The Lost Brother (20 page)

Cloth half-folded, Gwen swung around to look
at the prince. “I would think so.”

While Gareth’s helmet sported a red plume so
that his men could distinguish him on the battlefield in a sea of
similarly dressed men, the armorer had crafted distinct designs on
the helmets of Prince Rhun and Prince Hywel as well. A golden crown
marked King Owain’s, not that he would be wearing any helmet,
crowned or not, in the upcoming battle. He would be lucky even to
be able to stand by then.

“I’m surprised Gareth didn’t take it with
him,” Rhun said.

“My lord, you must know he hates wearing it
and does so only when he goes into battle,” Gwen said. “I thought
you all felt that way?”

“Oh no.” Rhun gave her a quick smile. “I
look forward to wearing an upside-down pot on my head which
prevents me from seeing anything beyond what is directly in front
of me. I love in particular wearing a device which allows the sweat
to run into my eyes and blind me, but which I can’t then remove to
address the problem.”

Gwen smiled too. “If it protects your head
from an errant blow, wearing a helmet is worth it.”

“So I have concluded. To make a new one, I
need a proper armorer with a proper forge, but we don’t have one
here. Until I return to Aber and can get fitted, I must make do
with what I have. Since Gareth isn’t here, and didn’t take his with
him, borrowing from him seemed like the next best thing. So, thank
you.”

Rhun put his heels together and gave Gwen a
bow. Coming from him, it had to be genuine. If it had been Hywel
doing the asking, the bow would have most definitely been mocking.
Gwen found it endearing that Rhun, a prince of Wales, felt awkward
about asking for a favor. Angharad, his betrothed, was a very lucky
woman.

Then Rhun’s eyes strayed to the doorway of
the adjacent room, in which King Owain lay ill. “How is my
father?”

“His manservant tells me that the bouts of
vomiting were so frequent last night that they followed one on top
of the other. Sleep is what he needs now, and hopefully his stomach
will be calmer when he wakes,” Gwen said.

“Will Father be able to come to
Gwern-y-waun?”

“I really can’t say,” Gwen said. “I know you
need him there, but sleeping outside in a tent won’t be good for
him. Here, at least, he has a fire to warm him.”

“I appreciate you taking care of him.” Then
Rhun hesitated.

“What is it?”

“You haven’t seen Lord Goronwy anywhere,
have you?”

Gwen’s raised her brows at the question.
“No.” Lord Goronwy was Queen Cristina’s father. He was also King
Owain’s cousin and long-time companion, which was one reason Owain
had married her. The marriage had healed a rift in the royal family
of Gwynedd caused many years ago by King Owain’s father. “I thought
his men were advancing on Mold from the south.”

“They are,” Rhun said. “He sent word that
they are moving now, as we are. But he was supposed to come here to
confer one more time before joining his men.”

Gwen held up both hands. “I have no answer
for you.”

Rhun tapped the side of his thigh with the
flat of his hand and looked towards the fire. In an undertone, he
said, “What are you up to, uncle?”

For once, he wasn’t talking about Cadwaladr.
Gwen cleared her throat. “Do you have reason to believe Lord
Goronwy is up to something?”

“He has made himself scarce recently,” Rhun
said. “Up until last week, he was in and out of my father’s
headquarters nearly every day. But I haven’t seen him in nearly a
week. He just sends messages.” Then he looked directly at her
again. “Gwen, you should be very careful.”

“Are you saying I should be careful of Lord
Goronwy?” Gwen said. “He has always been kind to me, though I admit
that Queen Cristina has been something of a different story of
late.”

“I didn’t mean him, necessarily, but with my
father ill, the other lords are circling like vultures.”

“Then it is you, my lord, who should watch
his back.” Gwen put a hand on Rhun’s arm before he could protest or
think too hard about what would happen if his father died. “No
matter the source of this illness, your father will recover, my
lord. Do not fear.” Gwen couldn’t truly promise that, but King
Owain was a strong man. She had sat beside him over the course of
two hours, spoon feeding him broth, some of which he kept down for
a time before vomiting again. That he could keep it down at all was
a hopeful sign.

Rhun scoffed at himself. “Don’t mind me. I
don’t have the
sight
, but we do have a killer on the loose—a
man who murdered two people who look like you and Gareth. With the
coming assault on Mold Castle, all will be in chaos, and you and
Gareth, as always, will be in the thick of it. Just … be careful,
as I said.”

“I will.” Gwen swallowed hard. “You be
careful too.”

Suddenly Rhun’s face broke into a wide grin,
reminding her very much of Prince Hywel. “I always am.”

Gwen spent an unrestful night beside King
Owain’s bed, spooning broth into him and being spelled every few
hours by the king’s manservant, Tudur. A man in his sixties, he was
far sprier than King Owain himself, though the king was twenty
years younger. Rail thin, Tudur had a full head of a white hair,
which he had a tendency to run his hands through so it stuck up on
end. Gwen supposed that keeping up with King Owain had kept him
fit. Certainly King Owain trusted him, and Tudur knew more about
what went on in the king’s household than anyone but Taran.

Having finally managed to get a few solid
hours of sleep before dawn, Gwen woke to find King Owain looming
over her. “Where is the army?” he said, without preamble. “How
could they leave without me!”

Tudur hurried into the room, a clean basin
in his hand. “My lord! What are you doing on your feet?”

King Owain waved a hand. “I am perfectly
well, Tudur.”

“You and I both know that is not true,
sire,” Tudur said. “And your sons moved the army forward because
the lords and captains determined it was time to do so. The advance
continues, and the assault on Mold will happen as you yourself
planned. Now, get back in bed.”

King Owain glared at his manservant and then
turned to Gwen. “Bossy isn’t he? He’s worse than you.” But he did
move away from her at a shambling walk towards his room.

Gwen shot Tudur a relieved look. She had
never heard anyone speak to King Owain that way, not even Cristina,
who was generally honey-sweet with him, except when she was
angry.

“I am feeling much better,” King Owain said,
once he was settled under the covers, and immediately proved his
words untrue by leaning over the side of the bed and vomiting into
the basin Tudur had put there a few moments before.

“It is the motion that upsets his belly,”
Tudur said to Gwen, as an aside. “This is the first time he’s
vomited in hours.” He looked at her from under bushy eyebrows.
“That’s your doing, you know. You sat beside him and fed him, and
it allowed him to turn a corner.”

“I will keep at it,” Gwen said.

Tudur helped King Owain out of his soiled
clothes, and for the next four hours, Gwen sat beside the king,
feeding him a spoonful of broth a dozen times an hour, waking him
to do so because he would fall asleep between feedings.

At one point, however, he came more awake
and seemed to focus on her more fully for the first time since he’d
tried to stand. “Why are you here, Gwen? What of the dead woman?
Did she really look like you?”

“Somewhat,” Gwen said.

“Did you find her murderer?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Gwen said.

“Tell me,” King Owain said.

Gwen was opening her mouth to obey, but at
that moment the king put out a hand and sunk down further into the
covers. “Never mind. I just need to lie here and settle myself. I
want you to send Tudur in to me while you find food for
yourself.”

Gwen didn’t argue. “Yes, sire.” Before
leaving, she put a hand to the king’s forehead. It was remarkably
cool, especially compared to how he’d been burning up before.

Truthfully, it was a moment for which Gwen
had been waiting. She wanted to stretch and eat, perhaps walk
around the monastery grounds to get the smell of the sick room out
of her nostrils. She had also made no progress towards her charge
of spying on the men in King Owain’s court. She hadn’t even seen
anyone with especially big feet. When Gareth had suggested she stay
with King Owain, neither of them had realized how sick the king
really was, and how little she’d be able to leave his bedside.

As she walked from the king’s quarters to
the kitchen, the corridors of the monastery bustled with minor
lords, their servants, and guardsmen. All of them were waiting for
King Owain to get well and were no doubt chafing at being left
behind. Everyone wanted to be with the army.

Upon entering the passageway that led to the
kitchen, Gwen almost ran into Cynan, King Owain’s next oldest son
after Hywel. She was heading towards the kitchen, and he was coming
from it. They both pulled up short.

“What are you doing away from the king’s
side?” Cynan said in a demanding voice.

Gwen hardly knew the man, and his vehemence
made her take a step back. “Tudur is with him. King Owain suggested
I take a moment for myself since I’ve been sitting with him since
dawn and haven’t eaten today. It’s already noon.”

Cynan took a step towards her, his anger
vanishing like mist and his face pale but hopeful. “You mean … he
spoke to you?”

“Yes.” Gwen looked at Cynan warily. “Why
wouldn’t he?”

“We’d heard—I mean, the men had understood
him to be at death’s door, and that he would not recover from this
illness.”

Gwen tried to nod and shake her head at the
same time, anxious to dispel his fear for his father. Cynan might
not have spent very much time at the king’s court at Aber Castle
and be newly anointed as the captain of the king’s
teulu,
but that didn’t mean the king hadn’t always been the hub around
which the spokes of his world revolved.

“He’s very ill,” Gwen said. “He has been
very ill, but he’s on the mend now. His fever has fallen, and he is
keeping down broth for the most part. Who told you otherwise?”

Cynan’s face darkened. “One of the other
captains. Lord Goronwy’s, I think.”

Gwen licked her lips. “I don’t know what to
make of that. But no, the king will live. He was even able to
stand, though Tudur shooed him back to bed right away. Motion is
bad for his composure. I—” Gwen broke off as Cynan’s attention was
caught by something behind her.

He brushed passed her, hurrying down the
passageway to the doorway that led into the cloister. He went
through it, turning to the left and disappearing. Curious as to
what could have made him so concerned, Gwen darted after him. As
she reached the doorway between the passage and the cloister, she
saw him disappearing into the courtyard of the monastery.
Continuing to follow, Gwen reached the courtyard and found it in
disarray.

King Owain, under no obligation to do what
anyone wanted him to do, hadn’t listened to Tudur’s wisdom or hers.
With an alarmed protest, Gwen dashed forward to where he was
pulling himself into the saddle. “Please no, my lord!”

Cynan stood at his father’s stirrup too,
looking up at him. “Is this wise, my lord? It was only a moment ago
that I learned from Gwen that you were recovering. You shouldn’t
risk your health just when you are finally on the mend.”

“Wise? Perhaps not.” King Owain looked
around at the men in the courtyard. Many were smiling and bore
relieved expressions on their faces. “Necessary, yes.”

Cynan bowed his head. “I give way.” He
strode to where one of the men-at-arms was standing holding the
bridle of his horse and mounted.

Then King Owain actually smiled down at Gwen
from his seat on his horse. “Don’t worry so much, my dear. I have
been King of Gwynedd for ten years. Trust me to know what I am
doing.”

Gwen

“T
his is mad,
Tudur,” Gwen said in an undertone as she waited for her own horse
to be brought from the stable.

“I know,” Tudur said. “He wouldn’t listen to
reason, so we must be the reasonable ones instead. We will ride
with him and wait beside him when he needs to rest. At least the
rain has held off today.”

Gwen was still shaking her head as one of
the stable boys boosted her onto her horse. The
teulu
formed
up around the king, along with the half-dozen noblemen who’d come
to fight this battle with him, and an equal number of servants and
workers who accompanied the king wherever he went. The noblemen had
their own retinues as well, their own tents, and their own carts.
She knew some of them from Aber, but many were from eastern or
southern Gwynedd, and she’d seen them only in passing in the times
they’d come to pay their respects to the king.

The more she examined the faces of each
confidant to the king, made small talk with them, and rode among
them, the more the hair on the back of her neck stood straight up.
One of these men could easily be the killer. But which one? And why
had both Cynan and Prince Rhun mentioned Lord Goronwy? Was his
absence significant, given that his longtime companion, son-in-law,
and king was so ill?

Gwen thought that riding even the few miles
to Lord Morgan’s fort was a very bad idea, but the king was right
in a way—if rumor had it that he was dying, what better way to
combat that rumor than to appear in the courtyard, cloaked and
booted for war?

For Gwen’s part, if it meant sleeping on a
pallet with Gareth another night instead of alone at the monastery,
she could hardly be sorry. She
had
suggested that the king
send a fast rider to the fort to warn Einion that he was coming;
King Owain had agreed it would be unwise to descend upon the local
lord with a hundred men to feed and house with no more notice than
the time it took for them to ride up the road to the gatehouse.