Chapter Twenty-Two
“I wish he would hurry!” Rhun cursed from beside Gareth.
“Only a short while longer, my lord.” Gareth eyed the ferryman’s placid poling. “We’ll soon reach the other side.”
As Hywel had planned, it was half an hour before low tide, the best time to cross the Strait. They all had to get across within that half hour, however, because once the tide turned, the current would shift so suddenly, it could capsize the boats. Unhindered, Gareth could swim (and had swum) the Strait, but that was as a youth. These were grown men—heavier, worried, out of practice—and in some cases, afraid of the water. The bards sang of the Welsh being caught between the mountains and the sea. But for the some of these men—those raised inland—the sea was as foreign as Ireland or London.
The fog had risen to coat the trees, the shoreline, and the company in damp cobwebs of mist. Normally, that would have bothered Gareth, because it meant an enemy might sneak up on them unawares. In this case, however, it allowed them to cross the water unseen. He thought it unlikely that Cadwaladr had left scouts to watch the shore. The arrogant prince wasn’t a good enough soldier for that, even if some of his men knew better. It was one of the problems Gareth had encountered in serving in his company: Cadwaladr’s bravado wouldn’t let him admit when he didn’t have all the answers.
It might even be that Cadwaladr had yet to admit that he’d done anything wrong in taking Gwen from Aber. His highest moral imperative was his own well-being. Anything that ensured it, Cadwaladr believed, was for the greater good of all.
At last, the men gathered on the opposite shore, all in one piece. Gareth fought down shivers from the cold wind that blew from the west and checked his belongings before mounting. Then, Hywel and Rhun led them away from the Strait, down a narrow pathway that led to a wider road a half a mile from the shore.
Once away from the water, the fog dissipated, revealing a remarkably beautiful day. Anglesey as a whole was comprised of flat farmland with rich crops, which upon harvest, were shared—sold, bartered, tithed—with the people of mainland Gwynedd. Now in mid-August, the wheat was nearly ready to harvest, and the land was a patchwork of green, blue, and gold.
The road went north-west from the Strait, through a region with farmland to the east and extensive mudflats to the west, interspersed with stands of well-leafed trees that thrived in the marshy land. Aberffraw had been built on one of the few hills on Anglesey.
The Welsh had occupied that hilltop since before the Romans came. The foundations, then, were older than even the Roman fort that superseded it. Many other Welsh castles had been built the same way, on older foundations, rather than building from scratch. That was how Aber was blessed with an entire room devoted to bathing, not to mention two narrow tunnels leading from the main building, one heading south, towards Aber Falls, and the second to the beach.
Another half-mile and the castle rose before them, the top of the gatehouse just visible above the trees that lined the road on either side. Although Rhun outranked him, it was Hywel who raised a hand to stop the company. Rhun had (delightedly) made clear from the start that this was Hywel’s task while Rhun was just along for the ride. Obeying Hywel’s unspoken order, the company turned off the road and into the woods to the west of it. The men circled around Hywel, expectant.
“What now?” Rhun said. Then, at Hywel’s uncharacteristic silence, he threw back his head and laughed in a perfect imitation of their father. “No wonder you’ve been so silent for the last five miles. You don’t actually have a plan just now, do you?” Hywel had the grace to smile sheepishly. His brother was one of the few people who could get away with that kind of comment. Rhun slapped Hywel on the shoulder. “Never mind. You’ll think of something. You always do.”
“I was waiting to see if Aberffraw was truly our destination before formulating one.” Hywel’s words didn’t come out defensive, just matter-of-fact. “I need to know what we’re dealing with.” He pointed a finger at Gareth. “Three of you circle around the fort to the south and west, three to the north. Feel free to draw their attention—and their arrows. I want to know what we’re up against. Alun will stay with me and watch the front gate. If my uncle means us no harm, this will be like singing scales. If he orders his archers to shoot—”
“He’s not that much a fool,” Rhun said, ever the optimist.
Hywel met Gareth’s gaze with a skeptical one of his own. “We’ll meet back here in a half-hour. At that point, I’ll need to speak with Cadwaladr, if he is, indeed, here. We must know if Gwen is his prisoner.”
“If he’s here, he has Gwen,” Gareth said.
“Likely,” Hywel said, “but I owe it to all of us—and to my father—to be sure.”
With a chorus of “my lords,” the men dispersed to their tasks. Gareth had the luck to partner with Rhun and Evan. They surreptitiously crossed the Ffraw River before it opened into the estuary, and, a quarter-mile from the entrance to the castle, slipped from tree to tree, careful not to give the watchers on the wall of the castle above them any glimpse of their passage. Not yet anyway. Gareth didn’t expect Cadwaladr to leave sentries down here. The view from the castle walls would provide him with all the warning he needed if anyone got too close.
At one point, Gareth thought he caught a glimpse of a face in an upper floor window and stopped. “Evan, your eyes are better than mine. What do you see?”
Evan peered through the trees to get a better look. “A woman. Could be Gwen.”
A few dozen yards farther, the forest could hide them no longer. It hadn’t been thick to begin with, but the closer they got to the beach, the more scrub-like the trees became. Once they petered out entirely, grass and sand were all that stood between them and the ever-widening Ffraw River. On one side, it wended its way the last half-mile to the sea, while on the other, the castle sat on its higher hill above the north bank of the river.
It was Gareth’s job to protect the trio’s southern flank, and he scanned the grass, looking for archers or traps. Consequently, he didn’t see the threat on the other side until Rhun grasped his shoulder and pulled him down into the grass.
“Watch out!”
A heartbeat later, an arrow slammed into the sand where Gareth had been standing a moment before. Scrambling behind a scrubby bush, the three men crouched among the cheat grass, thankful they’d tied their horses a hundred paces away, out of sight and arrow range.
“So much for finding a peaceful solution,” Gareth said. “Cadwaladr doesn’t mean well.”
“It gets worse,” Evan said, looking around the bush, first at the castle and then at the water behind them.
“How so?” Rhun said, his back to a too-small dune.
Evan jerked his head. A hundred yards away, on a half-moon of sand created by a bend in the river, three Danish ships rested. Six men guarded them—two to a boat. Bad enough that the Danes outnumbered them two to one, but each ship was big enough to carry an additional fifteen men. These were odds that would give even Hywel pause. Knowing it, the Danish guards smirked at them, not even bothering to stir from their posts. Instead, they had the look of men watching an archery contest from a ringside seat.
“We have to get back,” Gareth said. “This is already more than we bargained for.”
Rhun took in a deep breath and tipped back his head, gazing at the wispy clouds above their heads. “Uncle Cadwaladr.” He hissed through his teeth. “Why are you doing this?”
“It won’t please your father, that’s for sure,” Evan said.
“The real question is what has Cadwaladr gotten himself into—and does he know how to get himself out of it again?” Rhun said. “Danish allies are not to be taken lightly, and if my uncle reneges on any deal he’s made, they’ll kill him and sleep untroubled afterwards, even if he is Owain Gwynedd’s brother.”
“He’ll be telling himself that it seemed like a good idea at the time,” Gareth said.
“That’s where all bad ideas start, don
’t they?” Evan said.
“And end the same way too,” Gareth said. “He’ll expect that King Owain will get him out of whatever trouble he’s made.”
“He’ll have to surrender to Hywel,” Rhun said. “He can’t possibly believe he’ll get away with this.”
Oh yes he can, Gareth said, but only to himself.
Rhun peered over the top of the bush. He was rewarded for his efforts with another arrow that just skimmed off the top of a dune and over their heads.
“If they’re meaning to miss, it’s not by much,” Evan said.
“I’m worried about our friends on the other side of the castle,” Gareth said.
“We’ve only a few men,” Rhun said. “We’re not a threat—out here or at the gate—and Cadwaladr knows it. He’s playing with us.”
“That may be,” Gareth said, “but these arrows aren’t shot from toy bows.”
“For the love of Christ, my lord,” Evan said. “See reason. Cadwaladr’s men are shooting at you, the heir to the throne of Gwynedd!”
“He doesn’t know—” Rhun stopped and shook his head. “Uncle Cadwaladr would know better than to harm one of King Owain’s sons.”
“Well he damn well should know it,” Evan said. “But he doesn’t, else he wouldn’t be shooting at all. Who does he think we are? Normans?”
“Perhaps he’s too scared to think straight?” Rhun said.
“Scared?” Gareth gestured towards the castle. “Maybe Cadwaladr is frightened beneath all that bluster, but if I had forty-five Danishmen at my back, I wouldn’t fear much. Certainly not us when we’re out here, and he’s in there.”
“I could come back here with an army in a day,” Rhun said. “Cadwaladr has to understand that.”
As Rhun spoke, Gareth caught a flash of color from the trees. It was Alun, waving for them to come in. “It’s time to find out what’s going on.” Gareth moved into a crouch.
With a glance among themselves for reassurance and a one, two, three, the three men dashed across the grass to the cover of the trees. They reached it before the assailants on the wall loosed any more arrows. Stopping to look back up at the castle from the safety of the woods, Gareth strained to see Gwen’s face again but couldn’t.
“I saw her too,” Alun said, without having to ask for whom he was looking. “She’s gone now. Whatever we’ve started, it’s pushed Cadwaladr into action.”
The Good Knight Page 23
