Read Online The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery) by Sarah Woodbury - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Woodbury
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brother, Cadwaladr, didn’t always relate the most accurate version of events. As she gazed up at the ceiling, she had a vision of that day five years ago when she’d lain in a room very like this one, but in Ceredigion, sobbing her eyes out over the loss of Gareth. Prince Cadwaladr had summarily dismissed him and Gareth had ridden away with only his sword and his horse. Cadwaladr hadn’t even allowed him a moment to return to his quarters to gather the rest of his things.
It was Gwen who’d done that. Though Gareth didn’t know it, she still had one of his spare shirts, stuffed into the bottom of her satchel, and wore his mother’s cross around her neck. She should have given it to him first thing, but had forgotten about it until this moment. She pulled it out and clenched it in her fist.
To be fair, she had to acknowledge that Prince Cadwaladr had been beset at the time and much like his brother, may have allowed his temper to run away with him. Not long before, the Normans had beheaded Gwenllian, a younger sister to Owain and Cadwaladr, for leading a rebellion against them. Gwenllian’s husband—who just happened to be Anarawd’s father—had been in Gwynedd at the time, seeking an alliance against the Normans. As a result, Cadwaladr and Owain Gwynedd had gone south to avenge her death. Their losses had been compounded by the death of Gruffydd, their father, not long after in 1137.
These past realities made Anarawd’s murder all the worse. Not only was he a strong ally and the King of Deheubarth, but he was a nephew-by-marriage to both Owain and Cadwaladr since Gwenllian had been Anarawd’s step-mother. These family ties were powerful and compelling, not just for King Owain and Cadwaladr, but for any Welshman. While the victory over the Normans had allowed King Owain to annex Ceredigion, it could not replace what they’d lost. It was Cadwaladr, now, who ruled those lands. And if Cadwaladr had something to do with Anarawd’s death…
Thinking of the possibility made Gwen’s stomach ache.
The next morning, after a restless night in which she feared she’d repeatedly woken many of the other women, Gwen forced herself from her pallet and back downstairs. Chaos confronted her in the hall. Men, huddled in groups small and large, talked and gesticulated to other men who nodded sagely back. The news of Anarawd’s death was not easy for any of them to encompass.
“Will our tribulations never cease!”
That was Cadwaladr, holding court near the fire with three other barons. Taran, Owain Gwynedd’s steward, stood a few feet away, speaking grimly with several other men. Hywel was alone by the door. Gwen headed towards him.
“What’s going on here?” a woman’s voice said.
Gwen looked past Hywel to see Elen, the bride, at the entrance to the great hall. At only sixteen, her marriage would have been a May-December match, but Gwen hadn’t heard that she’d complained about it to her father. Her golden hair glinted in the sunlight, forming a halo around her head. As a bride, she had the right to wear it loose and it cascaded down her back in a bright mass.
Hywel caught her arm. “Come with me, Elen. I’ve something to tell you.”
He tugged her in Gwen’s direction and Gwen hurried to greet them. Their ages were too different to have allowed them to be actual friends growing up, but Gwen had cared for Elen many times in the years she lived at Aber. Too often, Elen’s elders had alternately spoiled and ignored her. Gwen had tried to make up for that, just a little.
“Gwen!” Elen embraced her. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”
Gwen eased back, still with her arm around Elen’s waist, and filled with regret at what she was going to have to say next. “We have some bad news.”
Elen’s face paled. “Father—”
Hywel moved closer, a finger to her lips. “Not Father. Anarawd. He’s dead.”
“He’s—”
“Damn it,” Hywel said as Elen’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and she
It was Gwen who’d done that. Though Gareth didn’t know it, she still had one of his spare shirts, stuffed into the bottom of her satchel, and wore his mother’s cross around her neck. She should have given it to him first thing, but had forgotten about it until this moment. She pulled it out and clenched it in her fist.
To be fair, she had to acknowledge that Prince Cadwaladr had been beset at the time and much like his brother, may have allowed his temper to run away with him. Not long before, the Normans had beheaded Gwenllian, a younger sister to Owain and Cadwaladr, for leading a rebellion against them. Gwenllian’s husband—who just happened to be Anarawd’s father—had been in Gwynedd at the time, seeking an alliance against the Normans. As a result, Cadwaladr and Owain Gwynedd had gone south to avenge her death. Their losses had been compounded by the death of Gruffydd, their father, not long after in 1137.
These past realities made Anarawd’s murder all the worse. Not only was he a strong ally and the King of Deheubarth, but he was a nephew-by-marriage to both Owain and Cadwaladr since Gwenllian had been Anarawd’s step-mother. These family ties were powerful and compelling, not just for King Owain and Cadwaladr, but for any Welshman. While the victory over the Normans had allowed King Owain to annex Ceredigion, it could not replace what they’d lost. It was Cadwaladr, now, who ruled those lands. And if Cadwaladr had something to do with Anarawd’s death…
Thinking of the possibility made Gwen’s stomach ache.
The next morning, after a restless night in which she feared she’d repeatedly woken many of the other women, Gwen forced herself from her pallet and back downstairs. Chaos confronted her in the hall. Men, huddled in groups small and large, talked and gesticulated to other men who nodded sagely back. The news of Anarawd’s death was not easy for any of them to encompass.
“Will our tribulations never cease!”
That was Cadwaladr, holding court near the fire with three other barons. Taran, Owain Gwynedd’s steward, stood a few feet away, speaking grimly with several other men. Hywel was alone by the door. Gwen headed towards him.
“What’s going on here?” a woman’s voice said.
Gwen looked past Hywel to see Elen, the bride, at the entrance to the great hall. At only sixteen, her marriage would have been a May-December match, but Gwen hadn’t heard that she’d complained about it to her father. Her golden hair glinted in the sunlight, forming a halo around her head. As a bride, she had the right to wear it loose and it cascaded down her back in a bright mass.
Hywel caught her arm. “Come with me, Elen. I’ve something to tell you.”
He tugged her in Gwen’s direction and Gwen hurried to greet them. Their ages were too different to have allowed them to be actual friends growing up, but Gwen had cared for Elen many times in the years she lived at Aber. Too often, Elen’s elders had alternately spoiled and ignored her. Gwen had tried to make up for that, just a little.
“Gwen!” Elen embraced her. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”
Gwen eased back, still with her arm around Elen’s waist, and filled with regret at what she was going to have to say next. “We have some bad news.”
Elen’s face paled. “Father—”
Hywel moved closer, a finger to her lips. “Not Father. Anarawd. He’s dead.”
“He’s—”
“Damn it,” Hywel said as Elen’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and she
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