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“So you think.” The Duke of Bedford sneered. “Without a whip, you will never get that intractable stallion farther than the riverbank before he bolts.”

Rhys would listen to him no longer. “He’s yours, Gwilym. Do with him as you will.” Then he turned his back on the taunting nobleman and surveyed the unexpectedly calm scene on the riverbank.

All the Englishmen were sitting in a dismal huddle at the side of the road, surrounded by a circle of armed Welsh archers. Their mounts had been gathered and tied in groups of twos and threes to nearby tree branches. A few more Welshmen stood nearby, monitoring the animals. Maredudd sat astride his horse, attentively watching Dyfan’s and Emyr’s efforts to haul the cart’s driver to shore, while Berwyn had taken the man’s place on the wooden seat, his hands on the reins, his eyes now on Rhys.

“Whenever you’re ready, Marshal Rhys,” he said. “I’ll take the cart across as soon as you say the word.”

“Once I’ve untied the stallion, you are free to go,” Rhys said.

“Very well, Marshal.” He hesitated and glanced over his shoulder. “I fear he’s got himself a bit worked up.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Rhys said grimly. He eyed the distraught stallion for a few moments, then he unclipped his cloak and tossed it into the back of the cart, slid out of his saddle, and landed on his feet in the thigh-deep water. He was already well soaked from the light rain that had been falling for the last three hours, but the sudden exposure to the chilly river water sent a shudder through him.

“Take Castan,” he said, handing Berwyn the reins. “Mind him well.”

“Yes, Marshal.”

Placing one hand on the side of the cart, Rhys waded toward Seren. The stallion tossed his head frantically.

“Steady, boy.” Speaking in Welsh, he kept his voice low and approached slowly. “I won’t hurt you.” He paused, waiting for the horse to smell the air, hoping that the water would not hide the familiarity of his scent. Seren tugged against the rope again, but this time with less desperation.

“There’s a good fellow.” Rhys stretched out his hand, and Seren lowered his head and sniffed. “Do you remember the ride we took together? Catrin was with us.”

At the mention of Catrin’s name, the intelligent animal looked up, his ears twitching. “She’s missed you, and I’m thinking you’ve missed her too.” Carefully, he touched Seren’s wet coat, patting it gently. The horse snorted, but he did not pull away. “I’d like to take you to Catrin. How would you feel about that?”

Seren lowered his head once more, and this time, he nuzzled Rhys’s ear. Rhys released an unsteady breath and ran his hand down the horse’s long neck. “You see,” he said softly, “we are not so very different, you and I. We both want to be out of this frigid water and with Catrin.”

The stallion turned his dark eyes on him. They were steady. Rhys stilled his hand but kept it on Seren’s shoulder. The nervous jitters had subsided.

“Now, you have to understand that for this to work, we need to trust each other,” Rhys said. “I will cut the rope and set you free of this cart, and in return, you will stay with me until I can get you to Catrin.” Seren bobbed his head as though he were nodding his agreement, and Rhys took hold of the rope. Keeping his eyes on Seren’s, he pulled his dagger from his girdle. “Remember now,” he said. “Trust.”

The sound of the severing hessian rope hovered between them. Seren took a few stumbling steps back, whinnied, and tossed his head wildly, then took a few more.

“Seren.” Rhys kept his voice calm but firm. “Come here, boy.” The river rushed by, and Rhys waited. In the cart, Berwyn made no movement. Rhys did not know what had become of Gwilym or the duke, but silence hung over the men on the far bank. “’Tis time to go to Catrin, Seren.”

The stallion gazed downstream, whisked away a horsefly with a whoosh of his tail, then plodded through the water until he was close enough for Rhys to grasp the sliced rope.

“Berwyn?” He kept his voice even, patting Seren’s shoulder as he spoke.

“Yes, Marshal.”

“Signal someone to come fetch Castan. I’m going to lead Seren out on foot. I don’t know where his wounds are, so I can’t risk mounting him. As soon as the horses are clear, drive the cart across.”

“Consider it done,” Berwyn said.

Chapter 27

His wet hose clung to his legs, and water oozed from his shoes, but there was nothing Rhys could do to help it. Reclaiming his cloak from the back of the cart, he surveyed the contents of the many chests and sacks. Wheat, oats, and barley—enough to feed a small village for weeks. Sacks of animal pelts and chests of silver and gold coins.

“What’s to be done with it all?” Gwilym asked.

“It shall go back to Beaumaris,” Rhys said. He pushed aside the vision of how many Welsh warriors the food would feed or the use they could make of the pelts and money. “We are not thieves, and I refuse to lower myself to the Duke of Bedford’s level. These things belong to the people of Anglesey. With the help of the wandering friars, the priest can redistribute the wealth to those who lost everything they had.”

He jumped down from the back of the cart and looked over at the duke, who was sitting on the ground beneath a fir tree, bound hand and foot, watching them with a vitriolic glare.

“He doesn’t look very grateful to you for sparing his life, Gwilym,” Maredudd said, walking over to join his brothers at the cart.

“I daresay he’d be happy to tell us exactly what he’s thinking if I were to loosen the strip of cloak he now wears across his mouth,” Gwilym said. He shrugged. “I had to do something to prevent him from scaring off Seren with all his shouting. A dunking in the river and a gag seemed a lot less messy than a goring.”