The Lost Brother (27 page)

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 Morien 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 Morien 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 and 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 in 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.

Gwen

N
o 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.”