The Lost Brother (2 page)

It had been a month and a half since Gwen
had seen him, which even then had been for only a single night.
Hywel had tasked Gareth with bringing news of the war to Taran, the
steward at Aber. It had been a kindness on Hywel’s part, knowing
Gwen’s need to see her husband. As soon as she had a moment, Gwen
meant to thank him for sending Gareth when he had.

Evan had been right to warn her about
Gareth’s scruffiness. While six weeks ago he’d sported a full beard
and his brown hair had been long, he’d kept them trimmed and neat,
pulling his hair back and tying it at the base of his neck. Today,
his hair was newly shorn—badly done too, with uneven ends, making
it likely that one of Gareth’s companions had been tasked with it.
And he sported a three-days’ growth of beard that was bound to
scratch Gwen when he kissed her. Far worse, however, was the newly
healed scar across his right breast.

Gwen drank in the sight of him. She didn’t
care what he looked like. He was alive, and that was all that
mattered. He still hadn’t seen her, and even with him standing in
front of her, she wasn’t completely convinced that he was real.

Then she shook off her hesitation, picked up
her skirts, and ran forward. Gareth became aware of her a heartbeat
before she reached him and turned in time to catch her in his arms
as she barreled into him. She clutched him tightly around the neck,
and he embraced her fully, both of them heedless of the water
dripping from his hair, down his back and neck, and onto her.

Gareth’s arms circled her waist, he lifted
her off her feet, and she finally got to kiss him like she’d wanted
to for so long (she was right that his beard was scratchy).

When they broke apart, he said,
“
Cariad
. My love. What are you doing here?”

It was the same question Evan had asked, but
this time she ignored it. “You were hurt!”

“I’m fine.” Gareth threaded a hand through
the back of her hair as he held her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Gwen squeezed her eyes shut, finding tears
pricking at their corners. “I’ve missed you so much.” Her voice
broke.

“I’ve missed you too.” Gareth didn’t let go,
but he turned his head a little, trying to see into her face. “Are
you going to answer my question?”

Gwen still didn’t have the voice to
reply.

Gareth eased her back down to the ground.
When her toes touched the earth, he kissed her once more and then
gripped an upper arm in each hand so he could look fully into her
face. “Is something wrong?”

It was only then that Gwen became aware of
the fear in her husband’s eyes and hastened to dispel it. “No! No!
Nothing like that. Tangwen is well. Everything is fine at home. I
just needed to see you.”

Gwen had left their daughter, Tangwen, who
was nearly two, back at Aber Castle, fifty miles to the west. Gwen
hated being separated from her young daughter, but Tangwen couldn’t
visit the front, even to see her father. Tangwen’s new nanny, Abi,
whose own daughter had been born within a few months of Tangwen,
was capable and caring. Tangwen had a surrogate sister to play with
until Gwen came home, which she had promised to do just as soon as
she could.

Relief swept across Gareth’s face, a match
to what Gwen herself had felt when she’d finally seen the camp with
her own eyes.

“If that is the sole reason you are here,
you should not have come. It isn’t safe.”

That was exactly the reaction Gwen had been
expecting. She brushed a stray lock of brown hair out of her eyes.
No matter how she’d tried to preserve her attire for the ultimate
meeting with Gareth today, she still looked a sight: dusty, the hem
of her dress permanently stained with mud from the road, and her
hair falling out of its pinnings—as it always did no matter how
tightly she braided it or how carefully she wound it up at the back
of her head. Hywel’s wife, Mari, had perfect hair that could remain
unmussed even in a windstorm.

Gwen had known there was an even chance her
husband would take one look at her and send her away
immediately—and it would have had nothing to do with what she
looked like. She’d entered a war zone, and he didn’t like it. Gwen
didn’t want to upset him, and she would leave if he ordered her to,
but at the very least, she was touching him for the first time in a
month and a half.

“I was safe enough on the journey.” Gwen’s
tears had subsided, though traces of them remained on her cheeks.
“I brought a packet of letters and messages for King Owain that
Taran received at Aber, and—” she had to gesture with one shoulder
to the men behind her since Gareth still held both of her arms, “—I
brought some friends.”

Gareth’s eyes had been only for Gwen. He
hadn’t even acknowledged Evan, so Gwen was delighted to see his jaw
drop when he finally looked past her to the activity that was
ongoing nearer the camp’s entrance where she’d come in.

At that moment, Prince Godfrid spied Gareth
too. His face split by a wide smile, he strode through the camp
towards him. Gareth moved forward too, and since his arm was still
around Gwen’s waist, she came with him. Thus, when Godfrid reached
them, his choice was to take Gareth’s outstretched arm or to hug
them both.

Unusually, Godfrid settled for decorum. “How
is my favorite sleuth?”

“I am well,” Gareth said.

Gwen knew the word from previous visits with
the Dane.
Sleuth
was from the Norse and meant ‘tracker of
men’. Godfrid meant it entirely as a compliment.

Smiling too, Hywel had followed Godfrid.
“You got off easy. I should see the healer because I think he
cracked my ribs.”

“It is good to see you, my friend,” Godfrid
said.

Gareth and Godfrid grinned at each other,
their more subdued greeting no indication of how happy they were to
see one another.

Then a wary look came into Gareth’s eyes.
“I’m delighted as I always am when you have the opportunity to
visit Gwynedd, but if you’re here, it can’t be for a reason that
will please me.”

“I don’t know about that.” Godfrid laughed.
“My men were getting rusty. Every now and then, they need a good
fight to keep their wits sharp.”

Gareth snorted. “And—”

“And—” Godfrid’s friendly face became
completely transformed by a sudden sadness. “My father is dying. I
need to discuss with your king what will happen to Dublin when he
does.”

Gareth

“I
am very sorry to
hear that, Godfrid,” Gareth said.

Godfrid looked down at his feet for a
moment, and then back up to Gareth’s face. “You remember my elder
brother, Brodar?” At Gareth’s nod, Godfrid continued, “He and I
have abided by my father’s wish not to challenge Ottar’s rule. My
father fears we will lose. I intend to see to it that we win.”

This conversation wasn’t one that should be
held out in the open with Gareth half-undressed, but Godfrid’s
intensity was such that Gareth didn’t want to suggest they move
before at least giving him some assurances. Unfortunately, he had
none to give.

Nor did Hywel. “This war with Ranulf has
become far more widespread than my father hoped it would when we
first came east. We have lost many men in the fighting.”

“I know,” Godfrid said. “I am not
suggesting—nor would I ever suggest—a direct exchange. We will join
your side no matter what King Owain promises. In truth, with only
twenty men, I offer him far fewer men than I hope he will offer me
when the time comes.”

“Still, for the immediate future, King Owain
will owe you,” Gareth said.

A mischievous look came into Godfrid’s eyes.
“Far better than the other way around.”

Gwen patted the big Dane’s upper arm. “I,
for one, am very happy to know that you will be fighting alongside
my husband.”

Gareth gave his wife’s waist a squeeze and
tipped his head to Godfrid. “I’m disturbed you allowed her to come
with you.”

“Allowed?” Godfrid said in mock surprise. “I
am quite certain that my permission was neither asked for nor
given.”

“I told Taran I was going, whether he wanted
me to or not,” Gwen said. “And I was safe on the road, as it turned
out.”

Gareth felt a growl forming in his throat at
Gwen’s willfulness. “Gwen—”

She threaded her fingers through his. “I was
as safe as I could be in Godfrid’s company, and Taran did have
several letters that needed to be delivered to King Owain. Taran
decided that he wouldn’t test my obedience by denying my request,
and I promised not to challenge his authority, or yours for that
matter, by doing anything foolish. Now that I have seen you, I can
turn for home again—tonight if you wish.”

“Perhaps not tonight, but I cannot promise
you more than a day or two with Gareth.” Hywel lowered his voice.
“The siege of Mold will begin soon. I would not have you here when
we move the men forward.”

“One day is more than I’ve had in over a
month,” Gwen said. “I will take what I can get.”

“Besides, I’m sure my father would like to
speak to you about the goings-on at Aber, beyond the letters Taran
sent,” Hywel said. “Who wrote them, specifically?”

“King Cadell of Deheubarth has written to
King Owain several times,” Gwen said, “though typically he has
promised no aid. The king has also received a formal letter from
King Stephen of England, the seal to which Taran did not feel he
could break, but he assumes it is in regard to Chester’s action
against us. That is the real reason he needed someone to ride east
as soon as possible.”

Without further ado, Gwen reached into the
bag on her shoulder, removed the packet of letters destined for the
king, and handed them to Hywel.

Hywel glanced at them as he took them from
her and then slipped them into the long interior pocket of his
coat. These were hardly the first messages he’d carried to his
father, but the letter from King Stephen might be the most
important.

Gareth raised his eyebrows. A letter from
Stephen could be very good news for the Welsh cause if the English
king was in any way willing to give them aid against the Earl of
Chester.

Ranulf had a long and complicated history
with both King Stephen, the current occupant of the English throne,
and Empress Maud, his cousin and the challenger to it. While
Stephen was nephew to the former King Henry, Maud was his only
surviving legitimate child. But she was a woman. Upon the death of
King Henry, instead of supporting Maud’s claim, which had been
Henry’s wish, many barons had thrown their support behind Stephen’s
claim.

The dispute was—if it was anything—a family
one. Not only were Maud and Stephen cousins, but Ranulf was
son-in-law to King Henry’s bastard son, Robert, who was in turn
Maud’s half-brother, her chief supporter, and a very capable
general. That connection hadn’t tied Ranulf permanently to Maud,
however, and he’d switched sides at least three times in the
ongoing war between these royal cousins.

At the moment, having been imprisoned by
King Stephen for treason as late as August of this year, Ranulf
wasn’t supporting either side. He had retreated to Chester to lick
his wounds, to plan whatever new intrigue against King Stephen
appealed to him next, and to wage war on his closest Welsh
neighbor, King Owain Gwynedd.

If King Stephen assented to come into King
Owain’s dispute, the war could be over before Christmas. It all
depended upon what the letter said, and what King Owain would have
to promise King Stephen in return for his support.

“Why did Llywelyn not bring the letter to
the king himself?” Hywel said.

At the start of the war, King Owain had sent
Llywelyn to London to act as his emissary to the court of King
Stephen.

“He sent his servant on to Aber alone,” Gwen
said.

His expression a match to Hywel’s, Gareth
frowned down at Gwen. “That’s odd. Why would he do that?”

“The servant could only say that Llywelyn
appeared nervous and unsettled,” Gwen said. “The man hadn’t wanted
to leave his master, but Llywelyn ordered him to, and the servant
obeyed because he knew how important the letter was. When Llywelyn
put him on his horse and sent him away, he went. If you haven’t
seen Llywelyn, then nobody has heard from him since.”

Gareth looked over at Hywel. “This news
about Llywelyn is disturbing, my lord. It makes me wonder if
someone shouldn’t be sent to England to seek word of him.”

“Would that someone be you, Gareth? Tired of
my company already?” Hywel said.

Gareth made a sour face. “Of course not, my
lord. I may have words with Taran later about using Gwen as his
errand boy, but I can see why he thought Godfrid’s arrival seemed
the perfect opportunity, not only to see his letters delivered but
to get Gwen out of his hair.”

“Are you sorry I came?” Gwen said.

Gareth barked a laugh, not willing to
dignify that question with a response. He looked again at Hywel.
“May I accompany Gwen to see your father?” At Hywel’s nod, he added
to Gwen, “Let’s find something for me to put on that isn’t coated
with mud. If we are going to see the king, I should look my
best.”

“I brought you some clothes in my saddlebag,
perhaps better than what you have.” Gwen gestured to where her
horse had been picketed. One of the stable boys, who’d been brought
to the encampment from Aber, had watered him, and he was munching
happily from his feed bag. “I also have supplies for Prince
Rhun—and a letter to him from Angharad.”

Gareth pressed his lips together, trying to
hide his smile. Prince Rhun’s marriage prospects had been the
subject of much speculation over the years, but he had finally
settled upon Angharad as his choice. She was niece to the King of
Deheubarth, a fickle ally if ever there was one and the ruler of a
kingdom to which King Owain had been seeking closer ties for years.
King Owain had approved the match—partly out of relief that his son
had finally chosen a wife, but also because it was good
politics.