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Rhys stared at the map once more. He could hear the rain falling on the longhouse’s slate roof. It had started soon after Emyr’s arrival early this morning and showed no sign of stopping. Inclement weather would make traveling with so many men all the more slow. To have any hope of meeting Gwilym’s time line, they would need to leave soon.

Sliding the candlesticks to one side, he rolled up the map. “Have the men make ready,” he said. “We ride out at noon.”

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The steady incline was proving too much for the brown mare. Catrin leaned forward in the saddle, giving the old horse every possible word of encouragement, but there was simply no speed left in her.

“A little farther, girl. Please. Just a little farther.”

Catrin’s tears of frustration mingled with the rain dripping off the hood of her cloak. She had to be getting close to Llanrwst by now. It had been a couple of hours since she’d used every coin in her purse to purchase the only horse left at the blacksmith’s stable in Conwy. She’d known she was buying an old horse, but she’d been desperate, and she’d only needed one good run out of her.

At first, they’d made good time, but the horse’s age had begun to show as the road up the valley became steeper. Before long, her gallop had become a trot, and now she was moving at a slow walk. It surely would not be enough. The wind tugged at Catrin’s cloak, but she did nothing to pull it tighter. The rain that had been falling ever since she’d left town had long since soaked through the fabric and, truth be told, she was as tired as the poor mare.

She was approaching a wooden bridge when the muffled tolling of a bell reached her through the storm. Raising her head, she looked around, hardly daring to hope. Above the trees to her right, she spotted the spire.

“The church,” she cried, reaching down to pat the mare’s neck. “Truly, old girl, I believe we may have found it.”

Guiding the weary horse across the bridge, Catrin took the narrow lane that led to the chapel on the hill. When she reached the small gray building, she slid out of the saddle and ran up the stone steps. Pushing the heavy wooden doors open, she stepped inside, then stopped, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“Is anyone within?” She moved forward. The nave was empty, as were the pews. Suddenly, a new fear seized her. What if no one came? What if, after this long journey, she was still unable to get a message to Rhys? Gripping the nearest pew, she looked around again.

A whisper of movement echoed from the far corner of the chapel. Catrin froze, straining to hear more. There was a slight creak of wood, as if someone seated on a bench had moved slightly.

“Please,” Catrin tried again. “I have an urgent message for Owain Glyndwr’s men. I was told to come here.”

Shadows flickered at the back of the room, and suddenly, a young man stepped into the light.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“A friend of Rhys ap Tudor,” she replied in Welsh, unwilling to give him more. “I am come this morning from Beaumaris, bearing vital information on King Henry’s plans.”

The redheaded young man studied her cautiously. “Who told you to come here?”

“Rhys ap Tudor himself.”

She saw his eyes widen. “Describe him.”

“Dark hair, blue eyes, with a scar across his chin.” His look of surprise deepened. It was obvious that he had not expected her to answer correctly, and now he was left unsure as to how to proceed. She gripped the pew more tightly as he vacillated. “I beg you to believe me. Lives will be lost if we do not act quickly.”

“How did you come here?”

“I rode from Conwy. My horse is without.”

He glanced at the door, then gave her another long look. She met his eyes, and at last, he offered her a brief, accepting nod. “I will take you to Marshal Rhys, but you will be blindfolded, and I shall guide your mount.” He withdrew a small dark sack from around his belt and held it up. “Once this is over your head, I will help you onto your horse. Then you will wait until I bring my mount around to join you.”

Catrin eyed the filthy fabric and suppressed a shudder. Surely wearing the grimy head covering was a small price to pay for being taken to Rhys. “Very well,” she said, moving toward him. “I would only ask that you take me there directly.”

Chapter 20

Rhys walked through the Welsh warriors assembling outside the longhouse. Despite the heavy rain, the men were making quick work of their preparations to leave. Weapons and provisions were being divvied up between them, and already, Bleddyn was walking the saddled horses out of the longhouse two at a time. Shouts and the clatter of horses’ hooves filled the small valley, and over it all hung an aura of tense anticipation.

“It is time,” Rhys said, reaching the copse of trees where Gwilym stood observing the activity. “We should ready our horses.”

Gwilym grimaced. “It will be slow going in this storm.”

“Aye, but until we know exactly what Henry is about, we cannot afford to wait for the clouds to break.”

His brother nodded and fell into step beside him. “How long do you think?”