“You!” he said. “Roeddwn i’n gobeithio eich bod chi wedi marw, eich bradwr!”
Curtis knew the Welsh language. Growing up on the marches, he and his siblings had learned it because the knowledge was imperative. Therefore, he knew exactly what the man said.
I was hoping you had died, you traitor!
Elle’s eyes widened, and she bolted off the cot, rushing for the man. But as she went, she managed to grab a large iron sconce that held six fat tapers. They weren’t lit because it was daylight, but the sconce was heavy enough to be used as aweapon. Curtis, however, was faster than she was—he could see that she intended to use the sconce as a weapon, and he rushed to intercept her, lowering his shoulder into her midsection. Up she went, onto his big shoulder, and the sconce clattered to the floor. Like a sack of turnips over his shoulder, Curtis had her firmly and was heading for the tent flap, but Christopher stopped him.
“Wait,” he commanded. “Curt, stop. Wait a moment.”
Curtis paused, but he had a tempest on his hands. Elle was twisting and growling, trying to shake herself loose from his grip.
“Let me go!” she demanded. “Put me down this instant!”
Curtis didn’t move. He continued to hold her with an iron grip, looking to his father for direction. But Christopher was looking at the rather short, dirty man between Roi and Alexander. He moved into the man’s line of sight.
“What is your name?” he asked him.
The man was looking at Elle with the same cornflower-blue eyes that she had. “Gruffydd,” he said after a moment, tearing his eyes away from Elle to look at Christopher. “I am Gwenwynwyn’s son, Gruffydd.”
“We found him in the vault,” Roi said quietly, looking at his father. “He said that his sister put him there.”
“I did!” Elle said, kicking her legs as Curtis tried to hold on to her. “He is a traitor to our people, and he should be kept in the vault until he rots!”
Christopher glanced at the struggling woman, speaking to Gruffydd. “That is your sister?”
Gruffydd sighed heavily. “It is.”
“What is her name?”
“Elle ferch Gwenwynwyn,” he said. “Take her out and burn her at the stake. She only means to kill us all.”
Christopher had his confirmation that Elle was, indeed, who she said she was. That was why he wanted Gruffydd removed from the vault in the first place, to confirm his sister’s identity. Gruffydd was the one loyal to the English, which was common knowledge, while his firebrand of a sister was a Welsh loyalist to the bone.
Christopher could see that, quite plainly.
He had been outside the tent while Curtis and Elle spoke, and although he hadn’t been able to hear much of what was said, the situation had been calm. That was all he truly cared about. No one was trying to kill anyone. But now, he had the brother, the heir to the Powys kingdom. He wanted to know what was happening from Gruffydd’s standpoint and how this situation at Brython had turned into a month-long siege. But even without that enlightenment, he could see the bigger picture—that the one they called the Wraith had held the castle against the English, imprisoning her English-sympathizer brother, but Christopher wanted to know why. He wanted to know if something greater was afoot.
He turned to Curtis.
“Take her back to your camp,” he said. “Do not let her out of your sight.”
Curtis nodded, Elle kicked, and he slapped her right on the buttocks to quiet her. Instead, it had the opposite effect.
She howled.
“Put me down!” she demanded as he carried her toward the tent flap. “Put me down, I say!”
Curtis didn’t answer her. As they passed through the open flap, she reached out and grabbed the sides of the tent, nearly pulling that side of the structure down before Curtis came to a halt. He was trying to dislodge her, but it was impossible to do that and hold on to her at the same time, so Alexander came over and peeled her fingers off the fabric. Unfortunately, he’d peelone finger off and it seemed to be replaced by two more. But he was patient. Eventually, he managed to pry her limitless fingers off the fabric, but that frustrated Elle so much that she slapped at him. He dodged the flying hands for the most part, watching her turn those slapping hands on Curtis as the man walked away with her still slung over one shoulder.
With a shake of his head, and perhaps a chuckle, Alexander turned back for the tent. Perhaps the battle was over for the rest of them, but Curtis was still fighting it, now single-handedly.
He had to admit, he didn’t envy Curtis.
CHAPTER FOUR
Night was approaching.
On the battlements of the castle, one could gain a perfect picture of the defeat of Brython. Not only was the ground outside the castle torn up by the de Lohr army, but inside, the siege engines had done far more damage than they could have imagined. Every projectile over the wall, every flaming mass, had damaged something.
