Hywel
“There you are, you truant!” King Owain bounded out the front door of Aber’s main hall, cloaked and booted as if for a ride. “You’re just in time.” He caught Hywel up in an enormous hug, lifting him off his feet.
Truly unable to believe the transformation in his father, Hywel took a moment to return the embrace. “In time for what, Father?”
The king set Hywel back on his feet. “We are off in a moment to the marshalling of men at Denbigh. An attack on my sons, even if unsuccessful, cannot go answered.”
That had Hywel gaping at his father even more. Rhun’s death had gone unanswered for four months, but an attack on Hywel and Cadell couldn’t wait even a week to be countered with an army? Part of Hywel was gratified at his father’s obvious concern, but part was distrustful too, and he suspected that something more than love was behind his father’s rush to war.
King Owain frowned as he took in the demeanor of his obviously weary son. “We expected you two days ago. What is the disposition of Madog’s men?”
“He isn’t coming, or if he is, the men of Powys don’t know about it.” Hywel gestured towards Conall, who’d ridden with them from Shrewsbury, intending to introduce him, but King Owain’s eyes strayed beyond him to where Meilyr and Gwalchmai had dismounted behind the others.
“Meilyr!” King Owain strode towards the bard. “Don’t tell me you’ve been all the way to Shrewsbury too? My hall has been empty of music. We’ve had to prepare for war without the inspiration of the brave deeds of our ancestors.”
Meilyr stared at the king, as uncomprehending as Hywel had been, and then uncharacteristically stuttered, “I apologize, sire. I went to—” That was as far as he got before he gave up, realizing that the only sensible reply was simply to bow before the king.
“Never mind.” King Owain waved a hand in the air. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes, my lord,” Meilyr said.
“Good. You will come with us to Denbigh, of course.”
“Of course.” Though Meilyr shot a worried glance at Hywel as he spoke.
Hywel didn’t know that he had ever helped Meilyr with a single thing in his life, but he obliged his old teacher by drawing his father’s attention away from the bard. “Meilyr might have found what he was looking for in Shrewsbury, Father, but I didn’t.”
The king’s brow furrowed as he gazed at his son.
The open courtyard wasn’t the place to have this discussion, but Hywel stepped closer and told the truth anyway. “I sent Gareth to Shrewsbury in hopes of discovering the whereabouts of Cadwaladr. He had definitely been there, and even now is in league with Madog in more ways than one—”
“Tell me on the way!” King Owain spun away from Hywel, striding towards his horse, whose head was being held by Gruffydd.
Hywel’s eyes met Gruffydd’s, and they both shrugged. Gruffydd had done exactly what he’d said he’d do, and Hywel had no cause to complain about the outcome. Gareth and Gwen were looking at the king with similar stunned expressions, islands of inactivity in the midst of the marshalling men. Conall looked merely amused, which seemed to be his natural state.
For Hywel’s part, he was having trouble absorbing the fact that not only was the king better, but he was leaving Aber, and he expected Hywel and his companions to come with him. Hywel could hardly have hoped for a better scene to return to than this, with the possible exception of the complete absence of Cristina, his stepmother.
She stood on the top step of the hall, and he didn’t have to see her glare to feel it boring into him. Cristina didn’t like him. She was supremely jealous of the standing of her own sons, who were well down the line of heirs to the throne of Gwynedd. Still, Hywel gave her a nod, though if he’d been a good stepson he would have bowed.
Gwen brushed her shoulder against his arm. “If looks could kill, my lord.”
Hywel just managed to stop himself from glancing at his stepmother again. “I can’t see how she had anything to do with Rhun’s death or with the attack on Cadell and me at Dinas Bran, but I have no doubt that she would not have grieved my loss.”
“Nor Cynan’s, Madoc’s, Cadell’s, Iorwerth’s, or the loss of any other son who stands in the way of Dafydd’s patrimony,” Gwen said. “We must be very careful from now on.”
Nodding agreement, because he’d known it already, even if he’d never articulated the fear, Hywel boosted Gwen back onto her horse and mounted his own. Only then did he turn to look back at the door to the hall.
Cristina had already disappeared inside, without so much as a raised hand to the company, much less a kiss goodbye for his father. In the past, she’d been very careful to treat the king with constant affection, in between their screaming bouts, of course. At those times, Cristina’s ill humor would have roused his father’s temper, but that didn’t seem to be happening today either. Hywel had never wanted his father to marry Cristina in the first place, so he could only cheer the king’s determination to leave.
Gareth frowned and said in an undertone. “Could your father truly be putting her aside?”
Hywel watched the king. “I would never have dared think it, but that’s what it looks like to me too.”
For a heartbeat, Hywel’s father eyed the spot Cristina had vacated. Then he turned his gaze on Hywel himself and motioned that he should come to him. Hywel obeyed, and his heart lifted at his father’s genuine smile at his approach.
“Come, son,” King Owain said when Hywel reached him, “It’s long past time to go.”
The End