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With a frown, Hotspur ran his finger beneath the wax and unrolled the scroll. Raising it so that it faced Rhys, he waited while the Welshmen read its contents. “And so you see,” he said, rerolling it and placing it back inside the satchel. “There is no trickery here. As soon as all Welshmen within the castle have been replaced by my soldiers, I will hand you the document and you may be on your way as free men.”

Rhys shook his head. “Give the document to Lady Catrin. It will remain in her safekeeping until the transfer of troops is complete.”

Hotspur ran his fingers down his beard, taking a few moments to consider Rhys’s request. “Very well. But she is to remain clearly visible to both parties at all times.”

Seeing as Rhys had no intention of allowing Catrin out of his sight from this point on, Hotspur’s stipulation was easily satisfied. “Agreed.”

The nobleman lifted the satchel off his shoulder and offered it to Catrin. She took it from him, slipping the strap over her head, and placed her hand protectively over its clasp.

“Now,” Hotspur said, giving Rhys a pointed look. “I suggest you gather your men.”

Chapter 35

Catrin sat astride Seren on the drawbridge. To her left, Hotspur was watching the Welshmen exit the castle in a slow but steady stream, his growing impatience evidenced in his repeated glances at the gradually lowering sun and the restlessness of his hands on the reins of his horse. Rhys was seated upon Castan at her right. His rigid posture hinted at the strain he was under, but his focus had yet to shift from his men gathering on the road leading from the castle.

No one spoke, and in the tense silence, the clip-clop of the Welshmen’s horses’ hooves and the fidgety snorts of the English soldiers’ mounts reverberated off the stone bulwarks. Overhead, a seagull screamed, and in the distance, the rush of the sea crashing against the castle’s curtain wall and the faint cries of fishermen’s voices coming from the harbor reached them on the wind.

Holding Seren’s reins with one hand, Catrin clutched Hotspur’s satchel securely with the other, grateful for the reassurance that the precious pardon was still there while she watched the Welsh give up their greatest prize. Dyfan and Glyn rode past, their faces forward. Then suddenly, there was no one. Hotspur leaned forward on his mount, eyeing the gate expectantly, and at last, Gwilym exited and steered his horse toward them.

“The castle is now empty of Welshmen, my lord.” He held out the fabric folded in his hand. “And the Prince of Wales’s flag has been lowered from the tower.”

With anticipation shining in his eyes, Hotspur turned to Rhys. “Your willingness to execute a civil exchange of control has been duly noted,” he said, “but with the transfer complete, any lingering Welsh presence will be construed as a threat.”

“Understood,” Rhys said. He glanced at Gwilym, who gave a confirming nod, wheeled his horse around once more, and started after Glyn.

Catrin kept her eyes on Rhys, her heart pounding as she awaited his instructions.

Only after Gwilym had cleared the drawbridge and taken his place at the head of the Welshmen did Rhys turn to her. “It is time, Catrin.”

She gave him a small smile, then clasping the satchel tightly, she touched her heels to Seren’s sides and cantered past the English soldiers, Rhys beside her, to join Gwilym, Maredudd, and their men.

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“Did you tell Hotspur about the men tied up in the east tower?” Gwilym asked as Rhys took his place at the front of the small company.

Rhys shook his head. “He’ll find them soon enough. Offering him almost twenty soldiers bent on revenge before we quit the town did not seem the wisest policy.”

Gwilym grinned. “A judicious move. Even if they do find that they are unaccountably short on weapons.”

“Is it possible that you have been tampering with Henry’s property, Gwilym?” Maredudd asked, giving him a knowing look.

“We had to do something while you were gone, now, didn’t we?”

Maredudd rolled his eyes, and Rhys’s lips twitched.

“Come,” he said. “We must be off.”

With Gwilym riding at his right and Maredudd at his left, Rhys led his men out of Conwy. Townspeople stopped their activities to cheer and wave as the small company of Welsh resistance fighters passed by, but Rhys kept them moving at a steady pace until they exited the town wall and were well on their way up the valley. Only then, with the snow-topped mountains before them and an empty road behind did the unseen weight he’d been carrying for weeks begin to lift from his shoulders. The implausible had suddenly become plausible; he and Gwilym were free men. And Catrin carried the proof.

He turned his head. Flanked by Dyfan and Emyr, Catrin was riding a few yards behind, her arm tightly pressed against the satchel at her side. Emyr said something and indicated to his right. She looked that way, and a smile illuminated her beautiful face. Rhys swallowed past the ache in his throat.

“Take the lead, Gwilym,” he said. “I wish to speak with Catrin.”

To his surprise, Gwilym hesitated and glanced at Maredudd, who gave a barely discernible nod before fixing Rhys with a pointed look. “A word of advice before you go to her,” he said.

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Advice?”

“Aye.” Maredudd’s gaze did not waver. “Ask for her hand.”