The Renegade Merchant (15 page)

As Prince Cadwaladr was Hywel’s uncle by
blood, and he had betrayed the family far too many times, Hywel
tended to give a man’s lineage less weight than his deeds in
assessing his worth. But he didn’t know this uncle well, and though
Powys and Gwynedd were currently at peace, it remained to be seen
whether animosity still festered below the surface in his uncle’s
heart.

On the whole, that seemed likely. Madog’s
family had hated Hywel’s for far too long to have that division
mended by one marriage, even if it was to Owain’s sister.

Dinas Bran had been the seat of the kings of
this region for as long as Wales had existed. Hywel pointed out the
ancient earthen ramparts, which encircled and protected the wooden
castle, to Cadell, who’d never been here before.

“Are you sure coming here was wise, my
lord?” Cadifor said. “We could have slept peacefully in a
thicket.”

“We could have. We probably should have. But
if Madog learned of our journey afterwards, he would be rightfully
angry that we hadn’t asked for his hospitality.” Hywel clicked his
teeth. “Rhun would have asked for hospitality.”

“Rhun wouldn’t have come on this journey at
all.”

His foster father spoke under his breath,
and though Hywel was sure he meant for him to hear, he didn’t call
Cadifor out for it. He wasn’t wrong, and they all knew it. But
Hywel was right about Rhun.

That was one of the hardest
things about trying to fill his brother’s shoes: behaving like him,
like an
edling
should, when he didn’t naturally think like him, and when his
instincts were always telling him to do something different. When
Rhun was alive, it had been far easier to let his elder brother be
the ambassador, to give the dignified response, while Hywel went
around the back and did what needed to be done.

Rhun had relied on him to
do exactly that. Hywel was struggling with how, now that he was
the
edling
, he was
going to do both.

The approach to the castle was impressive,
particularly by the light of the not quite full moon that shone
down upon them. The ramparts were arranged such that any rider to
the castle was required to ride along the full length of the
palisade to reach the gate located on the southeast side. Unlike at
Mold, it would be impossible to bring a siege engine to bear on
this gate, not unless the castle was already taken—in which case
using a siege engine would be pointless.

Not for the first time, Hywel wondered at
the Norman tendency to build castles on the flats and not the
heights. The Normans could build all the moats and walls they
chose, but nothing was ever going to change the fact that the high
ground was everything in war, and, nine times out of ten, the army
that held it was the victor in any battle. With their mountain
castles, the Welsh had held off first the Saxons and then the
Normans for nearly a thousand years. Then again, the Normans had
taken England and held it for nearly eighty years with their
castles built on flat lands.

Maybe they did know something Hywel
didn’t.

Despite the fewness of their numbers,
Hywel’s small company was obviously armed for war. Thus, Hywel made
sure, as they rode along the pathway, that the flag of Gwynedd was
clearly visible on its pike above his head, so the watchmen on the
palisade could see it.

Again, Cadifor urged his horse closer. It
was he who held the spear that showed Hywel’s banner. “What did I
say? Can you see the arrows trained at our backs?”

“I don’t need to see them to know they’re
there.” Hywel laughed low. “Be sure to announce us in a loud voice
long before we reach the gate. The last thing my father needs is a
letter from my uncle regretfully informing him of the loss of two
more of his sons.”

Cadifor nodded and,
straightening in the saddle, he lifted his chin so his voice would
carry. “It is Prince Hywel ap Owain,
edling
of Gwynedd, who seeks shelter
this night from his uncle, the great Madog, King of
Powys!”

It may have been that the guards thought the
riders coming towards them were messengers only because Cadifor’s
words elicited a flurry of activity on the palisade, indicating to
Hywel that they hadn’t been prepared to receive someone of his
stature. It couldn’t be that they hadn’t seen them. The giant
wooden gate swung open to admit his troop of ten, and Madog’s
steward, a man named Derfel, himself caught the bridle of Hywel’s
horse.

“My lord! We believed you to be at Aber.
What brings you here at this hour?”

Hywel allowed his voice to project
throughout the courtyard. “I was at Mold. We took it not five hours
ago. Gwynedd now stretches from Arfon to the Dee.”

“We are honored that you took it upon
yourself to bring us this news in person,” Derfel said, with
another bow.

Hywel dismounted, pleased
that Derfel was behaving in appropriately courteous manner. Hywel
had never stood on ceremony when he’d come here in the past, but he
hadn’t been the
edling
of Gwynedd then.

As to Derfel’s misunderstanding of the
reason for his journey, neither Cadifor nor Cadell contradicted
him. Cadifor had been advising kings since before Hywel was born
and knew when to keep his mouth shut, and for all that Cadell had
not known Rhun well, he had suffered with all of Gwynedd at Rhun’s
loss and then through the pursuit of Cadwaladr that followed. He’d
learned, as they all had, to hold his tongue when he was unsure of
another’s loyalty or intentions.

Because there was a painful truth behind the
courteous exterior: Derfel—and Madog—had every reason to distrust,
if not Hywel, then his father. Although Madog had married Hywel’s
Aunt Susanna, Powys and Gwynedd remained in an uneasy peace, in
large part because of instances such as Mold, where Gwynedd had
expanded its territory in one bold move.

It was Chester who’d lost land this day, but
Madog wouldn’t be wrong to think that it could be Powys tomorrow.
Hywel’s Uncle Cadwallon had died in 1132 right here in Llangollen,
fighting against his own kin at the behest of his father, King
Gruffydd, whose relentless pursuit of more land and power had been
legendary. Madog’s father had died that same year. While his death
could not be laid at Gwynedd’s feet, rumor had it that Madog
believed the long years of battle and betrayal by his kin had
shortened his father’s life.

Hywel knew this history like he knew the
shape of his own hand. He knew, too, that his father had a similar
thirst to spread the influence of Gwynedd across the whole of
Wales. In the past, it had been Rhun at the forefront of Gwynedd’s
military actions. But even as the second son, Hywel had fought in
many battles in the years since he’d become a man.

It had been Hywel, after
all, whom King Owain had sent to Ceredigion to eject Cadwaladr from
his lands. Now as the
edling,
Hywel had already fought in Meirionnydd and in
Mold. His father could decide to send him to Powys next, and Hywel
would obey as he always did.

The activity continued unabated in the
courtyard of the castle as Derfel attempted to quickly accommodate
ten new men and horses. Hywel handed his horse off to one of his
men, to be taken away and cared for in the stable, and Derfel led
Hywel, Cadifor, and Cadell towards the hall.

Unlike Mold Castle, the purpose of which was
to dominate its region of Gwynedd and to control the people who
lived there, Dinas Bran was a palace. Its purpose was to provide a
home to far more people than simply a garrison of twenty men. The
hall, adjacent living quarters, and kitchen occupied the northern
third of the courtyard, but within the palisade also lay a
barracks, huts for his uncle’s servants and craftsmen, a blacksmith
works, and a stable. Other than being at the top of a mountain,
Dinas Bran closely resembled Aber Castle or Aberffraw.

The night air wasn’t cold, but the light and
warmth coming from the open door into the hall was inviting, and
smoke rose from the hole in the center of the roof, indicating the
central hearth was blazing. Hywel could smell roasting meat, and
his stomach growled, reminding him that he’d consumed nothing but a
few bits of dried meat and a flask of water since leaving Mold.

“When was the last time you were here? Do
you know King Madog well?” Cadell said in an undertone as they
stepped through the doorway. Even at this late hour, the hall was
full of his uncle’s people. The meal had ended long ago, but people
remained behind, drinking and talking.

“I stopped here on my way home from
Newcastle-under-Lyme a few years ago. But I can’t say that I know
my uncle well, and certainly not well enough,” Hywel said.

Cadifor spoke from behind them. “I remind
you that he fought with your Uncle Cadwaladr at Lincoln on behalf
of Empress Maud five years ago and has Norman leanings.”

Hywel made a slight motion with his chin to
indicate he’d heard him. “We all need to be wary. Follow my lead,
Cadell.”

“Assuredly.” Cadell nodded his head
vigorously, causing Hywel to wonder again at the impulse to ride to
Shrewsbury with this least experienced of his brothers. Was it
really because he felt that Cynan and Madoc deserved the reward of
consolidating the hold on Mold, or was it because he didn’t want
their more experienced counsel?

But then, he had brought Cadifor, after all,
and his foster father had never been one to hold his tongue when he
didn’t approve of what Hywel was doing. Hywel glanced at the older
man, who drew abreast as they approached Madog’s seat.

“Your father regretted this marriage, you
know,” Cadifor said.

“I know. At the time, it wasn’t his place to
object,” Hywel said.

 “That didn’t seem to stop you in the
case of your sister,” Cadifor said.

Hywel almost gave himself away by hesitating
in mid-stride, but he managed to keep going and skirted the central
hearth. “The match between Susanna and Madog was intended to
improve relations with Powys.”

Hywel didn’t see how it was possible for
Cadifor to know about the role he’d played in disrupting his
sister’s marriage to the King of Deheubarth, but somehow he seemed
to. Or he’d been guessing, and Hywel had just given himself away.
Hywel would have laughed right then and there at his foster
father’s audacity in bringing up the issue in this moment, but
they’d reached the high table at the far end of the hall, and King
Madog had risen to his feet, requiring Hywel to make the necessary
obeisance.

“Uncle.”

“Nephew.”

Then Aunt Susanna left her seat and came
around the table to embrace him and speak in his ear, “I am so
sorry about Rhun.”

Hywel found himself squeezing his aunt
tightly. “Thank you.”

She was slender and blonde, much the same in
appearance as Hywel’s sister, Elen. Hywel thought Elen was happier,
however, having recently married a lord from Lleyn instead of the
king for whom she’d been originally intended. At one point, there
had been talk about marrying her to Cadell, the current King of
Deheubarth, but nothing had ever come of it.

Susanna released him and stepped back, a
small smile on her lips. “We are all proud of the man you’ve
become.”

Hywel felt himself undone. His aunt might be
the Queen of Powys, but she was a mother too, and understood his
heart almost as well as Hywel himself, whose own mother had died at
his birth.

Susanna patted his hand. “We’ll talk
later.”

Hywel returned his gaze to Madog. “Uncle, we
have taken Mold from Ranulf.”

Madog was a man of middle age and middle
stature, ten years older at least than his wife, with dark hair
shot with gray and shaved clean like a noble Norman. He had several
sons, though Hywel didn’t see any of his cousins in the hall
tonight.

Madog had a stare, too, that was hard both
to look at and to look away from. Not for the first time, Hywel
wondered how his aunt had made the best of a bad situation, and if
she loved her husband at all. He hoped, for her sake, that her
marriage was like that of many nobles, meaning a bit of both.

“I am honored that you would have ridden all
this way to tell me this,” Madog said.

“It seemed the proper thing to do, seeing as
how Gwynedd now occupies your northern border,” Hywel said, and
then hurried on because his choice of words hadn’t been the most
politic. “I assure you my father has no intention of bringing his
forces any farther south.”

“Today, anyway,” Madog said dryly.

Hywel didn’t try to deny it. “As you say. I
ask for your hospitality for tonight only. We will be off early
tomorrow.”

“Again, I thank you for bringing the news of
the fall of Mold to me in person,” Madog said, “but surely the news
could have been sent by a messenger?”

Hywel could have lied outright, but in the
end, chose not to. He wore Rhun’s shoes now, and his brother would
not have lied. “We journey south.”

A flash of irritation appeared in his
uncle’s eyes. “May I ask to what end?”

“Shrewsbury, my lord,” Hywel said, “on
business for my father.”

That
was
a lie, and Hywel mentally shrugged
off the admonition he heard in his head in Rhun’s voice, telling
himself he wasn’t going to fill his brother’s shoes
overnight.

His foster father stirred beside him,
recognizing as Hywel had, the animosity in Madog’s expression, but
then he settled back on his heels.

Hywel was careful to keep his hand away from
the hilt of his sword. He clasped his hands behind his back to make
sure they wouldn’t stray accidently in that direction and bowed
again. “Do we have your countenance, my lord?” He hoped that this
speedy conclusion to the audience wouldn’t make him appear rude,
but he didn’t think prolonging this conversation was going to end
well for anyone.