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Rhys took the scroll and glanced at the seal. “You’ve done well, Alun. I thank you. Go now, and take care of your horse. We may have need of you again soon.”

“Right away, Marshal.”

As soon as Alun turned his mount toward the stable door, Rhys broke the seal and read the short message. Clasping the scroll tightly in one hand, he walked briskly across the rock-strewn grass to the spot where Maredudd stood watching the archers.

“A moment of your time, Maredudd,” he said.

Maredudd gave him a quizzical look but followed as Rhys continued on to where Gwilym was monitoring a highly contested sword fight.

“Steady now,” Gwilym shouted at the circling men. “Nicely done. Well parried.” He spared his brothers a quick glance. “Everything all right?”

Rhys raised the scroll in his hand. “It is time.”

Gwilym’s eyes widened, the contest before him suddenly forgotten. “Where did that come from?”

“Alun just arrived with it. A courier dropped it off at the chapel.” He handed it to Gwilym. Maredudd moved closer to read over his brother’s shoulder. “Henry and his men have reached Shrewsbury. They’re expected to continue into North Wales on the morrow.”

“And our job?” Maredudd asked.

“To let him know that he’s not going to get his way without a fight,” Gwilym said grimly.

Rhys nodded. “After what Owain’s already accomplished in Denbigh, Rhuddlan, and Flint, Henry might be expecting some resistance, but he won’t be ready for a full-scale attack. Surprise is on our side, along with knowing the terrain better than the English soldiers.”

“The weather may also aid our cause,” Maredudd said, raising his head and studying the sky. “I daresay our men will cope better with the storm that’s coming.”

Gwilym grinned. “Nothing like a miserable Welsh mountain downpour to douse the Englishmen’s fighting spirit.”

“We must act quickly,” Rhys said. Already, his mind was considering which location would maximize the impact of their attack. “Have the men ready to leave within the hour. I will talk to Alun. He may know of a route through the mountains that will place us in their path faster than if we travel through Llanrwst.”

Maredudd gave a crisp nod and hurried back to the archers. Gwilym called the swordsmen together, and Rhys headed back toward the stable. Alun appeared at the door.

“Is there a route through the mountains to Rhos Fawr?”

Alun nodded. “Aye. ’Tis rough terrain, but it would likely cut a few hours off doing the same journey by road.”

“How long would it take?”

“I daresay one man on a good horse could do it in four hours.” He studied the sky much as Maredudd had done. “Mayhap it would take closer to six hours for a large number traveling through a storm.”

Rhys tamped down his frustration. Alun was right. The journey would be considerably slowed with so many men, but if they left straightway and were not severely impeded by the weather, he could have his men in position before it was full dark. Certainly before Henry and his small army reached the pass.

“Then we must quit camp as soon as the horses are saddled,” Rhys said. “I would have you guide us, Alun.”

The young man straightened his shoulders and seemed to stand a little taller. “Yes, sir, Marshal Rhys.”

______________________________

Thunder rolled overhead, and with the coming of nightfall, the rain was turning to sleet. From his position at the head of the pass, Rhys strained to see through the poor visibility. It had been a long, arduous ride, but his men had not complained, and they’d made good time despite the worsening weather. To his left and right, a solid line of Welshmen on horseback was in place along the mountain’s tree line. Occasionally, a bridle would jingle or a horse would snort, but other than the hiss of the rain hitting leaves and the gurgle of the swollen river in the valley below, the mountainsides were eerily silent.

The tension hanging over the waiting warriors was as real as the glowering clouds above, and suddenly, the piercing shriek of a barn owl cut through the air. Gwilym’s signal that the English army had been spotted entering the pass was almost immediately echoed by a nightingale’s warble to Rhys’s right. Maredudd had heard his brother’s birdcall and was ready. Rhys echoed the signal, and soon afterward, from the far end of the valley came the faint but distinctive chinking of armor and creaking of leather.

Down the line, the Welsh archers came to attention and readied their bows. Rhys held his position as the soldiers marched ever deeper into the Welshmen’s trap. Step by measured step, the mounted Englishmen continued forward, their shadowy forms eventually taking the shape of a formidable army lined up in half a dozen columns behind the standard bearer and King Henry himself. It appeared that the Welsh were outnumbered at least six to one.

Taking a deep breath, Rhys moved out from under the oak tree. He clenched and released his right fist, willing the tension out of his arm, then he raised his bow and nocked his arrow. Gauging the prevailing wind by the angle of the falling precipitation, he set his sights on the man at the head of the small battalion. Flanked on either side by soldiers, the English flag bearer’s head was lowered against the driving sleet. Rhys took aim and let his arrow fly. Seconds later, a single cry echoed through the pass, and Henry’s flag toppled to the ground.

From somewhere to his left, a man’s voice shouted, “Cymru am byth!” and in one unified movement, over fifty arrows took flight. Before they’d even reached their marks, another wave of arrows was airborne. Then another. In the valley, chaos broke loose. Horses screamed in terror, their hooves sliding on the muddy ground, trampling fallen soldiers as they veered away from the incoming barbs. Men’s cries competed with shouted orders, and all the while, the Welsh archers kept up their assault.

Trapped as they were, far below the Welsh line, the English archers were incapable of launching an effective counterattack, and after enduring the Welsh barrage for almost half an hour, the soldiers broke ranks. Some urged their mounts up the hillsides; others turned, looking for escape the way they had come. But their attempts to flee were foiled within minutes. At a signal from Gwilym, a portion of the Welsh contingent swarmed downhill, their distorted silhouettes against the darkening mountainside as unearthly and menacing as their raised voices and swords.