The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery) (20 page)

Gwen, for her part, once they were outside, stopped dragging her feet and walked with him, since there was no way for her to escape with so many of his men about. Cadwaladr urged her along the wall until he stood with her at the top of the gatehouse. He placed himself directly behind her, using her as a shield. The wind had picked up since Gwen first stood in her window and the flag above her head streamed full out, pointing east, towards Aber. Below them, Gareth, Hywel, Rhun, and four others—all Hywel’s men—sat astride their horses. She tried not to be disappointed that they weren’t backed by more soldiers, though three had their bows up and arrows nocked.

“Release those arrows and the girl dies,” Cadwaladr said.

Nobody moved. Hywel kept his face impassive. Gareth swallowed hard. Rhun opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it as Hywel made a slight movement with his hand to stay him.

“In truth, why should I care?” Hywel said. “We have bowmen and knights among us. Properly positioned, we can cut down any who attempt to leave Aberffraw. In a day, the King will be here with an army. Kill the girl or not. Our orders will not change.”

“You can’t fool me,” Cadwaladr said. “You don’t mean what you say. Not when Gwen carries your child.”

Jaws dropped on both sides of the wall. Gwen hastily closed her mouth before Cadwaladr became aware of her shock, but even Hywel couldn’t keep the surprise out of his face. He stared at Cadwaladr, transferred his gaze to Gwen who tried to stare stonily back, and then turned to speak to his brother and Gareth. They pressed close in brief consultation. Gareth became animated, gesticulating with one hand and stabbing a finger towards Cadwaladr.

Cadwaladr’s decision to kidnap instead of kill her now made a lot more sense. For all Hywel’s liaisons, he’d yet to father a child that lived, mortality among infants and mothers being what it was. Rhun, too, had produced no children. Although he was two years older than Hywel—approaching twenty-five—he was more circumspect in his liaisons. If Gwen was genuinely pregnant, it would be King Owain’s first grandchild. Cadwaladr was right to think that Hywel—and the King—would take that very seriously.

“Who told you?” Gwen said. The revelation explained everything, and yet was so stunning, she could barely get the words out, much less call down to Gareth to tell him that that it wasn’t true. Of course, Hywel knew it wasn’t true.

“Cristina.”

Gwen choked on a mixture of hysteria and laughter at the name. Cristina appeared to be a meddler and a trouble-maker of the worst sort, playing both sides against the middle as she saw fit. Her gambit with the seal still left Gwen gasping, since it was only through her that King Cadell could have known Gareth had it; at the same time, convincing Cadwaladr that Gwen was Hywel’s mistress may have saved Gwen’s life, but it also had drawn his attention to her in the first place. Who knew if it was this knowledge that had given him the idea that he could use her? If Gwen ever saw Cristina again—if she lived through the next moments—she had a mind to throttle her.

Hywel faced forward again. “Let her go, Uncle. Using Gwen as a shield will gain you nothing.”

Cadwaladr lifted his chin and his voice, defiant as ever. “So you are beginning to see reason.” He smiled his satisfaction, while at the same time tightening his grip on Gwen’s waist.

 “Let her go, uncle,” Rhun said. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I think I do,” Cadwaladr said. From a sheath at his side, he produced a knife and slipped it under Gwen’s chin. Gwen strained to lift herself out of its range, but of course Cadwaladr just moved with her. She hoped that those on the ground could see it well enough to know if the blade had a notch. She couldn’t get a close look. At the sight of it, Gareth gave an audible gasp and Hywel put out his arm to stop him from speaking, or throwing himself at the gate.

“As you wish,” Hywel said. “You win this round.” He fisted his hand at the men behind him, who lowered their bows.

With that, Cadwaladr seemed to decide something. He sidled along the top of the wall, still hiding behind Gwen’s body, which she held as stiffly as she could to avoid the knife. When he reached the stairs that led to the courtyard below, he couldn’t hold the knife to her throat and get her down the stairs at the same time, so he put it away. Then he twisted Gwen’s arm behind her back and force-marched her down them, his grip so tight it would leave a bruise. In that formation, they crossed the courtyard, heading towards the postern gate.

“Faster, you fool!” Cadwaladr stabbed the finger of his free hand at a man who ran in front of them so he could open the door. Pulling up, Cadwaladr allowed the host of Danish raiders to file past him first before following with Gwen. A glance behind her revealed that Cadwaladr’s own men would remain at Aberffraw. She caught the glances of two of them, including the one who’d guarded her in the hallway. His face, as before, told her nothing.

Cadwaladr manhandled her through the door and into the midst of the three dozen Danishmen. Moving faster than she would have thought possible, yet still silent, the Danes escorted them at a run along the pathway that led from the postern gate to the beach. Gwen blinked her eyes against the sun which now blazed down unrelieved by clouds. Noon had come and gone. The boats on the shore a quarter of a mile away drew nearer with every heartbeat.

Gwen struggled against Cadwaladr now, anger conquering her fear. Though her dress hampered her movements, she kicked out, connecting at least once with his shin and forcing him to slow. She made him drag her weight and Cadwaladr cursed and shook her. She hoped he’d fling her aside and leave her behind, even if it meant a fall and a broken arm. Anything would be better than continuing as they were.

Well, almost anything.

“I’ll take her,” a giant of a Dane said in heavily accented Welsh, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. He slipped his arm around Gwen’s waist.

“No!” Gwen flailed at him with her fists but he batted her hands away, lifted her from Cadwaladr grasp, and threw her over his shoulder. Her arms and head hung down his back and she continued to beat on him, for all the good it did her. His grip around her legs was so strong she couldn’t even kick him properly. She certainly couldn’t penetrate his leather armor. The tears that had threatened to overwhelm her for the last hours pricked her eyes, though they were more out of frustration and anger than sadness.

Gwen bounced on the Dane’s shoulder as they ran down the slope, through the thick grass, to the strip of sandy beach beyond. He crossed the yards to the three ships in three or four strides. Though Gwen arched her back, craning her neck to see where they were going—or even where they’d been—it was a lost cause. Men shouted all around her, mostly in Danish which she didn’t speak at all. The men the Danish leader had left to guard the boats must have moved into action the instant their company spilled from the postern gate because by the time the Dane and Gwen reached their designated craft, they’d already pushed off and the boat was in two feet of water.

 Gwen still on his shoulder, the big Dane surged into the river and caught the rail of his ship with his right hand. Now that she understood that they really planned to take her away from Aberffraw, Gwen shrieked and beat on the Dane with both fists. She tried to wriggle off of his left shoulder, shifting her hips, but his grip was as strong as ever. Again she tried to kick out with her feet but the best shot she managed only caught her foot in his cloak.

The Dane had started out muttering under his breath at her resistance, but now he laughed and unceremoniously dumped her into the boat. She landed on her rear and fell backwards. Her head glanced off a bench. She lay sprawled as he’d left her, her eyes squeezed shut, catching her breath. She hadn’t even gotten her feet wet.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the Danish mercenaries to clamber in after her. Her Danish captor himself stepped over the side, his boots shedding water into the bottom of the boat. He reached down, hooked her under her arms and plopped her onto one of the seats set in the middle of the boat so she wouldn’t interfere with the rowers. She tried to push up, to better see the shore, but the Dane kept one hand on her shoulder holding her down. Heavily laden, the boat put to sea.

It had all happened so quickly, Gwen hadn’t had time to develop any kind of plan. When the Dane moved off to direct one of his men, perhaps thinking her no more of a threat, Gwen spun in her seat.
I have to get out of here!
The panic that accompanied that thought rose in her chest and she swallowed it back down. As with the Dane, the other men were going about their business, not paying attention to her. She scooted towards the side of the boat, peering around the shifting men so she could see what was happening at Aberffraw. The oarsmen bent their backs into their task, chanting out the count in unison.

Beyond the bank, figures appeared around the southern end of the castle. Gwen’s heart lifted.
They were coming!
Gareth rode flat out, bent over Braith’s neck and racing her down the slope from the castle to the river.

One of the Danes to the rear of the boat shouted a warning and the big Dane raised a fist. His men obeyed and the pace of their strokes increased.

“Pull!”

This came from Cadwaladr, and the order could have been repeated in Danish, or the men might have been muttering
idiot
for all she knew. Certainly the order was unnecessary, as the Dane had gotten his men moving without even having to open his mouth. Gwen hadn’t imagined boats could move as quickly. The rhythm was unrelenting and the boats swung into the faster current in the middle of the river. Within a count of ten, Gwen’s ship lay fifteen yards off the shore and a good fifty from where they’d entered the water.

Gwen shot one look behind her to see what Cadwaladr was doing. He gazed away from her, west towards Ireland. Grey clouds hung on the horizon, obscuring any view but of the sea. The middle of the Ffraw River was calm but soon they’d leave the safety of the estuary and enter the surging waves at its mouth. Afraid that she’d already hesitated too long, Gwen launched herself from her seat.

She placed one foot on the edge of the boat, pushed upwards with the other, and dove into the water.

Except she never made it. A thick arm caught her around her waist, hauling her back, and a low chuckle sounded in her ear. “You’ve got spirit,” the big Dane said as he spun her around. “I’ll give you that.”

“Not so fast, my dear.” Cadwaladr accepted her weight in his arms and pulled her away from the ship’s rail.

And it was from that position, with Cadwaladr’s sickening touch around her waist, that Gwen watched the ship leave the estuary and enter Aberffraw harbor. Tears tracked helplessly down Gwen’s cheeks as her view of the shore, and her friends, receded into the rising mist.

Chapter Twenty-Five

G
areth could only stare, horrified, as the fog and distance obscured Gwen’s boat from his view. He slowed Braith, allowing the others to catch up to him. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that Cadwaladr would flee so precipitously, and in that direction? It should have. He’d seen the ships. But for him to have left his entire Welsh garrison behind, along with all of their horses, was wholly unexpected. Gareth, Hywel, and Rhun had wasted precious time in front of the gate, dithering, waiting for Cadwaladr to return or for more information, before they’d realized that he wasn’t coming back.

Hywel pulled up beside Gareth. For a moment, Gareth couldn’t look at him—couldn’t bear to look at him—and then he couldn’t contain the rage any longer. The blood thrummed in his ears. Even so, he managed to control his voice. “We must know where they’re going.”

Hywel nodded. “If that ship is bound for Dublin, there’s nothing we can do for her. You know that.”

“I know it,” Gareth said.

“Either way, Cadwaladr’s lands in Ceredigion are forfeit,” Hywel said. “If we get there and she’s there, we’ll roust him out. If not… .”

“If not, she’s in the hands of the Danes, for as long as they wish to keep her.” Gareth gazed out to sea for a long count of three and then turned his head to face his lord. “You haven’t denied it.”

“You know so little of me that I have to?”

“Yes.” The word hissed through Gareth’s teeth.

Hywel put a hand on Gareth’s arm and Gareth just managed not to twitch away and brush him off. “I swear to you I’ve never touched her. I think of her as a sister.”

Gareth’s jaw was so tight he wondered that he hadn’t ground his teeth to the nubs. Then his shoulders fell. He’d known it, but it was better that Hywel had said it. “As far as I know, Cadwaladr has it completely wrong. She belongs to no one and isn’t carrying any man’s child.”

“She’s smart enough not to admit it to Cadwaladr—or to anyone,” Hywel said. “She has time before they discover the deception. Weeks maybe; they’ll be back before then.”

“Why do you say that?” Gareth said.

Hywel tipped his head to one side. “So many years in Cadwaladr’s company, and mine, and that’s not clear to you either?”

Gareth felt like the words could have been mocking, but they weren’t. Hywel was merely curious. “Tell me,” Gareth said.

“Cadwaladr is a child in a man’s body,” Hywel said. “He was thinking only of himself when he gave the order to murder King Anarawd—certainly not of the consequences were he caught—and that’s all he’s still thinking about. He cannot put himself in another’s shoes long enough to understand how seriously my father will take this betrayal.”

Gareth nodded as this piece of Cadwaladr’s character slid into place. “You think he’ll come back just as soon as he can. That he honestly doesn’t believe your father is angry and will punish him as he deserves.”

“He deserves hanging,” Hywel said. “But Cadwaladr has calculated correctly in this at least. My father’s bark is usually worse than his bite.”

Gareth nodded again. He’d viewed Cadwaladr as a bully, which he was, but he was more like a five-year-old searching for attention—and any kind of attention was better than none. “That doesn’t mean we can condone what he’s done,” Gareth said.