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Rhys studied the wagon moving slowly toward them. Wooden chests and burlap sacks filled its interior, and a rope hanging from the back was attached to the bridle of a large black horse. As the road’s gradient steepened and the cart rumbled toward the river, the horse skittered sideways and whinnied nervously, tossing his head to one side and exposing a distinctive white marking on his forehead.

“That’s Seren,” Rhys hissed. “The duke has stolen Catrin’s horse.”

“Well, he won’t have him for long,” Maredudd said. He placed his hand over the hilt of his sword and looked over at Rhys. “Now?”

“Now,” Rhys said and dug his heels into Castan’s sides.

The two horses flew out of the woodland toward the river. From the trees, a hair-raising cry rent the air, and the Welsh swordsmen galloped after them. Taken by surprise, the castle soldiers, who were almost across the river, urged their mounts up the riverbank, drawing their swords as their horses slipped and scrabbled for footing. The duke, caught midstream, shouted for the men to attack, his face quickly becoming puce. Guards scrambled to respond, entering the water around the cart that now had all four wheels submerged.

Seren screamed, pulling back frantically on the rope that tied him to the cart. The driver gave him a terrified glance and cracked the reins above the cart horse that had come to an abrupt halt in the rapidly moving water. Directing an oath at the man, the duke started back toward the trapped conveyance, drawing something from the side of his saddle as he went.

Rhys started after him, but one of the castle soldiers blocked his path.

“Out of my way,” Rhys cried, swinging his sword and nicking the soldier’s arm. The man growled in anger and lunged at Rhys. Rhys parried. Castan stood his ground, and Rhys swung left, his sword piercing the solder’s side. Clutching his ribs, the man slumped forward.

All around, the clang of steel told of ferocious individual battles, and from the river came the duke’s furious voice. “Get the cart across.”

“’Tis the stallion. He’s pulling us back.”

Another foul oath preceded more splashing. Rhys wheeled Castan around. The duke was heading toward Seren, a whip swinging wildly above his head. Digging his heels into Castan, Rhys urged his mount toward the river. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another guard racing toward him, this one dressed in yellow and black. Seconds later, an arrow flew past his head, landing directly in the guard’s shoulder. The man screamed in pain, his horse veering away as Castan’s hooves entered the water.

A crack sounded, and Seren shrieked, his legs thrashing as he jerked wildly against the rope that held him captive. Vaguely aware of the splash of another horse entering the water behind him, Rhys kept his eyes on the duke. Pushing Castan to forge the river at a trot, he was within arm’s length of the manic nobleman when the cruel strip of leather sailed through the air a second time. Rhys heard the slap of the whip making contact with Seren’s back seconds before the horse shrieked again.

Castan closed the gap, and with barely controlled fury, Rhys raised his sword and pressed its tip against the Duke of Bedford’s back.

“Do that one more time and I will run you through,” he said, his tone icy, his English flawless.

The duke froze. Then slowly, he turned his head to face his challenger. “Rhys ap Tudor.” He fairly spat the words. “I should have guessed as much. You may wear the clothing of the gentry, but beneath it all, you are nothing more than a barbarian.”

“There is only one barbarian here, Your Grace, and he has tortured that majestic animal for the last time.”

“That feral beast deserves every stripe he has received.”

Rhys drew his sword downward, slicing the duke’s cloak in two. “How many stripes have you given him, Your Grace?” With deadly precision, he raised his sword and cut a second slash through the fabric—then a third and fourth. “Four? Five, perhaps?”

“Why you—” The duke went for the sword at his hip, but he was not fast enough.

“I think not.” This time Rhys had his sword at the stoat’s throat. He stared at the man, waiting. The water rushed past, the horses stilled, and the clang of swords and muffled shouts on the far bank faded. And in that moment, the Duke of Bedford’s eyes finally showed fear.

“Drop the whip.”

The switch landed in the river, swirled around the duke’s horse’s legs twice, then sailed downstream.

“I think mayhap the sword should be the next thing to go.” Coming from behind Rhys, Gwilym also spoke in English. His horse circled the duke, and he leaned down to draw the nobleman’s sword from its scabbard before tossing it into the water several feet away.

“You shall pay dearly for this,” the duke said. With Rhys’s sword still at his neck, he did not move an inch, but his eyes darted between the two brothers, rage causing his entire frame to quake. “Mark my words. I shall see you hanging from the gallows.”

Gwilym raised his sword and nonchalantly sliced three buttons off the front of the duke’s tunic. “Do you wish to deal with him, or shall I?”

“I shall give you the pleasure.” Rhys lowered his sword as Gwilym elevated his to take its place. “I must see to Seren.”

The duke’s wrath was all-consuming. “You are thieves and murderers!”

“We fight in defense of our rights, our people, and our land,” Rhys said. “And unlike you or your English king, we have yet to stoop to stealing.”

“You lie! Even now you aim to take my horse.”

“The black stallion you have so blatantly abused is not yours.” Rhys was already reconsidering his decision to allow Gwilym to have his way with the loathsome man. “It belongs to Lady Catrin Buckley, and on the morrow, it will be returned to her keeping.”