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Maredudd shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

“If he intends to act, we will hear.” Rhys’s voice was firm even as his stomach roiled. After spending two years fighting in Ireland, the thought of doing battle in his homeland made him feel ill. He knew only too well the suffering fierce anger and bloodshed would bring.

“You are assuming that Owain knows we are returned,” Gwilym said.

“He will undertake to discover our whereabouts,” Rhys said. “Of that you may be sure.”

His brothers’ ensuing silence was affirmation enough. If Owain Glyndwr were to initiate a rebellion against the English king, there was no doubt he would call upon the Tudor brothers for aid. Owain was their cousin. His mother and theirs were sisters, and even though many miles separated their homes, they’d always maintained good relations.

Rhys took a deep breath. Whether or not a rebellion materialized, the future looked grim for the local people.“What did you tell Dilwyn, Cadfan, and Dai?”

Maredudd shrugged. “What could I tell them? I will seek out the sheriff on the morrow and learn the details of this new edict. We can only hope ’tis not as bad as the men fear.”

“You do that if you will,” Gwilym said. “For my part, I shall be practicing shooting at royal English thieves.”

Rhys recognized the fury simmering in Gwilym’s eyes. A challenging archery exercise would likely be a good antidote for their frustration. It was undoubtedly more productive than pacing.

“I shall join you,” he said.

Gwilym gave a satisfied nod. “If we venture into the woods at first light, I daresay we shall find at least one twisted old tree that resembles King Henry.”

Maredudd smiled grimly. “Shoot it twice for me.”

______________________________

The air was cool and the woods were still in shadow. Even though the sun had been up for over an hour, early-morning mist still clung to the branches. Somewhere to Rhys’s left, a twig snapped. A squirrel ran along a branch above his head, sending the dense foliage into a swirling dance, and a blackbird sang its morning song. The light was deceptive, the sounds distracting. It was perfect.

“Over there,” Gwilym whispered. “See the knot just above the lower branch of the old sycamore. ’Tis King Henry’s helmet.”

Rhys lifted his bow and nocked his arrow. Drawing back the string, he steadied his aim and released. The arrow sailed through the branches, landing in the center of the tree knot. Seconds later, an echoing thud marked the arrival of Gwilym’s arrow within half an inch of Rhys’s.

“I believe his royal ears are ringing,” Gwilym said.

Rhys grinned. “A pounding ache in his head at the very least.”

Gwilym chuckled and went to reclaim their arrows. “Mayhap we can surprise Margaret with a rabbit or two for supper tonight.”

“A worthy suggestion,” Rhys said. “I shall take the right side if you go left.”

Gwilym moved away on silent feet, and before long, Rhys was on his own. He headed south, scouring the ground as he walked, and it wasn’t long before he spotted rabbit droppings. Nearby, a low ditch covered in thick overgrowth caught his attention. Perfect conditions for a rabbit warren. Moving carefully, he positioned himself behind a large chestnut tree, nocked his arrow, and prepared to wait.

Minutes later, he spotted two ears emerging from beneath a large cluster of nettles. Soundlessly raising his bow, Rhys took aim. The familiar zing of a flying arrow whistled past him. For a split second, Rhys froze. Then training took over. The rabbit leaped out of the shrubbery. Rhys released his arrow, and the creature dropped to the ground. A young boy burst out from behind a bush, a small bow in hand. He dropped to his knees beside the rabbit, staring at it before reaching over to reclaim the arrow lying atop the closest dock plant. Slowly, the boy raised his head and looked around.

Rhys stepped out from behind the tree, and the boy instantly scrambled to his feet. “It appears that you and I were hunting the same rabbit,” he said.

The boy swallowed hard. “I . . . I . . .” He started backing away. He was painfully thin, his smock worn and a few inches too short.

Rhys stayed where he was. “You’ve nothing to fear, lad.”

Keeping his eyes on Rhys, the boy bent down to pick up the bow he’d left on the ground. “I think it was your arrow that did it, sir.”

“It does look that way, doesn’t it?” Rhys took a step toward him. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Gethin ap Dilwyn, sir.”

With a start, Rhys realized that this was Dilwyn’s son. He hadn’t seen the boy in years. Not since he’d been bouncing on his mother’s knee. After all this time, how many more children did Dilwyn have at home?

“May I see your arrow, Gethin?”