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Catrin pulled open the door at the base of the west tower and stepped outside. Darkness had fallen, but the skies were clear, and a three-quarter moon dusted the inner ward with silver light. From the castle wall, the rhythmic sound of marching feet passed overhead. She waited, and as the footsteps faded, she glanced around the open courtyard. No one was in sight. Leaving the safety of the doorway, she darted across the inner ward. It was late for a visit to the stables, but having endured a torturously long meal seated beside the Duke of Bedford and still reeling from the shocking and discriminatory demands he had made at the friary, Catrin was in dire need of the peace that came with time spent alone with Seren.

Lifting the latch of the stable door, she slipped inside. A torch flickered in the draft, and in the nearest stall, a horse nickered softly.

“Lady Catrin.” Aldwin appeared out of nowhere and greeted her in his typical unruffled manner.

“I apologize for the lateness of the hour, Aldwin,” she said. “I shall not stay long.”

He shook his head. “’Tis good that you are come, my lady. Seren has been a mite unsettled tonight.”

Alarm shot through her. “Is he unwell?”

“No, my lady. But as you know, he’s most particular ’bout those he allows near. I fear he did not take well to the duke’s visit.”

“The duke’s visit? What visit?”

“Why, he came in a couple hours back, my lady. Said you’d told ’im to take a look at Seren ’cause you were concerned about ’im favorin’ one rein over the other.” Aldwin suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I confess, I thought it strange that you’d not mentioned it to me yerself, but I did as he asked and took ’im back to see the stallion.”

Catrin started toward Seren’s stall, her thoughts tumbling over each other. What reason did the duke have to examine her horse? And why the subterfuge? Seren had shown no sign of difficulties with his reins or gait during their outing this morning, and she had certainly not suggested any. She glanced over her shoulder. The stablemaster was close behind.

“Did you stay with the duke? What did he do in Seren’s stall?”

“Well, that’s just it, my lady. He didn’t exactly go into the stall.”

Catrin stopped and faced him. “But I thought you told me that he had.”

“Oh, he wanted to, all right. But Seren wasn’t havin’ it.” Aldwin’s lips twitched. “As soon as the duke put his hand on the gate, Seren started in on his head tossin’ and wild snortin’ show. It wasn’t long before all his pawing of the ground had the duke convinced that if he got any closer, he’d be on the hurtin’ end of a solid kick.” Aldwin shook his head, and she caught the twinkle in his eyes. “He’s a wily one, that stallion.”

Relief brought a smile to her lips. “I am grateful that you understand him, Aldwin.”

“I have yet to see a finer, more intelligent animal, my lady. And if he feels uneasy, then I feel uneasy.”

Catrin was still a few feet from Seren’s stall, but even from this distance, she could hear him shifting restlessly in the confined space. “I will go to him,” she said. “I believe that this night, we may be a balm to each other.”

“I don’t doubt it, my lady.”

He handed her a grooming brush, and she gave him a grateful nod. It had taken her over a year to persuade the stablemaster to shun propriety in favor of allowing her to be more fully involved in the care of her horse, but once he’d recognized her sincere desire to learn—no matter how menial the task—he’d been a willing and able teacher.

“I thank you, Aldwin. And you may rest assured that if I have any concerns regarding Seren, I will consult you directly. So if the Duke of Bedford wishes to see him again, I would ask that you notify me immediately.”

“I shall indeed.” Aldwin offered her a slight bow. “I’m here should you need me, my lady.” Then, as he was wont to do, he turned and walked back toward the front of the stable, leaving her alone with her horse.

Chapter 12

Rhys stood beside a small copse of saplings, watching about twenty men shoot arrows at makeshift targets along the craggy cliff face. Maredudd wandered between the archers, adjusting the stance of one, then repositioning the grip of another. After pointing out needed improvements, he insisted the shots be taken again. Rhys’s youngest brother was proving to be an exacting taskmaster, but already, he was seeing results. Even Rhys could tell that more arrows were hitting the targets today than had been only a week ago.

Across the way, Gwilym was working with another group, the clanging of steel bearing witness to their intense swordplay. The men varied in age, stature, and background. There were landowners and peasants, students returned from their studies at Oxford and merchants who’d left their shops. Some were experienced with their weapons; others were novices. But no matter their level of experience, they were each driven by the desire to improve and to be of worth to the Welsh uprising.

Owain had placed Rhys in command and had appointed the Tudor brothers as field marshals with authority over everyone at this camp. He’d then charged them to undermine England’s grasp on the country by attacking English strongholds within local Welsh towns and by preventing the arrival of reinforcements from England. It was no small request, and their deliberations over various strategies had continued late into the night. No one could be sure what lay ahead, but they each agreed that preparation was paramount.

Desiring to monitor King Henry’s withdrawal from Scotland, Owain and his counselor, Lord Cawdor, had left for the Marches early the next morning, and the Tudors had set to work organizing the men of the camp into groups and training them for battle. The makeshift warriors may have had very little experience in combat, but they’d listened to the rallying cry of their new prince, and they were here to fight for their families and their homes, their livelihoods and their freedom. This was their land, and they knew it well. That singular fact was one of their few but crucially important advantages.

Over the sound of mock battle, Rhys heard the clatter of shifting shale. He turned, studying the distant entrance to the sheltered valley. The red hair of the lone rider picking his way through the rocks was instantly recognizable, and Rhys stepped out from the protection of the trees. When Alun reached the flatter, grassy level, he urged his mount into a canter, and Rhys tensed. Something was amiss.

Alun was a local. Although he was only fifteen years of age, he knew the people and the mountains around Llanrwst better than anyone. For that reason, he’d been made the camp guide. Every morning, he rode down to the village and waited for new recruits, who trickled in one or two at a time. If someone arrived at the church looking to join Glyndwr’s army with credible contact information, Alun brought him to camp in the evening; if no one came, he stayed overnight in the village. On the few occasions that a new recruit arrived at the church with a questionable backstory, Alun led him up via a convoluted route and blindfolded. He rarely returned to camp before noon, and he was never in such a hurry.

Rhys crossed the distance to the longhouse quickly, arriving at the same time as Alun. “I did not expect you so early,” he said.

Still working to catch his breath, Alun nodded. “I bring a missive, Marshal Rhys.” He pulled a scroll out of the purse at his waist and offered it to Rhys. “The courier came to the church and said I was to give it to you without delay. The Prince of Wales’s orders.”