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“Why, yes.” Gwilym’s expression was deadly serious. “Not only has the ink remained dry, but you happened upon two men who speak and read English. Imagine what would have happened if illiterate Welshmen had confronted you, convinced that your letter contained instructions for the Constable of Beaumaris Castle from Henry himself. If they had believed it contained his stratagems to subdue those willing to fight against his rule in Wales, you would have been unable to prove your innocence.” He raised his eyebrows. “A broken seal is nothing when compared to a missing courier.”

Thomas’s Adam’s apple bobbed a few times. He opened his mouth, then closed it again and opened his satchel instead. Replacing the scroll, he took two steps back, and pointed over the bow. “We are almost to the harbor, and I see the castle. I shall have no difficulty finding it, so I will take my leave.” He offered an awkward bow. “Good day to you.”

Rhys waited only until Thomas was beyond earshot. “Hinting at the poor lad’s demise was rather heavy-handed, but it did seem to take his mind off the broken seal.”

Gwilym grinned. “And it will serve him well to remember the warning. Not all Welshmen are as noble as you and me, Rhys.”

“I doubt our mother would have considered scaring a young man witless to be a noble gesture.”

“Perhaps not.” Gwilym leaned against the side of the ship and stared at the English fortress dominating the small Welsh harbor before them. “But you and I both know that things would have been far messier if that letter had contained what we feared.”

Rhys followed his brother’s gaze. Even though the castle that had been started by Edward I in 1295 had never been fully completed, the huge stone fortification, with its twelve towers and moated outer ward, served to maintain the threat of English domination well. Governance within the castle changed as the English kings played their favorites, but one constant remained—only those who had proven their loyalty to the crown were entrusted to its keep.

“I wonder what manner of man this Lord Buckley is and how long he’s been constable at the castle,” Rhys said.

Gwilym nodded. “And I’d give a great deal to know if young Thomas uses the very same argument I gave him when he hands the constable his opened letter.” He chuckled. “I hope Lord Buckley accepts it well.”

A shout from the dock signaled the splash of the ship’s anchor. Behind them, three seamen hurried across deck to see to the sail and riggings.

Gwilym straightened and placed his hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “Once we reach Penmynydd, you may ask Maredudd all about the situation at the castle, and I am sure he will happily answer every question. I, however, will be too busy eating a feast fit for returning warriors to listen to any of it.”

“Then I hope Maredudd has something more to offer you than oat bread.”

Gwilym frowned. “For his sake, I hope he does too.”

Rhys laughed. They’d been apart for three years, and Gwilym was already slipping back into his role as the tormenting older brother. Secretly, Rhys thought he might be in for a shock. When King Richard had requested Rhys and Gwilym join his army as his personal guards, their younger brother, Maredudd, had stayed on Anglesey to maintain the Tudor family home in Penmynydd. He’d been appointed bailiff soon after their departure and had undoubtedly become more used to giving orders than receiving them. Rhys hid a smile. Watching the upcoming interactions between his two brothers promised to be quite entertaining.

“Come,” Rhys said. “The horses must be as anxious as we are to quit this ship.”

They led the horses across the gangplank, mounted, and rode slowly along the harbor. A seagull stood on a wooden post, screeching at two young boys sitting on the dock, with their hooks and lines dangling in the water. A young woman stared at them wide-eyed, then bobbed a hasty curtsy, and an old fisherman dropped the net he was mending beside his coracle and got to his feet to greet them.

“Good day, Elfed,” Rhys said, reining his mount, Castan, to a halt.

“And to you, Master Rhys.” The fisherman gave him an almost toothless smile. “’Tis right good to see you home.” He looked over at Gwilym. “You too, Master Gwilym.” He squinted, studying him more closely. “Wait just a minute now; I did get you straight, didn’t I?”

Gwilym grinned. “You did, indeed, Elfed.”

“As alike as mussel shells, you Tudor boys, but I reckon I can still tell you apart, even after all these years.”

Elfed looked immensely proud of himself, and Rhys chuckled. It was true. There was a strong family resemblance between him and his brothers. They had all inherited thick, dark hair from their father and rather distinctive blue eyes from their mother. Rhys was two years older than Gwilym, who was three years older than Maredudd, but ironically, it was Maredudd who was the tallest by a couple of inches, then came Rhys, with Gwilym bringing up a close third.

A small scar ran across Rhys’s chin, thanks to a collision with the fire grate when he was a boy, and Gwilym’s nose hadn’t been straight since a nasty fistfight in his youth. But Rhys was fairly sure that the old man couldn’t see such minor details.

“It wouldn’t be because we just got off the ship carrying longbows and wearing the colors of the Tudors of Penmynydd, would it?” Rhys asked.

Elfed gave a throaty laugh. “Well, I’d be lyin’ if I didn’t say those red surcoats you’ve got on were a good clue. And yer brother, Maredudd, don’t often go ridin’ around with his bow and quiver at the ready.”

“Sounds like we need to set him straight, then,” Gwilym said.

“Aye. You do that lad.” Elfed inclined his head toward the castle. “We never can be too careful, you know.”

Rhys looked over at the castle in time to see Thomas approaching the entrance. “What news from the castle these days, Elfed?”

Elfed rubbed a worn hand over his stubbly chin. “I reckon we’re all just waitin’ to see what ’appens with this new king they’ve got in England and the rumors swirlin’ around a rebellion amongst the Welsh nobility. Nothin’ much ’as changed in the last few weeks, but that don’t mean that it won’t. I ’ave a prickly feelin’ that somethin’s in the air.”

Rhys nodded. Even though the contents of Thomas’s satchel had seemed harmless, Rhys couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something menacing was looming.

“I agree with you, Elfed. And I don’t suppose we’re the only ones feeling that way.”