“Do you think me fool enough to ride into the bailey alone?” Rhys retorted. “I go as far as the bridge unless I am convinced otherwise.”
With his horse snorting restlessly, Rhys waited on the banks of the moat, staring across shallow green water at the stone walls of Glynllew. Frogs croaked a gruff melody. In the lengthening shadows cast by high stone walls, insects emerged to buzz around him as he waited. The sun hung low in the sky, and it grew darker where he stood in the shadow of the keep. It was now an impressive fortress, and one that would not fall easily to assault.
When the signal was given to lower the drawbridge, Brian fretted that it was a trap. “I fear dishonesty.”
“Yea, as do I. It would be good to have a few of our Welsh bowmen behind me.”
“That has been done, my lord.”
Rhys glanced at him, then noted movement at the far end of the road leading to the keep. “Sir Robert brought archers?”
“Yea, lord.”
“Against my orders.”
More quietly, “Yea, lord.”
Rhys went silent, then nodded. “Make them visible, so those inside will know we’re not completely trusting fools.”
“Let me bear the standard,” Brian said quickly. “An entire army could be in that bailey. If I am taken, ‘tis no great loss.”
“It would be to me.” Rhys met Brian’s eyes. “We don’t know for certain this is a trap. If Owain no longer holds the castle for me, I need to know.” He glanced toward the lowering drawbridge and donned his helmet as grating chains hauled the iron gate slowly upward. Every instinct screamed deception. But if he fled, he could never hope to lead Welshmen. No man followed a coward. So he would face friend or foe with courtesy or drawn sword.
Despite the constable’s promise of a safe conduct, there was the real possibility of mounted knights waiting inside to surge across the bridge toward him. But there was no reason for such an event save one. He’d brought no huge force with him, posed no serious threat to a well-fortified keep. There was no swifter way to find out if there was treachery afoot than appear at the gates.
Brian had fallen back; muffled hoofbeats signaled the approach of Sir Robert and soldiers to range behind him. “I’ll watch the walls,” Brian muttered as Rhys made ready, “but at first sign of treachery, I’ll be at your back.”
Rhys kept his eyes on the lowering wood bridge. “That I know well enough. Never have you failed me.” Nudging his horse forward, he reined to a halt while Malik pranced impatiently, huge hooves churning up dirt and mud on the side of the moat.
The bridge lowered with a final solid crack against the ground, and Rhys swung his shield to the front, firmly gripping the leather strap that secured it. His sword was at the ready, his blood running hot. There was always this familiar surge of tight anticipation before a battle. Despite the fact that it was meant to be only a meeting, his instincts prepared for a fight.
Inside the gates a man rode to the edge of the drawbridge, pausing beneath dark shadows. Rhys could not see him clearly. He wore mail and helmet, but at a distance, his face was hidden. The sentry had denied Owain, but some here would know him. Would he even recognize Owain? It had been so long, and he only a lad when last he’d seen his father’s steward. All Rhys had known of him through the years was sprawling penmanship and the familiar signet on sealed letters, for Lord Griffyn had no lettering skills, and Owain had penned the infrequent letters.
Rhys kneed Malik forward at a steady pace, keeping his gaze trained on the approaching man. Hooves clattered on wood, the pennon snapped in the wind, curb chains and bridle bits jangled, horses blew and snorted, saddle leather creaked. When they neared the middle, Malik tossed his head, dancing sideways. Rhys turned his attention to the agitated animal, and a motion just above and behind the constable caught his eye. It was only a tiny flicker, not much more than the briefest flutter of a sleeve and glint of fading light on metal, but enough to give him warning.
He leaned to one side, and an arrow whistled close past his ear. A knot of armed men appeared behind the constable, who spurred his mount swiftly across the bridge. There was no going back. Malik needed no urging. The uneasy warhorse had sensed the danger long before him and already braced for action.
Rhys rose in his stirrups and swung his sword up and out as he clashed with the constable. Armed knights rushed across the drawbridge toward him in an effort to surround him. The jarring shocks of sword meeting sword sent a jolt through his arm and fierce pleasure coursing through his veins. This was familiar, reflexive: thrust and parry and turn, using knees to guide Malik and at the same time choosing his next opening in the flashing glitter of lethal blades. In front of him, an arrow sank deep into a man’s chest, driving him backward from his mount. There was a scream, then a splash as the man fell into the moat. His bowmen. They were among the best, and Rhys was glad to have them at his back.
Brian’s familiar whoop sounded at his elbow. They were outnumbered, but the space on the bridge was limited. The clash of blades was loud, mingling with grunts of pain and angry screams of horses, the sound of hooves clattering on wood, and outraged shouts of his men at such treachery. Arrows flew, diminishing the risk of those in the keep being able to fire at will as his archers kept them hiding behind stone.
In a short time, the skirmish was over. The surviving attackers retreated across the drawbridge and under the safety of the porte coleïce. The heavy gate quickly lowered, chains shrieking with strain. Wheeling his mount, Rhys ordered retreat from the drawbridge as it began to shudder and creak beneath them. They barely made it onto firm soil before the planks lifted clear of the ground.
“Now we have an answer,” Sir Robert said when they had galloped out of arrow range. “Owain must be dead or captive. He would never allow such an attack.”
“I fear you are right.” Rhys thought of his father’s steward with regret and genuine sorrow. He had been a part of his life since he was a lad. He hadn’t realized how he depended on the old man. It may have been his father’s commands, but it had been Owain’s words that guided him when young.
“The colors belonged to Sir Nicolas,” observed Sir Robert. “I recognize Raglan’s banner.”
“Raglan is formidable, with a strong fortress to the southwest. It will be a long, hard struggle to wrest Glynllew from him.”
“Aye.”
It was full dark by the time they reached the camp tucked deep into the thick Welsh woods. Morgan came to take Malik. A fire burned beneath a rocky shelf, very little smoke rising to betray their position. It would take no skill to track them, but the squires kept to old habits. It was safer. Moving to the fire, Rhys stared into orange and yellow flames as he peeled off his gauntlets. The leather beneath the mail was wet, and there was a sharp stinging on his wrist that must be a cut. He rubbed at it absently and Brian noticed.
“I’ll tend it,” he said, frowning, “or you risk losing the arm.”
A faint smile curled Rhys’s mouth. He looked up at him. “You’ve become as protective as a woman, Brian.”
“Devil take you, Rhys. Lose the cursed arm then. A lot of good you’ll be as a one-armed knight. Will you like sitting at the castle walls begging for bread?”
“I may be doing that anyway if I don’t drive Sir Nicolas from my keep.” Rhys shook his head, weary, angry, and puzzled. “Never did my father suffer assault from Raglan. They were once friends. It was even suggested that one day his daughter would wed my brother. Now my father is hardly cold in his grave, and Raglan seeks to destroy the house of Glynllew. What makes a man turn so quickly?”
Brian shrugged. “Greed, mayhap. I don’t know. It’s a bad business, Rhys. Bad business.”
“Yea, it is that. So now I am caught between two forces, one engaging the support of two princes, the other secure in my keep.” He frowned, deliberating.
“My lord, perhaps we
should rid ourselves of Raglan at his source—his own keep. If his forces are divided, they won’t be as strong. If we besieged Raglan instead of Glynllew, he’d be forced to return to defend his castle and we could slip away—”
“‘Tis possible.” He considered it, then shook his head. “Yet that may be just what Raglan wants us to do—divide our forces between his keep and mine. He must know I do not have enough men to take a castle as strong as Raglan, but doesn’t expect me to ignore it. Yea, I see it better now.”
“I’m glad you do.” Brian shook his head. “Intrigues make my head hurt. I like a good, honest fight, not all this yea and nay and mayhap. If Raglan wants your keep, he should have challenged you directly, not sent men to occupy it and harry us when we get here. A bold challenge, yea, that’s what I like.”
“Odd, once I thought Raglan of the same mind. From all I heard, he wasn’t a man to lend himself to sly methods, but spoke his mind forthright. I never thought he would be so devious.”
“Nor I, my lord. Here. You bleed. Let me see your arm.”
Rhys let him look at it, firelight flickering over Brian’s red hair as he peered closely at his wrist. “The cut is deep, my lord. I fear it needs to be seared.”
“Leaving me useless till it heals. Nay, it is not worth the risk if we are set upon. It was a chance blow from the constable’s sword that caught me, curse him. Bandage it.”
“It may fester. A one-armed knight is near helpless. You can recover from being seared but not if you lose your arm.”
Brian spoke truth, but it was unpalatable. He thought of the girl and how she had healed Malik. It may be worth letting her look at it, but could he trust her? She may wish to lay him low for vengeance. As Brian knelt by the fire with his knife, holding it in the flames, a sentry raised the alarm.
Men scrambled for weapons, but a familiar voice rang out: “A Wallis! A Wallis!”
It was one of the foreriders he’d sent out. Exhausted and bloody, the returning man rode into the camp, slid from his lathered mount to his feet, then sprawled on the ground near the fire.
“Wine,” Rhys said, beckoning, and a man ran forward with a wineskin. The forerider took it gratefully, pulling on it for a moment before speaking.
“Glynllew . . . is held . . . by an enemy . . .”
“Yea,” Rhys said grimly, “we learned that earlier. Easy now, man, and take another sip of wine before you try to say more. That’s right.” He turned. “Morgan, fetch salves and bandages for his wounds. What he will say is for our ears alone.” He knelt next to the rider. “Now, Wallis, go on when you can.”
“Yea . . . lord . . .” He grasped Rhys’s sleeve. “Glynllew was taken . . . near four month ago . . .”
“Four months,” Brian muttered as he crouched by the fire. “Impossible we did not know. Did you not just meet with Owain’s messenger in Coventry, Rhys?”
“Yea, let him speak. Go on, Wallis, tell me what you’ve learned.”
As he listened to the forerider’s tale, uncertainty gave way to deep, burning fury. Betrayal. The man’s hand on his sleeve tightened convulsively, and Rhys wondered what Wallis saw in his face to earn that reaction. He nodded calmly.
“You did well, Wallis. What of the others?”
“Oliver captured, Ranald missing or dead, I know not. They know you are here.”
“Aye, they do that,” said Brian. “We met the constable and some of his men on Glynllew’s drawbridge. Do you know how big a force is within?”
“P’raps a small garrison, no more.”
“And Owain, the steward,” Rhys pressed. “What of him?”
Wallis shook his head. “I know naught, though ‘twas he I tried to find inside the keep.”
As the rider released the tight grip on his sleeve, Rhys felt blood drip down his hand to the ground. The cut had opened anew. “Rest,” he told Wallis and rose to his feet, beckoning for a squire to tend the man’s needs. He walked a few feet away, grimacing as blood soaked his leg and pooled on his boot.
“Christ above,” Brian muttered, coming to him and gesturing to the blood. “You are like to bleed to death. I need to sear it quickly ere you faint like a woman.”
Rhys managed a slight smile. “Bring me the woman we brought with us. She has herbs to stem the flow.”
“You fear the heated blade?” Brian searched his face.
“Nay, I fear being crippled. Whatever else she may be, she has magic in her herbs that will do more than a hot knife that ofttimes seals in corruption. Bring her to me, Brian.”
It was a direct order, yet his knight hesitated, a range of emotions crossing his broad face that Rhys could easily read. He said nothing, but waited, and after a moment, Brian turned on his heel in the direction of the soldiers tucked beneath a rocky crag. No doubt, Sasha sat among the men who guarded her, brewing mischief, he was certain.
He leaned against a broad beech bole, using his left hand to stem the flow of blood from his wrist, considering the situation Wallis had described. Now that the first shock and anger had subsided, he contemplated options. While Raglan may be guilty of attacking Glynllew before, he had given possession of the keep to Gareth. It was Gareth who occupied the castle now, although it seemed Raglan’s men had been conscripted or chose to serve him. It was possible Gareth and Sir Nicolas were in league, but he had no evidence that was true. He did know they meant to steal his inheritance.
Where once he had been a third son sent out to find his fortunes in luck or kings, a twist of fate had brought him home as lord of Glynllew. Now he must fight to hold honor and castle, or be once more a landless knight.
Chapter Nine
SASHA FADED INTO the shadows, clutching her hooded cloak more tightly around her. She had heard all. Now she must return to the small fire under the crag where her guards no doubt didn’t yet miss her, so busy were they talking about the skirmish earlier and the return of the rider. It heralded news that may affect their return to Glynllew, Rhys ap Griffyn’s keep; they did know that. Two of the men were archers and spoke of their prowess in defending their lord from traitors’ arrows. They also boasted of their lord’s fighting skills, and that was of great interest, as Rhys would need them against Al-Amir.
It had not escaped her attention that the man named Gareth was his cousin, just as her cousin had betrayed her. Intriguing, that they both suffered betrayal from family who should be loyal. Yet it had been her experience that few were loyal when it came to gaining gold and land. No doubt, this man called Gareth—
“There ye are,” a voice growled in her ear, and she squeaked with alarm as her guard’s hand descended upon her shoulder. His grip tightened, dragging her from the shadows into fire-glow. “Did ye think to escape, ye wee selkie?”
As it would be nearly impossible to dislodge his beefy hand from her shoulder, where meaty fingers dug harshly into her skin, she said merely, “Release me, ere you regret your haste, lackwit.”
He thought her a witch or faerie, a selkie that changed from seal to woman at will, and she did nothing to disabuse him of the notion. It was her best weapon against most of these men, who were full of superstition and feared any event they did not understand. They may fear her, but few dared actually harm her for dread of enchantment that outweighed even their fear of what their lord might do. Rhys ap Griffyn was known to be fair, but he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Nor did he tolerate disobedience; she had gleaned much from listening to their thoughts.
“Lackwit?” he repeated, shaking his head, small eyes nearly hidden under bushy brows. “I willna take insults from ye, by God!”
“Will you not?” His bright blue eyes reflected firelight, and she perceived unformed thoughts of retribution in the form of toads and kelpies, ugly crones with potions and dark magic. Leaning closer to him, she murmured, “Toads make lovely pets, do they not? I fancy a blue-eyed toad in my collection.�
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Immediately releasing her, he staggered back a step. His jaw worked, eyes widening and absorbing light as he stared at her. A faint wheezing sound emerged from his open mouth. Fear fairly oozed from his pores, and he seemed frozen to the spot.
Sasha might have taken advantage of his condition, but a voice behind her swept away that option.
“Where do you take her, Malcom? Lord Rhys has asked for her.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as Sasha watched Malcom struggle with blurting out the truth, or saving himself from admitting she had escaped him.
“I heard she was needed, Sir Brian,” he said finally, choosing the safer option.
“Yea, so she is, but not by me. I will take her to him and bring her back to you when he is done with her.”
“Aye, Sir Brian. I will guard her well.”
Sasha felt frustration and bewilderment tumble in Malcom’s mind, visions of rope knots untied, lying limp on the ground beneath a birch, and smiled sweetly at him. “And most kindly?”
He did not meet her eyes but mumbled agreement, and Sir Brian snorted. “Kindness is not required, Malcom. Just competence.”
As he led her toward Rhys, Brian thought of his preferences in how she should be treated, and Sasha was glad he was not her guard. He would much prefer she be left in a cold, dank hole rather than have another chance to poison anyone, and by the time they reached Rhys, he had near convinced himself that she had been sent by Gareth to disrupt their plans.
That would present great difficulties for her if Brian managed to persuade Rhys, and she hoped to forestall any such issues.
Rhys sat before the fire that flickered beneath a rocky shelf; flames warmed the rocks and shed rosy light that gleamed in his pale hair. When he looked up, his eyes glittered like silver coins. He indicated she should sit on a small log close by, and Brian escorted her there, a hand on her shoulder to push her down should she resist.
Shrugging free, Sasha moved closer on the log, more as an act of defiance than to be near Rhys. “Show me your wound,” she directed and held out her hand.
The Magic Page 15
