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“Why should she not? As you told me yourself, Glyn is a good man.”

Nerys sighed happily. “He is that.” With mischief dancing in her eyes, she added, “Of course, you could say the same of Marshal Rhys.”

Catrin looked away, hoping to hide her discomfiture. “I daresay he is held in high regard by everyone in the camp.”

Nerys grinned. “Indeed. Although, I would hazard a guess that no other opinion matters to him so much as yours.”

Chapter 24

Dusk was falling as Rhys led a small group of men into the narrow valley. Up ahead, smoke spiraled skyward above the longhouse, and trampled grass around the building evidenced the earlier return of the other Welsh warriors.

“Well, there’s a welcome sight,” Dyfan said, breaking the silence that had settled over the men.

Rhys gave a weary smile. “Aye. I daresay there’s not a man among us who won’t be glad of Enid’s cooking and a roof over his head tonight.”

“It sounds a sight better than eating a crust of week-old bread on the mountains.”

Rhys nodded. They’d been gone eight long days. It had been a time of prolonged travel, brutal weather, and bloody battles. Their surprise attack on the waiting Englishmen had been both punishing and fierce, but they’d achieved their goal. By the time Henry and his men had arrived at the pass, the valley and surrounding mountains had been under Welsh control. Gwilym’s men had then come up from the rear, effectively blocking all means of escape.

Henry’s plan had failed. But it had not come without a price. Even now, the gruesome images of valiant warriors, their tunics soaked by rain and blood, were the first things Rhys saw when he closed his eyes at night. Over and over again, he heard their cries of pain and shouts of victory, the clang of steel and the zing of arrows, and the chilling thud of falling men.

They had lost three warriors and suffered many injuries, but it could have been so much worse. Indeed, it may well have been catastrophic if Catrin had not reached them when she had. Her intelligence had completely turned the advantage from the English to the Welsh.

For at least the hundredth time, Rhys wondered at her arrival at the camp. What had motivated her to make that harrowing journey? It was even more baffling than her decision to go to the friary when it had been aflame. Were her leanings truly turning toward her Welsh roots? Rhys shuddered to think of what the Duke of Bedford would do should he learn what she had done. He could only pray that Catrin had recovered quickly and had returned to the castle before her betrothed was even aware of her absence.

A welcoming shout sounded from the longhouse, and Rhys recognized Gwilym at the door. When the battle at Horseshoe Pass had finally ended and the English had beat a limping retreat across the border, his two brothers had led most of their men along the most direct route back to camp. Rhys had taken six men with him to transport the three casualties to the church in Llanrwst. He’d given over care of the deceased men’s bodies to the priest, hoping the gentle man could somehow ease the pain of the families left behind.

As much as Rhys recognized that death was an inevitable part of war, the loss of comrades would never become commonplace. It would be difficult to put their deaths behind him and celebrate Wales’s astounding victory at Horseshoe Pass, but he knew that he owed it to the fighters who had given their all to recognize their achievement.

“Did all go well at the church?” Gwilym stepped away from the longhouse door to greet him.

“As well as a task of that nature could have gone,” Rhys said, sliding out of his saddle. The sound of jubilant voices came from within the building. “The men have begun their festivities?”

“Aye. Warmth, food, and ale have revived even the most exhausted.” Gwilym clapped his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Come. ’Tis past time that you joined them.”

“Allow me to take your mount to the stable, Marshal.” Dyfan extended his hand for Castan’s reins.

Rhys relinquished the straps to him. “Have Bleddyn take care of the horses so you may join us without delay.”

Dyfan nodded and started toward the other side of the building.

Gwilym turned to open the door. “Before you take your seat, there is something you must know.” He gestured for Rhys to precede him inside. Rhys raised his eyebrows in query, and without another word, Gwilym tipped his head toward the far corner of the room.

Rhys’s feet stopped of their own accord. How he knew that she was there the moment he set foot in the room, he could not say, but his eyes were drawn to her instantly. He saw her pause in her conversation with Nerys and turn to look at him. She gave him a small smile and inclined her head so slightly it was barely noticeable. Rhys forced himself to breathe.

“How is she still here?” he kept his voice low.

“I have not ascertained the details,” Gwilym said, “but it seems that Bleddyn had an accident with a horse and was unable to guide her back to Conwy.”

“There is no way that she can excuse an absence of this length to her father or the duke.” Rhys fought to temper his alarm. “What will happen to her when she returns to the castle after so long a time?”

“I know not,” Gwilym said, his brows furrowed. “But I pray she has a solution, for if any word of where she has been comes out, she will not be the only one at risk.”

“I will speak with her.” Rhys took another step into the room, and from the nearest table, a man’s voice rang out.

“To Marshal Rhys, who led us to victory!”

Mugs were raised, and a chorus of cheers filled the large room. Rhys paused. As much as he did not wish the laud for himself, he could not deny these men a leader who recognized the sacrifice and effort they had put forth on behalf of their country and new prince. “I am humbled to ride at your head.” He spoke loudly. “You fought well, and I applaud your courage and valor. Though the English numbers were greater, the Welsh resistance claims the victory.”