Now, King Rhys stepped around Gareth and spoke directly to Cedric.
The strapping warrior Cedric remembered from his youth had been gone for years now, but the potency in King Rhys’ dark gaze remained. The courage of a thousand warriors still etched his countenance.
“Cedric, you plotted to murder my children,” the king accused through tightly clenched teeth. “There’s nothing civilized in you. And you, Prince of the North,” his unmerciful gaze raked over Dafydd. “You will be brought before your father, King Gruffudd, with charges of treachery, proven by Prince Gareth.”
Dafydd’s mouth twitched an instant before he lunged for the king. An instant was all the time his brother needed.
Tearing two daggers from the belt at his hip, Gareth spun on his feet in a blur that severed four of Dafydd’s fingers, two on each hand.
The northern prince gaped at his bloody hands, then he blinked at Gareth, and let out a wail that echoed off the walls.
The shadow of a behemoth moved down the stairs, sword gripped in both hands.
Hereward the Wake hurled his sword like a javelin halfway across the great hall. It landed with a thud and a twang at Dafydd’s feet.
For the space of a breath, no one moved while Hereward’s hilt swayed before Dafydd’s nose. Cedric used the moment to regain the element of surprise by drawing his dagger and plunging it into the man beside him.
Madoc crumpled forward; blood from his wound spurted outward as Cedric withdrew his blade.
Instantly, two of Gareth’s men leaped toward the exiled prince. Cedric held them off long enough to hear his brother’s stricken curse as he caught Madoc in his arms.
“Gareth, Tanon…she…” Madoc pressed his hand to the wound in his side.
“She’s here, my friend. Safe above stairs,” Gareth reassured him quietly as a small battle erupted around them between the two sides. “You’ve done well.”
Cedric’s eyes darted to the stairs an instant before he hurled his fist into the man closest to him. He spun on his heel before his brother looked up. He sprinted toward the stairs, avoiding the other fighters. He had to find her. His course was clear, his steps determined. All hope wasn’t lost. The treaty could still be undone. The Normans could still face them in an all-out war. He simply had to kill her.
He made it to the second landing and didn’t stop to look behind him. He kicked open every door, his eyes wild with fear and purpose as they scanned each room.
*
Gareth sliced hisdagger cleanly across the throat of a colorfully clad troubadour. He looked up to search the melee even before his victim’s body sank to the floor. When he didn’t find Cedric his skin paled as he tilted his face to the second landing. He took the stairs two at a time, his hands clenched around the hilts of his daggers.
When he reached Tanon’s room, he stopped in mid-stride, avoiding the dead body of the guard who’d been sent to watch over her. He looked into the room and saw his wife clutched beneath Cedric’s arm, the bloody dagger he’d used to stab Madoc positioned at her throat.
“Cedric, nay. Please.” Gareth dropped his daggers to the ground and held up his palms.
“The only way to stop the Normans is to kill them.” Cedric angled his head and pressed his lips to Tanon’s cheek. “Your death will serve a great purpose.”
Without a sound—indeed, it appeared with no movement at all—Gareth was upon them. He didn’t pause to calculate the time it would take Cedric to slice Tanon’s throat. He acted instinctively, instantaneously, snatching the dagger from his brother’s fingers and ramming it into Cedric’s throat a hair’s breadth away from Tanon’s face.
When she felt the splash of blood across her jaw, Tanon looked up into Gareth’s eyes, and then she fainted.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tanon woke upsometime later in a bed only slightly larger than the one in the cottage. This one was infinitely softer, stuffed no doubt with fine goose down instead of straw. She sat up and looked around. When she saw Hereward sitting in a chair across from her, she thought she might have dreamed of Cedric’s death. Mayhap she dreamed this entire nightmare.
She drew her hand to her cheek.
“Gareth cleaned you.”
Tanon turned away from the pale green eyes she’d known most of her life. “I want to go home.”
Hereward regarded her gently. “You speak of Avarloch,” he said, knowing where she meant. When she nodded, he continued. “Your home is with Prince Gareth.”
“Non, it isn’t,” Tanon turned her frosty gaze on him. “Just as your home is no longer in England.”
Leaning back in his chair, Hereward folded his arms across his chest and met the betrayal that glazed her eyes head on. “If that’s what William decrees, I’ll be forever in his debt, as I expect nothing less than his sword.”