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His brother gave a solemn nod. “You have my word.”

That was all he could ask. As hard as it was, he now had to give his full attention to his men, their assault on the castle, and outmaneuvering King Henry.

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The portcullis chains rattled, and Conwy Castle’s heavy gate began to rise just as the chapel bells commenced their call to mass. From his position in the recessed entrance of the saddler’s shop across the way, Rhys watched the first of the English soldiers exit the castle behind an older man dressed in the rich colors and fabrics of the nobility. The grim-faced stranger was undoubtedly the constable of Conwy Castle, and he was making his pilgrimage to the church well protected.

On the other side of the street, Gwilym stood in the shadows of the alley that led to the harbor. A hood covered most of his face, but Rhys could see his mouth moving and knew his brother was counting the soldiers as they crossed the drawbridge and started down the road that led to the church. Gwilym waited until the soldiers and the straggling stream of castle servants behind them had disappeared around the bend, then darted across the street to join Rhys.

“Fifty-seven,” he said.

“I counted the same.” Rhys studied the castle entrance. “’Tis a goodly number, and it could be that all those who are attending mass are out, but the gate is not yet closed.”

Gwilym followed Rhys’s gaze and frowned. “With only an hour to secure the castle before the English return, we don’t have time to wait for the portcullis to lower.”

“A few minutes more,” Rhys said firmly. “The bells are ringing still, and I’d rather not meet suspicious soldiers on our way in.”

The church bells finally fell silent. Gwilym shifted his feet impatiently, but Rhys kept his eyes on the gate. Moments later, he spotted movement, and three guards hurried across the drawbridge, the sound of their footsteps masked by the rattling chain of the lowering portcullis. They ran past without looking to the left or right and were soon out of sight.

“Now we go,” Rhys said. “Call the men.”

Gwilym put his fingers to his mouth and sent out his song thrush call. He paused, then repeated it. From somewhere nearby, the distinct rumble of wooden wheels crossing cobblestones reached them, and seconds later, Elis and his two carpenter friends appeared ahead of a cart and a large group of men. Rhys pulled a coarse woollen hood over his head, then he and Gwilym joined the men in their slow walk to the castle gates.

When they reached the drawbridge, Rhys increased his pace so he was standing immediately behind Elis as they approached the gate. On the other side of the portcullis, a guard wearing Henry’s colors watched them warily.

“Who goes there?” he called in English.

“The castle carpenters,” Elis replied.

From where he stood, Rhys could see the slight shake in Elis’s hand, but his voice was steady, and he obviously understood the guard’s English well enough to respond in kind. The guard moved closer and studied them through the grating. Rhys lowered his head, keeping his face hidden.

“Why are you here?”

“We were summoned by the constable of the castle,” Elis said.

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “The constable is attending mass.” His gaze traveled from the carpenters to the men behind them to the handcart. “I would have thought you carpenters would also be at the church service.”

“We should have liked to attend, but the constable ordered us to see to the broken railing in the south tower straightway, and so we are come.”

Elis wiped his sleeve across his brow, and Rhys glanced at Gwilym. His brother’s hand was tucked inside his tunic, and Rhys was certain his fingers were curled around the hilt of the dagger hidden there. They needed to get inside now—before any other guards arrived to see what was amiss at the gate and before Elis gave something away with his mounting agitation. Although the carpenters must have picked up some English working at the castle, it was unlikely that any of his warriors could speak the language well enough to help.

Rhys pulled at his hood until it completely covered his eyes and stepped up to the gate. “That we are here on a Sunday should tell you that the constable wishes this job completed in a timely fashion.” He kept his voice even. “I fear he will not be happy when he returns from mass to find us yet on the drawbridge awaiting your decision to admit us.”

The guard scowled, and Rhys knew that when it came to the constable’s temperament, he’d guessed aright.

“Very well. Move away.”

Rhys stepped back, and with a loud grinding, the portcullis inched upward. He held his breath, waiting for more guards to appear to question the opening of the gate. But none came.

“To the south tower with you,” the guard said crossly. “And make haste.”

Elis and his friends hurried into the outer ward. Rhys and Gwilym followed more slowly, eyeing the battlements and guard tower as they entered.

“’Tis very quiet,” Gwilym muttered. “I’ve spotted only three men atop the walls.”

Rhys nodded. “That looks to be the garrison to our left. Not much activity there either.”

Even though they had hoped it was so, to find the castle so unprotected was staggering. He looked behind. The last of the Welshmen had entered the gate, and the guard was lowering the portcullis once more. Rhys signaled the men hauling the handcart to pull it around the stables, and the moment they were out of view of the guard at the gate, he pulled back the fabric and started handing out weapons and assignments.