The Good Knight
by Sarah Woodbury
Intrigue, suspicion, and rivalry among the royal princes cast a shadow on the court of Owain, king of north Wales…
The year is 1143 and King Owain seeks to unite his daughter in
marriage with an allied king. But when the groom is murdered on the way
to his wedding, the bride’s brother tasks his two best
detectives—Gareth, a knight, and Gwen, the daughter of the court
bard—with bringing the killer to justice.
And once blame for the murder falls on Gareth himself, Gwen must
continue her search for the truth alone, finding unlikely allies in
foreign lands, and ultimately uncovering a conspiracy that will shake
the political foundations of Wales.
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Excerpt:
August, 1143 AD - Gwynedd (North Wales)
“Look at you, girl.”
Gwen’s father, Meilyr, tsked under his breath and brought his
borrowed horse closer to her side of the path. He’d been out of sorts
since early morning when he’d found his horse lame and King Anarawd and
his company of soldiers had left the castle without them, refusing to
wait for Meilyr to find a replacement mount. Anarawd’s men-at-arms would
have provided Meilyr with the fine escort he coveted.
“You’ll have no cause for complaint once we reach Owain Gwynedd’s
court.” A breeze wafted over Gwen’s face and she closed her eyes,
letting her pony find his own way for a moment. “I won’t embarrass you
at the wedding.”
“If you cared more for your appearance, you would have been married yourself years ago and given me grandchildren long since.”
Gwen opened her eyes, her forehead wrinkling in annoyance. “And whose
fault is it that I’m unmarried?” Her fingers flexed about the reins but
she forced herself to relax. Her present appearance was her own doing,
even if her father found it intolerable. In her bag, she had fine
clothes and ribbons to weave through her hair, but saw no point in
sullying any of them on the long journey to Aber Castle.
King Owain Gwynedd’s daughter was due to marry King Anarawd in three
days’ time. Owain Gwynedd had invited Gwen, her father, and her almost
twelve-year old brother, Gwalchmai, to furnish the entertainment for the
event, provided King Owain and her father could bridge the six years of
animosity and silence that separated them. Meilyr had sung for King
Owain’s father, Gruffydd; he’d practically raised King Owain’s son,
Hywel. But six years was six years. No wonder her father’s temper was
short.
Even so, she couldn’t let her father’s comments go. Responsibility
for the fact that she had no husband rested firmly on his shoulders.
“Who refused the contract?”
“Rhys was a rapscallion and a laze-about,” Meilyr said.
And you weren’t about to give up your housekeeper, maidservant, cook, and child-minder to just anyone, were you?
But instead of speaking, Gwen bit her tongue and kept her thoughts to
herself. She’d said it once and received a slap to her face. Many
nights she’d lain quiet beside her younger brother, regretting that she
hadn’t defied her father and stayed with Rhys. They could have eloped;
in seven years, their marriage would have been as legal as any other.
But her father was right and Gwen wasn’t too proud to admit it: Rhys had
been a laze-about. She wouldn’t have been happy with him. Rhys’ father
had almost cried when Meilyr had refused Rhys’ offer. It wasn’t only
daughters who were sometimes hard to sell.
“Father!” Gwalchmai brought their cart to a halt. “Come look at this!”
“What now?” Meilyr said. “We’ll have to spend the night at Caerhun at
present rate. You know how important it is not to keep King Owain
waiting.”
“But Father!” Gwalchmai leapt from the cart and ran forward.
“He’s serious.” Gwen urged her pony after him, passing the cart, and then abruptly reined in beside her brother. “Mary, Mother of God…”
A slight rise and sudden dip in the path ahead had hidden the carnage
until they were upon it. Twenty men and an equal number of horses lay
dead in the road, their bodies contorted and their blood soaking the
brown earth. Gwalchmai bent forward and retched into the grass beside
the road. Gwen’s stomach threatened to undo her too, but she fought the
bile down and dismounted to wrap her arms around her brother.
Meilyr reined in beside his children. “Stay back.”
Gwen glanced at her father and then back to the scene, noticing for
the first time a man kneeling among the wreckage, one hand to a dead
man’s chest and the other resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. The
man straightened and Gwen’s breath caught in her throat.
Gareth.
He’d cropped his dark brown hair shorter than when she’d known him,
but his blue eyes still reached into the core of her. Her heart beat a
little faster as she drank him in. Five years ago, Gareth had been a
man-at-arms in the service of Prince Cadwaladr, King Owain Gwynedd’s
brother. Gareth and Gwen had become friends, and then more than friends,
but before he could ask her father for her hand, Gareth had a falling
out with Prince Cadwaladr. In the end, Gareth hadn’t been able to
persuade Meilyr that he could support her despite his lack of station.
Gwen was so focused on Gareth that she wasn’t aware of the other men
among them—live ones—until they approached her family. A half dozen
converged on them at the same time. One caught her upper arm in a tight
grip. Another grabbed Meilyr’s bridle. “Who are you?” the soldier said.
Meilyr stood in the stirrups and pointed a finger at Gareth. “Tell them who I am!”
Gareth came forward, his eyes flicking from Meilyr to Gwalchmai to
Gwen. He was broader in the shoulders, too, than she remembered.
“They are friends,” Gareth said. “Release them.”
And to Gwen’s astonishment, the man-at-arms who held her obeyed
Gareth. Could it be that in the years since she’d last seen him, Gareth
had regained something of what he’d lost?
Gareth halted by Meilyr’s horse. “I was sent from Aber to meet King
Anarawd and escort him through Gwynedd. He wasn’t even due to arrive at
Dolwyddelan Castle until today, but …” He gestured to the men on the
ground. “Clearly, we were too late.”
Gwen looked past Gareth to the murdered men in the road.
“Turn away, Gwen,” Gareth said.
But Gwen couldn’t. The blood—on the dead men, on the ground, on the
knees of Gareth’s breeches—mesmerized her. The men here had been slaughtered. Her skin twitched at the hate in the air. “You mean King Anarawd is—is—is among them?”
“The King is dead,” Gareth said.
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