The Lost Brother (28 page)

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 northwest 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 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 back his head 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.” Ranulf 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 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.”

Cadwaladr

“P
rince 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 men 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.”