The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery) by Sarah Woodbury Page B

Gareth couldn’t quite discern from where he stood. He thought it much more likely that King Owain would hang him, if only to make himself feel better and put some kind of conclusion on this affair—especially if he never found out who’d really ordered King Anarawd’s death.
    Gareth hadn’t managed more than a few more paces around the cell, stewing in his anger and resentment, when a new knock came and then the sound of a key turning in the lock. He strode towards the door, furious that Hywel had come back to mock him some more, but then came to an abrupt halt a foot from the door as it opened. Gwen stood before him with a platter of steaming broth and a jug of mead.
    “I bribed the cook with my recipe for spiced scones,” she said.
    Gareth warred with himself, as she was the last person he wanted to see him so powerless, but the smell of the soup made his stomach growl and he chose not to fight her—or to sulk. “Come in.” He bowed low, one arm out like a courtier welcoming her to his home instead of a room lined with dirty straw.
    “Hywel made me promise not to free you.”
    “I gave him my word that I’d stay.” Gareth said. “He has some idea that if I’m confined, it will embolden the real villain. Give him confidence that nobody suspects him, which of course we don’t since we have no idea who did this.” The thought made Gareth want to kick something again, but he didn’t. He took in a deep breath and let it out, getting hold of his temper.
    Gwen handed him the tray of food. As he reached for it, he was surprised to see her eyes tearing. “I was that worried. King Owain was so angry.”
    “He’s known for his astute strategizing,” Gareth said, “but it’s not uncommon for him to act first and think later. Look at what happened with your father. They have an argument about something that should have been resolved within half a day—and which King Owain probably doesn’t even remember now—and they don’t speak for six years. Hywel says that King Owain could still hang me for this, were we to fail to uncover the real culprit.”
    “That’s what I fear. I spoke with several of your friends among the garrison. They don’t think you’re good for this, even if you’ve done some things in the past of which you are less than proud.” She paused. “You don’t have to tell me about those things.”
    “We’ve all done things we regret,” Gareth said. “After Cadwaladr dismissed me, I learned that even what he’d asked me to do were minor offenses compared to what was possible.” He shrugged. “A lord feels much more loyalty to his regular men-at-arms and knights, whose families may have served his family for generations, than to the mercenaries he hires. That’s why a lord always assigns a mercenary the dirtiest work.”
    “Much like Hywel,” Gwen said.
    Gareth looked up from his soup bowl. “What makes you say that?”
    “Wouldn’t you agree?” Gwen said. “Rhun is the heir; Owain Gwynedd has things that need doing that he might not mind doing himself—if he had the time—but is loath to have them sully Rhun’s hands. But Hywel…”
    “Yes,” Gareth said. “I would say that you’re right.”
    “It’s always been that way,” Gwen said. “I remember the first time. Hywel was only fourteen. One of King Owain’s knights had neglected his duties to the king; he’d refused service and tithes in a strange act of defiance. It was Hywel that King Owain sent to see to him.”
    “And what did Hywel do?”
    “Burned the man’s house and barn to the ground, along with everything in them. The knight escaped with only the clothes on his back.” Gwen glanced at Gareth, her gaze inscrutable. “None died, if you’re wondering.”
    Gareth nodded. Such was the way of kings. “It could be worse. Hywel could have been born in the time of Gruffydd ap Llywelyn. If the stories of his reign are true, Gruffydd had half the men in his family killed to prevent any chance of them