Uncle Cadwaladr.
Although Hywel had never liked him, his very existence had been haunting Hywel for over a year now. At first, it had been because he hired a company of Danes from Dublin to ambush and murder King Anarawd of Deheubarth, and Hywel had been instrumental in proving his culpability. Since then, Hywel had taken over Cadwaladr’s castle and lands in Ceredigion, and the legacy of his uncle’s every decision had been dogging Hywel’s steps. Cadwaladr had been a bad ruler, alienating the populace and fomenting discontent such that they didn’t trust those foreigners from Gwynedd, of which they viewed Hywel most definitely as one.
And the worst thing was that Hywel could see Cadwaladr in himself. A few different pieces to his life—and a few different people in his life—and he and Cadwaladr could have been very much alike.
Long ago, when Gwen and Hywel were no more than eight and ten, Gwen had openly chastised Hywel for his behavior for the first time. Hywel had taken a kitten from the daughter of one of the kitchen staff and hidden it from her in his room. He hadn’t hurt it, but when Gwen learned that the kitten was missing, she’d come to him, all fire and outrage.
At first he’d tried to brazen it out, but then he’d succumbed to her glare and shown her where he was keeping it and that it wasn’t hurt. Gwen had then asked him why would you take pleasure in hurting others?
Such a simple question, and one that he’d at first refused to answer, though his heart had sunk into his boots. He hadn’t known why he’d stolen the kitten. It had been a game to him with no real consequences from his end, since he’d intended to return it eventually. But he’d hated the disappointment he’d seen in Gwen’s eyes. She could see right through him.
Everyone else he could charm—and he’d charmed Gwen plenty too, he knew—but not when right and wrong were at stake. If not for Gwen—not just that time, but all the times she pointed him in a better direction than the one he was taking, though usually more subtly than in that first instance—Hywel wondered if he wouldn’t have turned out like his uncle.
Hywel knew himself to be perfectly capable of killing. He’d done it in battle. He’d killed Anarawd, who was to have been his brother-in-law, and not lost more than a night or two of sleep over it. He’d justified his actions, as all men did, by telling himself that what he’d done was right, because to believe anything else would be to undermine his very existence.
But Cadwaladr was a different animal entirely, and Hywel didn’t think he was just telling himself that in order to feel better about hating his uncle. Cadwaladr really did care only about himself: how he felt, what his position was, how other people viewed him. He’d been spoiled by his mother, or so Hywel understood. Hywel had no idea what that was like, since his own mother had died at his birth, and he’d been raised by a series of nannies and foster mothers.
Just like Tegwen.
Until he was seven years old, Hywel hadn’t even lived with his father, who had fostered him and Rhun out to a man named Cadifor, with estates on the Lleyn Peninsula. Hywel’s father had brought the boys to him when Cadifor’s wife died, and he deemed them old enough to take their place at court. Hywel had hoped that Cadifor would bring his sons to Aber to celebrate the harvest, but three years running he’d stayed home, and given the lateness of the hour, Hywel supposed he would do the same this year too.
Hywel didn’t think it was an estrangement keeping them apart, or at least he hoped it wasn’t. Hywel would have to go to him if many more months passed without them seeing each other. He’d get Rhun to come. If Hywel had offended his foster family in some way, Rhun would help smooth it over.
Hywel’s men-at-arms clustered together near the cart, and Hywel tried to focus on each one as they spoke to him of what they’d found—or rather, not found—on the beach. He hadn’t put Cadwaladr’s pendant coin away. He wouldn’t keep it himself; when Gareth returned from collecting Llelo, Hywel would give it to Gareth to hold. It wasn’t that Hywel’s scrip was too full, but rather that the thought of having something near him that belonged to his uncle turned his stomach, even if that something was evidence against him.
Hywel clenched his fist around the coin. He could admit that he hated Cadwaladr, and part of him rejoiced at the idea that he’d caught his devious uncle out in more wrongdoing, but Hywel feared it too. The next break between King Owain and Cadwaladr might well be the last, and then there was no telling what Cadwaladr might do. If he were cast out, Hywel’s father would have no more control over him.
Though, judging from today, the control that King Owain did have was no more than an illusion.
Unable to contain his body when his thoughts were in turmoil, Hywel spun away from the cart and climbed to the top of the adjacent dune. He could see Aber’s towers from here and, facing the other way, the Lavan Sands, Anglesey, and the Irish Sea stretching into the distance. This was home. He and Gwen had ranged all over the cantref as youngsters. He’d missed the quality of the air and the sea while he’d been away. He’d missed the mountains.
He’d come back from Ceredigion to breathe this air and see this view. He’d needed to see his wife, Mari, too, and had been looking for a respite from the pressures and the petty conflicts that marked his life. He desperately wanted to bring Mari south with him when he returned. She was smart and capable, and he surely needed every capable hand he could find.
His father had taken the lordship from Cadwaladr and given it to Hywel as his own and as a test of Hywel’s character. He needed Hywel to hold it, for Hywel’s own sake and as a buffer for Gwynedd against the Normans in Pembroke and the ambitions of King Cadell in Deheubarth. It burned Hywel to admit that within a year of receiving ownership, he was perilously close to losing it. Enemies confronted him on all sides, and while he was gaining experience every day, it wasn’t happening quickly enough.
Gareth was a good man—a good leader—but he knew even less about governing a people than Hywel did. Ruling a kingdom wasn’t the same as winning it. It was as if his father had sailed with him in a boat halfway to Ireland and then shoved him out of it, saying, “Swim.” By God, Hywel was swimming as hard as he could, but Ceregidion wasn’t Gwynedd. The people there had spent far too much time among Normans to understand how true Welshmen lived and acted. The lesser lords plotted and connived, always looking for a weakness.
Hywel hadn’t known what real leadership was until this year, and it terrified him to think he didn’t have it in him. So far, Hywel’s father hadn’t said anything to him about the men he’d lost or the money he was spending. He had to think that, for now, his father believed that having Hywel in charge of Ceredigion was better than having Cadwaladr, whom he was punishing. But if Hywel didn’t get control of the cantref soon, he might find himself yanked by the neck hairs back to Gwynedd.
“My lord?” Evan approached the base of the dune and looked up at Hywel with a concerned expression.
“What is it?” Hywel glanced down at him, hastily rearranging his thoughts and smoothing his expression in case what was going on inside his head showed.
“We await your orders, my lord.”
“I’m coming now.” Hywel took a last look at the view and then slid down the dune, holding his arms out for balance so he wouldn’t land ignominiously on his rear. As he reached level ground again, one of the guards who had departed with Gwen returned.
The man dismounted by the cart and went down on one knee before Hywel, far more formally than was usual for his men, but the occasion seemed to have touched everyone and demanded it. “I am so sorry for your loss, my lord.”
Hywel looked down at the man’s bowed head and then snapped his fingers, indicating that he should rise. The man was in his middle thirties and had served Hywel’s father before transferring to Hywel’s company. “Thank you, Cynan. How do you know I have experienced a loss?”
Cynan straightened his back and looked at Hywel, his expression confused. “Isn’t this the body of Princess Tegwen?”
“Did Gwen tell you that?”
“No, my lord.” Cynan licked his lips. “I apologize if I shouldn’t have looked at her while you were examining her, but I did look.” He made a helpless gesture with one hand. “She’s wearing Tegwen’s garnet and her cloak.”
“It’s been five years since anyone has seen her,” Hywel said. “How is it that you remember what she wore?”
Color rose in Cynan’s face. “She was beautiful, my lord, and full of life.”
Evan had been listening to their exchange, and now he stepped closer, bowing his head as Cynan had. When he looked up, his face wore a stunned expression. “My lord, please. I couldn’t help but overhear that you believe this is Tegwen. But it can’t be. She ran away with a Dane.”
“Apparently, she didn’t.” Hywel studied the faces of his men, acknowledging that the body’s identity was no longer a secret, and he shouldn’t pretend his men didn’t know. “Does anyone remember who it was that saw her sail away?”
Dewi, the driver of the cart, raised his hand. “I believe it was her maid.”
Cynan’s brow furrowed. “I thought it was a guard on duty at Bryn Euryn.”
That was as Hywel remembered too. “Did you speak of this to anyone at Aber just now, Cynan?”
“No, my lord.” Cynan shook his head. “It was my understanding that it was Gwen’s task to inform the king. I delivered her to the castle and said nothing to anyone before returning. It was what I thought you expected of me.”
“Good man.” Hywel rested a hand briefly on Cynan’s shoulder. “I would appreciate it if you would keep her identity to yourselves until my father announces it in the hall.”
There were nods all around, and then Hywel turned to see Gareth hiking up the beach with his foster son. Gareth glanced up and saw Hywel looking at him. He raised one shoulder in a half-shrug, his expression showing the same resignation and acceptance of his fate that Hywel himself felt.
“We came home looking for a respite from our troubles, my lord,” Evan said, “only to have trouble find us instead.”
Hywel allowed himself a slight laugh. “You would think we’d have learned by now to expect it.”