Page 1

Chapter 1

September 1400

Rhys ap Tudor braced himself against the ship’s bow, his eyes trained on the coastline ahead. The sky was blue, but a gusty wind filled the cog’s wide sail and whipped whitecaps onto the tips of the already choppy waves. Over the creak of the wooden hull and the slap of rope against the tall mast, Rhys could hear the nervous whinnies of the horses stabled at the rear of the ship. Although a relatively short distance, crossing the turbulent Menai Strait was known to bring the hardiest of seamen to their knees.

Shifting his weight to counterbalance the tilting of the deck, Rhys glanced to his right. His brother Gwilym stood a couple feet away, watching the island of Anglesey’s familiar landmarks come into view with the same look of excitement he’d borne when he’d won his first archery contest.

He must have sensed Rhys’s gaze because he turned to him and grinned. “We shall be home by nightfall, Rhys,” he shouted above the sound of the wind and waves.

Rhys nodded. It had been almost three years since he and Gwilym had set foot on Anglesey, and as he watched the craggy cliffs of Penmon give way to the gently rolling hills of Llanfaes and the welcoming harbor of Beaumaris, he experienced an unexpected surge of emotion. Fighting beside Richard II in Ireland had enabled him to travel more than most Welshmen dreamed of, but for him, nowhere compared to this island off the coast of North Wales.

“How far to Beaumaris Castle?”

The words were spoken in English.

Rhys swung around, instinctively wrapping his fingers around the handle of the dagger at his girdle. He sensed Gwilym’s movement behind him and knew that his brother was alert to any possible threat. They’d both seen too many battles. War snuffed out men’s feelings of trust as readily as it took the lives of soldiers, and that heightened level of suspicion was not easily undone.

Rhys faced the sandy-haired stranger. He’d noticed him board the ship soon before they’d set sail from Conwy, but he hadn’t seen him on deck since. He was tall and thin and appeared at least ten years younger than Rhys’s twenty-eight years.

“You have business at the castle?” Rhys responded in English, working to keep his voice casual, even though he had to speak loudly to be heard over the elements.

The lanky young man crossed the short distance between them on unsteady legs, his pocked complexion a sickly shade of grayish green. Staying below deck during the blustery weather had obviously not been to this passenger’s advantage. Relaxing his stance, Rhys watched as the man clutched the leather satchel hanging across his shoulder and attempted to puff out his scrawny chest.

“I carry a missive from London for Lord Buckley, the Constable of Beaumaris Castle.”

Rhys stared at him. For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether the sickness brought on by rough seas had addled the fellow’s mind or whether no one had warned the neophyte that with the current political instability in the country, proclaiming the contents of his satchel to strangers—particularly Welsh strangers—was foolish, at best.

It was under a year since Henry Bolingbroke had captured Richard II at Flint Castle and marched him to London to be incarcerated at the Tower of London. A mere two months later, Bolingbroke’s claim to the throne had been ratified by the English parliament, and he’d been crowned Henry IV. Since then, discontent over the new king’s repressive rule had been steadily growing amongst Welsh peasants and nobles alike. Already, the country was brimming with rumors of revolt.

Given the volatile climate, it was difficult to believe Henry would risk sending a message of great import to his stronghold on Anglesey with someone so inexperienced or without an armed escort, but Rhys knew he’d be foolish to underestimate the lengths the monarch would go to gain control of North Wales.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Thomas,” the young man said. “Thomas Redd.”

“Well, Thomas Redd, I commend you,” Rhys said. “To carry a letter from the English king into Wales at this unsettled time takes great courage.”

Wariness filled the young man’s eyes, quickly followed by worry. “I did not claim to carry anything belonging to the king.”

“True. But you did say that you are come from London.” Rhys shrugged. “And London is the official seat of the king.”

Gwilym chose that moment to step forward. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Rhys, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the young courier. If possible, Thomas’s pallor became even grayer.

With anxious and fumbling fingers, he opened his satchel and withdrew a single scroll. “You see,” he said, turning the parchment in his hand so the brothers could see the red wax seal. “’Tis a letter from my master, the Duke of Bedford. He and Lord Buckley are distant cousins.”

Rhys and Gwilym exchanged a quick look. No words were needed. The seal appeared authentic, but if the letter from London was bound for Beaumaris Castle, they had to be sure of its contents. As though the heavens agreed, a rogue wave lashed the bow, instantly dousing the deck with cold, salty water. Staggering backward, Thomas raised his arm to wipe the spray from his face, and Gwilym reached for the scroll.

“Watch yourself,” Gwilym called. “The water will make the ink illegible.” Before Thomas could respond, Gwilym had broken the seal and unrolled the parchment.

With horror-filled eyes, Thomas lunged for the letter. “What are you thinking? The scroll is to be read by Lord Buckley alone.”

“Then you are most fortunate,” Gwilym said. He handed the parchment to Rhys. “You see. Every word can be deciphered still.”

Rhys skimmed through the short missive. It was, indeed, from the Duke of Bedford, and it appeared that he was finalizing arrangements to marry Lord Buckley’s daughter.

“’Tis true,” Rhys said, offering the scroll back to Thomas. “You are truly fortunate.”

The young courier snatched it from him, his hand shaking. “Fortunate? To hand Lord Buckley a letter that has already been opened?”