“What kind of trip?” Gareth said. They were all still standing, which was good for Gareth since he was too agitated to sit.
Godfrid canted his head, indicating that they should move farther away from the campfire and his men. While he claimed to trust every one of them, he’d misplaced his trust before—as they all had at one time or another—and been betrayed. With Cadwaladr involved, it could easily happen again.
“Before I go into detail,” Godfrid said, “you have to be absolutely sure that you believe Cadwaladr has conspired with Ranulf. The plan is risky, so it has to be worth the cost if it goes astray.”
“We’re sure, Godfrid,” Rhun said. “Let’s hear it.”
“It’s simple, really,” Godfrid said. “I will take Gareth and Gwen with me and my men straight into the lion’s den.”
Gwen had tight hold of Gareth’s hand, but she didn’t speak or ask what Godfrid meant. Everyone in the little circle knew what he meant.
“You want them to walk into Mold Castle and speak to Ranulf of Chester?”
Gareth could hear the laughter in Hywel’s voice at the audacity of Godfrid’s suggestion.
Godfrid spread his hands wide. “Who else and where else? That’s where the scouts say he is, don’t they?” He looked at Rhun.
“They do,” Rhun said, “and where Pawl and Morein say the false Gareth dined with him.”
“And if he isn’t there?” Cynan said.
“We’ll ride all the way to Chester if need be,” Godfrid said. “There’s an agreement between him and Cadwaladr, and Ranulf thinks the princes are betraying their father. He might find the news that they aren’t worth hearing. As Rhun said, if Ranulf has given Cadwaladr support in the form of men, money, and weapons, he could lose them all.”
“You’re suggesting that we give him another option,” Hywel said.
“He won’t switch sides,” Gareth said.
“No, but he might be interested in a truce,” Godfrid said. “He might see the benefit of giving up Mold Castle in exchange for a cease fire. He thought Cadwaladr was going to stop the siege before it started. He may not have refortified the castle at all, because he was counting on your father’s fall and Cadwaladr’s withdrawal of your forces.”
“He should recognize Gareth and Gwen from the time they saved Prince Henry,” Rhun said.
“In his arrogance, Ranulf barely looked at you at the time,” Hywel said, “so I can see how he could have been deceived years later. He may have thought when he saw Cole and Adeline that they were you, but as soon as he sees both of you together in the flesh he will know the truth.”
“It is different this time, isn’t it?” Madoc said softly. Everyone looked at him. As usual, he hadn’t said two words up until now. He gave a small smile, as if in acknowledgement of that fact, before continuing, “We’re in the middle of a war. Men are dying.” He gestured to King Owain’s tent. “Father could be dying. The stakes this time are much, much higher. Does Cadwaladr know it?”
“He has to,” Rhun said.
Madoc canted his head. “I don’t know that he does. He has lived so long with deception, he might not be able to see how far down the road to perdition he’s come. I don’t think he can see his own sin anymore. He has fallen so far into evil that he has lost the ability to recognize when he’s committed a crime that can never be forgiven. If he ever had that ability. If he was caught.”
“Which makes it all the more important that we act,” Hywel said.
His back straightening with resolve, Gareth said, “I will go to Ranulf.”
Godfrid shook his head. “Gareth, I know you want to protect Gwen, but you both have to come with me. Cadwaladr used you both, and it may be that Ranulf will have to see you together to realize he’s been deceived. If it’s any consolation, I think if you allow Gwen to come, it will be safer for all of us. When a woman rides among men, the party is no longer one of war.”
Gareth ground his teeth but didn’t deny Godfrid’s words.
“Knowing that Cadwaladr lied to him and involved him in his schemes under false pretenses might not be enough to stop what is already in motion,” Cynan warned.
“It might not be,” Rhun said, “so we have to act on this end too. At first light, Gareth and Gwen will go to Ranulf, with the letter from Stephen, and negotiate for peace on our behalf. If Ranulf reconsiders his support for Cadwaladr, as I think he must, then we need you to ride hell bent for home to stop the siege before it starts.”
Hywel nodded. “Meanwhile, we must continue to move our men forward, to put pressure on Mold. If we don’t hear from you, we’ll know Ranulf chose to fight and that the war is still on. The sooner you return, the fewer lives will be lost.”
“And what will you do about Cadwaladr?” Gareth said.
“I will stop him,” Rhun said.
Because he was the son of the deposed King of Dublin, the one aspect of this scheme that nobody questioned was Godfrid’s role. He could get them to Mold Castle. Anyone who saw him would assume that he had come to Wales for the reason he had come to Wales—to seek allies for the overthrow of Ottar, his father’s rival. That he had gone to Gwynedd and the court of King Owain first need never be mentioned. Ranulf would admit a company led by him into Mold.
Gareth, in particular, would have to be well hooded and cloaked so that nobody would recognize him until he was through the defenses around the castle. It would have been better to ride under the cover of darkness for that reason, but for Godfrid’s mission to appear true, he had to arrive in broad daylight.
Once decided, there was very little they had to do in preparation. Mold Castle lay all of two miles from their current camp, on a little mound north of the village of Mold. The castle had been built on practically the only high ground for the whole of those two miles.
Meanwhile, they could sleep.
Maybe.
Because Gwen had to ride in the morning, Tudur had relieved her of her vigil at King Owain’s bedside. Gwen rolled over, out of Gareth’s arms, but he could tell from the way she was breathing that she wasn’t asleep. After another count of twenty, he said, “What are you thinking about?”
“Tangwen,” Gwen said immediately.
Gareth turned onto his side and tucked his arm around Gwen again. “Are you worrying about her? You’ve only been here a few days.”
“That’s a few days longer than I’ve ever left her before.” Gwen raised one shoulder. “I tell myself she’s fine, and I know she’s fine. She has her grandfather and the entire castle wrapped around her little finger. I know that. But I’m her mother. I worry.”
“If this goes well, you could be back in Aber by the end of the month,” Gareth said. “You haven’t been gone even a week yet.”
“I know,” Gwen said. “Truthfully, worrying about Tangwen is better than worrying about tomorrow.”
Gareth relaxed, pillowing his head in his arm. “I am not worried.”
Gwen rolled half onto her back, craning her neck so she could look into his face. “Truly?”
“Truly. Ranulf isn’t going to harm either of us, and he will welcome Godfrid with open arms.”
“How can you be sure?” Gwen said.
“He has no reason to harm us,” Gareth said. “We are his enemy in this battle, but we will be riding under a banner of peace. And we will be bringing news he doesn’t want to hear but needs to know.”
“It is a great responsibility Rhun and Hywel are giving us,” Gwen said.
“Ranulf can’t be ignorant of the fact that he’s in bed with a treacherous snake, but he might believe that the alliance he’s forged is a true one,” Gareth said.
“Using us as surety of it,” Gwen said sourly.
“Even so,” Gareth said.
Gwen sighed. “At times like these, when I’m worried or scared, I tell myself that no matter what happens, by tomorrow night it will be over.”
Gareth pulled the blanket higher onto Gwen’s shoulder as she turned onto her side again. He’d told her the truth. He wasn’t worried—except for that niggling fear in the back of his mind that it would all be over tomorrow because they’d both be dead.
The morning came, as mornings tended to, no matter how terrible the future that came with it. The companions rose in the pre-dawn light in preparation for their journey. They wanted to reach Mold as quickly as possible, and with only two miles to go, it wouldn’t take them long.
Godfrid had quested among the spare gear his men had brought and come up with armor and clothing that made Gareth look Danish instead of Welsh. Gareth couldn’t grow his beard back overnight, but he had a few days’ growth on his face, which would have to do. When he was completely dressed, down to the axe in his belt (in addition to his sword and belt knife), Godfrid appeared in front of him with a big grin on his face and a helmet under his arms. To Gareth’s horror, it sported ram’s horns on either side of the main casement.
“What is that?” he said, though he had a bad feeling he knew.
“The English will see only the helmet and not the man wearing it. One of my men made it one day to see what it would be like to wear,” Godfrid said. “He loves what he looks like in it, though we mock him for it.”
With great reluctance, Gareth allowed Godfrid to put the helmet on his head and adjust the straps. He wiggled his head, feeling the awkward weight of the horns. “Don’t tell me he’s actually worn this into battle. Godfrid, it’s terribly unwieldy!”
Godfrid laughed, and then Gwen did too when he turned to her. She held up both hands to keep him away. “Any Welsh woman would run screaming from you if you arrived on our beach wearing that!”
Gareth growled and reached for her. She squealed as he grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. Then he kissed her, despite Godfrid’s presence. When he released her, Godfrid gave Gareth a deep bow. “I apologize to your ancestors for the behavior of mine, my friend.” His bow was mocking, but his words were not.
“Your ancestors and mine are drinking mead together in heaven right now, so all is forgiven.” Gareth clapped his big friend on the shoulder. “Let’s do this.”
Godfrid hadn’t attempted to turn Gwen into a soldier because the whole point was for her to be arrayed as a lady. To that end, she wore the better of the two dresses she’d brought, covered by an all-encompassing cloak. Gareth was happy to see her belt knife at her waist. Even though all his instincts screamed against it, he was taking her into enemy territory, and she needed to be able to protect herself.
A cold fog shrouded the hill, not unusual for a winter morning in Wales, and they waded through it to where the horses waited. Hywel was standing next to Gwen’s horse, and he held out his clasped hands to Gwen in order to boost her up. Then the prince turned to Gareth, grinning to see him wearing the absurd helmet. “You always have all the fun.”
“Your definition of fun and mine are clearly not the same, my lord.”
“Oh yes, they are,” Hywel said. “You live for this sort of thing.”
Gareth shook his head. “Once. Not anymore.” Because, of course, Hywel was right that exploits like this had once been a way of life for him. Hywel had sought them out, Gareth at his side. Sometimes Hywel’s escapades had been a bit more fraught with peril than had been to Gareth’s taste, but he’d gone along with them.
They were both older now, however, with wives and children, and Gareth’s willingness to risk everything, even for great reward, had been tempered by a strong dose of caution. In his current state, he found it easier to remember that adventure was usually accompanied by fear, hunger, and the unexpected in equal measure, in none of which Gareth had any interest anymore.
“Please don’t begin the assault on Mold before we get back,” Gwen said from her perch on her horse. “I’d hate to be stuck there until your eventual victory.”
Hywel waved a hand. “Madoc and Cynan will be moving out with the bulk of our men within an hour of your departure. They’ll be right behind you, regardless of how your meeting with Ranulf goes. If you don’t return by nightfall, we’ll know that you are in need of rescue, which will mean the siege will be as much for your benefit as ours.”
“I suppose that’s some comfort.” Gareth’s horse shifted, and he leaned forward to pat Braith’s neck.
“I looked in on your father this morning,” Gwen said. “He was awake and talking, but you haven’t told him what we’re doing, have you?”
“No,” Hywel said.
Gareth gathered the reins. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
“All will be made clear soon enough, one way or another,” Hywel said. “We are committed. My brother himself leads the company that rides to Cadwaladr’s camp. They’ve already gone. Soon Cadwaladr won’t be able to do us harm ever again, and we will tell my father everything we know when you return.”
“What do you think Cadwaladr’s plan was?” Gwen said. “The siege is supposed to begin tonight. At what point did he intend to betray the king?”
“Rhun and I have discussed it. Given my father’s illness and inability to travel, we think it would have been late this afternoon. All the captains were to have met here before sunset, in order to finalize any last details. Our army would have been—and still should be—in place around Mold by then, ready for the last push forward after dark.”
Gareth nodded. “You would have let him and his men into the camp, and then he would have turned on you. He wouldn’t have had enough men himself, but if his teulu had been augmented by a company of Ranulf’s men as Morein said …” Gareth’s voice trailed off at the horror of it. If he hadn’t gone to the inn, they would have been too late to uncover Cadwaladr’s plans. It had been a very near thing.
“Does Cadwaladr know about Morein and Pawl?” Gwen said.
“I don’t know,” Hywel said. “Anyone looking for them should assume they’re under a bush sleeping off a drunken stupor, but regardless, in another hour it won’t matter.”
Gareth let out a sharp breath. “Cadwaladr may not submit without a fight.”
“That’s why Rhun left before first light. He will surround the camp quietly, taking out the sentries if necessary, and go straight to my uncle. With my brother’s blade to Cadwaladr’s throat, his men will surrender.”
“Does Rhun have enough men with him for that?” Gwen said.
“He is riding with more than just his own teulu.” Hywel nodded to Gareth. “Evan is with him, along with many of my father’s men and mine.”
“You don’t want to kill him without laying all this before your father first,” Gwen said.
“I hear you, Gwen,” Hywel said, “but we will do what we must. Leave Cadwaladr to Rhun and me. Your task is to make Ranulf aware of the truth, negotiate for Mold if you can, and return as quickly as possible. With Cadwaladr in chains, Mold is ours, whether by force or by treaty.”
“What about his men?” Gwen said. “His teulu are genuinely loyal to him.”
“Not to mention the fact that you need his spearmen and archers to take Mold,” Gareth said.
Hywel grimaced. “Rhun and I will assess his men, just as we did three years ago at Aberffraw.”
Then Gwen leaned down to Hywel, surprising Gareth by saying, “My lord, have you spoken with Lord Goronwy recently?”
Curiosity entered Hywel’s face. “No. Why?”
“It’s a niggling thing, but his men seem to have been the source of a rumor that your father was dying.” She shrugged. “Now that we’re sure Cadwaladr is a traitor, I’m not so worried about Goronwy, but I would advise you to keep an eye on him.”
“You never said anything about him to me, Gwen,” Gareth said.
“With all that’s happened, I forgot about him until now,” Gwen said.
“His captain does have very large feet,” Gareth said.
“So do dozens of men I’ve seen in the past few days—including Llelo!” Gwen said. “His are like boats.”
Hywel was no longer listening. His eyes had strayed to the north, not in the direction of Goronwy’s camp, but towards Cadwaladr’s. His look was one of determination.
And in that moment, Gareth knew what his lord’s look meant. Hywel meant to see that his uncle died, if not by hanging, then in battle, regardless of what Gareth and Gwen negotiated with Ranulf. As he looked down at the top of the prince’s head, Gareth eased out a breath, nodding silently to himself. Yes. It would be a better end.
Hywel had killed in secret before to protect his sister. Gareth had covered up that crime for him, and he would cover up this one too. He would even help Hywel if need be.
Godfrid and his men had been mustering near their tents, and now they picked their way through the rest of the Welsh camp to where Gwen and Gareth waited at the entrance. Godfrid reached down to Hywel and the two princes clasped forearms.
“Good luck,” Hywel said.
“You too.” Godfrid held Hywel’s arm for a moment longer than necessary. Perhaps Godfrid also knew what was going on in Hywel’s mind and was telling him, one prince to another, to do what he must.
Then Hywel turned to Gareth. “If our scouts are wrong and Ranulf is not at Mold, you must seek him out wherever he may be, all the way to Gloucester if necessary. We must know the whole truth of what my uncle has done, once and for all.”
“Yes, my lord.” Gareth nodded to Hywel again, and they were off.
They rode two abreast on the narrow track, Gwen and Gareth directly behind Godfrid and his captain, Alfred. The remaining eighteen men stretched out behind them as they navigated down the road towards the village. Gareth couldn’t help glancing to the north as they rode, looking for signs of movement from Cadwaladr’s camp and wishing he’d been among those sent to arrest him instead of riding away from the fight.
Then the trails of smoke from the cooking fires were behind them. Today’s journey took them east and slightly south towards Mold. As they reached the valley floor, a rare winter sun rose up in the east and burned through the fog. The light shone on the riders’ faces, which meant the watchmen on the castle walls would be able to see Godfrid’s company long before Gareth could make the watchmen out.
The two miles flew by, and in less than a half-hour, they were within striking distance of Mold. The English had been busy building a system of earthworks around the castle, which would make the Welsh assault all the more difficult. Looking up at the towers, Gareth could almost feel the eyes of Ranulf’s archers on him. Their arrows would be put to the strings of their bows, ready to fire if the captain commanded it. Ranulf was one Norman lord who paid Welshmen to fight against their own people.
Gareth could never understand it himself, even if he knew why men did it: money, land, revenge. These were all the same reasons Cadwaladr fought against his brother. Long ago, Gareth had recognized the danger inherent in one Welshman fighting another while the Norman rulers of England looked on and laughed—and took advantage of their rivalries to carve out a bigger piece of Wales for themselves. It always amazed Gareth when a fellow Welshman took Norman gold and told himself that Norman lies were truth.
Cadwaladr didn’t even have to go that far. He simply believed the lies he told himself.
Godfrid rode without his helmet, and his blond hair reflected the sunlight as much as the steel of his armor. Without any sign of fear, he led his company up to the gatehouse and halted before the gate. The castle was built in wood. The keep, perched on a motte above them, was surrounded by a wooden palisade.
Directly behind the gatehouse lay the bailey, which itself was surrounded by a second wooden palisade. As Gareth had told Gwen, King Owain could burn the whole thing to the ground, and thus render it impotent, but then it wouldn’t still be standing for him to refortify. He wanted to rule the surrounding lands from within it.
Godfrid called up to the gatekeeper, who poked his head over the top of the wall. “I am Prince Godfrid of Dublin. I seek an audience with Earl Ranulf of Chester.” Godfrid had used the muscles of his belly to support his voice, and his challenge resounded against the thick wooden door in front of him.
The gatekeeper leaned over the top of the palisade. “Save your ire. He isn’t here.”
Gareth had feared this, though he hadn’t done more than mention it to Hywel in passing. That Pawl, as well as Hywel’s scouts, had reported that Ranulf was at Mold said nothing about whether or not he’d remained here. The earl might think himself too important a man to risk being burned out or captured, if by chance Cadwaladr failed to overthrow King Owain.
“I must speak with him urgently,” Godfrid said.
The gatekeeper gazed down at the company, an insolent expression on his face. “He is at Chester,”
“We will seek him there.” Godfrid swung his horse around.
So well trained were Godfrid’s men that they turned their horses smoothly in place. Gareth and Gwen spun with them, and within three breaths, they were following the Danish prince away from the castle at a gallop. No arrows rained down among them.
The encounter had been very brief, and with so few in number, the Danes posed little threat. It would only be later that the garrison captain might wonder if Godfrid was working with King Owain and had come to Mold for the sole purpose of asking if Ranulf was there.
As the company thundered away, Godfrid flicked a hand and spoke in Danish. Two of his men peeled away from the company and raced off, back to Hywel’s camp. Gareth urged Braith a little faster so as to come abreast of Godfrid.
“That was nicely done,” he said.
Godfrid bared his teeth. “You think so? I would feel better about all of this if Ranulf had been there and at least one thing Pawl told us had already proved true.”
“You think this is a ruse to draw you and your men—and Gwen and me—away from the camp?” Gareth said.
“You were the one who said that Cadwaladr loved elaborate plans, my friend,” Godfrid said.