The Lost Brother (29 page)

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. He’d had
to leave his camp with his face half-shaven. 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.

Gareth

T
hey rode from
Chester as if the hounds of Arawn themselves were at their heels.
Ranulf sent Dafydd with them, as emissary to his men, were they to
meet them on the way. The company that Ranulf had given to
Cadwaladr had left Chester by the western road, which was why
Godfrid’s company had missed passing them on their way into
Chester.

Ahead of them, the sun was sinking below the
Clwyd Mountains. They’d come halfway from Chester, ten miles, but
with perhaps another hour at least until they’d reach Hywel and
Rhun. The knowledge that Ranulf had not only listened to him but
agreed to a treaty burned like a warm fire in Gareth’s belly. If
Ranulf stayed true to his word, the princes only needed to give him
two days to clear out of Mold, and then it would be theirs.

Victory, true victory, and an end to this
war before Christmas.

“What is that noise?” Godfrid, who’d been
riding beside Gareth at the head of the company, put out a hand and
slowed.

Gareth hadn’t heard the first shout, but as
the thunder of hooves from the company’s horses lessened, the words
came clearly through the air—a dozen voices intermingled with his
own name unmistakable as it was shouted to the skies: “Kill him!
Kill Gareth! Kill the traitor!”

Gareth pulled on Braith’s reins, and she
danced around so he could see the faces of Godfrid, Gwen, and the
other men. Everyone was looking around, straining to see where the
enemy force was coming from. But nothing stirred the air except a
slight breeze and a few birds, swooping from one tree to
another.

“What’s going on?” Dafydd urged his horse
closer.

“I don’t know,” Gareth said.

“I don’t care,” Godfrid said. “I only know I
heard your name.”

“It can’t be directed at me,” Gareth said.
“We aren’t under attack. The shouts are coming from up ahead.”

“Someone is under attack,” Godfrid said.
“Let’s find out who it is.”

They spurred their horses, thundering up a
rise and then down the other side. They’d reached a valley through
which the road ran in a straight line until the ford of the Terrig
River. Fields, ditches, and stands of trees lined the road on
either side—and right below them, a hundred yards ahead, a pitched
battle was taking place.

It didn’t seem possible for so many men to
be fighting in such a small space. The fighters nearest to Gareth
wore surcoats indicating their allegiance to the Earl of Chester,
and these were set against an equal number of men showing the crest
of Gwynedd.

Gwen, riding beside Gareth, opened her mouth
in horror. “Do you see? It’s Rhun!”

Gareth looked again, and there in the middle
of the fight was the prince—distinguishable from his men by
Gareth’s own helmet.

Godfrid didn’t wait to confer but raised his
sword above his head. “Forward!”

Gareth flung out a hand to Gwen. “Get off
the road!”

Gwen obeyed, and as Gareth urged Braith into
a gallop, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her horse leap a
stone wall and canter into a neighboring field to the south of the
road.

“Ride!” Gareth said, as if Godfrid’s men
needed any more urging.

With nothing more than a jerk of his head,
Godfrid organized his men into two tight columns. They had only
twenty men, but they were mounted and their sword arms were rested.
They would drive right into the back of Ranulf’s men. Side by side,
Gareth and Godfrid directed their horses straight down the center
of the road.

Forty yards. Twenty yards.

And then they were upon them. A large
Englishman with a broad back lifted his axe above his head to
strike the final blow to a Welshman on the ground at his feet.
Gareth swept the edge of his sword across the back of the man’s
neck, one of the few places he wasn’t protected by armor.

The man dropped to the ground, and Gareth
didn’t stay to watch him die, already moving on to the next
fighter. Braith danced among the downed men, picking her way with a
sureness that far exceeded Gareth’s capacity to guide her—were he
even paying attention to anything but the Englishmen he intended to
kill.

Then Alfred, Godfrid’s captain, gave a
ululating cry that sent shivers down Gareth’s spine, and with an
accompanying roar, the rest of the Danes surged into the fight.
Gareth hadn’t thought they’d been particularly silent in their
approach, and to his mind, hours had already passed between
sighting the battle and launching the attack. But it had been fewer
than a hundred heartbeats, even if Gareth’s heart was beating out
of his chest at twice its normal pace.

A hundred English soldiers versus twenty
Danish cavalry might not be considered a fair fight to anyone but
the Danish, but their arrival gave life to the Welsh defenders.
They fought with renewed vigor in defense of their prince, and
there were more of them still alive than Gareth had thought at
first. He even saw one man rise, hale and whole, from within a pile
of fallen men to rejoin the fight.

Gareth continued to urge Braith with his
knees, pressing towards the far side of the battle. His arm rose
and fell, hacking at one man after another, completely devoid of
finesse. A detachment filled him, and it was as if time slowed
down. He could see the outlines of the fight with complete
clarity.

There was Gwen, flitting into a stand of
trees at the base of a hill.

There was Godfrid, his expression a rictus
of hate, bringing his sword smashing down on the head of an
Englishman who’d lost his helmet.

There, finally, was Prince Rhun, hard
pressed, fighting two Englishmen at once, but standing back to back
with Gruffydd, his captain, and Gareth’s friend, Evan.

And at the sight of the prince, time resumed
its normal speed. Gareth urged Braith through the press of men,
slashing at one after another, almost heedless of whom he might be
hurting in his haste. Prince Rhun had dispensed with one of his
opponents, but the effort had left him unbalanced, and he went down
on one knee to steady himself.

As the prince surged upward to face the
second man, that soldier raised his sword, aiming to finish him
off. Gareth switched his sword to his left hand in anticipation of
blocking the blow, but Braith was struggling to reach the attacker,
stymied by the many obstacles on the ground.

So Gareth did what he could.

Loosening his feet from his stirrups, he
launched himself off Braith, over the heads of two soldiers between
him and Rhun’s attacker. He caught the English soldier around the
neck and shoulders, falling into him and riding him to the ground.
They hit the earth with a sickening crunch. Gareth lay gasping for
a moment, trying to regain the breath that had been crushed out of
him. The man beneath him moaned.

Gareth lifted up, easing onto his knees, and
looked down at the fallen man. His right arm was bent at a terrible
angle, and one of the bones in his forearm was sticking through the
skin.

Gareth would have been nauseated by the
sight if he allowed himself to think about it. Instead, he looked
around for the prince. Neither he nor Gruffydd were anywhere in
evidence, having moved back into the midst of the battle. So Gareth
grasped Evan’s hand and levered himself to his feet. Their eyes met
for a moment in shared acknowledgement of what they faced, and then
they returned to the fray too, standing back to back, ready to take
on all comers to this part of the road.

At the start of the battle, Gareth had put
hope away, even as the desire for it rose in his chest. The English
soldiers had thought themselves the stronger when they’d attacked
Rhun’s company. In turn, the arrival of Godfrid’s men had sent them
into a frenzy. It wasn’t Prince Rhun’s habit to put those who
surrendered to the sword, but these men fought as if they believed
that would be their fate.

Another man came at Gareth at the same
moment Evan grunted with exertion behind him. A ditch protected
Gareth’s right side, as if a third defender were standing there,
and Gareth had already used the slippery soil to distract one
soldier he’d faced. This man, however, had an intensity to him that
was hard to counter. Their swords clashed again as each tried to
gain the advantage.

Gareth had initially focused on the man’s
sword, but he knew that it was often a man’s eyes that foretold
where the next blow would come. He looked into them, and then
looked for a heartbeat longer than he should have because he knew
the man—and he wasn’t Saxon, for all that he was wearing Earl
Ranulf’s colors.