Chapter Thirty-Four
Gareth stared across the dunes that separated him from Gwen.
“It was the right choice,” Hywel said, coming up beside him. As usual, he was more perceptive than Gareth felt comfortable with. Gareth had just been thinking that he wasn’t sure he should have allowed Godfrid to leave without him. “For all that Godfrid is a Dane, he is my cousin. He will protect her.”
“If he can,” Gareth said, feeling that familiar growl forming in his throat. He’d felt it often around Gwen—that possessiveness that she would have dismissed as foolish but that had the hackles rising at the back of his neck at the thought of her anywhere near another man.
“He’ll be able to protect her far more than you could as a potential prisoner,” Hywel said. “Cadwaladr is mistaken, of course, that Gwen carries my child, but even if she did, my father wouldn’t necessarily do what he asked in order to save her life.”
“I know it,” Gareth said. “And though I would do everything in my power to save her, I can’t ask a king to sacrifice his kingdom for one woman.”
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” Hywel said.
Together, they turned back towards the fire pits and the pavilion where Owain held court. Given that the weather remained clear for now, King Owain had opted not to retreat to Aberffraw but to remain close to the beach with his men. They’d gone only a few paces, however, when Rhun intercepted them. Gareth couldn’t make out his features so far from the torch lights, but his voice was grim.
“Bad news.”
Gareth looked past Rhun to the encampment. Men moved about, but in no great hurry.
“What is it?” Hywel said.
“Our uncle is here.”
“He’s what?” Gareth said. “The Danes let him go?”
“It appears he snuck out,” Rhun said. “He’s meeting with Father now.”
“God have mercy!” Hywel said. “What a sorry excuse for a prince. We’d better find out what he’s got to say.”
They hurried to the king’s tent. Knowing his place, Gareth skirted the inside wall while Hywel and Rhun strode to where the two royal brothers spoke. Although Cadwaladr’s voice didn’t carry far, it was otherwise completely silent in the tent, and Gareth had no trouble hearing their conversation.
“I’m sorry for Anarawd, brother,” Cadwaladr was saying as Gareth came to a halt about ten feet from him, to the right of the king’s position. “I never thought—”
“You never do think, brother.” King Owain had brought a chair specifically for himself, so he wouldn’t have to lounge on the ground, a fallen log, or stand like everyone else, but he wasn’t using it. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and stared at Cadwaladr, using all of his considerable height to intimidate his brother. “It’s been a long while since this was about Anarawd, though his murder is what so starkly revealed your cowardice to me.”
“My cowardice?” Cadwaladr sputtered at the word.
King Owain turned up the fire. “Yes, your cowardice!”
“What are you talking about, Owain?” Cadwaladr said. “I did what I had to—”
“Why did you have Anarawd killed?” Owain said.
Now, that is a question.
Cadwaladr straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I did what I thought was best. I believed it was more advantageous to us for Cadell to become King of Deheubarth. If I was wrong, I am sorry.”
Owain Gwynedd seemed struck mute by this speech but then reddened. He stepped closer to his brother and this time, he kept his voice low, having gone past anger to rage. “If you were sincere in your regrets, why is there a fleet of Danes at your back? Why do you seek to force my hand by threatening my people—our people—with ruin unless I give you what you want?” King Owain looked away, glaring over the heads of his men to where the Danes waited on the other side of the thin fabric, across the sand. “Whatever it is that you want.”
For the first time in his life, Cadwaladr appeared momentarily cowed. “I haven’t threatened you. The Danes are merely alli—”
“You dare contradict me?” King Owain returned his attention to Cadwaladr, and his voice was back to thundering. “You stand before me, claiming brotherhood, and yet your actions belie your words. Give me back my lands, or I loose my Danes on Anglesey? And what of that poor girl, Gwen, who you’ve brought into all this? Why haven’t you returned her to her family?”
Cadwaladr opened and closed his mouth like a fish, not giving an answer, because of course, he didn’t have one.
“You hold her hostage, don’t you, brother,” Owain said. “If I don’t give you what you want, or better yet, slit your throat, your Danish friends will harm her. Isn’t that it?”
Cadwaladr stared at King Owain for a count of ten and then threw himself to the ground at the king’s feet. “Please forgive me, brother,” he said, groveling, his nose almost to the ground. “I didn’t see until now how wrong I was.”
“Mary, Mother of God!” King Owain blasphemed. “You sicken me.” He toed Cadwaladr’s ribs and gazed down at him, disgust written in every inch of his body. “Am I to assume by the fact that you came alone that your Danish friends don’t know you’re here?”
“I saw an opportunity to speak to you alone and took it.” Cadwaladr lifted his head so his voice wasn’t muffled. “Is that so wrong?”
Owain snorted under his breath. “And if I take you back, with or without promising anything, including your lands, what of the Danes?”
Cadwaladr sat back on his heels, his face radiant. “Together we can drive them from Abermenai. It will be a simple matter, as you so wisely encircled them just as we arrived.”
“And what about your promises to them, Cadwaladr?” Owain said. “With what did you buy them?”
And again, what about Gwen? Gareth added, a cold fear settling into his chest at what King Ottar might do to her, even over Godfrid’s objections and defense, once they realized Cadwaladr was missing.
When Cadwaladr didn’t answer, King Owain said, “What did you promise them, Cadwaladr? My head after you’d killed me?”
“No!” The word burst out as if it was the truth, which perhaps it was. “I only promised them two thousand marks. That’s all.”
“And do you have two thousand marks?”
“Of course not,” Cadwaladr said, as if there was any of course about it.
More silence from King Owain, and then he held out his hand to Cadwaladr. “Give me your seal.”
“My seal?” Cadwaladr said, aghast, eyes wide. A man’s seal was his life, his honor, even more than his sword. “But—but—”
King Owain sighed. “I’m not consigning you to the gallows, Cadwaladr, merely a room at Aberffraw until I’ve cleaned up your mess. I need your seal so that when I send for the cattle and goods to account for the gold you owe Ottar, your people will know that you agreed to the bargain.”
“You’re going to make me pay them to go away?” Cadwaladr said, clearly horrified at this unexpected turn of events.
“You will either give them two thousand marks—or its equivalent—or I will give them you,” King Owain said. “It’s your choice.”
Cadwaladr still didn’t seem to believe him. He stuttered through another dozen heartbeats while King Owain stood still as a stone, arms folded, observing Cadwaladr as if he was a chained animal on display at a village fair. Hywel, standing to his father’s left, merely looked pained—and resigned.
And then Gareth understood that Cadwaladr had won again.
When Cadwaladr’s protests had died down, Owain turned to his sons, though his gaze took in Gareth as well. “Rescue the girl.” To Cadwaladr, he said, “We will give the Danes what you owe them. When that is done and they are gone from my shores, we’ll talk again.”
He strode out the tent opening and into the darkness. What was going on inside his head, Gareth didn’t know for sure, but could guess that it was only his iron will that had stopped him from disgracing his brother further
, or worse, running him through. Cadwaladr, on the other hand, once Owain had left, popped to his feet like a youth, even as four of Owain’s guards grasped him around the shoulders and turned him in the direction Owain had gone.
“You heard him,” Cadwaladr said to the trio as he passed them. “Go rescue Gwen.”
Christ!