The Worthy Soldier Read online

  Iago arrived beside Aron. “I can’t believe they don’t know we’re here.”

  “I guess we’re just that good,” Aron said.

  Evan ignored him and spoke to Iago. “The barracks?”

  Iago lifted one shoulder. “I barred the front door after I threw a burning taper inside. They’ll notice it soon and come out the windows, which I could do nothing about.”

  “I say we get to the motte before the alarm is raised,” Aron said. “It can’t be much longer now.”

  Evan glanced again towards Gruffydd. Through the open gate, he could make out the figures of moving men, the first of whom had almost reached the castle.

  “We were told to wait,” Iago said.

  Aron scoffed. “Did it make sense to you as to why?”

  Iago’s eyes narrowed. “No. And not to Prince Hywel either, though he didn’t argue.”

  Aron started up the steps. “It’s better to die on the stage than to live your life in the wings. Isn’t that what Prince Hywel says?”

  “Personally, I’d rather not die at all,” Evan said under his breath, but he appreciated Aron’s point and went up the stairs after him.

  Iago took the steps three at a time. Even though he was a large man, he was puffing less than Evan by the time they reached the top. A last few steps took them up to the narrow doorway that was the only entrance to the three-story keep. Nobody guarded the outside, unsurprising given the lack of porch and the pouring rain.

  Inside would be an anteroom with at least one guard on duty at all times. Beyond would be the great hall, such as it was—this was not a big keep—with the apartments for the lord on the floor above. Storage and armaments would be at ground level, but accessible only from the inside through a trap door and ladder. Finally, there would be a guardroom at the top for household guards.

  It was only as the Dragons hesitated by the door that a defender on the top of the keep finally realized Wiston Castle was under attack. A bell clanged from above them, followed by a shout, which was immediately cut off. A moment later, a body hit the ground not far from the top of the steps, yet another of Cadoc’s three-foot arrows protruding from the dead man’s torso.

  Iago hastened back down the stairs and dragged the body around the corner to the back of the keep to leave it in the shadows of the palisade. They didn’t want it to be lying near the steps when whoever was guarding the front door to the keep opened it at their knock.

  If he opened it.

  He couldn’t have missed the ringing of the bell, but the only way for him to know how much of the fort had been breached—or even if they were really under attack—was to open that door.

  Aron knocked.

  “Wie gaat daar?”

  Evan prodded Aron and said in a harsh whisper, “Answer him!”

  Aron shrugged. “Edward.”

  “Ja.”

  The door opened, and for the third time that night, one of Walter FitzWizo’s men died from a knife to the chest.

  “Stop!” The call came from behind them, at the bottom of the stairs, and the three Dragons turned, even Aron, who had wedged himself into the doorway with the body. A company of twenty men had surged through the lower gate and were heading up the steps towards the keep.

  Evan frowned, but the three men from Gwynedd stepped back anyway, unwilling to openly disobey what was clearly a direct order. The man in the lead, the gray-haired Sir Robert, didn’t deign to comment as he went by, just shot Evan a scornful look. Evan also recognized the man who followed right behind Robert. Alban was of an age with Evan, and the two men had known each other well many years ago. He was also the second-in-command of King Cadell’s personal guard.

  Alban’s men charged through the doorway one at a time, though not before two of them pulled the body of the man Evan had killed out of the doorway and dropped him on the ground. Meanwhile, Alban put his nose right in Evan’s face. “You were told to leave the keep to us!”

  Evan couldn’t deny it, but he wasn’t willing to go down before Alban that easily. Evan was a knight now, same as Alban, and the order made as little sense in this moment as it had when it had been given. “You weren’t here, and if we hadn’t convinced the guard to open the door just as the alarm was raised, you wouldn’t be entering the keep now.”

  Alban swept his gaze over Aron and Iago, both of whom gazed steadily back at him. Evan could hear shouts and fighting inside the keep. The twenty men Sir Robert had led inside were more than FitzWizo had left behind, and the remnant of the garrison at Wiston had been completely unprepared for attack.

  Then Alban surprised Evan by bobbing his head. “No harm done.” He clapped his hand on Evan’s shoulder. “You did what you came here to do. You have the thanks of the men of Deheubarth, but you should find Prince Hywel now. Last I saw, he was on the wall-walk above the main gatehouse.”

  It was a dismissal, made all the clearer when Alban entered the keep after his men and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Two

  Dinefwr Castle

  June 1147

  Gwen

  Two weeks later …

  The festivities were in full swing, and Gwen wished again that she hadn’t come. Absurdly, she’d done this to herself, since she could have stayed at Aberystwyth with Mari and the children. But the look of utter panic on Hywel’s face at the prospect of facing Angharad, Rhun’s former betrothed, whom he would no longer be able to avoid, had softened her heart.

  He’d looked imploring for only a heartbeat before clearing his face of all expression, but Gwen had seen his dismay. Probably his hasty rearrangement of his features had been calculated. She and the prince had known each other since they were children, and he knew exactly how to get her to do what he wanted.

  “Gwen! You came!” Angharad spoke from behind her.

  Gwen turned, holding out her hands to the girl. Since this was what she’d come here for, it was best to get the condolences over with. “I wouldn’t have missed the celebration of such a victory—nor the opportunity to see you.”

  Angharad’s expression didn’t change, but a shadow entered her eyes, and she lowered her voice. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know how you must have dreaded this trip.”

  Gwen squeezed Angharad’s hands, feeling bad now for her reluctance and fear. She should have known better. Out of all the girls in Wales, Rhun had chosen Angharad for a reason. “Then tell me the truth too. How are you?”

  Angharad was all that a young noblewoman was supposed to be: dark-haired, only a year or two past twenty, with striking blue eyes. For her beauty alone, the girl should have been married long since, even before she met Prince Rhun. The fact that she wasn’t married still, six months after Rhun’s death, was an indication of the mettle behind her sweet exterior—and surely one of the many attributes that had drawn Rhun to her.

  At Gwen’s question, Angharad smiled sadly, not pretending to misunderstand. “Sad. As we all are. I’ve spoken already to Prince Hywel, though I have no doubt he would have preferred a night spent cleaning the latrines to speaking to me.”

  “His grief remains fresh,” Gwen said, “though he has become more able to smile and put his anger aside for short periods of time.”

  “I remind him of what he’s lost.” Again, she smiled that sweet smile that had men all around the room turning towards her. “Someday, I hope reminders will be a cause for gladness, not grief.”

  “We can all hope for that,” Gwen said, liking Angharad more and more. It was a rare woman of the court who spoke so straightforwardly. All of a sudden, Gwen was no longer fretting about the fifty miles home, or thinking to beg Gareth to take her back to Tangwen sooner rather than later.

  “And you?” Angharad said. “I understand you are with child again.”

  Gwen ran her hand down her somewhat more rounded belly, though she was still not showing so much that she thought everyone could tell just by looking at her. “Did someone say I shouldn’t be here?” A two-day journey in good weather wasn�
�t yet beyond Gwen’s capability, but she was in the middle stage of her pregnancy, due in the autumn, and people liked to criticize, thinking they knew what was best for everyone else. Most of the time Gwen ignored gossip, but as the wife of the captain of Prince Hywel’s guard, she was often the object of discussion.

  Angharad laughed. “Of course not. You are much admired. The only words I’ve heard have been pleased ones.” But then she drew Gwen’s attention to a woman sitting on a bench behind them. She had a long cane, almost a staff, resting against her shoulder, and she stared straight ahead, unseeing. “This is the woman I told you about, Old Nan.”

  The woman turned her head in Gwen’s direction, though her eyes were focused on something far away. “Ah, the woman who solves murders.”

  Gwen’s eyes widened. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I can’t hear.” The woman cackled. “My hearing is better than my sight ever was.”

  Gwen didn’t know how to respond to that. I’m sorry just didn’t seem appropriate. So instead she moved a few steps closer and bobbed a curtsy, even though Old Nan couldn’t see that either. “I would never assume any such thing.”

  “I see you’re enjoying yourselves.”

  Gwen turned to find herself facing yet another member of King Cadell’s court, his younger half-brother, Rhys ap Gruffydd. The young man was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and fifteen years old last week, the same as Gwen’s Llelo. And like Llelo, he looked as if he’d grown another inch since they were introduced an hour ago. His intelligence was also a palpable force in the room.

  At their initial introduction, he’d given her a succinct summary of the state of political allegiances throughout Deheubarth and the March—after which he’d pumped her for information about Gwynedd. If the conversation had taken place with one of Cadell’s courtiers or his steward, she would have thought Rhys’s questions were to gain an advantage or for some nefarious purpose. But that wasn’t Rhys. As she’d talked, he’d gazed at her with an intensity that indicated he was absorbing every word, storing each one to be taken out and examined later. He’d asked her because he’d wanted to know.

  “I suppose we are,” Angharad said.

  Rhys grinned. “I can’t say the same for some. We just killed three of FitzWizo’s men on the road to Dinefwr.”

  Angharad didn’t see the humor. “The war never ends.” The pair apparently knew each other well, which made sense since they were both living at Dinefwr, though they weren’t blood relations. Angharad was Cadell’s niece through his dead wife. “I have been thinking that your brother’s smile, and the celebration in general, seems forced. Maybe now I know why.”

  “He’s my half-brother, and that’s not the only reason,” Rhys said.

  At Rhys’s arrival, Old Nan had pushed to her feet and departed, tapping her cane in front of her, so Gwen turned to face Rhys more fully. He sounded a bit like he was lording it over Angharad, but Angharad didn’t take offense, instead smiling back. Gwen realized Angharad and Rhys were friends, this was an old dance between the two of them—and Rhys didn’t much like his elder half-brother.

  “I would love to know what is troubling everyone. I’ve felt it too,” Gwen said.

  Rhys pointed to where Gareth’s friend, Evan, was standing with a well-dressed man, both eyeing a seated man-at-arms whose chin was sticking out in a way that didn’t bode well for the peacefulness of the party. “Many of the knights and men-at-arms here, even if they are from other kingdoms, trained together at one time or another, those three included. Didn’t you know?”

  “I suppose I knew Evan had grown up at Dinefwr,” Gwen said, “but even if I thought about it, I wouldn’t have considered it a problem. Are you saying there’s bad blood among them?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Rhys said.

  Angharad eyed the young prince. “Aren’t you going to tell us where the bad blood comes from?” She gestured to the three men. “Evan looks as confused as I am.”

  Gwen raised her eyebrows at the familiar way Angharad referred to Gareth’s closest friend, but she chose not to tease her about it because Evan had put down his cup of mead and moved into a more ready stance. “It looks to me like he’s starting to figure it out.” She stood on her tiptoes, searching the crowd for Gareth. As a leader of men, he was used to heading off trouble before it started.

  But before she could find him, the third man rose to his feet and stalked towards Evan and his companion, whose name Gwen didn’t know. If the stalking man’s glare had been a sword, both Evan and the man beside him would have been skewered through the heart, though it seemed most of the oncoming man’s attention was directed at Evan’s companion.

  “This isn’t good.” Gwen grasped Rhys’s arm. “Do you know those other two?”

  “The man with your friend is Barri. I haven’t seen him since I was a very young. He serves Maurice Fitzgerald. The other man is Meicol, a member of the garrison here at Dinefwr.” Black-haired, with a pock-marked face and a nose that looked like it had been broken several times, Meicol’s visage wasn’t appealing, in contrast to Barri, who appeared far less menacing with his unremarkable brown eyes, a brown beard, and longish brown hair pulled back into a tail. He was well-muscled, as befitted a man-at-arms in a lord’s retinue, and like Meicol, of medium height.

  Gwen glanced at Rhys and then at Angharad. Neither’s expression implied admiration of Meicol. “You don’t like him?”

  “He’s a drunkard,” Rhys gestured to him, “as you can see.”

  Angharad bit her lip. “And a bit of a bully. He isn’t popular among the men, that’s for certain.”

  “He’s both drunk and unhappy today,” Gwen said.

  “It is my understanding that until this month, the last time many of these men were together was during the last war—though not all fought on our side.” Rhys didn’t need to elaborate on what war he meant. He’d been only four years old when the 1136 war began. At the end of it, both his parents, Gruffydd, the King of Deheubarth, and Gwenllian, sister to King Owain, were dead. It had been Gwenllian’s death, in fact, that had spurred the Welsh forces into allying in the first place. That alliance between Gwynedd and Deheubarth had subsequently become strained when King Owain had claimed Ceredigion for himself, putting it under the authority of Gwynedd, rather than giving it back to Deheubarth.

  With the loss of their father, Rhys’s eldest half-brother, Anarawd, had taken the reins of Deheubarth. Then, after his murder, Cadell had ascended the throne. Gwen herself knew far more than she really wanted to about the intrigue that had put them both there, none of which she would dream of mentioning to anyone, particularly their younger half-brother.

  For his part, Cadell had no sons, and it was to this much younger half-brother that the future of Deheubarth might ultimately fall. Gwenllian had given Gruffydd four sons. The eldest two had fallen in the 1136 war, leaving two remaining: Maredudd and Rhys, who were seventeen and fifteen. If either one inherited the throne, it would make Deheubarth more connected to Gwynedd again, as the brothers were first cousins to Hywel. But whether the brothers themselves felt that connection would greatly depend on how the next few years went and how long the current alliance lasted. Gwen herself had never met Maredudd, who wasn’t even here: after the victory, he had returned to Pembroke, where he served as one of the Earl of Pembroke’s squires.

  And given that complicated history, perhaps it wasn’t surprising to find Rhys more thoughtful than most boys his age. His prodigious memory was certainly more than equal to the task of keeping names and faces straight.

  “They don’t seem to be reconciled, do they?” Angharad said under her breath. Evan, Meicol, and Barri by now were looking at each other with hostility, which changed to open violence a moment later when Meicol took a swing at Barri.

  Barri easily sidestepped the blow, so Meicol careened around to have another go. Before he could connect, however, Barri caught him by the shoulders and threw him to the floor.
Meicol fell onto his right shoulder with a thud that made Gwen’s own shoulder hurt. Grown men fighting like youths was always an ugly sight. She wanted to turn away, but like everyone else in the room, she was mesmerized by the scene before her. Meicol, grunting, pushed to his knees and then his feet. He stood there, weaving, but refusing to admit he was too drunk to continue fighting.

  “That’s enough, you two.” Evan caught Meicol’s arm before he could take another swing at Barri.

  “It isn’t nearly enough!” Meicol was in a rage and would have charged again towards Barri if Evan hadn’t been holding his arm. “Traitor! Thief!”

  “You should get out of here before you hurt yourself.” Barri had a hand on the hilt of his sword. “You never were much in a fight.”

  “Better than the treacherous bastard you have proved to be!” Meicol clenched his fists and tried to pull away from Evan. As he twisted, however, he ended up looking straight at Gwen, so she saw the look of puzzlement when it crossed his face. Then the puzzlement turned to surprise—and then to fear. Instead of swinging back around to punch Barri, he grasped Evan’s shirt, and he was a large enough man to force Evan to bend slightly forward. “Help me—”

  Meicol sagged to his knees, and then vomited onto the floor at Evan’s feet. Evan wasn’t able to twist entirely away, though he managed to avoid the worst of the spray. For his part, Meicol ended up on his hands and knees, his head hanging, and then he slumped onto his stomach on the floorboards.

  Barri gaped at Meicol, even as he twitched his dark green cloak out of the way so as not to mar the embroidered hem. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. It isn’t as if you hit him.” Evan pushed at Meicol’s shoulder, half turning him onto his right side. Then he slapped Meicol’s cheek, but the fallen man didn’t respond. “Get the healer!”

  Instead of obeying, Barri backed farther away, horror on his face. His mouth opened and closed like he was a landed fish. Ignoring Barri’s sputtering, Evan put a hand to Meicol’s neck, looking for a pulse. But then he shook his head and said simply, “Never mind. He’s dead.”