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“I’ve told Castan that he is charged with bringing you safely back to camp,” she said.

Rhys moved closer, reaching out to touch her cheek, loving the silky smoothness of her skin. “Then I’m sure it will be done.”

“Be careful, Rhys,” she said, her earnest expression making him yearn to hold her again. Instead, he took the reins and nodded.

“I shall. God willing, we will all return safely within a few days.”

The thud of running feet and the steadily increasing number of voices behind him heralded the arrival of the warriors from their practice sessions.

“I must go for more horses,” she said.

He nodded again. “And I must join my men.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Farewell, Catrin.”

“Farewell,” she said softly, then she turned and hurried away.

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By the time Rhys and his men reached Llanrwst, a light drizzle was falling. They forged on regardless, keeping their pace steady as they cut through the valley and past the small villages strung along their route. By Rhys’s calculations, they were within a few miles of Pensarn when Dyfan and Berwyn, the two men he’d sent on ahead, were spotted galloping toward them. Calling a halt to the company, Rhys and his brothers rode out to meet the scouts.

Dyfan reached them first, reining in his mount as Berwyn came up behind.

“Have you discovered them?” Rhys asked.

“Aye,” Dyfan said. “They’re English soldiers, to be sure. And they’re not more than five miles west of Pensarn.”

“How fast are they traveling?”

“They were moving at a steady march around Colwyn Bay, but the weather’s slowed them down some. We watched their progress from the upper trail on Llys Ridge. They’re hauling a cart, and ’tis getting bogged down in the muddy roads.”

“What of the cart’s contents?”

“It was impossible to tell from such a distance, but there’s a horse being pulled behind as well.”

“And their numbers?” Maredudd asked.

“There’s half a dozen soldiers wearing Henry’s colors and about twenty wearing yellow and black,” Dyfan said.

“Aye, and a finely dressed nobleman riding in their midst,” Berwyn added.

Rhys exchanged glances with his brothers. He needed no further clues as to the identity of the English rider, and judging by the looks on their faces, neither did they.

“Well, I’d say this miserable, wet day is just about right for trapping a stoat,” Gwilym said.

“Indeed.” There was a determined glint in Maredudd’s eyes. “Ridding Wales of vermin is always a good idea.”

“Can we reach Pensarn before them?” Rhys asked.

“Yes, Marshal,” Dyfan said. “With that cart, they’ll be stopped for a bit crossing the river.”

“Then we’ll meet them on the other side.” Rhys wheeled Castan around to return to his waiting men. “I want us in position before the English reach the water.”

It did not take long. Autumn had stripped the woodland outside Pensarn of much of its foliage, but the pine needles and fallen leaves masked the Welshmen’s approach. Once they were across the water, the men fanned out, and the marshals quickly assumed positions that afforded them the best view of the road. With eight swordsmen at their rear, Rhys and Maredudd sat astride their mounts in the protection of the trees, watching for the first sign of the English soldiers. Behind and to either side of them, hidden Welsh archers were positioned in a wide semicircle, and under Gwilym’s watchful eye, they waited, armed and ready.

The rumble of wheels reached them moments before the jingle of bridles, and Rhys’s grip on Castan’s reins tightened. Beside him, Maredudd tensed.

“Steady,” Rhys murmured as the Englishmen came into view.

Six soldiers from the castle led the group. Immediately behind them rode the Duke of Bedford, flanked on either side by his own guards. A heavily laden cart followed, with the duke’s remaining guards bringing up the rear.