The Renegade Merchant (10 page)

Maybe Ranulf really had all but abandoned
Mold to Hywel. Maybe they could have walked right into the castle
without any bloodshed at all. Hywel hadn’t wanted to risk that,
however, and neither had any of his brothers. Hywel hadn’t even
shown a flag of peace that would have offered terms to the
castellan of Mold. They’d come too far and suffered too much since
Rhun’s death to be satisfied with taking the castle without a
fight.

Rhun couldn’t be avenged today, and it
wasn’t the Earl of Chester who’d seen to his death, but ensuring
the fall of Mold Castle to an army from Gwynedd was as good a place
to start as any.

“I wish I was with Madoc!” Cadell was still
circling around Hywel, restless energy in every line of his
body.

He had begged earlier to be in the siege
engine, but Hywel had forbidden it. Hywel understood Cadell’s
excitement, just as he understood his need to be in the thick of
things. If they’d been fighting on an open field, both of them
would have been at the forefront of the cavalry, but sieges weren’t
the purview of a commander, and Hywel’s men would have been more
hindered than helped by his presence. They would have felt the need
to protect him. It was one of the many changes in his life since
Rhun’s death and his rise to the station of heir to the throne of
Gwynedd.

Thus, it was Hywel’s fate
as
edling
, and
Cadell’s as his squire, to let others do the fighting
today.

“This is the first real battle you’ve ever
been in,” Hywel said soothingly. “It is better to learn by watching
this one time. You have plenty of wars in your future.”

“You were younger than I am when you fought
in your first battle!” Cadell threw the words at his brother.

Hywel didn’t take offense. “We were fighting
for our lives in Ceredigion, Cadell. My aunt had just been hanged
from the battlements by the Normans. Any man who could walk was on
the field that day.”

“Rhun died—”

“He did, but not by Ranulf’s hand, and
Ranulf does not threaten Gwynedd today. This is a skirmish,” Hywel
said. “Perhaps I should have let you fight, to get your feet wet,
but I thought it would be foolish to risk you in such a little
war.”

Cadell subsided, perhaps slightly mollified.
Hywel wished he could see better what was happening, and he stood
in his stirrups, both hands shielding his eyes.

Then, without further ado, the front gate
collapsed in on itself and, with a roar, Madoc’s company surged
forward, past their siege engine and into the castle. Up until now,
the archers had been aiming over their heads so the arrows would
fall inside the castle. Hywel released a piercing whistle, and the
firing ceased.

That was also the signal for the waiting
cavalry to break cover. They charged up the road, anxious to
support the brave souls who’d broken through the gate. The spearmen
who’d been resting in front of the archers surged to their feet too
and ran straight for the castle entrance. Not a single arrow came
from Mold’s battlement. Perhaps Ranulf really didn’t have anyone
able to fire one.

Hywel let them all go before urging Glew,
his horse, into a trot, Cadell at his side. The younger man’s brown
hair was mussed, and he’d taken off his helmet somewhere along the
way. At this point, Hywel didn’t think it mattered what Cadell
wore. Neither of them was even going to have to use their
swords.

“Should I send word of the victory to the
king?” Cadell said, looking around to see who was available to
send. All of Owain’s sons had reverted to formality when referring
to their father these days. He had made himself
unapproachable—even—and maybe especially—to Hywel, as if it was
somehow Hywel’s fault that Rhun had died.

Hywel blamed himself for Rhun’s death, it
was true. He should have been the one to ride after Cadwaladr that
day. But at the same time, Hywel knew within his heart that to
blame anyone other than Cadwaladr was to deny Rhun’s right to act
on his own behalf. Rhun had demanded the responsibility of hunting
down Cadwaladr. There had never been anything Hywel could have done
or said to dissuade him, and no amount of wishing was going to
change the past.

“Let’s make sure the castle is really ours,
first,” Hywel said, finding himself amused rather than annoyed by
his younger brother’s enthusiasm.

Another half-hour, and the standard of
Gwynedd waved from the top of the keep, proclaiming that Mold
Castle had been taken in a single day—in a single hour—by the
forces of King Owain. Hywel told himself to remember this day, to
remind his future self what could be achieved with enough time and
planning.

It had taken four months to reach this
moment: four months of heartache, grief, and rage, such that often
Hywel didn’t know where one emotion ended and another began.

He did know, however, even as he rode
through the demolished front gate, that he’d been lucky. Only a few
weeks ago, on the last day of February, Prince Henry, the son of
Empress Maud and the rival to the throne of England, had landed a
thousand men on England’s east coast. Naturally, King Stephen had
marshalled an army to counter the young prince’s force.

Once Earl Ranulf’s spies had reported the
landing, Ranulf had taken Stephen’s occupation with Henry as an
opportunity to march an army of his own across England to besiege
Lincoln Castle, which King Stephen had taken from him earlier in
the war, back when Ranulf was playing both sides against the
middle.

Hywel had lost track of how many times
Ranulf had shifted his support from Maud to Stephen and back again
in the last ten years. Now, however, Ranulf had forsworn all
allegiance to any side but his own. If Earl Robert, Empress Maud’s
general and half-brother, hadn’t been weakened by illness, Ranulf
might have found himself fighting both Stephen’s forces and Maud’s
at the same time. As it was, both sides appeared to have decided to
treat him like a particularly annoying gnat, to be swatted at but
not squashed.

Not yet, anyway.

In turn, Hywel, who’d simply been waiting to
attack Mold until the ending of the peace between Gwynedd and
Chester, had force-marched his own men across Gwynedd. They’d
crossed the Clwyd Mountains yesterday, learned that many of the
castle’s defenders had been called away east, and decided not to
wait another day to take the castle. Because they weren’t quite at
the end of the four-month peace period, Hywel hadn’t notified Lord
Morgan of his presence—though surely he knew of it by now—and the
only men in his company were those he’d brought from Aber. It
seemed somehow fitting, since it was their hearts that had been
broken.

They’d assembled the siege engine, the
pieces of which they’d hauled from Denbigh in carts, and begun the
assault, knowing that this evening’s descending sun would be
shining in the defenders’ eyes.

And, at last, he had a victory to share with
his father.

Cynan came forward to hold the horse’s
bridle while Hywel dismounted in the courtyard of the castle.
Cynan’s younger brother, Madoc, was there too. The two brothers
were built similarly—squat and muscular—but with opposite coloring,
Cynan being light to Madoc’s dark.

Once Hywel was on the ground, Cynan tipped
his head to indicate the English soldiers, who were all that was
left of the garrison, standing off to one side. “What should we do
with them, brother?”

“Strip them of their gear and send them home
to Chester on foot,” Hywel said, without even stopping to think
about his answer. He’d taken the castle, which was what he’d wanted
and needed. Killing men who’d surrendered was unnecessary in this
instance.

In addition, Ranulf had left only twenty men
behind to garrison Mold. The eight who’d fallen were just the
latest casualties in the ongoing war. If Hywel guessed right, from
the look of the dozen men before him, Ranulf had left these few
here because they were his least competent soldiers—the oldest and
the youngest, the unfit for duty or the drunk. None of the men were
worth ransoming, and they would cost Hywel more to feed than they’d
be worth in ransom, even if Ranulf would consider it.

“What are our losses?” Hywel asked
Cynan.

“Four, my lord.” Cynan couldn’t keep the
grin off his face. “Four. Bards will sing of this day for
generations to come.”

Hywel smiled too. “I will sing of it
myself.”

But then Cynan’s brow furrowed, and he
lowered his voice. “There is one thing, Hywel. I am loath to mar
our victory, but Madoc found something in the castellan’s quarters
I think you should see.”

“No gold, I assume,” Hywel said.

Cynan shook his head. “We didn’t expect it.
Ranulf stripped Mold of everything valuable before he took his men
east. No, it isn’t that.” He still hesitated, whatever was
bothering him held on the tip of his tongue.

Hywel knew his brother better than he had
four months ago. For the whole of Hywel’s life, he and Rhun had
been natural allies. While they’d been different in some ways as
two brothers could be, they had also been born two years apart to
the same mother. They’d been blood brothers in fact and life, and
for Hywel the loss of Rhun had affected him as if he’d cut off his
right hand and left it on the ground at the ambush site.

These other brothers—Cynan, Madoc, and
Cadell—though relatively close in age to Hywel, hadn’t been part of
his life until recently. He was far closer to his foster
brothers—seven of them—the sons of his foster father, Cadifor. Some
of them were also here, called to Hywel’s side since Rhun’s death.
Initially, Hywel had sent for them because he couldn’t bear to let
any brother out of his sight, and then afterwards, he’d used them
with intent.

Hywel, who had spent his life sniffing out
intrigue among his father’s enemies could smell it now among his
allies. They saw weakness in the king, and even if King Owain had
loosened hold on his mind and the reins of Gwynedd, Hywel himself
was by no means willing to let go.

Hywel and Cynan had ridden together to oust
their uncle from his lands in Meirionnydd, and then—unable to bear
the silence at Aber—Hywel had ridden south to Ceredigion to see
Mari and his children and to bring them north with him when he
returned, installing them at Rhun’s former castle of Dolwyddelan.
Throughout, Cynan had never left his side.

He wasn’t Rhun, but he was doing his level
best to be the brother Hywel needed. Despite Hywel’s grief and an
underlying resentment of anyone who tried to fill Rhun’s shoes,
Hywel was grateful.

Hywel himself was trying to do the same
thing for his father, and he knew that he too was failing.

“Spit it out, Cynan.”

“It is a letter from the Sheriff of
Shrewsbury to King Stephen.” Madoc stepped forward from where he’d
been talking to Cadifor. “Ranulf appears to have intercepted it—and
very recently. It’s dated this month.”

Hywel held out a hand to take the paper
Madoc presented, even as the grave expressions on all three of the
men who faced him had him feeling very wary. He looked down at the
paper. To his dismay, his eyes swam with tears. He blinked them
back. Hywel didn’t know if Madoc saw his distress, but he continued
to speak, telling Hywel what was in the letter so he didn’t have to
read it.

“It says that Cadwaladr was seen in the
vicinity of Shrewsbury on St. Dafydd’s Day, though the sheriff
calls it the first of March. He describes in detail the events of
last November and asks for guidance as to how he should proceed,
since he doesn’t know if the king intends to shelter Cadwaladr or
return him to Gwynedd for justice.”

Hywel’s eyes had cleared as Madoc had been
talking, and he was able to read the words for himself. Hywel’s
comprehension of written English wasn’t good, but this had been
written in Latin.

He looked up. “How far is it to Shrewsbury
from here?”

“Fifty miles by road,” Cynan said. “But
surely you’re not thinking of going? The men are tired.”

“The men may be tired, and deservedly so.
But I am not—and I shouldn’t take an army into England anyway,”
Hywel said, making an instant decision. “You and Madoc need to stay
and consolidate our victory. I will ride with Cadell and a handful
of men. We can make better time that way.”

His brothers now looked so concernedly at
Hywel, it was almost comical. Hywel tried to suppress his smile at
the sight.

Then Cadifor stepped forward. “My lord, I
offer my services.”

Now Hywel smirked, whatever anxiety he’d
felt earlier at the mention of Cadwaladr completely dissipated at
the sight of his foster father’s craggy but earnest face. “I accept
your offer—but not from anyone else.” He looked with fondness at
his family, warmth overtaking the anger for once. It was such a
foreign emotion that he almost didn’t recognize it for the love it
was. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll bring ten men, including Evan and
Gruffydd, just in case. Besides, Gareth is in Shrewsbury, remember?
He knows how to keep me in line.”

Cynan’s expression actually cleared a little
at the reminder, and now Hywel really did laugh out loud. They
trusted Gareth more than they did him, as well they might. His
brothers had probably spent some time every day during the last
four months on their knees, thanking God that Hywel hadn’t yet
behaved rashly in his desire to bring his uncle to justice.

As much as Hywel would have liked to have
done exactly that, his family was wrong in thinking that he
couldn’t contain his anger. He was a realist, and he knew that he
was hampered by two inconvenient truths. The first was that he
didn’t know exactly where his uncle was and was having difficulty
finding out. Cadwaladr didn’t appear to be anywhere in Wales;
Hywel’s Danish spy, Erik, had found no sign of him so far in Dublin
or Ireland; and Hywel’s spy network in the March and England was
sadly deficient.