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Maredudd stepped closer to help her into her saddle. With one more joyous look at the banner floating over the castle, Catrin took her seat and wheeled Seren around.

“If we make haste, we can reach Flint by dusk.”

The men mounted and fell in on either side of her.

“Then I say we travel quickly,” Maredudd said.

Catrin grinned, and without another word, she touched her heels to Seren’s sides. Her stallion broke into a gallop, and with Maredudd and Emyr keeping pace right behind, they set off along the coast road.

Chapter 32

Rhys arrived at the gatehouse just as the dour-looking constable started across the drawbridge with his escort of soldiers. As they drew nearer, the nobleman must have realized that the portcullis was yet down because he sent one of his men ahead. The soldier reached the gate and called out an order.

“Lord Arden has returned. Raise the portcullis.”

Rhys stepped up to the grating. “I fear that will not be done.”

Perturbed, the soldier took a step back, his eyes quickly scanning the gatehouse. “Where is the guard?”

“He is currently locked in a storage room, along with all other English soldiers within the castle.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Attending church had clearly done nothing to mellow the constable’s disposition. His fury at being made to wait without the castle was evident in his reddened cheeks and bulging eyes. “Raise the gate immediately.”

“Lord Arden, sir.” The soldier at the gate was backing up rapidly. “There seems to be something amiss at the castle.”

“Obviously,” the constable blustered. “The guard on duty shall be punished for this delay.”

“The guard is no longer there, my lord.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lord Arden moved up to the gate, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Rhys. “Who are you, and what are you doing there?”

“My name is Rhys ap Tudor. I am chief field marshal under Owain, Prince of Wales, and I am here to inform you that Conwy Castle is being held by the Welsh until King Henry agrees to meet our demands.”

Like a mackerel plucked from the Menai Straits, the constable’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “That is impossible.”

Rhys inclined his head. “A logical assumption, my lord, but incorrect nonetheless. The guards you left at the castle have been replaced by Welshmen loyal to the Prince of Wales, and until further notice, there is no place for you here.” He snapped his fingers, and his five men stepped forward so the constable could see them through the grate. “If you wish further proof of the Welsh appropriation, have one of your men check the status of the flag flying above the north tower.”

“Commander.” The constable was seething.

The man standing at Lord Arden’s shoulder turned and barked an order. A soldier near the back of the company took off across the drawbridge. He continued running until he had crossed the road and was sufficiently far from the castle to view the north turret. Hastening back, he bypassed the waiting soldiers and marched directly to the commander. “Henry’s standard no longer flies, Commander,” he said, panting slightly. “The banner above the castle displays Owain Glyndwr’s gold and red lions.”

Lord Arden’s purple face blanched.

“What would you have us do, my lord?” the commander asked.

“Retreat, you idiot,” the constable said. “There’s no telling how many bowmen currently have their sights set on us.” Uttering a curse on all things Welsh, he shook an ineffectual fist at Rhys. “You shall pay for this treachery, Rhys ap Tudor.”

Rhys met his glare without flinching. “I believe it will be Henry, not I, who is forced to pay, my lord.”

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Catrin, Maredudd, and Emyr pushed their mounts hard, and despite the deteriorating weather, the miles passed swiftly. By the time they reached the outskirts of Flint, rain was falling, and the horses were flagging. Struggling to push aside her own weariness, Catrin straightened her shoulders and shifted her grip on the reins, trying to maintain some feeling in her cold fingers.

“I see lights up ahead.” Emyr pointed to his left.

Through the deepening darkness, Catrin saw the flicker of torches. They illuminated the imposing towers of Flint Castle and reflected off the water of the Dee Estuary that flowed to the lower slopes of the bailey. It was a formidable sight, and Catrin allowed herself a moment of apprehension as they turned onto the road that led to the castle.

“The drawbridge is down,” Maredudd said. “So we shall hope that Hotspur chooses to admit us rather than give his bowmen additional target practice.”