No horse could gallop all the way to Chester. It would have been unwise to do so even if one could. They were in enemy territory, and the city had to be approached with caution.
Thus, it was past noon by the time the company reached a point where the city was laid out before them. Large by Welsh standards—or even Norman ones—Chester wasn’t Mold. That castle was a simple motte and bailey construction. Chester’s city walls and castle had been built in stone, and a curtain wall fronted by a ditch circled the entire city, enclosing the dwellings of at least two thousand people. Four gates in the cardinal directions allowed admittance into the town, and they’d have to ride through one of them before they reached the castle and Ranulf.
Thus, after consultation with Godfrid, they changed their strategy. Gareth removed his outrageous ram’s horn helmet and returned it to its owner, who lovingly stowed it in his pack. It was Gareth’s face that would gain them admission here. He was known from a previous investigation, and no gatekeeper worth his salt would allow a Danish company—even under the banner of peace—into the town during a time of war on the merits of Prince Godfrid’s word alone.
The company had ridden east from Mold, but it was to the south gate they rode now. The gatehouse, with its two massive towers, was fronted by a narrow bridge that crossed the River Dee as it passed around the city to the west and south. When they reached it, the bridge was nearly deserted, which surprised Gwen until she realized that the guards had cleared the bridge in anticipation of the company’s arrival. As at Mold, they would have been seen from the battlements long before they made their way down to the Dee.
Gareth reined in before the gate, which was blocked by a portcullis, and called in English to the gatekeeper: “I am Gareth ap Rhys, in the company of Godfrid, Prince of Dublin. We ask admittance to speak to the Earl of Chester.”
The gatekeeper stared through the iron bars at them. Gwen’s English was limited, but since she’d understood Gareth, she hoped the Saxon guard had too. He looked from Gareth to Godfrid, who’d come to a halt beside him.
The Saxon raised a hand. “Wait here.” He disappeared into the city behind him.
Gwen gripped her horse’s reins reflexively and then forced herself to relax.
A half-dozen other guards peered through the gatehouse tunnel at the visitors, while many more crowded on top of the red stone wall above them. Nobody spoke, either among the company or on the wall.
Gareth and the Danes wore swords, but none were armed with bows. If it came to a fight, the company had intended to rely on the speed of their horses to escape rather than standing and fighting. The silence was broken only by the slap of water against the base of the supporting walls of the bridge as it flowed by and shouts and calls beyond the gate where the normal business of Chester was ongoing.
After possibly a quarter of an hour, quick footfalls echoed underneath the gatehouse, and a man stopped, half in the shadows under the archway so the angle of the sun shone on the lower half of his body. He could see their faces, but Gwen couldn’t see his at all.
After a quick assessment, he waved to the guard. “Raise the portcullis.”
The guard began to ratchet it up, and the newcomer stepped into the light. Sporting a thick brown beard tinged with red, he was a man built along the lines of Godfrid’s Danes, wearing martial gear with the Earl of Chester’s colors on his surcoat.
“Sir Gareth.”
Gareth dismounted. “Dafydd.”
Dafydd came forward, confident and sure, but then he faltered in midstride. “Sir … Gareth?” He stared.
Gareth gave a low laugh and spoke in Welsh. “I gather I am not the Sir Gareth you last saw, Dafydd?”
Gwen understood then that this was the half-Saxon, half-Welsh guard who’d assisted Gareth with an investigation in Chester before their marriage.
“No.” Dafydd rubbed at his bearded chin, still staring at Gareth with something like awe. “You are not, and I should have known when I saw that other man, even in passing and from a distance, that he could not be you. You would not have betrayed your king under any circumstances. We all should have known better.”
Gwen let out an audible breath, but she was far enough back in the company that neither Dafydd nor Gareth heard her. Relief coursed through her. If even Gareth’s supposed enemies realized their error when they saw him, then perhaps, if rumor of his treason had spread far and wide, it wouldn’t be as hard to convince his friends that Cadwaladr’s betrayal had been none of Gareth’s doing.
“He looked very much like me,” Gareth said, “and it has been several years since that day we met.”
Dafydd stuck out his hand in greeting. “Why are you here?” He pointed with his chin towards Godfrid and his men. “And in such august company.”
Gareth gripped Dafydd’s arm. “As you can imagine, we have something important to discuss with Earl Ranulf, if he is here.”
“It may be that he has something to discuss with you too.” Dafydd stepped back.
With an accord reached between Dafydd and Gareth, Godfrid dismounted and waved the rest of his company off their horses.
Gareth came to Gwen’s side to help her dismount, squeezing her waist briefly as he did so. “We’re going to be all right.”
“I am pleased to welcome you to my city,” Dafydd said.
“Good man.” Godfrid clapped Dafydd on the shoulder as he passed him.
Gwen had seen men driven into the ground by that sign of affection from Godfrid, but Dafydd took it well, not even rocking back on his heels.
Leading the horses, the company walked with Dafydd from the gateway. Once in the city proper, Gwen’s head turned this way and that. She’d never been to Chester before, and the city lived up to Gareth’s description. There were so many people and houses in it, Gwen didn’t know what to look at first.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t look long, as Dafydd led them down the street to the southwest corner of the city, which Chester Castle guarded. Its walls formed part of the city walls, and although the castle itself wasn’t large, it sat on a low hill that overlooked the city to the east and the landscape to the west.
Obviously trusted, Dafydd took them right through the castle gate without more than a word to the guard there. The portcullis protecting the bailey was already up and, once inside, Dafydd turned again to the company. “If just a few of you could come with me?”
Godfrid spoke to his men, who nodded, though Gwen herself couldn’t understand his words. And so it was that only Godfrid, Gwen, Gareth, and Godfrid’s captain, Alfred, followed Dafydd towards the keep. Gwen glanced back once, pleased to see that several of Godfrid’s men were drifting towards the gatehouse and that the portcullis remained up. The rest spread out throughout the courtyard in pairs. Anyone who wanted to take them on was going to lose men doing it. Still, very little activity was occurring in the bailey, which Gwen thought odd until she asked Dafydd about it.
“We are in the midst of a war, my lady. Most of the soldiers have gone.”
Gareth had Gwen’s arm, and he squeezed her elbow significantly. The war and where those men had gone to was, of course, why they were here.
They reached the keep. A wooden stairway led up to a higher floor where the great hall lay. Dafydd directed them up to it and then through a narrow door, which would be a last defense against attack if the main gateway was breached.
A handful of men were gathered around a table in front of the dais, Earl Ranulf among them. Most looked up as Gareth and Gwen entered the hall, and even from thirty feet away, Gwen could see the sneer that crossed the faces of several of them at the sight of Gareth walking beside Dafydd.
But then Gareth tugged Gwen forward, and as they approached the table, the men’s expressions faltered, just as Dafydd’s had. Gwen felt a sense of grim satisfaction at their reactions.
One of the men said, “My lord,” speaking to Ranulf, who—typical of the man—had continued to study the map spread out flat on the table in front of him rather than paying attention to the newcomers.
“What is it—?” He looked up and caught sight of Gareth and Gwen.
His control was better than that of his men. Except for a slight hardening around the eyes and mouth, nothing in his face changed. Ranulf stepped away from the table and, with his eyes fixed on Gareth’s, said, “Clear the room. Now.”
The earl kept his face impassive, but his men interpreted his anger correctly and moved with alacrity, passing Gareth and Gwen on the way to the front door, which was the only exit from the hall. Several stared at them on the way, though others kept their eyes averted, as if they didn’t want to see what was plainly before them.
The hall in which they were standing was a smaller version of the one in which Gwen had last met Ranulf, that danger-filled week after her marriage to Gareth at Newcastle-under-Lyme, when she and Gareth had traveled to England with Prince Hywel. Instead of rich tapestries, weapons—mostly spears and axes—adorned these walls. A fire blazed in the fireplace built to one side.
No matter his surroundings, however, once met, nobody could forget this volatile Earl of Chester.
“So,” Ranulf said, speaking in French. “I was deceived.”
“You can’t be surprised about that, given that it was Cadwaladr you were working with,” Gwen said, surprising herself at speaking first and so bluntly.
Ranulf stared at her for a moment, perhaps really seeing her for the first time. When he didn’t speak, she feared he was about to lose his carefully contained temper, but then he threw his head back and laughed. And he laughed. Tears sprang from the corners of his eyes, and he wiped at them.
Finally, shaking his head, he moved towards the end of the table at which he’d been working. A carafe with several cups stood on a tray. He lifted the carafe, still smirking. “May I offer you mulled wine?”
“Thank you,” Gareth said, speaking for all of them. Then he gestured to Godfrid, who’d been waiting patiently throughout Ranulf’s display. “May I present to you Godfrid, Prince of Dublin.”
Ranulf put down the carafe, having poured only one cup. “Oh my. This is a delegation, isn’t it?” He put his heels together and gave Godfrid a slight bow. “Ranulf, Earl of Chester.”
Godfrid came forward and bowed in mimicry of Ranulf. “My father sends his greetings.”
“So.” Ranulf handed the cup to Gwen, and then poured more wine, distributing the other cups to Gareth, Godfrid, and Alfred, and keeping the last for himself. “Why have you come?”
“We come in peace, in hopes of bringing this war to a conclusion that does not involve the bloodshed King Owain’s brother has planned,” Gareth said.
Ranulf tsked through his teeth. He took a swallow of wine, observing his guests over the rim of his cup, and then he lowered it. “How much do you know?”
Gareth considered the earl for the same amount of time he’d kept them waiting, and then he said, “The bodies of two people, bearing close resemblance to Gwen and me, were found in shallow graves two days ago.”
Ranulf gave a bark of laughter. “Ah. And after you learned of it, you did what you do, and the trail led you here. Good.” He gestured with his cup to Gareth and Gwen. “We can dispense with evasion then. I met your dead imposter five days ago.”
Cold relief swept through Gwen. It was exactly as they suspected, and exactly what they hadn’t wanted to hear. “You should have known that you couldn’t trust him.”
Ranulf’s eyebrows went up. “Straight to the point as always, my dear. And, of course, you are right.”
“What was the bargain, exactly?” Gareth said.
“Cadwaladr wanted what he has always wanted: the throne of Gwynedd,” Ranulf said. “In exchange, he would see to it that the siege of Mold never came about, and I would keep my lands in eastern Gwynedd.”
“While he ruled in the west?” Gwen said.
Ranulf gave a curt nod.
“What about Hywel and Rhun?” Gareth asked. “Cadwaladr claimed that they’d allied with him, correct?”
“They would each have their lands, and in exchange, I would assist them in overthrowing their father, who’d become an irrational despot.”
“I hope our presence here confirms for you that nothing Cadwaladr told you or promised is true,” Gareth said. “You face an army of King Stephen’s men on your eastern border. In the west, a strong King Owain, well-supported by his barons and his sons, threatens Mold, and I have a letter here from King Stephen offering an alliance between Gwynedd and England against you. The tide has turned, my lord. Continuing this charade with Cadwaladr will only result in more loss and death.”
“I see.” Ranulf looked at Godfrid. “Dublin stands with Owain as well?”
“It does, though I came without knowledge of this war. I am here on behalf of my father,” Godfrid said, “who seeks alliances to overthrow the tyrant Ottar.”
Ranulf’s eyes narrowed briefly, though not in suspicion, Gwen didn’t think. More in acknowledgement of his change in circumstance. He faced Gareth again. “What is your offer?”
Gareth stood very straight. “You withdraw your men whom you’ve sent to support Cadwaladr. We will give them free passage back to Chester. You surrender Mold to us now, and we will cease all hostilities. You will then be free to concentrate your forces on King Stephen’s army.”
Ranulf gave him a wide smile. “What of this promised alliance between Gwynedd and Stephen?”
“I first must ask you if you had anything to do with the death of the king’s emissary,” Gareth said.
Ranulf looked genuinely puzzled. “Who would that be?”
“A man by the name of Llywelyn,” Gareth said.
“I am sorry he is dead, but I had no hand in it,” Ranulf said. “He died recently?”
“In Shrewsbury.”
“Oh.” Ranulf gave a slight smirk. “I am not welcome there, so it had nothing to do with me.”
“Or your men?” Gwen said.
Ranulf turned his gaze on her. “I will ignore the insult to my honor if Gareth answers my earlier question.”
Gareth’s head bobbed. “King Owain might send a few men to support the king’s cause. It would be a small matter to you, given the cessation of the fighting in the west.”
Ranulf turned away and began to pace back and forth in front of the fire. “You should know that my men have already left for Cadwaladr’s camp. I might agree to this—” he threw out a hand in Gareth’s direction, “—but it may be too late to change what’s coming.”
“And what was that supposed to be?” Gwen said.
“Not a bloodbath, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Ranulf said. “With the princes allied against their father, King Owain would have been taken without a fight and his men subdued, since they would have been surrounded by not only the forces of Rhun, Hywel, and Cadwaladr, but mine as well.”
“And what was to become of the king?” Gareth said.
“Prison,” Ranulf said. “Exile. I gave Cadwaladr leave to do with his brother as he pleased.”