Ranulf was still not convinced. “Suppose it was just coming in for repairs?”
Peryf’s messenger spoke up then. “It did not drop anchor, my lord Ranulf. The winds were contrary and it was unable to enter the harbor. After several failed attempts, it sailed off to the east, hugging the coast. If they had an urgent need for repairs, surely they’d have kept on trying? I followed for a time and it seemed to me that they were seeking another harbor on the sheltered side of the island. As I told Lord Peryf, I truly think their intent was to put passengers ashore.”
“Nothing else makes sense,” Peryf repeated. “I think we should ride for the east coast. There are several coves and harbors suitable for landing. Dulas, for one. But the best harbor by far is at Traeth Coch. I am certain that Hywel means to land there.”
“And what if you’re wrong and the cog sails ere we can get back to Aber Menai?”
Peryf shrugged. “We’ll make it worth his while to wait.”
The other man’s sudden, uncharacteristic extravagance proved—if it still needed proving—just how worried he truly was. Ranulf conceded the argument with a joke about getting Hywel to pay for the additional expenses, and hoped that he was not motivated by a desire to put off his sea voyage for another day.
THE ISLE known as Anglesey to the English and Môn to the Welsh had once been called Ynys Dywell, the Dark Island, so heavily wooded was it in bygone times. But by God’s Year 1171, much of its deep, primal forest had been cleared away, for the low-lying, fertile land was ideally suited to farming, and Môn had long functioned as Gwynedd’s granary. With neither mountains nor wealds to hinder their progress and less than fifteen miles to cover, the men expected to reach Traeth Coch before dark. Skirting the edges of the vast river marshes of Cors Ddyga, they soon had the sun at their backs. The morning’s chill had been overtaken by an afternoon warming, giving rise to patches of the fog so common to an island climate. By the time they were in sight of the church at Pentraeth, which overlooked the bay, dusk was beginning to cast lengthening shadows and the day’s light was slowly ebbing. The waters of Traeth Coch had darkened from sapphire to a twilight indigo and a ship was anchored in the cove.
As they drew nearer, the sails unfurled and took the wind, a sudden burst of brightness against the hazy sky, and then the ship was in flight, gracefully cresting the waves of the bay as it headed for open water. They began to yell, spurring their horses forward. But then they saw the men standing at the water’s edge, saw the one taller by a head than the others, hair the color of the sun, legacy of the silver fox, and their shouting changed timbre, soaring skyward with great relief and even greater joy.
THE REUNION was noisy, jubilant, and somewhat chaotic, for two of Peryf’s brothers had accompanied Hywel to Ireland and now had to be welcomed home, too, as did Hywel’s son Caswallon, and Ranulf’s son, the newly named Bleddyn. For a time, voices merged, laughter rang out, and they were able to forget that death had brought them together, the death of a well-loved father and a formidable prince.
Tathan was the man of the hour, lavishly praised for accomplishing his challenging mission with dispatch and aplomb. He had located Hywel within two days of his arrival in Dublin, bearing his heavyhearted message of Owain’s death. Hywel had at once made plans to return to Wales straightaway, but the Irish weather was even more erratic than in Wales and winter gales had stranded him for weeks, unable to find any ship’s master foolhardy enough to venture out into the cauldron of the Irish Sea.
“Is it true,” Hywel demanded, “that you were really going off in search of me?” When Ranulf nodded, he burst out laughing. “Once or twice in your cups, you pledged to go to Hell for me if need be, but nary a word was ever said about Ireland!”
“Rhiannon made me do it,” Ranulf said, and Hywel laughed all the harder. Caradog joined in with mock indignation, wanting to know why he was not being commended for his willingness to accompany Ranulf, and his brothers roared when Hywel pointed out that he was crazed enough to think a sea voyage to Ireland in the dead of winter was an opportunity for adventure.
Hywel wanted to know all that had happened during his absence, more amused than alarmed by Peryf’s dour suspicions about Davydd and Rhodri. “I know folklore holds that an apple never falls far from the tree, but Cristyn’s Dead Sea Fruit landed halfway between Limbo and Purgatory.”
That sally sparked much merriment among Hywel’s audience, and Ranulf thought, not for the first time, that Hywel could transform words into weapons with the ease of an alchemist. He shared what little he knew of happenings in England, then, that Thomas Becket had landed on English shores on the first of December, after excommunicating the bishops on the very eve of his departure. Hywel did not seem surprised by this, commenting dryly that Becket would do well to heed an ancient Welsh proverb; a wise man ought not to let his tongue cut his own throat.
Hywel also had news to impart, briefly relating the current turmoil in Ireland, where Dermot, the King of Leincester, had allied himself with one of the most powerful of Henry’s Marcher barons, Richard de Clare, Lord of Pembroke, in an attempt to stave off his Irish adversaries. “Dermot offered de Clare his daughter and the promise of his realm upon his death. I daresay the English king would like to see a Norman kingdom in Ireland about as much as he’d enjoy watching Becket consecrated as the next Pope. So I think it safe to say that the next time he gets to hungering for lands not his, he’ll be looking toward Ireland, not Wales.”
Among Hywel’s talents was one particularly valuable to a prince: the ability to inspire confidence and hope in his followers. Now that he was back on Welsh soil, safely back in their midst, the morrow was once more full of promise. They well knew that the loss of Owain could have dealt a death blow to Gwynedd if he’d not had a son worthy to succeed him, if he’d not had Hywel.
The day was done, which meant that the night must be passed on Môn, for no man in his senses would attempt an evening crossing of the Menai Straits. In his urgency to return to Wales, Hywel had taken the first ship from Ireland whose master was willing to make a January voyage, one that had been too small to transport horses. Now, after some discussion, it was decided to head for Llan-faes, where Owain had a manor and stables. Amid much good-natured bickering and jesting, some of Peryf’s men offered their mounts for the use of the new arrivals, and horses were found for Caswallon, Bleddyn, and Peryf’s brothers Iddon and Aerddur. The rest of Hywel’s men agreed to wait at the Pentraeth church until additional horses could be dispatched from Llan-faes, and by the time it was all sorted out, dusk had staked its claim to the island and sea fog was swirling in to hide the horizon.
Hywel had brought back an Irish keepsake, a young wolfhound as big as a pony, and it loped easily beside his stallion as they rode toward Llan-faes. He’d named it Cúchoigríche, he explained, which meant “hound of the border,” laughing at Ranulf’s futile attempts to get his tongue around the unfamiliar Irish. He’d said little of his father so far, asking only for assurances that Owain had been buried in consecrated ground despite dying excommunicate. Ranulf knew him well enough not to push, though. Hywel’s grieving had been done in private, for he did not find it easy to offer up glimpses of his inner soul, not even to so close a friend as Ranulf. Instead, he entertained Ranulf and Peryf and the others with a rollicking account of Bleddyn’s romantic conquests, claiming that the lad had broken numerous female hearts in Dublin during his short stay. Bleddyn flushed and denied all, but Ranulf could see that his son was secretly pleased by the attention and he made careful note of the names Hywel was bandying about—Áine and Mór and Sorcha—to tease him in the days to come.
Llan-faes was just five miles from Pentraeth, and Ranulf was thankful for it, as his back had begun to protest so many hours in the saddle. Slackening the reins, he let his stallion ease its pace, not wanting Hywel to notice his discomfort, knowing he’d be tormented mercilessly if he did. Dropping back inconspicuously, he was soon riding in the rear, where he occupied himself by trying to thin
k of a suitable gift for his niece; Maud’s birthday was coming up after Candlemas. He had no warning, would never know what caused his stallion’s misstep, but he could tell at once that something was wrong. Dismounting by the side of the road, he examined the animal in the dimming light and quickly discovered the injury, a back tendon hot and tender to the touch.
Ranulf swore softly and with considerable feeling. Only his stallion’s obvious distress kept him from losing his temper entirely. After briefly contemplating his options, none of which appealed, he took the reins and started to lead the horse slowly back toward Pentraeth. It was not long before he heard hoofbeats behind him. Turning toward the sound, he let his hand drop to his sword hilt from force of habit, and then smiled at the sight of his son.
“Papa?” Reining in beside him, Bleddyn gazed over at the limping stallion. “Roland’s gone lame? What foul luck!”
Ranulf was inutterably touched that Bleddyn should have observed his disappearance and come back to check up on him. He said nothing, of course, not wanting to embarrass them both, and so they spent several moments discussing Roland’s injury. “He seems to have strained a sinew. It could be much worse, but he cannot be ridden like this. I’ll have to walk him back to Pentraeth, soak the leg in water, and make a bran poultice. Most likely I’ll have to leave him overnight with the priest, damn the luck.”
“I’ll keep you company,” Bleddyn said and would have dismounted if Ranulf had not shaken his head.
“No, Bleddyn, I’d rather you catch up with Hywel and tell him of my mishap. Tell him, too, that if he laughs, I might remember the time he was flirting with two sisters at Nefyn and Smoke shadow-jumped, tossing him head over heels into a briar patch.” Bleddyn said nothing, but there was such an odd look on his face that Ranulf added, “Is something amiss?”
“Nothing at all. It is just . . . that you’d not called me Bleddyn before.” Bleddyn smiled then, a smile so like Rhiannon’s that Ranulf could only marvel how he’d missed the resemblance.
As Bleddyn disappeared into the mist, Ranulf began trudging again toward Pentraeth, stopping frequently to rest and comfort his horse. He was tired and hungry, but happier than he’d been in months, relieved to be spared that harrowing journey to Ireland, grateful that he’d heeded Hywel’s advice and accepted his son’s name change. He found himself wondering suddenly if Harry and his sons were traveling a road as rough hewn as the one he’d been riding with Gilbert-Bleddyn for so long. Why were daughters so much easier to rear? Mallt had given him nary a worry over the years. Whereas Morgan was already a hellion at six; God forbid what he’d be like at sixteen!
The sounds were muffled by the fog, but far too familiar for Ranulf to mistake; he’d fought in enough battles to recognize the din in his sleep. He stood still for a heartbeat, listening to the metallic clash of swords, the cries of men and horses, and then hastily looped Roland’s reins over the nearest bush before he began to run.
“Gilbert!” He wasn’t even aware that he was shouting his son’s name. “Gilbert!” The fog was inconstant, drifting over the land like sea smoke. One moment he’d break free of it, only to plunge into another cloud. The air was mild and damp, and he felt as if he were trying to breathe underwater. The fog distorted sounds and he could no longer trust his senses, could not judge distance. He fell once, was up even before his bruised body could register the impact. And then suddenly he was there, emerging from the mist onto a scene of carnage.
The fighting was over, the battlefield strewn with crumpled bodies, dropped weapons, and several downed horses. Unlike most battles, there had been no looting and the attacking force was already gone, in their hasty retreat leaving behind riderless stallions and bloodied or broken swords. Ranulf came to a halt, stunned, unwilling to believe what he was seeing. Drawing his sword in a reflex action, he peered blindly into the night, but could find no foes, none but the wounded, the dead, and the dying.
“Papa!”
Ranulf spun around as Bleddyn came stumbling out of the fog. He looked dazed and blood was flowing from a gash on his forehead, but he was alive, he was breathing, and Ranulf dropped his sword, lunged forward to embrace his son. Bleddyn was trembling, and for a long, shuddering moment, he said nothing, just held tight.
“I came upon this . . . ,” he said, his voice so constricted and choked that Ranulf would never have recognized it. “Dead . . . all dead . . . the men who’d attacked them were fleeing . . . I never even saw who they were . . . I set after them, not thinking, just . . . I wanted to kill, to make them pay . . . and then my horse swerved to avoid trampling a body and I went right over his head . . . God, Papa, Jesus God . . . what happened?”
“Hush, lad, hush. It’s over, it’s all over.” Steering the shocked youth toward the closest shelter, a lanky sapling, he got Bleddyn to sit upon the ground. Fumbling for his dagger, he slashed a strip from his mantle and urged his son to hold it to his bleeding head. “Stay there, lad. Do not move. I’ll be back, I swear I will.”
He thought then to retrieve his sword, shoving it into his scabbard. But he was at a loss as to what to do next. Everywhere he looked, there was need. Hywel . . . where was Hywel? Moving like someone in a trance, he knelt beside the closest body, saw that the man was beyond help, and went on to the next victim. This one, too, was dead, and somewhere in the back of his brain, he recognized Iddon, one of Peryf’s brothers. He could hear moaning now, cries of pain. The rank smells of death—blood, urine, and spilled entrails—were strong enough to make him queasy. Hywel . . . Jesú, where was he?
He found Peryf next, so limp and still that he was amazed to be able to detect a pulse. Peryf had been the only one wearing a hauberk, mocked by his brothers for his excessive caution, but Ranulf suspected now that the chain-mail had saved his life for he could find no wounds on Peryf’s body, just an ugly, swelling bruise above his eye.
“Mary, Mother of God!”
Ranulf whirled toward this new voice, saw one of the men who’d been left behind at Pentraeth standing several yards away. The rest were coming into view now, too, moving instinctively toward Ranulf, all talking at once, some swearing, others saying that they’d heard the clamor, one man just whispering “Merciful Jesus” over and over, as if he knew no other words.
The priest was there, too, having followed them as they raced past his church, fearing the worst and finding it. After a horrified pause, he began to move among the bodies, seeking to do what he could, stirring the others to action, too.
Peryf was groaning, his eyelids fluttering. Coming back to consciousness, he came back, too, to immediate recall, and started to struggle upright, had to be restrained by Ranulf and Tathan. “Davydd,” he gasped. “It was Davydd and Rhodri . . . Christ, it happened so fast, Ranulf! They were upon us ere we knew it and we were so outnumbered—Hywel! Where is Hywel? Find him, Ranulf, find him!”
“I will,” Ranulf promised. “Just lie still, Peryf. I’ll be back.” Beckoning Tathan aside, he said softly, “Stay with him. Whatever . . . whatever happens, he’s already lost a brother. Iddon is dead.”
Tathan blanched. “God help him, for so is Brochfael.”
They looked at each other, neither knowing what to say. And then Ranulf turned away to hunt for Hywel.
The fog hid the worst of the bloodshed. So did the utter blackness of a January night. With no stars, no lanterns, they stumbled around in the dark, going from body to body, seeking to find the living midst the dead. Ranulf had not seen so many casualties since Lincoln, that long-ago battle of his youth, which ended with the capture of a king. Would Hywel be as lucky as Stephen? That was a question with no answer, a question to raise the hairs on the back of his neck and start icy sweat oozing down his ribs.
He almost fell over Caradog, twisted aside just in time. Kneeling, he touched the young man’s face. His skin was still warm, but the eyes staring up at Ranulf were sightless, empty. Ranulf reached out and gently closed them, trying not to think of all that Caradog would never see now. Coming slowly to
his feet, he continued to search the field for Hywel.
He heard someone shout that Caswallon was alive, and that emboldened him to call out for Hywel. His cry was quickly taken up, for men were no more equal in death than they were in life, and Hywel’s blood was worth more to Wales than any spilled by the other victims of this island ambush. Ranulf began to shout for Hywel again, shouting until he was hoarse, hearing only echoes on the wind. But then he saw the dog.
The wolfhound was crouched by a low hedge of hawthorn, shivering with fear. It whimpered as Ranulf approached, shrinking back as he held out his hand. With a leaden step, he drew closer. He moved around the hawthorn and there he found Hywel.
He lay motionless on the ground, a bloodied spear protruding from his side. Crying out for help, Ranulf dropped to his knees beside him. There was a moment of wild hope when he saw Hywel’s chest rise and fall. Hywel’s breathing was shallow and labored, his heart not yet ready to stop beating, and when Ranulf gripped his hand, the fingers closed weakly over his. But blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth and his dark eyes were losing the light. He did not look afraid or even in pain, just surprised. He struggled for enough breath to speak as time ran out, and his face blurred for Ranulf in a haze of hot tears. When he blinked them back, Hywel was gone and the hand in his was inert, unresponsive.
Men were cursing and crying. From a great distance, Ranulf heard a wail of anguish, and he wondered numbly if Peryf knew that at least three of his brothers had died with Hywel. The priest was beside him now, giving the last rites to the man who so many saw as Wales’s best hope, giving them all the only comfort he could, the salvation of Hywel’s immortal soul. Ranulf did not move, no longer hearing the babel of voices. He looked up at the fog-shrouded sky, down at Hywel’s body, and then he wept, for himself and for Hywel, for Peryf and his brothers, for all the good men who had met sudden death in the vale of Pentraeth, but above all, for Wales.
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