could appreciate his point. “They attacked us because they thought they could ensure that nobody lived to tell the tale. They must have been paid a great deal to be willing to sacrifice their lives in Wales for such an ignoble cause.”

  “No Welshman would have done this,” Meilyr said. “We are ignoble often, but not as willing to die so far from home. We’re far more practical.”

  “How much time have you spent with Irishmen to know them so well?” Gareth came to stand beside Gwen. His hand hovered for a moment at the small of her back and then dropped to his side. The pounding of her heart, which had eased once she knew her family was safe, sped up again.

  “We’ve sung along the west coast of Wales for many years. Gwalchmai is right, as far as it goes.” Gwen gestured to the carnage before them. “It would be interesting to know how much of this their master ordered, and how much they took upon themselves.”

  “That’s the Irish for you,” Gareth said. “A lord might bring them here, but then not be able to control them.”

  “And how do you know that?” Gwen said.

  “I’ve spent time in the Emerald Isle,” Gareth said. “Hywel’s mother was Irish, and we traveled there together to renew his family ties.”

  “He’ll need them if he ever has to fight his younger brothers for the throne of Wales.” Meilyr surveyed the battle scene and what was left of their goods. “Them or his Danish cousins.”

  The horse who’d drawn their cart had panicked, upending their possessions on the way to pulling the cart off the road. He’d come to rest between two trees but had been unable either to force his way between them or free himself from his traces. He stood now, head hanging, exhausted from his own fight.

  Gwen noted her satchel, squashed but unopened beneath a box containing musical instruments. Her best dress, when it came time to wear it, should be undamaged. Gwalchmai noticed the box at the same time she did, and with a cry, ran towards the cart.

  “Those two are much alike,” Gwen said, as she watched Meilyr and her brother set the box upright, open it, and begin to examine the contents. Gwalchmai held up an injured drum, showing his father the hole punched through the skin stretched across the frame. “And Hywel for a third. Always thinking of music.”

  Gwen felt Gareth looking at her, his eyes questioning. She didn’t want to meet them. She kept seeing the rise and fall of his sword as he fought. But Gareth was thinking along entirely different lines. “Are you more to Prince Hywel than just his spy?”

  “What?” Gwen turned to Gareth. “What do you mean?”

  Gareth studied her. “Are the two of you lovers?”

  “Of course not.”

  The notion was ridiculous, and Gareth should have known it if he’d thought about it for more than a few heartbeats. If anything, Hywel thought of her as a sister. Admittedly, Gwen had loved him as long as she’d known him, but understood almost as quickly what a lost cause that was, and how bad for her Hywel would be if she ever shared his bed. He was a Prince of Gwynedd and she a bard’s daughter. His father would never allow him to marry her, and she wasn’t going to settle for anything less, not even from him.

  For Hywel’s part, he’d never shown any interest in her, not in all the years that he’d wooed and loved the dozens of women he’d taken to his bed. By now, she was grateful for that, because it made them friends, or at worst, employer and employee, without the complications of romance.

  “If you say so.” Gareth squeezed her hand once. “Come. We’ve more downed men than before—some of whom are still alive—and it’s a long way home to Aber.”

  “Surely you don’t intend to attempt the journey today? After all this?” Gwen glanced upwards. Although most of the day had passed and the sun had fallen halfway down the sky, as it was early August, they had at least five more hours of daylight. That would give them just enough time to get the exhausted soldiers, the dead, and the wounded, to safety before dark.

  Gareth shrugged. “Once we get the wounded to Caerhun, I must ride. Hywel and Owain Gwynedd need to hear what has transpired as soon as possible, and I should be the one to tell it.”

  “Then I will come with you,” Gwen said.

  “Your pony can’t keep up with my horse, and Braith can’t carry two that far with any kind of speed,” he said.

  “I’ll borrow my father’s horse,” Gwen said. “He fears King Owain more than he values his own dignity. He will loan it to me.”

  The horse in question cropped the grass beside the road, still with a dead body on his back, but seemingly unconcerned about either it or the activity around him.

  Gareth caught Gwen’s chin and looked into her face. It
had been a long time since they’d gazed at each other like this. She wasn’t sure she could read him anymore and for a moment didn’t know if he would agree—and what she would do about it if he didn’t. But then he nodded.

  “You’ll tell me next that Hywel would want me to let you come.”

  “He would. You know he would,” Gwen said.

  Gareth narrowed his eyes at her, but Gwen shrugged him off and walked toward the fallen cart as if the matter was already decided. It would be a bad start to their renewed friendship if she had to force his hand, or follow him from Caerhun without him knowing. A quick look through the jumble of belongings on the ground produced the bag of medicines and bandages that her father had kicked to one side in his anxiety to determine the state of his instruments. She’d tied the top tightly when she’d packed it to protect what was inside and now crouched to open it. Then Gareth was beside her again.

  “Do you know what these all are for?” He pawed through the collection of vials and herb boxes, picking up one and then another to study the labels. She almost laughed. It shouldn’t have surprised her that in the five years since she’d last seen him, he’d learned to read. It was just like him.

  “As well as anyone who spent half her life in the company of an active younger brother, I suppose. My father worked very hard to control Gwalchmai, and perhaps that’s why when he was allowed out, he ran wild—and inevitably injured himself or his friends.” She paused. “And you?” She wished she could read Gareth as well as the letters on the vial, as he shot her yet another look she couldn’t interpret.

  “I’ve spent far too much time in the company of wounded men. I know less about healing than I would like, but certainly enough to help you doctor these men until we can get them to someone more knowledgeable.”

  “Then come,” Gwen said. “We’ve work to do.”

  But this time, Gareth didn’t reply. He stood frozen to the spot, a few steps from the cart, and then walked quickly to a body that had fallen underneath two others. He shoved at them, and Gwen trotted up to help.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “I pray—” Gareth stopped speaking and swallowed hard instead. He’d revealed the face of a man who was still alive, but hadn’t long to live.

  “Bran!” Gareth knelt to cradle the man’s head. “Talk to me!”

  Bran opened his eyes and brought a hand up to Gareth’s cheek, before dropping it. “Glad you’re alive.”

  “Why are you with these Irishmen?”

  “Not Irish. Danes. We had to come back. Didn’t know you’d be here. I tried to warn you.” Bran moaned and would have closed his eyes again but Gareth shook him to keep him awake.

  “Why did you have to come back?”

  “Had to get Anarawd’s seal. Prove the king was dead.”

  “Prove to whom, Bran! Who bought you—”

  Silence.

  Gwen reached over and closed Bran’s eyes while Gareth settled Bran onto the road. He put a hand to his forehead, with his elbow resting on his knee. He held that position, his throat working, though he didn’t make a sound. Gwen put a hand on his shoulder, and Gareth reached back with his other hand to grasp it.

  “Who was he?” she said.

  “He was my milk brother. Though why—” Gareth swiveled to survey the men around his fallen brother.

  “Why would he ride among Danes?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” Gareth said. “The last news I had from him was that he rode in Anarawd’s teulu. I looked for him among the fallen earlier, thinking he might have died defending Anarawd, and was relieved to find him absent. But now—”

  Gwen didn’t know what to say other than, “I’m sorry.”

  Gareth got to his feet, his shoulders stiff and frozen. He stared at his brother’s body as if he would stand there forever. Then he gave a deep sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

  “Why would Bran have been with a Danish company if he rode with—”

  “I don’t know, Gwen.” The words came out sharp, and she knew instantly that it would be better not to ask what he didn’t want to answer. Not with the grief so near. And betrayal.

  In silence, they labored among the dead and wounded. With the help of Madog’s surviving soldiers, they stripped the foreigners to their loincloths. Their own soldiers could use the armor and weapons, and it gave Gwen and Gareth an opportunity to look for any indication of who had paid the mercenaries, if that was indeed what they were. Perhaps the King of Dublin himself wanted Anarawd dead, though Gwen couldn’t imagine why.

  They found nothing useful, no seal or ring that a lord might give to an underling to provide him safe passage through Wales. A pair of boots appeared beside Gwen’s knee.

  “It’s time to put the lyre on the roof.” Meilyr dropped her satchel of clothing beside the body of the man she’d searched most recently. “Here. It’s time to go.”

  “I hate giving up,” Gwen said. “Owain Gwynedd will not be pleased.”

  “Then he can come himself and search,” Meilyr said, uncharacteristically dismissing his lord’s concerns. “It’s time we were going if we are to arrive at Caerhun before darkness falls.”

  Gwen got to her feet and hefted the two satchels—one of clothing and the other of the much-depleted medicines. Madog needed their repaired cart to carry the dead, and a soldier had calmed their horse enough to haul it. For the rest, they piled the weapons, bodies, and goods in the already heavily laden carts, and traveled the last miles to the Conwy River. Meilyr and Gwalchmai carried the box of precious instruments between them.

  Madog spent the journey grilling Gareth and Gwen about King Anarawd’s death and everything they’d culled from the Danish soldiers. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much. Most of the loot would be divided among Madog’s company, with a tithe set aside for Owain Gwynedd. Gareth had acquired a short knife, which now rested at his waist.

  “Take these.” He handed three coins to Gwen.

  “I—I can’t,” she said, rejecting them out of hand, even though her eyes widened at the sight of them. Coins were rare in Wales, and she’d never had any of her own.

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Gareth said.

  Gwen shook her head. “A man who is dead last held those coins. Perhaps the lord who ordered Anarawd’s death gave them to him. How can I take them for myself?”

  Gareth tsked at her through his teeth but didn’t push them on her, and instead slipped them into his own scrip. “I’ll hold them for you until you need them.”

  Gwen hadn’t banished the sick feeling in her stomach at the events of the day. “I can’t believe someone has plotted to murder a king.”

  Gareth laughed under his breath. “What you can’t believe is that you witnessed it. Murdering one’s king is a well-established tradition in Wales, and you know it.”

  Of course Gareth was right. And if Gwen were smarter, she wouldn’t be the one to tell Owain Gwynedd about this particular murder. Unfortunately, leaving the task for Gareth alone was the coward’s way, and that was a path Gwen refused to take.

  It was another long walk before the fort of Caerhun rose before them, half-finished—or rather, half-falling down and patched here and there with wattle and daub or foraged stone. King Owain understood the importance of the old Roman fort. It guarded a centuries-old east-west road across Gwynedd. The Romans had built the fort and improved the road, but the Welsh themselves had passed this way for as long as they’d peopled these lands.

  The English had sought to force the Conwy River many times over the years. While today King Owain’s domains were at peace and stretched all the way to the city of Chester on the border of England and Wales, that hadn’t always been the case. King Owain, and his father Gruffydd before him, had chosen to defend what amounted to the only useable ford on the Conwy River.

  Gwen checked the sky as they turned into the entrance. The long summer dusk was upon them, giving them perhaps another two hours of light. They’d traveled all of ten miles
the whole day—a few hours’ walk when things were going well. A pity they hadn’t. Particularly for Anarawd.

  “How long before we must ride?” she asked Gareth.

  “Give me an hour, two at most,” Gareth said. “Both Braith and your father’s horse need food, rest, and the comfort of a stall for a short time at least.”

  Gwen nodded and turned towards the dining hall with some of the other men, looking forward to the opportunity to sit down. She bent at the waist, stretching her back. Her hair had come loose, and she pushed it out of her face, and then looked up to find Gwalchmai planted in front of her.

  “Father says you’re going on without us.”

  “Yes,” Gwen said.

  A wave of soldiers swept around and past them, and she wrinkled her nose at the press of humanity. Maybe she wasn’t hungry after all if she had to eat with all of them.

  “I’m sorry about Father,” he said. “You know he doesn’t mean anything by what he says. Or doesn’t say.”

  Gwen smiled at her brother. He was only an inch or two shorter than she was. By next year he’d top her and the year after that he’d be a man, according to Welsh law. “Thank you for trying to protect me, but there’s no need, and you’ll only make Father angry.”

  “It’s time someone stood up to him,” Gwalchmai said.

  “Isn’t that what I’ve been trying to do?” Gwen shook her head. “Leave that to me too. You have a great future ahead of you, from the moment you sing your first note in King Owain’s hall. And it’s Father who’s taught you everything he knows, who’s poured all of his love of music into you. There’s nothing there to feel sorry about or regret.”

  A man pushed past her, and Gwen started when she realized it was Gareth. He glanced back at her and winked before entering the hall.

  “Are you sure?” Gwalchmai said.

  Gwen’s heart swelled with love for her brother. If nothing had gone the way she’d wanted in her own life, at least she’d done the right thing by him. “I’m sure. As I told Father years ago, I’m ready to follow my own road.”