The Lost Brother (3 page)

King Cadell himself had no daughters, so
marriage to his niece was the best that could be hoped for. The
wedding would take place in the spring. Everybody was trying to
avoid thinking about the last time a marriage had been arranged
between Deheubarth and Gwynedd. In that instance, the wedding had
ended before it had begun: with a dead bridegroom and Cadell on the
throne of Deheubarth. They could only hope that the outcome of this
match would be better. Gareth didn’t see how it could be worse.

“Where is King Owain?” Gwen said as she and
Gareth detoured to her horse to pick up Gareth’s fresh clothes, and
then walked back towards his tent, leaving Hywel and Godfrid to
ready themselves in their own way for the short journey to King
Owain’s headquarters.

“He has taken over a nearby monastery,
recently abandoned, and refitted the buildings for his own use,”
Gareth said.

“This isn’t the convent where you learned to
read, is it?” Gwen said.

“No,” Gareth said. “That was located farther
to the south. Many holy sites have been destroyed or abandoned
since the war between Stephen and Maud began.”

“I didn’t realize the fighting between them
had affected monasteries all the way up here,” Gwen said.

“In itself, it hasn’t,” Gareth said, “but
lawlessness has taken hold in remote corners of Wales such as this.
Monks prefer to build as far away from lay settlements as they can,
but isolated lands are precisely the places where masterless men
can operate with near impunity. Gwynedd’s reach has rarely
stretched this far. King Owain’s father was on the verge of
conquering here when King Owain’s elder brother, Cadwallon, was
killed and, since that day, control over these roads and lands has
shifted back and forth between Ranulf and King Owain a dozen times.
Mostly, the people look to their local lords for guidance.”

“As they do most places,” Gwen said.

“True,” Gareth said, “but usually a shift
from one overlord to another doesn’t involve changing
countries.”

“And Ranulf hasn’t exactly been a good
steward.” Gwen nodded her understanding. “I feel sorry for the
monks, but sleeping safe in a monastery sounds like a much more
comfortable situation for King Owain than I expected. Cristina has
driven us all mad with her endless grousing about how he hasn’t
come home for three months. He might not wish to subject himself to
her nagging, but I wondered how he could stand sleeping on the
ground all this time.”

Gareth laughed. It felt good—genuine and
familiar—as it bubbled up in his chest. That Gwen walked beside
him, that she was
here
, even if she shouldn’t be, covered
the whole world in a rosy glow. “Though he would deny any
suggestion that he is slowing down, the king nears fifty years of
age. I, too, have been surprised that he hasn’t left more of this
war to his sons.”

“I do think it’s Cristina,” Gwen said
flatly. “Motherhood has made her shrewish.”

Gareth eyed his wife. “Has she directed her
bile at you?”

“Not often,” Gwen said.

Gwen’s words came out short, bitten off
even, and Gareth decided not to harp again on Gwen’s decision to
make this trip. It had been nearly a year since he’d spent more
than a few days at Aber Castle, so he couldn’t judge the state of
the queen’s mind. She had her two sons now, Dafydd and Rhodri, and
her devotion to them was fierce and uncompromising—perhaps to the
boys’ detriment.

Certainly, her protectiveness and her
constant defense of their birthright had kept most of the king’s
many other sons away from Aber, Hywel and Rhun among them. Even
with the loss of his possessions in the river, Rhun hadn’t made any
effort to leave the front in favor of a few days at home.

“Mari—” Gareth began.

“—never left Ceredigion. She chose to remain
in Aberystwyth until the birth of her child,” Gwen said.

It took two days of hard riding for a
message to travel from eastern Gwynedd, where the war was being
waged, to Aber Castle, west of the Conwy River. It would take many
more to reach Ceredigion. The atmosphere at Aber must be truly foul
if Mari would prefer to live so far away from where Hywel fought.
“Provided the passes remain open, after you leave here you should
collect Tangwen and ride to visit Mari,” Gareth said. “Since Hywel
cannot, you should be with her for the birth of the child.”

Gwen gave a small cry and threw her arms
around Gareth’s neck. “I don’t want to be so far from you, but if
my husband commands it, what can I do but obey?”

Gareth laughed again, pulling her tightly to
him, and then kissed her hard, forgetting for a moment their
surroundings and the many watching eyes.

“Time is a ’wasting,” Hywel said, coming up
behind them on his way to his own tent. His words were a rebuke,
but his tone was mild.

“Yes, my lord,” Gareth and Gwen said at the
same time, not without a giggle on Gwen’s part, and they hurried
into Gareth’s tent.

Hastily, Gareth stripped off his clothes.
Although he would have much preferred to wrap Gwen up with him in
the new thick black cloak she’d brought and lie down on his pallet
with her, they couldn’t keep Prince Hywel waiting. Instead, he
dressed in the clean items from Gwen’s pack. It was probably just
as well they’d hadn’t taken any time for themselves. As Gareth was
pulling on his shirt, Dai tossed back the tent flap and
entered.

“Mum!” The boy flung himself at Gwen, and
she hugged him back. His brother, Llelo, appeared in the doorway a
moment later. Taking in the scene, he approached more slowly, but
with as much joy, and hugged his mother too.

“My boys,” Gwen said.

Gareth could hear the tears that had formed
in Gwen’s throat at the presence of her two adopted sons. Gareth
and Gwen had rescued them from England after the loss of their
parents two and half years ago when the boys were ten and twelve.
Now old enough to wear the mantle of a knight’s sons, Llelo and Dai
were being fostered and taught by one of King Owain’s illegitimate
sons, Cynan.

The next oldest son after Rhun and Hywel,
Cynan was Hywel’s half-brother, a year younger than he. King Owain
had given Denbigh Castle to him and to his younger brothers, Madoc
and Cadell, as a base from which to protect eastern Gwynedd. On his
way back from Aber last month, Gareth had spent an evening with
Cadell, since he remained at Denbigh as its guardian while his
older brothers were fighting. Cadell chafed at his charge, viewing
it as a form of exile, but when he’d spoken to Gareth of the king’s
trust in him, Gareth had heard pride too, both for himself and for
his brothers.

In recent weeks, Cynan had been promoted to
captain of the king’s
teulu
. King Owain’s former captain had
been wounded and lay recovering at Denbigh. Gareth had inspected
the injury in his right leg, and while he would live, the wound had
cut deeply into the muscle. He might ride again one day, but it
wouldn’t be into battle.

Llelo and Dai had spent the summer at
Denbigh Castle, starting their apprenticeship to become knights,
before the outbreak of fighting on the far eastern border between
Gwynedd and Chester had brought them here in Cynan’s wake. Early
on, the fighting had been farther to the south, but in recent weeks
it had moved closer to Chester and become focused around Mold
Castle, to which King Owain was preparing to lay siege.

Having reached manhood, Llelo was a few
inches taller than Gwen and wore a sword on his hip. Dai was tall
enough to look her in the eye. She hugged them again and said, “You
boys have been staying out of trouble, haven’t you?”

Llelo rolled his eyes. “Of course, Mum.”

“We haven’t seen any real fighting,” Dai
said.

Gareth nodded. “We’ve been using them as
scouts mostly.”

And then, with accomplished movements, Llelo
moved to help Gareth arm himself. He’d done it before, of course,
though Gwen had never witnessed it. Gwen stood with her arm around
Dai’s shoulder, watching, and then while Llelo belted on his
father’s sword, Dai left her to help Gareth adjust the bracers on
his forearms.

Gareth kept his eyes on his wife’s face,
proud beyond measure of their sons, but trying not to show it. “How
is our daughter?” he said softly.

Gwen smiled. “She is well. Bright and
loving. I found her a new nanny, since Elspeth is married and
expecting a child of her own. The woman’s name is Abi. She lost her
husband in the early summer while we were in Ceredigion.
Sickness.”

It was an all too common story. Gareth had
lost his own parents to measles when he was five years old.

“She is some relation to our Dai and Llelo.”
Gwen said.

Llelo stopped in the act of tightening
Gareth’s belt and looked up. “I heard you say her name, and I
thought I might know of her.” He tugged on the end of the belt so
it would stay and not flap annoyingly. “She’s my father’s sister’s
husband’s cousin.”

Gareth smiled. Welsh genealogy being what it
was, every man could name his ancestors to seven generations, but
it became complicated trying to remember the family trees of those
who had married in. It didn’t surprise Gareth, however, that Llelo
could do it. He probably had Gareth’s and Gwen’s families memorized
too.

“And what have you been doing, Gareth?” Gwen
said.

“I’ve hardly drawn my sword, Gwen. You
needn’t worry so.”

Gwen didn’t believe him—and said so. “What
about your new scar?”

“Oh. That,” Gareth said.

She gave a mocking laugh. “Yes,
that
.
You allowed an enemy to come far too close to you when you weren’t
wearing your armor.”

Gareth put his hand on his eldest son’s
shoulder. “I was scouting with Llelo. He already knows how to read
the landscape and listen to a forest, so studying the terrain comes
naturally to him. Unfortunately, it did to Ranulf’s scout too, and
neither of us saw each other before we were face to face, each
coming around the opposite side of a large bush. He was quicker
with his knife than I—”

“Gareth!”

Gareth put out a hand to Gwen, “—let me
finish. I was going to say that my aim was more accurate.”

Gwen bit her lip as she looked at the calm
faces of Gareth and Llelo. “I understand why you didn’t want to
tell me, but I need to know the bad as well as the good.” She
looked at Llelo. “And what about you?”

“I learned a valuable lesson,” Llelo said,
sounding far more like a man than the boy she’d last seen at
Aber.

“We have both been more careful since then,”
Gareth said.

“I am so scared for all of you, every day,”
Gwen said. “After this, if I ride to see Mari in Aberystwyth, it
might be months before I see you again.”

“I know you’re scared for me,” Gareth said,
“but please know that I am not. Trust me that I know what I’m
doing.”

“It isn’t your skills that I question,” Gwen
said. “It’s those of the men you face I’m worried about.”

Gareth actually laughed. “The real
difficulty ahead is wresting control of Mold Castle from Ranulf.
King Owain is determined to take it before Christmas. We weren’t
fully committed to the effort before last week, and until yesterday
some of the lords remained reluctant to agree to a siege. From what
Hywel has told me, King Owain hopes to move the men forward by the
end of the week, and then the whole army will converge on
Mold.”

“The boys too?” Gwen said.

Llelo stepped back from Gareth, eyeing his
attire and nodding, satisfied with his work. Gareth was satisfied
too, which was why he had no qualms about stealing his son from
Cynan every now and then when he needed him.

“I will keep my eye on them,” Gareth
said.

Dai grinned. “That’s what he says, but it’s
really that we’ll be keeping an eye on Da for you, Mum.”

“For which I am very grateful,” Gwen said,
reaching for Dai again and bringing him into the circle of her
arm.

Then Dai said, “But you shouldn’t be here,
Mum.”

“I’m only here for a day, and then I’ll
return to Aber. I needed to see you all, and Lord Taran had a
letter for the king.” Gwen looked at Gareth. “I suppose we should
see about speaking to him.”

Leaving Dai and Llelo to their duties—both
were due to stand watch on the perimeter of the camp—Gareth and
Gwen left the tent and found Godfrid and Hywel waiting for them by
one of the fire pits. Hywel stood with his hands outstretched to
the warm flames. He’d taken off his leather gloves, and his fingers
were white. Gareth eyed them, watching the color gradually return
to them. It appeared that the prince’s sensitivity to cold was
growing worse.

From Gwen’s report, Hywel’s hands and feet
had reacted strongly to cold since his early teens. It wasn’t
something a soldier—or a prince—was allowed to complain about, but
Gareth remembered the first time Hywel had shown him the forefinger
of his right hand after it had turned white and lifeless. Warm
water was best for heating it up, but Hywel had been known to
plunge his fingers into a bowl of cooking porridge when he was
desperate to feel his fingers.

Hywel saw Gareth looking at his hands. He
grimaced and hastily pulled his gloves back on. He never went
anywhere without them in winter, and his boots had an interior
layer of wool to better keep out the cold. Living outdoors all the
time might be more difficult for him than for King Owain.

“Do we walk to the monastery?” Gwen
asked.

“It’s a half-mile through the woods,” Hywel
said. “Better to ride in this weather.”

Even if he suspected the prince wanted to
ride because of the condition of his fingers, Gareth didn’t
protest. The air had turned colder over the last hour, and given
its size and the exposed nature of the field, the camp was open to
the weather. Warm winds and rain, both of which they’d had plenty
of this autumn, came from the southwest. But it was a cold north
wind that was blowing this afternoon. They could have snow by
morning.