Chapter Thirty-eight

Gwen had her arms wrapped around her son, refusing to let him go. He was taller than she was, but she weighed more. She hadn’t known Dai was in real danger and, in a way, that made her need to hug him even more fierce.

Still, Dai’s gentle pats on the back eventually encouraged her to release him, and she loosened her hold. He was past the age where her love embarrassed him, and these days he could even say I love you back to her. Now, even though she’d let him go, he brought her into the circle of his arm again. “I’m all right, Mam.”

At her words, they both turned to look at the Dragon in question, who was sitting on a bench, being seen to by Tod, the healer’s apprentice, who himself was being assisted by Aron.

Once he’d dragged Steffan into the house, Vigo had pulled two of the fingernails from Steffan’s left hand, demanding Steffan tell him what he knew. Steffan had refused, of course—and refused even to let him know he really did understand what he was saying to him. He’d been aided by the fact that he’d passed out briefly after Vigo had ripped off the second nail.

Setting fire to the house had the beneficial side effect of leading the search party right to them. They’d been mounting Vigo’s horses, in preparation for returning to Dublin, when their friends arrived.

They’d entered Dublin in the gray light of morning, before the city was truly stirring, and since Vigo had ridden in thrown over a horse, with a sack over his head and a cloth binding his mouth, nobody outside their small circle knew they had a son of the high king locked up in their shed. The question remained what to do with him.

Gareth had Goff and Arnulf continuing to consider the error of their ways in side-by-side penitent cells within Christ’s Church. It seemed the best way to prevent news of what really happened north of the Liffey from spreading throughout Dublin—and worse, reaching the ears of either Rory O’Connor, who was camped with his men to the west of the city, or Donnell, wherever he might be.

Rory had to know by now that something untoward had happened in the night that had required the king to leave the city. Cait had done an impressive job deflecting King Diarmait’s questions, implying it was merely a training exercise that had taken the Brodar outside the city so early in the morning.

“I’m really fine.” Steffan held up his hand. “I confess to have never been so afraid in my life as when he brought out the pliers. I thought he was going to remove one of my fingers whole—or take my eye.”

Cadoc dropped a hand on his shoulder. “We would have been too late to stop him. I’m sorry.”

“You were caught because Vigo recognized you as a Dragon,” Dai said. “There was nothing you could have done about that except not go—and at the time you didn’t know you’d be recognized.”

Gruffydd grinned. “Tod here will bandage you up, and you can tell the girls you were bitten by a wolf before you killed it.”

Steffan’s eyes lit. “I had to let him have my left hand so I could strangle him with my right.”

Cadoc sighed dramatically. “It also means you probably won the bet, though young Dai here could argue he gave you a good run for your money.”

The faces of all the Dragons bore an identical sheepish expression. After a quick glance at the others, Gruffydd flicked out his fingers. “We wagered on which one of us would be of most service to the investigation. Too bad we can’t pay Steffan his winnings in fingernails.”

It was a macabre jest, but everyone laughed. Gwen, however, turned to her boys, her eyes troubled. “That was closer than I like to see my sons to real danger.”

Atypically, Dai didn’t brush off the concern. “I was scared, Mam. I really was.” Then his brow furrowed. “But I didn’t let it stop me from doing what had to be done.”

Evan walked over and looked Dai in the eye. “Iago tells me it was you who captured Vigo.”

Dai allowed himself a pleased look. “Iago knocked him out. I’m glad I didn’t realize he had pulled out Steffan’s fingernails himself or I might have been angrier and done something stupid.”

“I don’t believe you would have, but credit to you for wondering that about yourself.” Evan tipped his head towards the door. “Go get cleaned up. All of us must. And pretend like nothing is in any way amiss!”

As it turned out, that was easier than Gwen had thought it might be. The sight of Cait in her wedding dress was enough to dispel everything else from her mind. And when Cait walked into the churchyard an hour later, the look of stunned surprise on Godfrid’s face told everyone he couldn’t think of anything but his bride either.

Godfrid had insisted Gareth stand up with him, in addition to Conall and Brodar, so both Gareth and Gwen stood at the church door with them. Taran had fallen asleep in Dai’s arms, and Llelo had swung Tangwen onto his shoulders so she could see above the heads of everyone in the crowd, even the tallest Danes.

Even Steffan had come, though his hand was bandaged, and Aron and Iago hovered over him. His hand would heal, but their attentiveness was because torture couldn’t—and shouldn’t—be so easily dismissed. With everyone at the church, Brodar had sent his own men to guard Vigo in the shed, hoping that having guards around Godfrid’s home wouldn’t be viewed as odd, given that he was getting married today.

Church bells rang above their heads, and the street and churchyard were packed with citizens of Dublin. On the arm of King Diarmait, Cait progressed along a woven reed mat to the church door, where Godfrid and Bishop Gregory waited.

Although the Danes themselves were not known for their musical talents, they appreciated song and, after gory and tragic battle sagas, love songs were among the most commonly sung. Gwen and Hywel moved together to one side of the steps, and everyone turned to look at them. Hywel leaned down and hummed the starting note in Gwen’s ear, since he had perfect pitch and could always get it exactly right, and they began:

As far as the wind dries,

and the rain moistens,

and the sun revolves,

and the sea encircles,

and the earth extends

By the truth of Heaven,

I am yours,

Name what thou wilt.

And I will grant it

For my heart warms unto thee ...

There was no applause after the singing, but Dorte was weeping, so Gwen knew she’d done her job. She returned to her family, finding herself alive in that particular way a performance that went well could make her. Hywel’s eyes too were alight, and she suspected he, at least, would be called upon to sing again in the hall at the celebratory feast—and would be happy to oblige.

The ceremony itself was short, conducted half in Latin, which Gwen understood, with key moments in Danish, which she didn’t. What was supposed to happen, however, did, and when Godfrid put his ring on Cait’s finger, Gwen found tears welling up in her own eyes. She wished Gareth was beside her because she could have clasped his hand, remembering their own wedding nearly five years ago.

Then the church doors opened and the entire company entered for the nuptial mass. Gwen herself was delighted about the marriage, of course, but she couldn’t help thinking of Harald and his journal, protesting the loss of Danish sovereignty, which Godfrid’s marriage to Cait only solidified. The church itself was full of summer flowers, sweet scented and full of light, a fine counterpoint to the darkness of the last few days.

Now that Cait and Godfrid were married, Gareth too was surplus to requirements. Leaving Brodar, Conall, Rory O’Connor, and King Diarmait to kneel and stand with Cait and Godfrid, Gareth appeared at Gwen’s side, just about the point that Taran, who’d been asleep, started to fuss. Once she relieved Dai of his burden, and Gareth took Tangwen from Llelo, the four of them slipped out a side door into the churchyard.

“If both of you weren’t so sweet, I wouldn’t have put it past you to have pinched Taran to make him fuss,” Gareth said, “just so you could leave early.”

“I would never do that!” But Gwen was smiling as they navigated through the crowd of citizens who didn’t fit in the church but still wanted to wait to greet their new princess, and down a deserted side street. If any residents of Dublin weren’t at the church, palace, or lining the road between the two, they were staying inside.

Godfrid’s house lay in the opposite direction, west of Christ’s Church. But as soon as they were within sight of it, Gareth put out a hand to stop Gwen, and then tugged her and the children towards a nearby alley. “Something’s wrong. The guards are gone.”

Gwen clutched Tangwen’s hand, and the three of them waited as Gareth walked through the gate, into Godfrid’s yard, and into the house. The wall around the complex was only three feet high, designed to keep children and pigs inside, not to deter intruders.

After what felt like an hour, but likely was really a fraction of that time, Gareth returned. “I don’t know how or why, but Vigo is gone.”