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Rhys joined his brother and surveyed the haul.

“The first two loads are already gone,” Gwilym said. “Elis took away a cartload of swords, maces, and spears; his friend has one full of crossbows and longbows. They’re hiding them in a barn until they can get them up to Llanrwst, but they should be back for another consignment before long.”

“Have them take the longbows and arrows on the next run,” Rhys said. “If Hotspur arrives before we’ve moved everything, the bows will be of most use to us.”

Gwilym nodded. “You still believe he will come soon?”

“Aye.” Rhys touched the small leather purse hanging from his belt where he’d placed Catrin’s letter. “If he comes at all, it will be in the next day or two.”

With the toe of his shoe, Gwilym loosened a small rock wedged between the cobbles. “What are our chances, Rhys? Will we walk out of here free men?”

“I pray it is so. My short time at Flint Castle taught me that Catrin and Maredudd were able to persuade Hotspur to take our case to the king. Whether or not he is successful, however, is another matter entirely.”

“For you to make that journey was madness.”

There was censure in Gwilym’s tone. Rhys could not fault him, but neither could he summon any regret for having made the reckless trip. The wet weather had worked for his good, enabling him to keep his head and face well covered. He had obtained the information he’d sought, and he had seen Catrin. In truth, he could not have asked for more. “It was a risk I was willing to take,” he said.

Gwilym shook his head in obvious disagreement, but Rhys was saved from defending his position further by the arrival of Elis with his empty cart.

“Load up as many longbows and arrows as the cart can hold,” Gwilym called.

The handful of men in the inner ward set to work, and within minutes, Elis was trundling the oversized barrow out of the castle again just as his friend arrived back with an empty one.

They managed to remove three more cartfuls of weapons from the castle before Glyn issued a warning cry from atop the east tower. “English soldiers spotted on the coast road!”

Rhys and Gwilym left Dyfan and Berwyn in charge of disposing of the last of the maces and spears and hurried to the battlements.

“Do you see them?” Gwilym asked, scouring the road as it followed the shoreline.

“There!” Rhys pointed to a spot just outside the town walls. “Coming into view around the promontory.”

Gwilym’s stance tensed. “It looks to be at least fifty men.”

Rhys strained to identify the figures at the head of the soldiers. A dark-haired man rode beside the flag-bearer, and behind him came three others. Even amongst the men’s colorful surcoats, Catrin’s green gown and golden hair set her apart, and she looked to be riding between Maredudd and Emyr.

He took a deep breath and pulled back his shoulders. “It appears that the time has come to discover our fate.” He met Gwilym’s grave expression with his own. “Ready the men.”

By the time Hotspur and his contingent reached the drawbridge, the Welshmen were prepared to meet them. Archers bearing longbows lined the battlements and were strategically placed behind arrowslits within the towers. At the gatehouse, a dozen men armed with swords stood behind Rhys and Gwilym, in position to step up and take on any English soldiers who attempted a forced entry.

The Tudor brothers watched silently as Hotspur raised his hand to halt his men on the drawbridge. He dismounted and walked back to speak with Catrin before offering her his hand. She slid from her saddle, placed her hand on his arm, and started for the gate. Rhys kept his eyes on Hotspur and tightened his grip on his sword.

“Rhys ap Tudor and Gwilym ap Tudor.” Hotspur inclined his head. “We meet at last.”

Gritting his teeth at Hotspur’s banal politeness, Rhys managed a perfunctory bow. He was attempting to hostage an English castle, his life and the life of his brother were in jeopardy, and the woman he loved had her hand on the nobleman’s arm. This was not the time to exchange pleasantries. “What news, Hotspur?”

The nobleman offered him a thin smile and opened the satchel he wore across his chest. Drawing out a scroll, he held it up for Rhys and Gwilym to see. “With authority given to me by King Henry, I come to reclaim Conwy Castle for the English throne in exchange for a royal pardon issued for Rhys ap Tudor and Gwilym ap Tudor.”

Rhys’s mouth went dry. Had he heard the man aright? Had their outrageous plot truly won him back his life? Instinctively, his eyes sought Catrin’s. A single tear rolled down her cheek. Merciful heavens, how he loved her! Gwilym and Glyn, Elis and the other carpenters, his loyal men—they had all played their part, but Catrin was the one who had brought their efforts to this conclusion. Somehow, she had persuaded Hotspur to fight for their cause.

Beside him, Gwilym cleared his throat. “So, to be clear, Henry has issued us both a full pardon in exchange for the return of Conwy Castle.”

“Indeed.” Hotspur raised his head, studying the fortress with undisguised admiration. “Which only goes to show that your lives are worth a significant amount.”

Rhys extended his hand for the scroll. “May I?”

Hotspur raised an eyebrow and pulled it back. “I think not. There is a little matter of castle occupancy to resolve first.”

“Break the seal,” Rhys said. There would be no Welsh exodus from the castle until he was sure of the contents of the document. “I wish to read the pardon for myself.”