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“And what, pray tell, do you imagine we can give the king that is of enough worth to warrant pardoning the men bent on removing him from Wales?”

“Conwy Castle.”

Rhys stared at him. “The same castle that is currently under English control?”

“Aye. But it won’t be. Not after we take it. And then Henry will do anything we request to reclaim it.”

“Did you lose whatever semblance of sense you owned in Conwy? What you are suggesting is madness.”

“Desperation, mayhap,” Gwilym said. “But not madness.” He folded his arms. “It can be done, Rhys.”

“You have come up with a way that a small group of Welsh rebels can enter and successfully take control of one of Henry’s impenetrable fortresses?”

“Aye.” Gwilym was not giving an inch. “And I believe it will work.”

Rhys ran his fingers through his hair and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. I will hear your plan, but I would be grateful if you would exert your energies toward devising something a little less unrealistic afterward.”

Gwilym scowled. “Keep an open mind, Rhys. You, of all people, know the power of surprise in warfare. No one will expect this. Not the king, not the constable of Conwy Castle, and certainly not the guards.”

“Well, on that, you and I can agree.”

Gwilym rolled his eyes. “Glyn, tell Marshal Rhys about your brother.”

Glyn squared his shoulders and faced Rhys. “I have a brother called Elis, who lives in Conwy. He’s a carpenter, and for years now, he’s been working on the castle. There’s a few of them in town that were forced into it, and ’tis that massive they’ll probably be working on it until the day they die. Elis would rather be up here fighting, but he’s got a family, and they can’t do without him.” He shifted on the bench. “I’m telling you this so you understand where his allegiance lies; he’ll help if we ask.”

“Although I appreciate his loyalty,” Rhys said, “I fail to see how he can.”

“According to Elis, the guards are all planning to attend a special mass in town on Sunday.”

“All of them?”

“All but about a dozen who will be left to man the gate.”

Rhys raised his eyebrows. “And he is sure of this.”

“Aye. It seems that the English survived the winter months much as we did. The number of guards is down at the castle because most of the men returned to their homes across the border to await the warmer weather.”

Gwilym leaned across the table. “A dozen guards, Rhys. That is all.”

“No matter how many guards are present, they’re not likely to admit a company of armed Welshmen,” Rhys said.

“They will if they believe the Welshmen to be the same carpenters who come and go all the time.”

Gwilym’s look dared him to contradict. Instead, Rhys turned to Glyn. “How many carpenters go into the castle at a time?”

“Upwards of twenty, is what my brother says.”

“And better yet,” Gwilym added, “they take in a cart loaded with tools.” He gave a smug smile. “Our tools would be of little use in woodworking, but the guards need not know that.”

Rhys’s mind was racing. Did this scheme that had initially appeared so completely implausible actually have merit? Could the castle truly be overtaken? If there was so much as one thread of possibility in this confusing tapestry, he could not dismiss it out of hand. For one thing was certain: if he did not find a way to clear his name, his dream of marrying Catrin was gone.

“Even if such an overthrow could be accomplished, how would you get word to King Henry?” Catrin asked.

Gwilym looked pleased. “That is where you would come in, Lady Catrin Buckley.”

“Gwilym!” Rhys did not mask his shock. “You forget yourself.”

Gwilym ignored his brother’s rebuke. “My apologies, Catrin. I made Glyn aware of your identity, but he is sworn to secrecy.”