The Renegade Merchant

by Sarah Woodbury

  “How many did we lose?” Hywel said as they found refuge in the darkness of the stable, having come into the stable through one of the side doors. There were three doors in all—one on each end and a main, double doorway on the long front side facing the courtyard of the castle.

  The horses were whinnying and rearing, smelling smoke and fearing it. Cadell ran from one to another, freeing them. Stable boys were helping, and with the smoke and the darkness, nobody looked closely at Cadell or wondered why he was still alive and not dead on the floor of his room in the barracks.

  “Four, my lord,” Cadifor said.

  Hywel nodded, accepting for now what couldn’t be changed. Evan, Gareth’s close friend, was one of the other survivors, and he took the arm of the man Hywel had carried from the barracks and eased him to the ground. He felt at the man’s neck and then looked up at Hywel. “Five, my lord.”

  “Leaving the five of us.” Hywel shook his head, even as he ripped at the tail of his shirt to staunch the blood flowing from a gash he’d just discovered on his upper arm. “This is my fault.”

  “Recriminations are for later, my prince.” Gruffydd, Rhun’s former captain, approached and took the cloth from Hywel in order to wrap it around Hywel’s arm. The wound wasn’t deep, and later it would hurt, but it didn’t now.

  Hywel acknowledged that it was no coincidence that the two most experienced men in his company were the only two to survive the attack in the common room. He was glad beyond measure that Cadell had been sleeping with him, or the youth would have been among the dead too. Madog’s men had nearly finished the job. “We must leave now.”

  Cadell came running back from the main entrance to the stable. “The front gate is open.”

  “It would be. They can hardly fight this fire bringing up one bucket at a time from the well,” Cadifor said.

  Hywel took in a breath and looked at the others—fellow warriors, friends, brothers. “We ride out that gate, and we don’t stop for anyone or anything.”

  “Except for me.”

  Hywel spun on his heel to see his Aunt Susanna standing in the doorway that led to the courtyard, her hand to her chest, recovering her breath. Likely, she’d run here from the hall. All of the horses but their five were out of the stable now, so they were alone.

  “Aunt,” Hywel said.

  “You can’t go out the front. There are too many men between you and safety, but you can lead your horses out the postern gate. I’ve sent the guard away to help fight the fire. It’s just through here.” She hastened across the stable towards a far doorway, opposite the one they’d come in from the barracks, and waited for them while they hastily collected their horses.

  The blacksmith’s shop was adjacent to the stable, on the opposite side from the barracks. Behind a stack of kindling for feeding the forge lay a narrow gateway, just wide enough for a horse to pass through.

  Hywel glanced back. The fire had consumed the barracks’ roof. He wouldn’t have said that a thousand buckets of water could contain the blaze now and thought Madog would be better off soaking everything around the barracks instead of the barracks itself. Meanwhile, Susanna opened the gate, and the others filed through it. Hywel was last, and he hesitated as he reached his aunt, who was waiting for him. “Thank you.”

  “I guessed what my husband planned to do, and I didn’t warn you,” she said. “I would never have forgiven myself if you’d died.”

  Hywel leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I regret that I will repay your loyalty with war against your husband.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m counting on it.”

  That took Hywel back apace. Her hatred for Madog had to be immense to say such a thing. “And your sons.”

  Susanna took in a deep breath. “I beg you to spare them, if you can.”

  Hywel’s heart filled with pity. “You have my word.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hywel

  None of the others had suffered anything more in the fight than sore muscles and a few bloody scrapes, which was fortunate, because the postern gate opened onto the narrowest track Hywel had ever seen. Its poor state of repair had to be deliberate, since of course Madog didn’t want anyone coming up it.

  The main road wended its way to the castle from the southwest and the village, and he supposed it was a good thing it wasn’t daylight now because, by the light of the moon, they could make out only the outlines of what they had to contend with to escape. He honestly didn’t want to know what broad daylight would have shown them.

  The track led them down the north slope of the mountain, and they slipped and slid along it in their frantic descent away from Dinas Bran. Hywel cursed himself the whole way for being naïve, for thinking that his uncle wouldn’t take this ultimate step to gain power, and for allowing himself to be buttered up enough by praise to sing late into the night. While he’d known enough to drink sparingly, which may well have saved his life, he was more tired that he ought to be, and that was affecting his judgment.

  The track switched back and forth across the mountain’s face. At one point, though Cadifor was in the lead and Hywel at the back, they reached a point where they were face-to-face as they passed one another going in opposite directions.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Cadifor said in an undertone. “I should have warned you that something like this might happen.”

  Hywel scoffed. It was just like Cadifor to deflect blame onto himself when it was really Hywel’s. “Did you have some forewarning that my uncle would take to murder?”

  “No, my lord—”

  And then he was past his foster father, huffing and puffing along with the others as fast as he could away from the castle. The horses could see better in the dark than they, and Hywel had his fingers woven through Glew’s mane, the better to keep himself upright.

  On the next switchback, Hywel had time to say, “Then the blame belongs to me, not you. The lives of my men rest on my shoulders, and I let you all down by bringing you here.”

  “It isn’t your fault either, Hywel.” Cadell was walking behind Cadifor, and couldn’t help but overhear. His tone was uncharacteristically tart. “If anything, my brothers and I should have heard something of your uncle’s unrest, seeing as how Denbigh is far closer to Dinas Bran than Aber or Meirionnydd.”

  “Gruffydd and I had no inkling of what was to come either,” Evan said from in front of Hywel. His normally blond hair was dark with soot. “We ordered the men to drink sparingly, as is always warranted in a strange hall, but Madog’s men were very disciplined. They gave nothing away.”

  Gruffydd, walking in the exact middle, grunted his assent. As Rhun’s former captain, he’d been nearly as lost as Hywel these last months. Hywel had folded him and the survivors of the ambush that had killed Rhun into his teulu, now dramatically expanded to a full fifty, with enough men left over to garrison the various castles around Wales that were now his responsibility. “We failed you, my lord. Evan and I were taking turns sleeping, but even with our precautions, they attacked so suddenly, I had time only to leap to my feet and shout a warning before they were on us.”

  Hywel was bringing up the rear, so he could see Evan shaking his head up ahead of him. “What is it, Evan?”

  “Madog has to realize what he’s started, doesn’t he? This means war.”

  “I said as much to my aunt as we were leaving. Madog must believe that the time is ripe for rebellion against my father. Since Rhun’s death, the king is seen as weak.” Hywel heaved a sigh. “Father has been weak, but Madog was a fool to think I was.”

  “That’s why he tried to kill you, my lord,” Evan said, “to get you out of the way.”

  “Back in the room,” Cadifor said, “I said that I thought Madog may have put something in our drink. I still feel that’s true.”

  “We drank from communal cups,” Gruffydd said. “I made sure of it.”

  “Were any of the men sitting beside you at the table sleeping beside you in the barracks?” Cadifor sa
id.

  There came a hitch in Gruffydd’s step. “Come to think on it, no.”

  “Madog has enough men that he could afford to let a few sleep out the night so that others who hadn’t been affected could fight,” Cadifor said.

  “So how did I survive?” Cadell said. “I drank quite a bit.”

  “I know you did, boy, despite my warning,” Cadifor said. “Why do you think your wine was so watered? I swapped out our carafe for one from another table.”

  “I shared a cup with my aunt,” Hywel said, “and when I was given my own when it came time to sing, I didn’t touch it.”

  “Luck,” Gruffydd growled.

  “Good training,” Cadifor said.

  “Except for me.” Cadell’s shoulders hunched.

  “Lesson learned then, son,” Cadifor said.

  “I have a further worrisome thought, my lord,” Evan said. “Madog may have acted tonight on his own, but I wouldn’t put it past him to be in league with Cadwaladr.”

  “My aunt implied that might be true,” Hywel said. “I will believe anything of Madog now.”

  Their conversation, undertaken piecemeal and in low tones, had carried them three-quarters of the way down the mountain. Hywel glanced back, expecting a sign of pursuit and seeing none, but he didn’t allow himself to breathe easier—and wouldn’t—

  until they were well away from Dinas Bran.

  Hywel had known that treachery was a possibility before he’d brought his men up to Dinas Bran, though he hadn’t truly believed that his uncle would violate the peace of his own house. But if Madog was in any way allied with Cadwaladr, which now that Hywel thought about it seemed more than likely, Hywel had also underestimated the tenor and quality of his hatred—which, along with the promise of a magnificent reward, could be the only thing that would have made Madog risk open war with Gwynedd on the chance that he could murder Hywel and get away with it.

  Unless, as was sometimes the case with Cadwaladr, he hadn’t seen it as a risk. The move against Hywel had been both bold and calculating. But like many of Cadwaladr’s schemes, Madog also had reached too far and hadn’t counted on the betrayal of his own wife—or that Hywel would have surrounded himself with men who slept with one eye open, if they slept at all.

  “Our deaths, coupled with Father’s grief could provide an opening for Cadwaladr to return to Wales,” Cadell said.

  Hywel nodded, though they’d reached a straight stretch and Cadell, walking second behind Cadifor, couldn’t see him. The comment was, at first blush, uncharacteristically insightful for Cadell. And yet, while Hywel’s brother might be young, he’d grown up a prince of Wales. Even a man with a sweet nature like Cadell learned intrigue by necessity, or he didn’t survive.

  Except for Rhun, who’d risen above it. But Rhun had been the edling, and he’d had Hywel always at his back, protecting him and allowing him to take the high road. Now that Rhun was dead, Hywel could admit that when he was younger, he’d sometimes resented their differing roles. His father’s countenance and favor had been bestowed on Rhun. Hywel had been the second son—loved, but not respected or adored in the same way as Rhun. But as he’d grown older, he’d come to appreciate the way Rhun protected him. Hywel would give anything to have him back.

  The thought of his brother had Hywel stepping a bit faster down the trail. Surely they had to be near the bottom by now.

  In years to come, Hywel would retain very little memory of their descent out of Dinas Bran beyond overwhelming emotion: a fear of being followed, as images of Madog’s men snapping at their heels like dogs at a boar consumed him; an embarrassing and unexpected fear of heights that had his heart pounding and his knees weakening almost more than the far more real danger of discovery; and a raging anger at himself that he’d led his men into danger and had been able to lead only half of them out of it.

  That rage, which they all shared, was ultimately what kept them upright as their legs trembled from the sharp descent and as the stew of emotions in their bellies left them sick at heart. The fire in the stable must have spread to other buildings, because it continued to blaze above them, sending the smoke east with the wind that always blew on the top of the mountain. And still, nobody followed them out the postern gate.

  Hywel could only hope that his aunt was discouraging anyone from looking for them there, and it would take some time for Madog to realize that they’d gone and hadn’t died in the rubble that was all that was left of the barracks.

  A heart stopping hour later, they found refuge in a stand of trees two miles east of the castle. The decision to head east had been the result of cold calculation on Hywel’s part. If Madog were to look anywhere for them, it should be west back to Aber or north to Mold, not east into England.

  “On to Shrewsbury, then?” Evan was taking in big gulps of air.

  They’d kept to the shadows, staying off the road whenever possible. It had meant that they’d had to lead the horses rather than ride them and risk the sound of hoof beats echoing through the hollows and bluffs that surrounded them. That could change now that they’d reached the plains of England.

  “Where else?” Hywel said.

  While neither he nor Cadell should be wandering the roads and byways of England, and certainly not with so few men to accompany them, nobody in England knew who they were either. With his perfect French, thanks to years of lessons with Meilyr and Gwen, Hywel could pass for a Norman if he tried. While his companions looked and acted very Welsh, here in the March, a Norman lord often had Welsh retainers.

  “We’ve come this far. If Madog decides I was telling the truth about where we were going, and that I would continue on to Shrewsbury despite the loss of my men, he can’t follow us there. Shrewsbury is in England, and his writ doesn’t stretch that far.”

  “If anything, we’ve picked up Cadwaladr’s scent now even more than at Mold,” Gruffydd said, and there was a fire in his eyes as he spoke.

  “It’s also possible that what prompted Madog to act tonight was the knowledge that you intended to ride to Shrewsbury today,” Evan said. “It could be that Cadwaladr really is there, and Madog knows it, or that Cadwaladr has been there recently enough that if we go there we have the possibility of tracking him.”

  “It’s the closest we’ve been to Cadwaladr in months,” Gruffydd said.

  “It would be good to know if Cadwaladr has allied with Madog before we make war on Powys,” Cadifor said. “Cadwaladr has been banished from Gwynedd, but he still has support in other regions of Wales, and many a lord would rather that a weaker king sat on the throne of Gwynedd.”

  Hywel glanced up towards where Dinas Bran perched on its mountain. “Madog must have been so gleeful when he learned that he had me in his lair. He’s probably been dreaming since Rhun’s death of what he would do to me once he had me.”

  “Kill you,” Gruffydd said dryly.

  Hywel snorted laughter. “Indeed.”

  Cadell spoke into the general amusement. “I have bad news.” He’d been tending to his horse rather than participating in the conversation, and now he straightened. “His hock is bleeding.”

  Cadifor tsked through his teeth and went to look, squinting at the wound in the murky light. Dawn wasn’t far off now, and they needed to be on their way before the sun rose. “The wound isn’t deep, and he should be fine to walk, but Cadell can’t ride him to Shrewsbury.”

  Hywel sighed and ran a hand through his hair, coming away with ash, which he shook off his hand with an impatient flick. “One wonders if this isn’t a sign that I’m headed in the wrong direction. Father needs to know of Madog’s treachery.”

  “He does, but who’s to say he will listen or care,” Cadell said.

  “Whether he does or not, my brothers and I have a new war to prepare for,” Hywel said. “Even now, Madog could be marshaling his forces to march against Gwynedd.”

  Gruffydd went to the edge of the trees and gazed out across the fields. A mist hovered just above the ground. “I will see Cadell to Mo
ld. He and I can ride two on my horse, with the lame horse in tether. Our progress will be slow, but we could make Mold by the end of the day. And then I will personally ride to your father at Aber.” He came back to Hywel and spoke in an undertone. “I want revenge against Cadwaladr as much as any man here, but the most important thing is to get you away, and we may all do better if we split up.”

  Hywel offered Gruffydd his forearm, and he grasped it. Perhaps all of them should return to Mold and forsake this possibly fruitless quest. But while Gruffydd could make Mold today, so too could Hywel make Shrewsbury. “If Cadwaladr is in the vicinity, Gareth will know about it. By tomorrow evening, I could have collected him and be riding home to Aber.”

  Cadifor rubbed at his chin, nodding slowly at first, and then with genuine enthusiasm. “By then, if Madog was preparing to march on Gwynedd, all of Powys would know. We could bring word of his plans and the disposition of his men to your father, and thus do Gwynedd a great service.”

  “You’ll have to travel through Powys the entire way,” Gruffydd said. “That’s Madog’s territory.”

  “We’ll have Gwen and the others with us,” Hywel said. “Nobody will bother a family group, not if war in the north is on their mind. But if it’s any comfort, we’ll ride through England to Shrewsbury and lose all pursuit that way. Ranulf is off away to Lincoln, along with most of his fighting men. We should have free passage north and south.”

  “It is true that in England, the roads are flatter and more straight,” Gruffydd said, though his expression was dubious—as if flat, straight roads were a mark against a country. Both he and Cadifor shared the same healthy distrust for all things not Welsh.

  In the distance, a rider came out of the mist, and by his shape and seat on his horse, Hywel had a sudden thought that he was Gareth. But then he passed by without stopping or seeing them, and Hywel knew him for a stranger.