Gwen was folding the king’s freshly laundered sheets when Rhun returned. “May I borrow Gareth’s helmet? I’d like to bring it to the smith to have a copy made. Mine fell in the river, back when Gareth’s and my belongings were lost. We never recovered it.”
Cloth half-folded, Gwen swung around to look at the prince. “I would think so.”
While Gareth’s helmet sported a red plume so that his men could distinguish him on the battlefield in a sea of similarly dressed men, the armorer had crafted distinct designs on the helmets of Prince Rhun and Prince Hywel as well. A golden crown marked King Owain’s, not that he would be wearing any helmet, crowned or not, in the upcoming battle. He would be lucky even to be able to stand by then.
“I’m surprised Gareth didn’t take it with him,” Rhun said.
“My lord, you must know he hates wearing it and does so only when he goes into battle,” Gwen said. “I thought you all felt that way?”
“Oh no.” Rhun gave her a quick smile. “I look forward to wearing an upside-down pot on my head which prevents me from seeing anything beyond what is directly in front of me. I love in particular wearing a device which allows the sweat to run into my eyes and blind me, but which I can’t then remove to address the problem.”
Gwen smiled too. “If it protects your head from an errant blow, wearing a helmet is worth it.”
“So I have concluded. To make a new one, I need a proper armorer with a proper forge, but we don’t have one here. Until I return to Aber and can get fitted, I must make do with what I have. Since Gareth isn’t here, and didn’t take his with him, borrowing from him seemed like the next best thing. So, thank you.”
Rhun put his heels together and gave Gwen a bow. Coming from him, it had to be genuine. If it had been Hywel doing the asking, the bow would have most definitely been mocking. Gwen found it endearing that Rhun, a prince of Wales, felt awkward about asking for a favor. Angharad, his betrothed, was a very lucky woman.
Then Rhun’s eyes strayed to the doorway of the adjacent room, in which King Owain lay ill. “How is my father?”
“His manservant tells me that the bouts of vomiting were so frequent last night that they followed one on top of the other. Sleep is what he needs now, and hopefully his stomach will be calmer when he wakes,” Gwen said.
“Will Father be able to come to Gwern-y-waun?”
“I really can’t say,” Gwen said. “I know you need him there, but sleeping outside in a tent won’t be good for him. Here, at least, he has a fire to warm him.”
“I appreciate you taking care of him.” Then Rhun hesitated.
“What is it?”
“You haven’t seen Lord Goronwy anywhere, have you?”
Gwen’s raised her brows at the question. “No.” Lord Goronwy was Queen Cristina’s father. He was also King Owain’s cousin and long-time companion, which was one reason Owain had married her. The marriage had healed a rift in the royal family of Gwynedd caused many years ago by King Owain’s father. “I thought his men were advancing on Mold from the south.”
“They are,” Rhun said. “He sent word that they are moving now, as we are. But he was supposed to come here to confer one more time before joining his men.”
Gwen held up both hands. “I have no answer for you.”
Rhun tapped the side of his thigh with the flat of his hand and looked towards the fire. In an undertone, he said, “What are you up to, uncle?”
For once, he wasn’t talking about Cadwaladr. Gwen cleared her throat. “Do you have reason to believe Lord Goronwy is up to something?”
“He has made himself scarce recently,” Rhun said. “Up until last week, he was in and out of my father’s headquarters nearly every day. But I haven’t seen him in nearly a week. He just sends messages.” Then he looked directly at her again. “Gwen, you should be very careful.”
“Are you saying I should be careful of Lord Goronwy?” Gwen said. “He has always been kind to me, though I admit that Queen Cristina has been something of a different story of late.”
“I didn’t mean him, necessarily, but with my father ill, the other lords are circling like vultures.”
“Then it is you, my lord, who should watch his back.” Gwen put a hand on Rhun’s arm before he could protest or think too hard about what would happen if his father died. “No matter the source of this illness, your father will recover, my lord. Do not fear.” Gwen couldn’t truly promise that, but King Owain was a strong man. She had sat beside him over the course of two hours, spoon feeding him broth, some of which he kept down for a time before vomiting again. That he could keep it down at all was a hopeful sign.
Rhun scoffed at himself. “Don’t mind me. I don’t have the sight, but we do have a killer on the loose—a man who murdered two people who look like you and Gareth. With the coming assault on Mold Castle, all will be in chaos, and you and Gareth, as always, will be in the thick of it. Just … be careful, as I said.”
“I will.” Gwen swallowed hard. “You be careful too.”
Suddenly Rhun’s face broke into a wide grin, reminding her very much of Prince Hywel. “I always am.”
Gwen spent an unrestful night beside King Owain’s bed, spooning broth into him and being spelled every few hours by the king’s manservant, Tudur. A man in his sixties, he was far sprier than King Owain himself, though the king was twenty years younger. Rail thin, Tudur had a full head of a white hair, which he had a tendency to run his hands through so it stuck up on end. Gwen supposed that keeping up with King Owain had kept him fit. Certainly King Owain trusted him, and Tudur knew more about what went on in the king’s household than anyone but Taran.
Having finally managed to get a few solid hours of sleep before dawn, Gwen woke to find King Owain looming over her. “Where is the army?” he said, without preamble. “How could they leave without me!”
Tudur hurried into the room, a clean basin in his hand. “My lord! What are you doing on your feet?”
King Owain waved a hand. “I am perfectly well, Tudur.”
“You and I both know that is not true, sire,” Tudur said. “And your sons moved the army forward because the lords and captains determined it was time to do so. The advance continues, and the assault on Mold will happen as you yourself planned. Now, get back to bed.”
King Owain glared at his manservant and then turned to Gwen. “Bossy isn’t he? He’s worse than you.” But he did move away from her at a shambling walk towards his room.
Gwen shot Tudur a relieved look. She had never heard anyone speak to King Owain that way, not even Cristina, who was generally honey-sweet with him, except when she was angry.
“I am feeling much better,” King Owain said, once he was settled under the covers, and immediately proved his words untrue by leaning over the side of the bed and vomiting into the basin Tudur had put there a few moments before.
“It is the motion that upsets his belly,” Tudur said to Gwen, as an aside. “This is the first time he’s vomited in hours.” He looked at her from under bushy eyebrows. “That’s your doing, you know. You sat beside him and fed him, and it allowed him to turn a corner.”
“I will keep at it,” Gwen said.
Tudur helped King Owain out of his soiled clothes, and for the next four hours, Gwen sat beside the king, feeding him a spoonful of broth a dozen times an hour, waking him to do so because he would fall asleep between feedings.
At one point, however, he came more awake and seemed to focus on her more fully for the first time since he’d tried to stand. “Why are you here, Gwen? What of the dead woman? Did she really look like you?”
“Somewhat,” Gwen said.
“Did you find her murderer?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Gwen said.
“Tell me,” King Owain said.
Gwen was opening her mouth to obey, but at that moment the king put out a hand and sunk down further into the covers. “Never mind. I just need to lie here and settle myself. I want you to send Tudur in to me while you find food for yourself.”
Gwen didn’t argue. “Yes, sire.” Before leaving, she put a hand to the king’s forehead. It was remarkably cool, especially compared to how he’d been burning up before.
Truthfully, it was a moment for which Gwen had been waiting. She wanted to stretch and eat, perhaps walk around the monastery grounds to get the smell of the sick room out of her nostrils. She had also made no progress towards her charge of spying on the men in King Owain’s court. She hadn’t even seen anyone with especially big feet. When Gareth had suggested she stay with King Owain, neither of them had realized how sick the king really was, and how little she’d be able to leave his bedside.
As she walked from the king’s quarters to the kitchen, the corridors of the monastery bustled with minor lords, their servants, and guardsmen. All of them were waiting for King Owain to get well and were no doubt chafing at being left behind. Everyone wanted to be with the army.
Upon entering the passageway that led to the kitchen, Gwen almost ran into Cynan, King Owain’s next oldest son after Hywel. She was heading towards the kitchen, and he was coming from it. They both pulled up short.
“What are you doing away from the king’s side?” Cynan said in a demanding voice.
Gwen hardly knew the man, and his vehemence made her take a step back. “Tudur is with him. King Owain suggested I take a moment for myself since I’ve been sitting with him since dawn and haven’t eaten today. It’s already noon.”
Cynan took a step towards her, his anger vanishing like mist, and his face pale but hopeful. “You mean … he spoke to you?”
“Yes.” Gwen looked at Cynan warily. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“We’d heard—I mean, the men had understood him to be at death’s door, and that he would not recover from this illness.”
Gwen tried to nod and shake her head at the same time, anxious to dispel his fear for his father. Cynan might not have spent very much time at the king’s court at Aber Castle and be newly anointed as the captain of the king’s teulu, but that didn’t mean the king hadn’t always been the hub around which the spokes of his world revolved.
“He’s very ill,” Gwen said. “He has been very ill, but he’s on the mend now. His fever has fallen, and he is keeping down broth for the most part. Who told you otherwise?”
Cynan’s face darkened. “One of the other captains. Lord Goronwy’s, I think.”
Gwen licked her lips. “I don’t know what to make of that. But no, the king will live. He was even able to stand, though Tudur shooed him back to bed right away. Motion is bad for his composure. I—” Gwen broke off as Cynan’s attention was caught by something behind her.
He brushed passed her, hurrying down the passageway to the doorway that led into the cloister. He went through it, turning to the left and disappearing. Curious as to what could have made him so concerned, Gwen darted after him. As she reached the doorway between the passage and the cloister, she saw him disappearing into the courtyard of the monastery. Continuing to follow, Gwen reached the courtyard and found it in disarray.
King Owain, under no obligation to do what anyone wanted him to do, hadn’t listened to Tudur’s wisdom or hers. With an alarmed protest, Gwen dashed forward to where he was pulling himself into the saddle. “Please no, my lord!”
Cynan stood at his father’s stirrup too, looking up at him. “Is this wise, my lord? It was only a moment ago that I learned from Gwen that you were recovering. You shouldn’t risk your health just when you are finally on the mend.”
“Wise? Perhaps not.” King Owain looked around at the men in the courtyard. Many were smiling and bore relieved expressions on their faces. “Necessary, yes.”
Cynan bowed his head. “I give way.” He strode to where one of the men-at-arms was standing, holding the bridle of his horse, and mounted.
Then King Owain actually smiled down at Gwen from his seat on his horse. “Don’t worry so much, my dear. I have been King of Gwynedd for ten years. Trust me to know what I am doing.”