Page 29

Chapter 11

It was midafternoon by the time the ferry docked at Conwy. Mindful of the English guards watching the comings and goings in the harbor from atop Conwy Castle’s towers, Rhys and his brothers led their horses off the boat without delay. Their cloaks partially concealed their distinctive surcoats, but they kept their heads low as they wove through the milling crowd to the arched entrance of the town. Here, they paused long enough to mount. Then turning away from the busy gate, they took the path that followed the outer wall until they came upon the Conwy River, and using the river as their guide, they headed up the valley.

Within half an hour, the sights and sounds of the bustling harbor and market town were behind them, and they were surrounded on either side by verdant, rolling hills. They passed a shepherd leading his sheep to lower pastures and received a raucous welcome from a flock of crows congregated in a tall pine. Occasionally, a stone cottage came into view between the trees, but they met no one else along their journey, and as the road steadily wound upward, the scenery became craggier and the vegetation wilder.

“If we are to reach camp tonight, we must make haste,” Gwilym said, glancing at the lowering sun.

Rhys nodded. “We cannot be more than a mile from the church now.”

“Let us hope the guide Owain promised is there still,” Maredudd added.

Although they’d been informed that someone would be waiting at the Church of St. Gwrst to lead them to the camp, they’d been given no specific dates or meeting times. And they each knew that no matter how seasoned the guide, traveling through the mountains in the dark was a dangerous endeavor. With dusk drawing near, their window of time to complete the journey was closing.

“Over there!” Gwilym pointed to a spire barely visible above the trees.

In unison, the brothers urged their horses into a canter. They crossed the nearby bridge and arrived in front of the church within minutes. It was a small stone structure set apart from the rest of the village by the river and nearby woodland. The adjacent graveyard had an air of neglect, and the road that led to the center of the village appeared deserted.

“Wait here,” Rhys said, sliding out of his saddle and approaching the wooden door. “If the priest is within, perhaps he can give us further instructions.”

He turned the brass ring, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. Pausing momentarily to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom, Rhys moved forward, his footsteps echoing off the polished slate flagstones. To his left, something moved. Instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword, Rhys swung around as a shadow slid out from the corner.

“Whom do you seek?”

A young man with untamed red hair stood beside a pillar. In the narrow shaft of light coming from the nearest window, his brown tunic and hose appeared worn, his boots mud-spattered. This was no priest, but was it the man they sought?

“I am new to this village and am come for directions,” Rhys said.

The young man studied him, his gaze lingering on Rhys’s surcoat before flickering to the bow across his shoulder and the sword at his side.

“Mayhap I can help,” he said. “Where do you wish to go?”

“To the mountains,” Rhys said.

The young man raised his eyebrows. “Do you ride alone?”

“I have two brothers waiting without.”

A slow grin replaced his wary expression. “My name is Alun. I am sent to guide three men into the mountains. I was told that they would likely be wearing the red surcoats of the Tudors.”

“Then we are well met. I am Rhys ap Tudor.”

“’Tis an honor, sir.”

Rhys inclined his head at the young man, then glanced back at the pale light coming through the window. “Can we reach our destination before nightfall?”

“Yes, Master Rhys . . . Sir . . . Marshal . . .” Alun was fumbling over his words. He had done better before he was sure of Rhys’s identity. “It will take us no longer than an hour.”

“Then we should be on our way.” Rhys made for the door with Alun close behind. Outside, Gwilym and Maredudd were waiting, their moods reflected by their horses’ restlessness.

“Alun, my brothers, Gwilym ap Tudor and Maredudd ap Tudor. Gwilym and Maredudd, this is our guide, Alun.”

Alun bowed.

“Do you have a mount?” Gwilym asked.

“’Tis around back, Master Gwilym, Sir, Marshal.”

Gwilym threw Rhys a confused look, and Rhys smothered a smile. Poor Alun was struggling still.