The Lost Brother (31 page)

“Is there any way to tell for certain?” Gwen
gazed dully at the purses. They were evidence of Cadwaladr’s
crimes, but she found it impossible to care.

“There will be some who doubt that Prince
Cadwaladr could have been responsible for what happened here today.
They will refuse to believe the testimony of honest men,” Godfrid
said. “They need items like these as proof. If Adeline’s father
were to testify that one of these was hers …” His voice trailed off
as Gwen still didn’t move.

But then she nodded, trying to shake off
some of the gray that seemed to be covering her vision. “You’re
right about the testimony. Someday King Owain himself might want to
see them as part of knowing the whole truth about how Rhun died.
I’m glad your man found them. Please keep them against that
day.”

“Of course.” Godfrid returned them to his
pocket. “May I speak to you of what I have learned from Cadwaladr’s
men, one Geraint in particular?”

“Yes.” Gwen made a sour face, not wanting to
hear it but knowing that Godfrid needed to tell someone. “What does
he say?”

“Cadwaladr’s plan was to descend with his
and Ranulf’s men on this encampment, kill those who resisted, and
capture the rest. While Ranulf’s men took the king and princes back
to Chester as prisoners, Cadwaladr’s men would retreat back to
their camp. There, they would remove their false livery, and then
Cadwaladr himself was to ‘discover’ the ruin of his brother’s
camp.”

“Do we believe him?”

Godfrid shrugged. “In the main, though
perhaps not the details. Admitting that it was the death of the
princes and the king rather than their capture that was Cadwaladr’s
goal does Geraint no good at all.”

Gwen closed her eyes. “If Father Alun hadn’t
come to find us; if Gareth hadn’t encountered Pawl and Morien, it
might have worked. But then, because Gareth discovered the plot,
Rhun spent the day chasing after him and was in the center of his
men to be ambushed on the road.”

Godfrid shook his head. “Geraint says, and
this I do believe given what we heard shouted before the battle,
that Cadwaladr wanted to see Gareth dead on that road, not Rhun.
You can second-guess yourselves all you want, but both princes and
Gareth did what was necessary at the time.

“Ranulf is being hard pressed on his eastern
border. He did forge peace with you once he learned the truth about
Cadwaladr. It does also seem, from talking to the survivors among
Ranulf’s men, that they had no idea what Cadwaladr had really
planned. They thought Hywel and Rhun stood against their father.
They thought they were providing support for a bloodless coup, not
force of arms for a pitched battle.”

“Who did they think they were ambushing on
the road?” Gwen said.

“Gareth, same as Cadwaladr, except Cadwaladr
told them a story about how Gareth had lied to everyone about his
loyalties and had unexpectedly turned on Cadwaladr. Ranulf’s men
were happy to participate in what they thought was an easy
fight.”

“Did you ask Geraint who killed Cole and
Adeline?” Gwen said.

“Cole killed Adeline and Llywelyn, the
king’s messenger, and Cadwaladr killed Cole, just as we thought,”
Godfrid said.

“Was Geraint there?”

“He claims not to have been. The man
Cadwaladr took with him was one of his other captains who died in
the fight.” Godfrid tipped his head. “Geraint does have larger than
normal feet.”

“We could find out the truth by showing
Geraint to the innkeeper in Gwern-y-waun, but it seems so pointless
now.” Tears choked Gwen’s throat yet again.

“Only one man is at the heart of this, and
we know his name.”

Gwen turned in her seat and then stood at
the sight of Hywel coming towards her. He and Gareth came to a halt
next to Godfrid.

“Tell me what you have learned,” Hywel
said.

It was an order, and Gwen imagined that
orders were all they were going to get from him for a while.
Hywel’s grip on his emotions was tenuous, but she could see his
eyes in the light of the torches that flickered all around the
camp. They were clear.

Because Gareth still didn’t look capable of
speaking, Gwen related in short sentences the details of the
journey they’d undertaken to Ranulf. Hywel kept his gaze fixed on
Gwen’s face. She concluded with Ranulf’s agreement to surrender
Mold in exchange for peace.

Hywel turned to Gareth. “Tell me of this
Dafydd of Chester. I understand you worked with him before?”

“Yes, my lord,” Gareth said. “He knew me as
soon as he saw me, and knew that Cadwaladr had deceived them
all.”

“Ranulf knew it too.” Gwen understood what
Hywel was doing. He was preparing to lay at his father’s feet
everything Cadwaladr had done, and he needed to have every detail
clear in his mind before he did it. She could almost see the mantle
of
edling
settling onto his shoulders. He was bowed by the
weight of it—and his grief—but the responsibility for his father’s
kingdom lay with him now.

Gwen risked a hand on his forearm. “You
aren’t alone, Hywel.”

His arm trembled under her fingers, but then
he stilled. “I know, Gwen. And I am grateful.” He looked at each of
them. “I need to impose on your friendship, and your loyalty, and
ask that you come with me now to speak to my father.”

“Of course,” Gwen and Gareth said together,
and Gwen was glad to see her husband standing tall again.

They had all experienced death before and
the settling in of grief until it became one’s new reality. When
her mother had died, Gwen had had hours to prepare herself, though
she didn’t know that the preparation had made the pain any less. It
had
allowed her to prepare to tend to her newborn brother
when he needed her.

The reality of Rhun’s death—and the
suddenness of it—was only just sinking in. What Hywel was feeling
now was anger, and Gwen understood that emotion too. He might be
angry for a long time, but it was his anger that would sustain him
until he returned home. Until then, it would be Gwen’s job—hers and
Gareth’s—to moderate his decisions if they were rash and based on
emotion rather than sense.

“You have no doubt, then,” Hywel said, “that
my uncle was responsible for what happened here?”

“I saw him leave once he realized that his
men would be defeated,” Gwen said.

The look in Hywel’s eyes told her that it
didn’t matter what his father thought because he’d already made up
his mind about his next course of action. Cadwaladr would be dealt
with, as swiftly and decisively as Hywel could manage.

As Madoc had said, what Cadwaladr had
done—regardless of whether the death of Rhun was an accident or
intentional—could never be forgiven.

Gareth

G
areth didn’t
remember finding his blankets. He’d finally lain down sometime
while it was still dark, after they’d spoken to King Owain, who’d
listened to all that Hywel had to say—and nodded.

King Owain had told his son, in essence,
that he should do what he must, adding, “Cadwaladr had to have
known from the start that if his attack wasn’t successful—if it was
beaten back or, as turned out to be the case, defeated
completely—his involvement would be discovered.”

And then he’d rolled over to face away from
them all and had finally taken the wine and poppy juice Gwen
offered him.

Gwen lay sprawled on her back, fast asleep.
He hated to wake her, but they had too much to do to sleep past the
dawn. He put a hand to her shoulder, and she started up, her hand
to her heart.

He leaned away to give her room.
“Sorry.”

“No. That’s all right. I’m sorry.” She
shivered. “I had a hard time staying asleep, and my dreams were
full of blood.”

Now he really was sorry to have woken her.
Giving in to impulse and what he really wanted, he scooped her into
the curve of his body, and they lay back down together. “We will
bury Rhun today, and then you will go home.”

“And you will ride to Cadwaladr’s seat in
Merionnydd,” Gwen said.

“If he were to dare to return to Wales,
Cadwaladr cannot be allowed to think he has a refuge there,” Gareth
said.

“King Owain is still too ill to travel,”
Gwen said.

“We will leave him at Denbigh, where he can
be cared for in comfort until he is well enough to ride to
Aber.”

“What of Mold Castle?” Gwen said.

“We will keep it, of course, if Ranulf
adheres to the agreement we made with him.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Gareth’s hands fisted for a moment, and then
he forced himself to relax. “Mold Castle will still be there in the
spring.”

“What will become of Cadwaladr’s family?”
Gwen said.

Gareth gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Are
you concerned that in Hywel’s grief and rage he will harm Alice and
the children?”

“No, not that, never that,” Gwen said.
“Hywel proved himself capable of moderation in Ceredigion. I meant
merely to ask if he’ll bring them to Aber or send them to her
family in England.”

Gareth was silent. That was a question for
which he didn’t have an answer. He wanted to know the answer
because it was a good question. Though maybe not their most
pressing problem right now.

“It would be better if her children weren’t
raised to hate King Owain,” Gwen added. “The last thing Gwynedd
needs is for Cadwaladr’s treachery to be passed to the next
generation.”

“One might ask what role Alice played in
Cadwaladr’s schemes,” Gareth said.

“None,” Gwen said.

“You’re very sure.”

“Alice is intelligent and practical—far more
so than her husband,” Gwen said. “Her concern is for her sons’
inheritance. She would never have encouraged Cadwaladr in this plot
because she would have known that the penalty for failure was too
high. I would be more concerned about Cristina’s role in
Cadwaladr’s plot than Alice’s.”

Gareth pushed up on one elbow so he could
look into his wife’s face. “Why do you say that?”

“Lord Goronwy’s behavior was strange leading
up to yesterday. I know he rode to King Owain the moment he heard
the news of Rhun’s death and was properly regretful and
supportive,” Gwen said. “I’m not saying he had a hand in
Cadwaladr’s scheming with Ranulf, but I wonder if he didn’t know
something. Neither Lord Goronwy nor Cristina would ever have
colluded with Cadwaladr in a plan to overthrow King Owain, but what
if Cadwaladr presented his plan as a means to clear the path for
the elevation of Cristina’s sons—”

“Cristina would have been fully supportive
of it.” Gareth’s innards churned at the thought.

Cristina had already shown herself to be
very vocal in her desire to have her two legitimate sons recognized
as King Owain’s heirs—above the claims of Rhun, Hywel, Cynan, and
Madoc—and even above King Owain’s other legitimate sons he’d
fathered with his first wife, Gladwys.

“Can I ask—?” Gwen hesitated.

Gareth kissed her temple. “There is nothing
you can’t ask me.” Though even as he spoke, he hoped she wasn’t
going to ask about the battle and his role in it. He had done what
needed doing, and it was best not to say any more about it than
that.

He also hoped she wasn’t going to chastise
herself further for not going after Cadwaladr. The treacherous
prince was bigger, stronger, and missing his soul. She would only
have given Cadwaladr the chance to harm her.

“Will you bring Llelo and Dai with you when
you ride to Merionnydd?” she said.

Gareth gave an inward sigh of relief. This
he was happy to talk about. “You can’t keep them beside you,
cariad
. Cynan is their lord now, and if he is riding for
Merionnydd, as I know he will in support of Hywel, than they will
ride too. We were lucky yesterday that they were with Cynan instead
of Rhun. Take comfort that God watched over them then, and that he
will continue to do so.”

Gwen put her face into Gareth’s chest. “I
can’t bear any more death.”

Gareth rubbed her back. “I know. I don’t
ever want to feel this way again either.”

* * * * *

Funerals were for the living, Hywel had once
told him, but this funeral was for the dead, to get them into the
ground as quickly as possible so everyone could get off this hill
and begin the real work of rebuilding Gwynedd. Uninjured soldiers
and villagers had started digging the communal grave before dawn,
and every villager and herdsman within five miles who could get
there had come. King Owain managed to stay on his feet for most of
the ceremony, but near the end, he collapsed into Hywel’s arms in
his illness and his grief.

Father Alun had consecrated the newly
established graveyard, in the center of what had once been the
camp, for the burial of the men who’d died defending Rhun. The dead
among Cadwaladr’s men, along with Ranulf’s fallen, had already been
buried in a separate grave—also consecrated at Father Alun’s
insistence—beside the road to Chester.

Though King Owain’s preference would have
been to bring Prince Rhun home to Aber Castle and bury him there,
it was too far to travel with the body, and he himself was too ill
to attend to it. Hywel had insisted that Rhun would have preferred
to be buried with his men, and so it had been done.

Gwen had sobbed uncontrollably in Gareth’s
arms earlier, but once the funeral started, she’d become still and
silent. The tears refused to flow at all for Gareth, even though he
would have liked the relief of them. He felt hollowed out, and
while he hadn’t been able to eat anything since Rhun’s death, Gwen
had lost her breakfast on the ground shortly after eating it.
Gareth had felt her forehead, fearing she was coming down with the
same sickness that had felled King Owain, but she wasn’t hot. Gwen
had told him it was just her emotions overwhelming her and churning
her stomach.