“Prince Rhun is coming!”
His face contorted in sudden anger, Cadwaladr swung around to look at his captain, a man named Geraint. “Have I not warned you against using my nephew’s title?”
Cadwaladr felt satisfaction as Geraint cowered before him. “Yes, my lord.”
“When?”
The man’s expression went blank. “When what?”
Cadwaladr growled. He was surrounded by incompetents. “When will Rhun be here?”
Geraint’s expression cleared. “Within the hour. Less. His men were mustering when our man learned they were riding here and not to Mold, though he is not clear on the reason for it. He didn’t stay to find out, thinking that it was more important to tell us of it.”
“How many men does Rhun have?”
“Nearer to one hundred than fifty,” Geraint said. “More than just his own teulu rides with him.”
“He knows all, then. Or enough.” A grimace crossed Cadwaladr’s face. To have come so close. “This never would have happened if you hadn’t left the body of the girl in the graveyard.”
Geraint’s face fell. “I told you already, it was Cole’s idea. He botched the girl’s death. I thought—”
Cadwaladr didn’t want to hear Geraint’s excuses again. “And I have told you many times that your job isn’t to think! It is to obey. If you’d just left her back in the woods like I told you to—”
“It would have been fine if not for that meddling priest. The ground was hard, my lord, and we were afraid someone would come—”
Cadwaladr made a chopping motion with his hand. “What’s done is done.”
Geraint’s expression turned mulish. “You were the one who murdered Cole.”
“And I brought a shovel, didn’t I?” Cadwaladr strode to the door of the tent and looked out.
“You didn’t bury Llywelyn.”
“That was Cole also, as you well know.” Cadwaladr gazed at his men, counting them and calculating the odds of surviving an outright battle with Rhun’s force. He might be able to slip away himself, but then he would be on the wrong side of the border with no support.
He shook his head. “We don’t have the numbers to make a stand, and we don’t have time to get word to Ranulf of the change in plans.”
“The prince—” Geraint froze at Cadwaladr’s glare, cleared his throat, and adjusted what he’d been about to say, “Rhun may merely be coming to confer, my lord.”
“Not with those numbers,” Cadwaladr said.
“Your foresight in placing a spy in your brother’s camp has paid off, my lord,” Geraint said ingratiatingly.
“Bah!” Cadwaladr said. “He should have reported back sooner, given me more time to respond. Get out!” He pointed through the open tent flap. “Get the men up and riding. I want this camp cleared within a quarter hour. We leave no man behind for Rhun to question.”
“Yes, my lord!”
Cadwaladr caught Geraint’s elbow before he could depart. “Ensure that we bring every weapon and enough supplies to last us several days. I don’t know how long it will take us to reach England.”
Geraint swallowed hard. “It will be done.”
Cadwaladr still didn’t let him go. “We also need to make sure Ranulf’s livery is safely stowed. We will need it once we cross the border if we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
“Of course, my lord. It will be done.”
Cadwaladr nodded, and Geraint exited the tent. A moment later, Cadwaladr could hear him shouting at the men to roust them.
Cadwaladr smoothed his beard, glad he’d had the foresight to grow it. Having a beard would make it easier to pass as a Norman. Before him lay the dilemma of what path to take out of here. He couldn’t ride east, because an entire army of his brother’s men stood between him and safety. He couldn’t take the road directly south for the same reason. If he did that, he’d meet Rhun riding towards him.
But he could go west and then south, traveling behind the Clwyd range. And then, when he was a safe distance from his brother’s camp, he could strike out due east for Chester.
He would run today, but not forever.
* * * * *
Cadwaladr glanced at the sky. The sun was about to set. All day, he’d hoped to stay far enough ahead of Rhun’s force to reach England and safety before sunset. But it was too far, and he’d had to take too circuitous a route, not daring to ride too close to Mold and his brother’s army.
If it hadn’t meant killing the horses, Cadwaladr would have ridden on to Chester, but even his beast had been staggering for the last mile. If Cadwaladr had pushed him for one more, the beast wouldn’t have been able to continue the rest of the way.
And then, when the scouts Cadwaladr had sent ahead reported that they’d made contact with Ranulf’s men, the promise of augmenting his teulu had him pulling off the road in anticipation of their arrival. One of the reasons he’d brought his men this way in the first place was because he’d arranged to meet Ranulf’s men on the road to Chester, not far from here, back when the plan had been to surprise Owain in his camp.
That wasn’t going to happen now, though when he’d heard that Ranulf’s men were coming he’d thought about instituting the original plan again. Cadwaladr ground his teeth in frustration at the need to run. So much had gone into what he’d perceived as a brilliant plan, only to have it foiled. He didn’t yet know how or why, but if it was in his power, he would discover the truth.
“It’s Gareth who rides against us, my lord.”
Cadwaladr swung around to look at Geraint. It was always he who brought him news, good or bad. Cadwaladr had long since dispensed with any other close confidants and regretted his inability to find allies among his father’s men, though he’d been working on Cristina’s father, Goronwy, of late. He had no true friends, and he knew it—but then, a man in his position couldn’t afford any.
“What? How so? You have seen him?”
“His force has stopped to cross the ford not a half-mile from here. I can show you.”
This could be the very opportunity he’d been waiting for. If it really was Gareth at the root of his undoing, he would take payment for all that he had suffered. It would be one last bit of retribution to make up for having to flee before his brother’s wrath.
Cadwaladr’s men had settled themselves within a stand of trees to the south of the road. Leaving the bulk of them where they rested, Cadwaladr, puffing slightly and cursing the slight paunch that had grown around his middle since he’d turned forty, followed Geraint through the trees and up a rise that overlooked the ford of the River Terrig. By his calculation, they were now directly south of Mold. He might have already crossed the border into England, but it did him no good. If the full extent of his plot had really been discovered, then Rhun—or Gareth, if this was indeed he—would pursue him to the ends of the earth.
“There!” Geraint pointed west, to where the river broadened enough to allow a crossing.
Rhun’s men had bunched up, some resting, some already across the river. If Cadwaladr had thought about it—and had had more men at his disposal—he would have set up an ambush right there, but it was too late for that now.
But maybe it wasn’t too late in principle.
“I don’t see him.” Cadwaladr swept his gaze across the mass of men.
“He’s in the back, my lord. He watches from the rise to the north.”
And there he was. Cadwaladr couldn’t see his face, of course, not from this distance, but the bit of sun peeking through the clouds shone off his red-plumed helmet, making his identity unmistakable. Gareth’s second, that pie-faced Evan, was there too. He’d pulled off his helmet, revealing his shock of blond hair, not dissimilar to Cadwaladr’s own color when he was younger. A column of rage blazed up inside Cadwaladr that it had been Gareth who’d been charged with bringing him before his brother. The ignominy of it stuck in his craw.
Cadwaladr swung around. “We’re going to kill him.”
“My lord—” Geraint looked shocked.
“With Ranulf’s men, we outnumber them.” Cadwaladr shooed all the scouts off the hill. “Go! We’ll set up an ambush on either side of the road. I know just the place!”
Gareth. He’d hated him for ten years, ever since the whelp had stood in front of him, legs spread and hands behind his back, and refused a direct order.
And not only had he refused it, he’d told Cadwaladr why.
No man could do that and get away with it. For ten years, Cadwaladr had had to put up with Gareth’s self-righteous meddling.
No more.