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Through the rapidly fading light, Rhys scoured the scene below, searching for the king. Icy pellets stung his cheeks and obscured his vision, but at last he saw the English monarch break free of the tumult with a dozen men at his rear.

“To the bridge,” Rhys yelled, starting down the mountainside. From the line of archers, four previously handpicked men instantly shouldered their bows and followed after him. The horses’ hooves clattered down the craggy incline as Rhys, Tomas, Dyfan, Emyr, and Berwyn raced Henry and his guards to the point at which the road crossed the river and entered the next valley.

As the Welshmen drew nearer, three English guards moved ahead of their king, while two others flanked his either side.

“Forward,” Henry cried.

With their swords drawn, the English guards obeyed, rushing to meet the Welshmen who blocked their way. Rhys acted instinctively, and Castan responded. The horse sidestepped, and Rhys caught the closest English soldier’s sword with the tip of his own. Using his horse’s movement as leverage, Rhys thrust upward, and the sword flew from his foe’s wet grip seconds before Rhys’s blade pierced the soldier’s chain mail. Clutching his shoulder with a groan, the Englishman slumped sideways.

Immediately, another guard took his place, his sword aimed at Rhys’s throat. At the touch of Rhys’s heels, Castan moved swiftly to the left. The English guard attempted to adjust his approach, but his horse’s hooves slipped in the deepening mud, and suddenly, Rhys had the advantage. Parrying the guard’s initial thrust, he urged Castan forward, forcing the Englishman’s mount backward until his hind legs encountered the crumbling banks of the river. With a frantic snort, the horse slithered, his hooves flailing. His opponent gave a cry of alarm as his horse entered the rushing water, and Rhys wheeled Castan around just in time to see King Henry and three guards break free of the melee.

Dyfan lunged at the guard he was fighting, disarming and unseating him in one powerful move, then he started after the fleeing king, with Berwyn right behind him.

“Let them go,” Rhys shouted.

The two Welshmen reined in their mounts. Panting heavily, they both turned.

“We are to let them escape?”

The wind whipped away Dyfan’s words but not the look of frustration on his face.

“Aye.” Already, a deathly pall had fallen over the valley. Men’s moans, the whinny of horses, and an occasional clang of metal sounded behind them. “We have done enough. ’Tis better that Henry live to contemplate his losses at Rhos Fawr and recognize that he shall not have his way in Wales without a fight.”

As if he’d heard Rhys’s pronouncement, the English king halted on the bridge and turned to face the battlefield. “The people of Wales will live to rue this day!” His commanding voice carried through the storm. “And be it known to Owain Glyndwr and the Tudors of Penmynydd that their treachery will not go unpunished.”

Gritting his teeth, Rhys kept his eyes on Henry. The English had been soundly defeated this night, and the English king surely knew that the slaughter could have been far greater had the Welsh wished it. But it was not the death of English soldiers the Welsh sought; it was the release of the English monarch’s stranglehold. For the first time, the message of the Welsh rebellion had been delivered directly to Henry, but despite the loss of so many of his men, the monarch’s despotic arrogance appeared intact.

“He knew you even in this storm, Master Rhys,” Berwyn said. “You and your brothers.”

“He did indeed,” Rhys said grimly.

“’Tis not too late to go after them.” Determination shone in Dyfan’s eyes, and Rhys noted that he had yet to sheath his sword.

Rhys shook his head. “Patience, Dyfan.” He could sense rather than see their men retreating up the mountains to join the waiting archers, and slowly, out of the darkness, columns of weary English soldiers were beginning to move toward the bridge. Wet, cold, and defeated, some of them led horses bearing their wounded comrades, but all too many men were being left behind on the muddy ground. “We have done what we were asked to do.”

“Aye.” Emyr spoke up for the first time. “We’ve sent them back to England, where they belong.”

Rhys frowned, a sense of unease settling over him. The Welsh fighters had diminished the English army’s numbers certainly, but had they truly routed them from their land? Would Henry counter this attack sooner than they anticipated? If the Welsh were to maintain their upper hand, they had to allow for that possibility and be prepared to face it.

“I should like to believe it,” he said. “But in truth, Henry may retreat to his castle at Conwy or Caernarfon rather than return to England.” Emyr swung back to watch the last of the retreating soldiers, and Rhys made his decision. “Wait only until they have entered the next valley, then I would have you and Dyfan follow behind. Once you have ascertained Henry’s destination, return to camp and report.”

Chapter 13

The door to the camp’s longhouse opened, and an older woman exited carrying a large pail of water and some blood-stained rags. Rhys immediately left his position beside Maredudd at the target practice area and crossed the short distance between them. She looked up at his approach.

“How do the men fare, Enid?”

“They’re comin’ along, Marshal Rhys.” She shrugged, worry lines appearing on her worn forehead. “All but Glyn, at least. I’m doin’ my best for the man, but that leg wound of his is somethin’ wicked.”

Rhys nodded. Upon their return from Rhos Fawr, he’d been the one to carry Glyn into the corner of the longhouse they’d designated for the wounded, and he knew very well how bloodied the man had been. He’d been grateful then for Enid’s capable assistance with the injured, and he was equally grateful now for her ongoing care.

The older woman and her granddaughter, Nerys, were the only females at the camp, and they already had plenty to do, feeding such a large group of men, but they’d taken responsibility for the wounded without being asked. Mercifully, not a single man had been lost during the recent skirmish, but two of the seven who’d been injured three days ago still lay perilously close to death.

“What of Huw?”

Enid gave a satisfied smile. “His fever broke last night, and he took a little broth this morning.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”