“I am very sorry to hear that, Godfrid,” Gareth said.
Godfrid looked down at his feet for a moment, and then back up to Gareth’s face. “You remember my elder brother, Brodar?” At Gareth’s nod, Godfrid continued, “He and I have abided by my father’s wish not to challenge Ottar’s rule. My father fears we will lose. I intend to see to it that we win.”
This conversation wasn’t one that should be held out in the open with Gareth half-undressed, but Godfrid’s intensity was such that Gareth didn’t want to suggest they move before at least giving him some assurances. Unfortunately, he had none to give.
Nor did Hywel. “This war with Ranulf has become far more widespread than my father hoped it would when we first came east. We have lost many men in the fighting.”
“I know,” Godfrid said. “I am not suggesting—nor would I ever suggest—a direct exchange. We will join your side no matter what King Owain promises. In truth, with only twenty men, I offer him far fewer men than I hope he will offer me when the time comes.”
“Still, for the immediate future, King Owain will owe you,” Gareth said.
A mischievous look came into Godfrid’s eyes. “Far better than the other way around.”
Gwen patted the big Dane’s upper arm. “I, for one, am very happy to know that you will be fighting alongside my husband.”
Gareth gave his wife’s waist a squeeze and tipped his head to Godfrid. “I’m disturbed you allowed her to come with you.”
“Allowed?” Godfrid said in mock surprise. “I am quite certain that my permission was neither asked for nor given.”
“I told Taran I was going, whether he wanted me to or not,” Gwen said. “And I was safe on the road, as it turned out.”
Gareth felt a growl forming in his throat at Gwen’s willfulness. “Gwen—”
She threaded her fingers through his. “I was as safe as I could be in Godfrid’s company, and Taran did have several letters that needed to be delivered to King Owain. Taran decided that he wouldn’t test my obedience by denying my request, and I promised not to challenge his authority, or yours for that matter, by doing anything foolish. Now that I have seen you, I can turn for home again—tonight if you wish.”
“Perhaps not tonight, but I cannot promise you more than a day or two with Gareth.” Hywel lowered his voice. “The siege of Mold will begin soon. I would not have you here when we move the men forward.”
“One day is more than I’ve had in over a month,” Gwen said. “I will take what I can get.”
“Besides, I’m sure my father would like to speak to you about the goings-on at Aber, beyond the letters Taran sent,” Hywel said. “Who wrote them, specifically?”
“King Cadell of Deheubarth has written to King Owain several times,” Gwen said, “though typically he has promised no aid. The king has also received a formal letter from King Stephen of England, the seal to which Taran did not feel he could break, but he assumes it is in regard to Chester’s action against us. That is the real reason he needed someone to ride east as soon as possible.”
Without further ado, Gwen reached into the bag on her shoulder, removed the packet of letters destined for the king, and handed them to Hywel.
Hywel glanced at them as he took them from her and then slipped them into the long interior pocket of his coat. They were hardly the first messages he’d carried to his father, but the letter from King Stephen might be the most important.
Gareth raised his eyebrows. A letter from Stephen could be very good news for the Welsh cause if the English king was in any way willing to give them aid against the Earl of Chester.
Ranulf had a long and complicated history with both King Stephen, the current occupant of the English throne, and Empress Maud, Stephen’s cousin and the challenger to it. While Stephen was nephew to the former King Henry, Maud was his only surviving legitimate child. But she was a woman. Upon the death of King Henry, instead of supporting Maud’s claim, which had been Henry’s wish, many barons had thrown their support behind Stephen’s claim.
The dispute was—if it was anything—a family one. Not only were Maud and Stephen cousins, but Ranulf was son-in-law to King Henry’s bastard son, Robert, who was in turn Maud’s half-brother, her chief supporter, and a very capable general. That connection hadn’t tied Ranulf permanently to Maud, however, and he’d switched sides at least three times in the ongoing war between these royal cousins.
At the moment, having been imprisoned by King Stephen for treason as late as August of this year, Ranulf wasn’t supporting either side. He had retreated to Chester to lick his wounds, to plan whatever intrigue against King Stephen appealed to him next, and to wage war on his closest Welsh neighbor, King Owain Gwynedd.
If King Stephen assented to come into King Owain’s dispute, the war could be over before Christmas. It all depended upon what the letter said, and what King Owain would have to promise King Stephen in return for his support.
“Why did Llywelyn not bring the letter to the king himself?” Hywel said.
At the start of the war, King Owain had sent Llywelyn to London to act as his emissary to the court of King Stephen.
“He sent his servant on to Aber alone,” Gwen said.
His expression a match to Hywel’s, Gareth frowned down at Gwen. “That’s odd. Why would he do that?”
“The servant could only say that Llywelyn appeared nervous and unsettled,” Gwen said. “The man hadn’t wanted to leave his master, but Llywelyn ordered him to, and the servant obeyed because he knew how important the letter was. When Llywelyn put him on his horse and sent him away, he went. If you haven’t seen Llywelyn, then nobody has heard from him since.”
Gareth looked over at Hywel. “This news about Llywelyn is disturbing, my lord. It makes me wonder if someone shouldn’t be sent to England to seek word of him.”
“Would that someone be you, Gareth? Tired of my company already?” Hywel said.
Gareth made a sour face. “Of course not, my lord. I may have words with Taran later about using Gwen as his errand boy, but I can see why he thought Godfrid’s arrival seemed the perfect opportunity, not only to see his letters delivered but to get Gwen out of his hair.”
“Are you sorry I came?” Gwen said.
Gareth barked a laugh, not willing to dignify that question with a response. He looked again at Hywel. “May I accompany Gwen to see your father?” At Hywel’s nod, he added to Gwen, “Let’s find something for me to put on that isn’t coated with mud. If we are going to see the king, I should look my best.”
“I brought you some clothes in my saddlebag, perhaps better than what you have.” Gwen gestured to where her horse had been picketed. One of the stable boys, who’d been brought to the encampment from Aber, had watered him, and he was munching happily from his feed bag. “I also have supplies for Prince Rhun—and a letter to him from Angharad.”
Gareth pressed his lips together, trying to hide his smile. Prince Rhun’s marriage prospects had been the subject of much speculation over the years, but he had finally settled upon Angharad as his choice. She was niece to the King of Deheubarth, a fickle ally if ever there was one and the ruler of a kingdom to which King Owain had been seeking closer ties for years. King Owain had approved the match—partly out of relief that his son had finally chosen a wife, but also because it was good politics.
King Cadell himself had no daughters, so marriage to his niece was the best that could be hoped for. The wedding would take place in the spring. Everybody was trying to avoid thinking about the last time a marriage had been arranged between Deheubarth and Gwynedd. In that instance, the wedding had ended before it had begun with a dead bridegroom and Cadell on the throne of Deheubarth. They could only hope that the outcome of this match would be better. Gareth didn’t see how it could be worse.
“Where is King Owain?” Gwen said as she and Gareth detoured to her horse to pick up Gareth’s fresh clothes and then walked back towards his tent, leaving Hywel and Godfrid to ready themselves in their own way for the short journey to King Owain’s headquarters.
“He has taken over a nearby monastery, recently abandoned, and refitted the buildings for his own use,” Gareth said.
“This isn’t the convent where you learned to read, is it?” Gwen said.
“No,” Gareth said. “That was located farther to the south. Many holy sites have been destroyed or abandoned since the war between Stephen and Maud began.”
“I didn’t realize the fighting between them had affected monasteries all the way up here,” Gwen said.
“In itself, it hasn’t,” Gareth said, “but lawlessness has taken hold in remote corners of Wales such as this. Monks prefer to build as far away from lay settlements as they can, but isolated lands are precisely the places where masterless men can operate with near impunity. Gwynedd’s reach has rarely stretched this far. King Owain’s father was on the verge of conquering here when King Owain’s elder brother, Cadwallon, was killed and, since that day, control over these roads and lands has shifted back and forth between Ranulf and King Owain a dozen times. Mostly, the people look to their local lords for guidance.”
“As they do most places,” Gwen said.
“True,” Gareth said, “but usually a shift from one overlord to another doesn’t involve changing countries.”
“And Ranulf hasn’t exactly been a good steward.” Gwen nodded her understanding. “I feel sorry for the monks, but sleeping safe in a monastery sounds like a much more comfortable situation for King Owain than I expected. Cristina has driven us all mad with her endless grousing about how he hasn’t come home for three months. He might not wish to subject himself to her nagging, but I wondered how he could stand sleeping on the ground all this time.”
Gareth laughed. It felt good—genuine and familiar—as it bubbled up in his chest. That Gwen walked beside him, that she was here, even if she shouldn’t be, covered the whole world in a rosy glow. “Though he would deny any suggestion that he is slowing down, the king nears fifty years of age. I, too, have been surprised that he hasn’t left more of this war to his sons.”
“I do think it’s Cristina,” Gwen said flatly. “Motherhood has made her shrewish.”
Gareth eyed his wife. “Has she directed her bile at you?”
“Not often,” Gwen said.
Gwen’s words came out short, bitten off even, and Gareth decided not to harp again on Gwen’s decision to make this trip. It had been nearly a year since he’d spent more than a few days at Aber Castle, so he couldn’t judge the state of the queen’s mind. She had her two sons now, Dafydd and Rhodri, and her devotion to them was fierce and uncompromising—perhaps to the boys’ detriment.
Certainly, her protectiveness and her constant defense of their birthright had kept most of the king’s many other sons away from Aber, Hywel and Rhun among them. Even with the loss of his possessions in the river, Rhun hadn’t made any effort to leave the front in favor of a few days at home.
“Mari—” Gareth began.
“—never left Ceredigion. She chose to remain in Aberystwyth until the birth of her child,” Gwen said.
It took two days of hard riding for a message to travel from eastern Gwynedd, where the war was being waged, to Aber Castle, west of the Conwy River. It would take many more to reach Ceredigion. The atmosphere at Aber must be truly foul if Mari would prefer to live so far away from where Hywel fought. “Provided the passes remain open, after you leave here you should collect Tangwen and ride to visit Mari,” Gareth said. “Since Hywel cannot, you should be with her for the birth of the child.”
Gwen gave a small cry and threw her arms around Gareth’s neck. “I don’t want to be so far from you, but if my husband commands it, what can I do but obey?”
Gareth laughed again, pulling her tightly to him, and then kissed her hard, forgetting for a moment their surroundings and the many watching eyes.
“Time is a ’wasting,” Hywel said, coming up behind them on his way to his own tent. His words were a rebuke, but his tone was mild.
“Yes, my lord,” Gareth and Gwen said at the same time, not without a giggle on Gwen’s part, and they hurried into Gareth’s tent.
Hastily, Gareth stripped off his clothes. Although he would have much preferred to wrap Gwen up with him in the new thick black cloak she’d brought and lie down on his pallet with her, they couldn’t keep Prince Hywel waiting. Instead, he dressed in the clean items from Gwen’s pack. It was probably just as well they’d hadn’t taken any time for themselves. As Gareth was pulling on his shirt, Dai tossed back the tent flap and entered.
“Mam!” The boy flung himself at Gwen, and she hugged him back. His brother, Llelo, appeared in the doorway a moment later. Taking in the scene, he approached more slowly, but with as much joy, and hugged his mother too.
“My boys,” Gwen said.
Gareth could hear the tears that had formed in Gwen’s throat at the presence of her two adopted sons. Gareth and Gwen had rescued them from England after the loss of their parents two and half years ago when the boys were ten and twelve. Now old enough to wear the mantle of a knight’s sons, Llelo and Dai were being fostered and taught by one of King Owain’s illegitimate sons, Cynan.
The next oldest son after Rhun and Hywel, Cynan was Hywel’s half-brother, a year younger than he. King Owain had given Denbigh Castle to him and to his younger brothers, Madoc and Cadell, as a base from which to protect eastern Gwynedd. On his way back from Aber last month, Gareth had spent an evening with Cadell, since he remained at Denbigh as its guardian while his older brothers were fighting. Cadell chafed at his charge, viewing it as a form of exile, but when he’d spoken to Gareth of the king’s trust in him, Gareth had heard pride too, both for himself and for his brothers.
In recent weeks, Cynan had been promoted to captain of the king’s teulu. King Owain’s former captain had been wounded and lay recovering at Denbigh. Gareth had inspected the injury in his right leg, and while he would live, the wound had cut deeply into the muscle. He might ride again one day, but it wouldn’t be into battle.
Llelo and Dai had spent the summer at Denbigh Castle, starting their apprenticeship to become knights, before the outbreak of fighting on the far eastern border between Gwynedd and Chester had brought them here in Cynan’s wake. Early on, the fighting had been farther to the south, but in recent weeks it had moved closer to Chester and become focused around Mold Castle, to which King Owain was preparing to lay siege.
Having reached manhood, Llelo was a few inches taller than Gwen and wore a sword on his hip. Dai was tall enough to look her in the eye. She hugged them again and said, “You boys have been staying out of trouble, haven’t you?”
Llelo rolled his eyes. “Of course, Mum.”
“We haven’t seen any real fighting,” Dai said.
Gareth nodded. “We’ve been using them as scouts mostly.”
And then, with accomplished movements, Llelo moved to help Gareth arm himself. He’d done it before, of course, though Gwen had never witnessed it. Gwen stood with her arm around Dai’s shoulder, watching, and then while Llelo belted on his father’s sword, Dai left her to help Gareth adjust the bracers on his forearms.
Gareth kept his eyes on his wife’s face, proud beyond measure of their sons, but trying not to show it. “How is our daughter?” he said softly.
Gwen smiled. “She is well. Bright and loving. I found her a new nanny, since Elspeth is married and expecting a child of her own. The woman’s name is Abi. She lost her husband in the early summer while we were in Ceredigion. Sickness.”
It was an all too common story. Gareth had lost his own parents to measles when he was five years old.
“She is some relation to our Dai and Llelo.” Gwen said.
Llelo stopped in the act of tightening Gareth’s belt and looked up. “I heard you say her name, and I thought I might know of her.” He tugged on the end of the belt so it would stay and not flap annoyingly. “She’s my father’s sister’s husband’s cousin.”
Gareth smiled. Welsh genealogy being what it was, every man could name his ancestors to seven generations, but it became complicated trying to remember the family trees of those who had married in. It didn’t surprise Gareth, however, that Llelo could do it. He probably had Gareth’s and Gwen’s families memorized too.
“And what have you been doing, Gareth?” Gwen said.
“I’ve hardly drawn my sword, Gwen. You needn’t worry so.”
Gwen didn’t believe him—and said so. “What about your new scar?”
“Oh. That,” Gareth said.
She gave a mocking laugh. “Yes, that. You allowed an enemy to come far too close to you when you weren’t wearing your armor.”
Gareth put his hand on his eldest son’s shoulder. “I was scouting with Llelo. He already knows how to read the landscape and listen to a forest, so studying the terrain comes naturally to him. Unfortunately, it did to Ranulf’s scout too, and neither of us saw each other before we were face to face, each coming around the opposite side of a large bush. He was quicker with his knife than I—”
“Gareth!”
Gareth put out a hand to Gwen, “—let me finish. I was going to say that my aim was more accurate.”
Gwen bit her lip as she looked at the calm faces of Gareth and Llelo. “I understand why you didn’t want to tell me, but I need to know the bad as well as the good.” She looked at Llelo. “And what about you?”
“I learned a valuable lesson,” Llelo said, sounding far more like a man than the boy she’d last seen at Aber.
“We have both been more careful since then,” Gareth said.
“I am so scared for all of you, every day,” Gwen said. “After this, if I ride to see Mari in Aberystwyth, it might be months before I see you again.”
“I know you’re scared for me,” Gareth said, “but please know that I am not. Trust me that I know what I’m doing.”
“It isn’t your skills that I question,” Gwen said. “It’s those of the men you face I’m worried about.”
Gareth actually laughed. “The real difficulty ahead is wresting control of Mold Castle from Ranulf. King Owain is determined to take it before Christmas. We weren’t fully committed to the effort before last week, and until yesterday some of the lords remained reluctant to agree to a siege. From what Hywel has told me, King Owain hopes to move the men forward by the end of the week, and then the whole army will converge on Mold.”
“The boys too?” Gwen said.
Llelo stepped back from Gareth, eyeing his attire and nodding, satisfied with his work. Gareth was satisfied too, which was why he had no qualms about stealing his son from Cynan every now and then when he needed him.
“I will keep my eye on them,” Gareth said.
Dai grinned. “That’s what he says, but it’s really that we’ll be keeping an eye on Da for you, Mam.”
“For which I am very grateful,” Gwen said, reaching for Dai again and bringing him into the circle of her arm.
Then Dai said, “But you shouldn’t be here, Mam.”
“I’m only here for a day, and then I’ll return to Aber. I needed to see you all, and Lord Taran had a letter for the king.” Gwen looked at Gareth. “I suppose we should see about speaking to him.”
Leaving Dai and Llelo to their duties—both were due to stand watch on the perimeter of the camp—Gareth and Gwen left the tent and found Godfrid and Hywel waiting for them by one of the fire pits. Hywel stood with his hands outstretched to the warm flames. He’d taken off his leather gloves, and his fingers were white. Gareth eyed them, watching the color gradually return to them. It appeared that the prince’s sensitivity to cold was growing worse.
From Gwen’s report, Hywel’s hands and feet had reacted strongly to cold since his early teens. It wasn’t something a soldier—or a prince—was allowed to complain about, but Gareth remembered the first time Hywel had shown him the forefinger of his right hand after it had turned white and lifeless. Warm water was best for heating it up, but Hywel had been known to plunge his fingers into a bowl of cooking porridge when he was desperate to feel his fingers.
Hywel saw Gareth looking at his hands. He grimaced and hastily pulled his gloves back on. He never went anywhere without them in winter, and his boots had an interior layer of wool to better keep out the cold. Living outdoors all the time might be more difficult for him than for King Owain.
“Do we walk to the monastery?” Gwen asked.
“It’s a half-mile through the woods,” Hywel said. “Better to ride in this weather.”
Even if he suspected the prince wanted to ride because of the condition of his fingers, Gareth didn’t protest. The air had turned colder over the last hour, and given its size and the exposed nature of the field, the camp was open to the weather. Warm winds and rain, both of which they’d had plenty of this autumn, came from the southwest. But it was a cold north wind that was blowing this afternoon. They could have snow by morning.
Gwen shivered beside him. Concerned, Gareth pulled up her hood and retied the scarf around her neck so that it held her cloak closed and prevented the wind from getting into the core of her body. Beneath the cloak, she was already wearing wool breeches, a shift, an underdress, and an overdress. Any more layers and she’d barely be able to move. As it was, the only bits of her that were showing were her nose and mouth.
It took only a few moments to mount, and then the companions rode down the track to the monastery. They arrived in the clearing in front of what had once been the main gatehouse but was now something of a ruin. The base of the wall had been originally built in stone, but it had crumbled on either side of the gate to a height of less than three feet and no longer provided any serious barrier to the courtyard behind it.
The wooden gate stood open, and a half-dozen horses cropped the grass that had grown up between the slate stones that paved the courtyard in places. Dismounting, the companions led their horses through the gate. At that moment, Prince Rhun, Owain’s eldest son and Hywel’s blood brother, appeared out of the entrance to the cloister with a man dressed in priest’s robes. The pair had been talking intently and looked up at the sudden arrival of the visitors.
Rhun broke into a smile and, sounding very much like his father, said, “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” He walked towards Godfrid, who tossed his reins to Gareth.
The two princes reached each other in three strides. Godfrid didn’t give Rhun as exuberant a greeting as he’d given Hywel, but they shook arms with genuine affection. They were near to each other in height and weight, attributable to their mutual Viking ancestry.
“Cousin.” Godfrid stepped back from Rhun. “I bring you greetings from my father, as well as twenty good fighting men.”
Rhun dipped his chin. “I am very glad to hear it—and to see you. I am looking forward to hearing your news from Dublin, but—” His eyes strayed first to Gareth, and then to Gwen, who’d pushed back the hood of her cloak so Rhun could see her face.
Gwen smiled. “My lord.”
Rhun was in his late twenties, a few years younger than Gareth. He’d been his father’s right hand since he’d become a man and knew his father’s mind better than anyone except Taran, King Owain’s longtime friend and the steward of Aber Castle.
“I do not know how it is that you are here, Gwen, but somehow I can’t be surprised. It is just as well. The good father has need of your services.”
Gwen put a hand to her breast. “My services?”
“Yours and your husband’s.” Rhun tipped his head towards his brother. “It appears, once again, that your captain is needed for other duties for a few days.”
“Why is that?” Hywel looked nonplussed. “The siege of Mold is imminent, Rhun.”
“Our preparations will have to continue without Gareth, at least for now,” Rhun said. “Father Alun, of the parish of Cilcain to the east of here, has found a body in his graveyard.”