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“Best get it, then, lad,” Rhys said, climbing into his saddle.

“Right away, Marshal Rhys.” He took off at a run.

“Marshal?” Gwilym asked.

Rhys shrugged, and Maredudd chuckled. “I hope you two remember your younger brother, the lowly archer, when you’re in command of hundreds of men.”

With a grin, Gwilym wheeled his horse around. “If you watch your behavior, we could see about having you promoted to cavalryman.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. Gwilym was incorrigible, but he had managed to extract some laughter from Maredudd, and for that, Rhys was grateful. Pulling his cloak more tightly around him, Rhys nudged Castan closer to his youngest brother’s horse. Alun reappeared astride a brown mare, and with Gwilym taking the lead beside their young guide, Rhys and Maredudd followed behind as they left the churchyard and headed farther into the mountains.

They had been riding for some time when they reached a narrow ravine. In the fading light, it appeared as a dark crevice on the rocky mountain face, but it was just wide enough to allow two horses to pass through side by side. The horses’ hooves slid on the shifting shale, and high above them, the silhouette of a large bird—a falcon perhaps—sailed across the purple sky. Isolated tufts of grass clung to life amidst the stony ground, but gradually, the steep incline leveled off, and the grass thickened, becoming an uneven rug stretching into the darkness.

“You can see the longhouse up ahead,” Alun said, pointing to a large black shadow up against the mountainside.

“What’s a longhouse doing all the way up here?” Gwilym asked.

“The English had it built for the quarrymen and stone masons working on Conwy Castle. It put them closer to the slate mine.”

“It was good of King Edward to help out the Welsh rebellion so nicely,” Gwilym said.

Alun grinned. “Aye. The building’s been abandoned for going on a hundred years, so it needed some cleaning up and a new roof, but no one complained over the work. Not when it was that or sleeping out in the rain. And with four kings since Edward, ’tis almost certain Henry doesn’t know of it.”

As the men drew closer, the longhouse loomed before them. Larger than the longhouse at Penmynydd, it was built in a similar style. Loose rocks and slag from the slate mine sat in piles around the building and littered the ground.

Alun led them to the far side of the structure, dismounted quickly, and pushed open a solitary door. “Come,” he said. “There will be someone within who can tend to your mounts.”

The warmth generated by the close confinement of many horses intensified the pungent smell in the room, but the flickering candlelight illuminated a relatively clean, albeit crowded, barn. A teenage boy stepped out from behind a large gray charger. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the three men with Alun.

“Bleddyn, the Tudors of Penmynydd are come,” Alun said. “I must needs take them in to see the Prince of Wales. Will you see to the horses?”

“Right away.” Bleddyn moved closer, and Rhys handed him Castan’s reins.

“You have my thanks,” Rhys said.

Bleddyn gave him a deferential nod, then reached for Maredudd’s reins. “I’ll be sure they’re well cared for, Marshal.”

There it was again. Were these young men making assumptions regarding his position in this fight, or had Owain laid out his organization to all but the men he wanted to lead it? Then there was Owain’s new title. His followers had obviously embraced it, but despite the royal blood flowing through his cousin’s veins, it would likely take Rhys time to adjust to calling him Prince of Wales. He glanced at his brothers, but if they had similar concerns, they were keeping them to themselves.

“Come,” Alun said again. “The prince will be anxious to know of your arrival.”

The three men followed their guide out into the night and walked the short distance to the door on the opposite side of the stone building. A broad-shouldered man stood guard, watching their approach. He must have already noted their visit to the stable because when Alun nodded to him, he gave an answering nod, and without a word, he stepped aside to allow them through. Alun pushed open the door and ushered them into the living quarters of the longhouse.

A fire blazed in the center of the room, its smoke gently spiraling upward and disappearing through the thatched roof above. Long tables lined the walls, some of them bearing one or two candles to augment the light from the fire. A quick glance around the room told Rhys there were close to fifty men sitting on benches and talking in small clusters. Their loud and exuberant voices filled the hall; their energy was palpable.

Following Alun across the hard-packed dirt floor, the men traversed the room until they were within a few feet of a table set apart from the others in the corner. Two men sat together, their heads close as they talked, their backs to the activity in the room. Alun stopped, hovering uncertainly until the older of the two men looked up at him and frowned.

“Yes?”

“Pardon me, my lord, but the Tudors of Penmynydd are here.”

Rhys stepped forward. “Rhys ap Tudor,” he said, dipping his head in greeting.

In the next chair, a tall man with brown hair and a brown beard rose to his feet. A loud whisper echoed through the hall, and all around, benches scraped, and silence fell as the men in the room came to their feet to watch the new Prince of Wales greet the latest arrivals.

“Rhys.” Owain’s smile was warm. “I am glad you are come.” In deference to his cousin’s new position, Rhys offered a formal bow. Behind him, Gwilym and Maredudd did the same. Owain’s smile widened, and he clapped his hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “Call for more ale, Lord Cawdor. And unless I miss my guess, some cawl would not go amiss either. Our field marshals have traveled a long distance to join us, and we have much to discuss.”

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