Prince of Time (Book Two in the After Cilmeri series)

by Sarah Woodbury

  “—Dafydd ap Bran, my lord,” I interrupted, before Ieuan could give my real name. There was no reason for me not to admit who I was, except that the English had surrounded Twyn y Garth, and there was no sign of worry or heightened defenses here. Why? “I’m one of Prince Llywelyn’s men,” I added.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Cadoc said, and gestured that we should come with him. “I have food and drink for you, and I would have your news of the Prince.”

  We followed Cadoc as he led us up the stairway into the wood and stone keep that dominated the courtyard. The entrance to the keep was one floor above the ground, and we’d not gone three paces inside the hall when we discovered why Cadoc didn’t fear the English. The door slammed shut behind us, our host spun on his heel, his sword in his hand, and a smile lit his face. Neither Ieuan nor I were able to pull our swords half out of their sheaths in time to counter him.

  “Gently, sirs,” Cadoc said. “We can’t have that, can we?”

  “What is this, Cadoc?” Ieuan asked. “You’re a traitor, now?”

  “One man’s traitor is another man’s patriot, young man, though I have to admit that the English gold went a long way in determining my loyalties.” He laughed, as did the dozen men who surrounded us.

  “Do you mean to kill us?” Ieuan asked.

  I wanted to kick him—thanks for reminding the man!

  But Cadoc laughed. “I don’t see why. A few more days and there’ll be no need. I will have my reinforcements, Prince Llywelyn will be dead—along with his son—and Edward will be ruler of Wales.”

  “What are you saying?” Ieuan asked.

  “Edward intends to put an end to Llywelyn’s bastard in Lancaster, if he’s not done so already, and even now Prince Llywelyn lies ill with a fever from a wound he received at Buellt, and from which one of his men assures me he will not recover.”

  “Which one of his men?” I asked, forcing out the words even as they choked me. “Who?”

  “Tudur,” the man sneered. “It is always those we trust most that are most likely to betray us. That’s why I don’t trust anyone—perhaps not even myself.” Cadoc laughed again, and gestured for his men to take us away. With our arms screwed up behind our backs, we stumbled between the men. They forced us down a stairway to a room near the kitchens that must normally have been used for storage. They stripped us of our weapons and closed the door behind us.

  Ieuan and I gazed at each other across the small, dark space. “I suppose we can’t count on little Thomas to set us free, can we?” Ieuan said.

  “And no help from Buellt, even if they knew Tudur stands against us.”

  I stared at the wall, which I could see only dimly in the light coming through the bottom of the door. Tudur was the grandson of Ednyfed Fychan, seneschal to Llywelyn the Great. In his late twenties, he owned estates near Aber and on Anglesey, and was one of the wealthiest landowners in Gwynedd.

  Ieuan pushed on the door, shoving his shoulder into it, and when it didn’t give, began to pace about the room. As in Carlisle, we were well contained—better contained, actually, because we couldn’t kick down these walls. The stone floor and wooden walls were much thicker than at Carlisle. I leaned against the far wall and watched him.

  “What next, do you think?”

  Before Ieuan could answer, the door opened, revealing three men. One of them, an older fellow with the full mustache typical of a Welshman, gestured to me. “Come,” he said.

  Ieuan started forward, but one of the men transferred his sword to his left hand and shot a fist to Ieuan’s jaw. Ieuan fell sideways, striking his head on the wall as he went down. I crouched beside him and grasped his hand. “Ieuan,” I said.

  “Go,” he said. “I’m well enough.” He put a hand to the side of his head and came away with blood. Our eyes met, and I nodded, glad to see his eyes were clear, and released him. I followed the old soldier out of the room, knowing without them saying a word that Ieuan was a hostage to my good behavior.

  * * * * *

  The men led me up two flights of stairs into Cadoc’s study. I surveyed the room. It was light and airy, with a desk and bed, and a beautiful blue and red tapestry on the wall between the windows. They sat me in a wooden chair and pinioned my arms behind my back.

  “Well, Dafydd ap Bran. I’m so glad you and Sir Ieuan decided to join us today,” Cadoc said. He smiled at me, as if I were a friend meeting him for afternoon tea instead of his prisoner. He walked around his desk, slipping a glove on his right hand as he did so. “I have a few questions for you. I thought perhaps you might be more willing to answer them than Sir Ieuan.”

  Before he asked any questions, however, he backhanded me across the face. I tasted blood on my lip, but the soldiers prevented me from moving my arms, so I sat there, the blood dripping down my chin.

  “Why are you here?”

  I didn’t answer immediately, and Cadoc didn’t wait another second for me to try. He hit me again; my head spun.

  “We . . .we were....” I stumbled over the words as I tried to clear my thoughts and think of what to say.

  “You hit him too hard, my lord,” one of the soldiers said. “He cannot think.”

  “I’ll give him a minute, then,” Cadoc said, and leaned against his desk, his arms folded across his chest. “Try again, boy, and I’ll see if I like your answer.”

  “We came from Twyn y Garth, Lord Ieuan’s castle,” I said. “He was hoping to visit his sister there, but the castle is surrounded by English. We traveled here in hopes of finding men to relieve it.”

  Cadoc studied me. My eyes ran tears and his shape was a blur through them.

  Thwack!

  “There is more, surely. Where are your horses? Your men?” he asked. “I have my soldiers scouring the forest but so far they’ve found no one. Where have you hidden Prince Llywelyn’s men?”

  Thwack!

  O God. Bronwen. Lili.

  Thwack!

  “Speak!”

  I didn’t have the mental stability to speak by then, even if I wanted to. I fell forward in the chair, and the last words I heard before my eyes darkened were from one of Cadoc’s soldiers.

  “Where shall we put him, my lord,” he asked, “until he wakes up and you can try again…”

  She is standing on the battlements, looking for her son. I’ve been watching her for a mile now, the entire time we’ve ridden, more slowly than perhaps we could have, up the road to the castle. I look up at her and our eyes meet. She knows the truth. He has not come.

  I’ve spent the last four days between desolation and jubilation. My lord is alive, but yet he is not. When Aaron and I stood at the edge of the cliff, I understood how close to death the prince and Ieuan were. If the choice was between traveling to his foreign land and death, then I understand why he jumped. But part of me cannot forgive him for leaving me with the uncertainty.

  And what do I tell his mother?

  “The truth,” Aaron says, as we ride under through the gatehouse and into the courtyard of Dinas Bran.

  Math and Marged gather at my stirrup. Math grasps my horse’s bit to steady him as I dismount. He knows I must see to my men, but the impatience in his eyes cannot wait. Aaron and I follow Math into the keep. Marged hurries ahead to Anna who stands at the top of the stairs, Cadell cradled in her arms. I cannot meet her eyes either.

  A servant brings meat and wine and Math dismisses her with a wave. He settles Anna into her cushioned chair, and then Marged. He finally seats himself, leaving Aaron and me standing. The symbolism is not lost on me. Unless I can explain Dafydd’s absence, he will have my head.

  It is Aaron who speaks. “He has gone to your land, Marged,” he says. “We saw him jump.”

  At his words, all three lean forward, their eyes wide. “Gone back?” Anna asks. “You are sure?”

  “As sure as we can be, my lady,” I say. “Ieuan had taken an arrow in his side, and your brother threw him over his shoulder and jumped off a cliff. We saw them vanish.”


  “And the men?” Math asks.

  “All of us saw him vanish,” I say. “Like me, they’ve spent the past days in an agony of anticipation and despair.”

  “What are they saying?” Marged asks.

  “They do not say witchcraft, at least,” Aaron says. “They’ve been with him too long for that.”

  “All he needs is a magic sword, and they will call him ‘Arthur’ openly,” I say. “The Prince borrowed Cadwallon’s sword before he rode away from us, and now Cadwallon cradles Dafydd’s sword in his arms as if it’s a holy relic. The countryside already tells stories about him, but now his own men create them. It started with the vehicle you brought to this country...then the banner he carries...now this...no one will be able to contain the stories now.”

  * * * * *

  …the scene shifts and I stand behind my queen, Marged, as she lays out her possessions that Aaron brought, one by one. She weeps and I know her well enough by now to realize how rarely she allows herself her tears.

  “Excuse me, madam,” I say, starting to back out of the room.

  “No, stay, Bevyn,” she says. “You of all people may stay.”

  I gaze at the items, and cannot begin to discern what most of them are. The red bag rests to one side, empty. Aaron sits in a chair in the corner of the room. He has retreated inside himself. Perhaps he thinks Dafydd’s absence is his fault. Perhaps it is.

  Marged turns. Tears glisten on her cheeks, but her eyes are clear as she looks at me.

  “My lady,” I say, uncertain and uncomfortable with her vulnerability. I wish the Prince were here instead of me.

  “You were with him in Lancaster,” she says. “You know what mood he was in when he sailed from Poulton. Tell me, will he come back to us?”

  I am astonished that she would need to ask, and then upon reflection, perhaps less so. A mother’s fears are not always well-defined, but she should know her son better than that.

  “He will come back, my lady,” I say, and suddenly I am sure of it myself. “He will come back, if he can.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bronwen

  Lili and I had watched the patrols come out of Aberedw for longer than we should have, still waiting for Ieuan and David to return.

  “They’re not coming,” I finally said. “Something’s wrong.”

  “I know it,” she said. “I knew this wasn’t a good idea. Why didn’t I say something?” She’d been worrying at her lip, which was chapped, and a spot of blood appeared where she’d bit it. It was her only outward sign of concern, but I felt a warmth for her to see it.

  My initial impression of a waif-like nymph had given way to admiration for her grit. She was small but sturdy, and I figured I was about to be grateful for that. I was older than she, but useless and lost, and here she was, fifteen, and the burden of our quest lay entirely on her shoulders.

  “Would Ieuan have listened?” I asked. He and David had listened to me every time I’d offered a course of action, but had never taken any of my suggestions.

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s learned to trust my intuition.”

  I eyed her and Lili stopped in the act of backing out of the bushes in which we’d been hiding. She dropped her head to look down at her feet. “And why didn’t I say anything this time, you ask? Because I feared Prince Dafydd would think me foolish.”

  She turned from me, grasped Fred’s reins, and tugged him along with her. I followed and we walked quickly up the trail down which we’d come earlier that morning. Her confession made me feel awkward, uncertain of what to say—Did she think this was her fault? If she did, she was worse than David!—so I changed the subject.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “First, we find a place to hide the pack off this horse. It hinders us. I gather it contains valuable items or you wouldn’t have brought it this far?”

  “Prince Dafydd needs what’s in it,” I said.

  “Then we’ll keep them safe for him,” she said, “somewhere.”

  We walked another hundred yards, with Lili veering off the path every twenty feet to check a rock or bush. At one point, she crouched by the river and dug up a plant. She broke off the root, wrapped it and some leaves in a cloth, and stuffed it into a pocket at her waist.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Hemlock,” she said. “We may need it.”

  Dear God. I didn’t question her further however, not sure I wanted to know what I was getting into. Finally, after some more forays off the trail, Lili found something else she was looking for: a bush, fronting a rock, under which an animal had lain, but abandoned. She went to Fred and unbuckled the pack. It fell heavily to the ground.

  “What is this?” she asked, stopping in surprise. David’s navy blue backpack had come out of its bundle.

  “As I said, it’s Prince Dafydd’s,” I said. Lili stood still, looking at the pack, and then at me. I didn’t waste time but knelt beside the back and unzipped the pockets, quickly going through them for anything that I should take with me immediately. I grabbed two pieces of beef jerky and one of the four small baggies of coffee at the bottom of the main compartment, underneath David’s sheaf of papers. I lifted up my skirt to stuff them into the back pocket of my jeans, so desperate at this point I was almost ready to pour the coffee grains down my throat. Then, in one of the backpack’s front zipper pockets, I discovered Ieuan’s antibiotics.

  Damn that man—he hasn’t been taking them! There were at least twenty left. For good measure, I took an antibiotic tube too, in case his wound had opened again. I made to slip them into my jeans as well, but Lili stopped me, grabbing them from my hand.

  “What is this?” she asked. “What is the writing on this? Where did you get it?” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Who are you really?”

  “I am your brother’s betrothed, and we don’t have time to discuss this. The English are coming and I think you have a plan for getting Ieuan and the Prince out of Aberedw?”

  “I do,” she said. “But . . .” she paused, looking again at the pills in one hand, the tube in the other, and then back at me. “These are from the land of Madoc, aren’t they? Ieuan told me all about it when I saw him last.”

  “Lili,” I began.

  “Are you from the land of Madoc?” she asked.

  “Lili,” I tried again.

  “Don’t try to deny it! I saw the clothing you wear under your dress, and this pack, and this vial.” She held up the pills.

  “These items are the Prince’s, yes, and yes, they come from the land of Madoc. Can we talk about this later?” I grabbed the pills and stuffed them into my pocket. “Shouldn’t we hurry?”

  Lili seemed to shake herself. “Yes,” she said. She shoved the pack and blankets under the rock and spread the bush back on top. We threw handfuls of fallen leaves around the space and backed out of the area to the trail.

  “Can you remember the place?” I asked.

  Lili gave me a withering look. “Of course,” she said.

  She tugged Fred’s reins and we walked another half a mile until Lili turned east, off the trail. I plodded along beside her, feeling more and more exhausted with every step. My feet hurt, my head hurt (undoubtedly lack of coffee), I was thirsty despite sharing the last of the water in David’s pack with Lili before we left it, and I figured if I sat down I would never stand again. I was not used to this much physical activity, especially on half rations and little sleep.

  We left the woods and crossed several open fields before reaching a thatched hut. An old man in a faded brown jacket and a hat pulled over his eyes stood in the yard, hitching a horse to a wagon full of hay.

  “Hello, Lili,” he said as we approached him. “What are you doing out with so many English about?”

  “English soldiers have passed by here?” she asked.

  “A dozen or so,” he said. “They didn’t bother me, for they were moving fast and not interested in razing the countryside, or setting fire to it, just yet. A good thing too
, with a barn full of crop for the winter.”

  “My guess is that you’re delivering that hay to Aberedw,” Lili said.

  “You guess right, luv,” the man said. “What of it?”

  “Give us a ride?” she asked.

  The old man surveyed us, and I saw intelligence in his blue eyes, even as they crinkled at me from under his hat. “Introduce me to your friend and I’ll consider it,” he said, and winked.

  Lili smiled. “This is Bronwen ferch . . “

  “Llywelyn,” I supplied. Then stopped, afraid I’d made a mistake, but the old man smiled and nodded.

  “The name’s Cawrdaf, but you can call me Daffy. Everyone else does.”

  “Thank you, Daffy,” I said.

  “What about your horse, there,” Daffy said. “You want to bring him along?”

  “I thought I’d leave him with you, in exchange for the ride,” Lili said.

  Daffy studied Lili, his head canted to one side. “You in some kind of trouble, girl?” he asked. “Something old Daffy ought to know about?”

  “A little,” Lili admitted, “but none that should involve you. We just want a ride to Aberedw. I’ll help unload your hay in the stables and you can be on your way.”

  “Humph,” Daffy said. “Don’t know what I think of that. I gather you don’t want it known you’re a daughter of the manor, so to speak?”

  “No, Daffy.” Lili looked down at her jerkin and trews. “I think it best if I stay a farm boy.”

  Daffy nodded, still not convinced, but put Fred in his barn. After a minute, he returned and climbed onto the wagon seat. Lili stuffed her quiver and bow into the hay and we climbed into the wagon to sit at the back, our feet dangling over the edge. We jerked forward. The road unfolded behind us, rough and uneven, with deeply rutted wagon tracks. We bounced along, but for all that, I leaned against the hay and found myself relaxing for the first time in days.