Brothers-in-Arms
by Soledad
Disclaimer: The characters and settings of this story belong to the wonderfully talented Ellis Peters (save the historic ones, I guess) and were only borrowed. No copyright infringement intended and no money made. All I wanted was to explore some of the Welsh background of "The Summer of the Danes". The unknown original characters belong to me.
Author's note: The following events are taking place during the ones described in "The Summer of the Danes". Obviously. A few lines of dialogue are borrowed from the novel for continuity's sake.
Chapter 09 – In the Darkest Hour
Against his expectation, Cuhelyn did not have to wait long for Bledri's reappearance. Anarawd's murderer emerged from the chapel again after what could hardly be more than just a quarter of an hour, at the same time as the two Benedictine monks left the hall and headed for the samesome chapel, presumably to pray the office, as it was about the hour of Compline.
Cuhelyn did not attend to the offices himself but knew their appointed times, like everyone else. They regulated the day of laypersons as much as that of the clergy. Besides, the bells were an excellent way to keep track of the passing of time.
Bledri barely missed the two monks by a few yards as he stepped out of the door and turned along the row of lodgings that lined the wall of the ward, right into one of the narrow passages behind the Great Hall. He seemed in no particular haste as he went slowly, perchance even a little wearily to his night's rest – or so Cuhelyn assumed, as he was clearly heading towards the guest lodging.
Cuhelyn could not see his face, it was already too dark for that, but he could almost palpably feel the smugness radiating from him. He had doubtlessly met somebody in that chapel; and that somebody had most likely been Gwion. Still Cuhelyn needed to be absolutely certain. If there were other supporters of Cadwaladr within Owain's llys, he needed to know. Hywel's safety might depend on it, and that was not something he would put at risk by being a lash guard.
Therefore he left his enemy go to bed for the time being. He would find Bledri later. Now he would wait for the other conspirator.
Again, he did not have to wait long. Barely had the two monks entered the chapel, its door opened again and out walked a man of roughly Cuhelyn's own size and, by he briskness of his movements, the same age, too. His face was in shadows, but after seeing him day after day Cuhelyn did not need to see his features to recognise Gwion, as expected.
Well, that was all right, then. No more people from Owain's court seemed to be included in the little conspiracy of freeing Bledri. Good. Now Cuhelyn could make sure that such a conspiracy would have no choice to succeed.
He glanced across the ward thoughtfully, to the alley into which Bledri had vanished when he came from the chapel. He knew where it led: to one of the many guest lodgings. The one situated between the rear of the Great Hall and the long timber range of the storehouse and the armoury.
Quite a few guest chambers were there, but Cuhelyn new which one to seek out. He had asked Owain's steward in the late afternoon where Rhodri ap Rhys would be sleeping overnight, and the steward, knowing that the man had to be watched, told him: in one of the chambers against the north wall, where a range of small rooms had been built in beneath the watch-platform, shadowed deeply by its overhang.
It had been an excellent choice, Cuhelyn admitted. If one did not want the not-so-voluntary guest depart without forewarning. There was only one stairway leading to the platform: a broad, sturdy timber thing, easy to access but also in full view of the main gate. Trying to climb the wall that way would have been foolish; and with climbing alone the deed would not be done yet. One would have to descend on the outer side, too, which would require a long rope and would be different, even so, for the fighting gallery extended outward from the wall, and there was a deep ditch beneath it. Not to mention the risk of getting shot full of arrows like a pincushion while one was trying to get down in one piece.
Yes, it would have been a particularly foolish idea. But desperate people tended to do foolish things, and Cuhelyn could not be certain that Bledri's nonchalant manners were not mere disguise. Perhaps he had recognised Cuhelyn, after all, and expected to be judged over the death of Anarawd. He must have known that if Owain had waged war upon his own brother because of that – although he was bent to be more than forgiving toward Cadwaladr's inconsiderable actions as a rule – those who executed the cowardly deed could not help for mercy, either.
It had not merely been murder, though that would be bad enough. It destroyed Gwynedd's chances for an alliance with Deheubarth, and as such it was seen as treason… and traitors were not treated lightly. Even if he would not be hanged, the best Bledri could count on was the removal of his eyes; for a man like him perchance worse than death.
Therefore if he knew what lay before him, he would try to flee, doubtlessly. If he did not know, he might flee nonetheless, to bring Cadwaladr the knowledge about Owain's strengths and weaknesses; the knowledge gathered by young Gwion for the last half year and certainly shared with him during that short meeting in the chapel.
That was a risk Cuhelyn could not afford to take.
He knew the third door would be Bledri's. He laid his hand – his one hand – upon the latch to open it. He would need to be careful, once he had challenged the man; see that he got his hand on his sword quickly. Bledri was taller and stronger and had both hands still.
It mattered not. Where he lacked a hand, Cuhelyn would make up for it with determination. Bledri ap Rhys would not leave Aber tonight, unless wrapped in a brychan, ready for burial.
He opened the door upon dim light and waited for his eyes to adapt to it after the darkness of the moonless night without, and then peered inside. The room was sparsely furnished, as were all guest lodgings within the maneol. Against the rear wall the usual bench bed stood, fitted with a straw mattress and covered with brychans. On a shelf near the bed-head, within easy reach of the guest's hand, was a small saucer-lamp, burned out but for a faint glimmer of its charred wick, oil running low.
Beneath the shelf lay a leather saddle-roll, only half-unfolded. A man's cottee, chausses and shirt was dropped upon it carelessly, as well as the rolled cloak he had not needed on the journey. A pair of well-made riding boots stood in the corner.
And on the bed, naked under the brychans like on the day he was born, lay Bledri ap Rhys, flat on his back, fast asleep. His face was slack, his mouth half open, his breathing long and placid. There he lay, Anarawd's arrogant murderer, clueless and vulnerable, his life in Cuhelyn's hand. All that was needed would be a cry or a shake of his shoulder to make him battle for his life.
But would it be fair dealing to startle a man out of his sleep and challenge him to the death? Would it be any different from simply slaughtering him in his bed? Would he, Cuhelyn, be any different from Bledri and his fellow murderers who had slaughtered an unassuming Anarawd, riding across their lands in good faith? Would he do Anarawd any honour if he avenged his death the same despicable way as it had been orchestrated?
Cuhelyn did not know how long had be been standing in the doorway, frozen with indecision, when he heard somebody coming. It sounded like the light pattering of small feet, those of a woman or a child. One of the servants, then, going to his or her bed, now that work in the kitchens had finally been finished.
Grateful for Providence taking the decision out of his hand, Cuhelyn drew Bledri's door closed and walked away. Halfway down the alley he passed a shaggy dark boy, visibly tired but still bright-eyes, even so late in the night. He recognised him as one of the kitchen servants. Madog… no, Meurig was his name.
The boy greeted him in passing and he returned the greeting, wishing him a good night. Then he returned to the Great Hall.
He found Hywel still awake in their shared chambers. The prince was ready to turn in, wearing only a light robe. He seemed tired.
"You have been gone for a while," he commented. Cuhelyn nodded.
"I had a lot on my mind," he replied simply.
Hywel raised an eyebrow. "Like Bledri ap Rhys?"
"Among other things," said Cuhelyn evasively.
Tomorrow, he would challenge Bledri in front of everyone. He would challenge him, he would fight him, and if Owain gave his countenance, he would kill him. Then he would be free to live out his life as he might.
Hywel must have felt his fey mood for he did not probe any deeper.
"Did he meet with Gwion?" he asked instead. Cuhelyn nodded again.
"In the chapel, about an hour ago. It was a surprisingly short meeting for two of the same allegiance, one of whom had not seen any of his own for half a year."
"But long enough to share any knowledge Gwion might have gained here?" asked Hywel, cutting to the core of the problem as was his wont.
"Barely; but yes, it might have been enough," replied Cuhelyn.
"More so if Gwion had written noted for him," suggested Hywel.
"True; I did not think of that," Cuhelyn glanced along the stump of his left arm.
He had not done much writing since the loss of his better hand. He was lettered, sure, could even write with his other hand, albeit not very neatly; not that it mattered. Trying to do better was not worth the effort. He no longer had to write confidential messages for his Prince, as his Prince was dead. Murdered. Forgotten by most but him.
At least by tomorrow he would be avenged.
"Come to bed," said Hywel quietly. "You need to rest; and so do I."
That was true. He needed to rest. He needed his full strength to fight Bledri ap Rhys in the morning. To fight him and to kill him.
With the skill acquired by necessity since last autumn, Cuhelyn shed his cottee and shirt with one hand, helping with his stump as well as he could, while Hywel watched him from hooded eyes. The prince would never humiliate him by helping him undress; that would have been a sign of pity; that he would not trust him to master such a simply task.
Only when it came to removing the silver bracelet that secured the linen cover over the stump of his maimed arm did the prince step closer to him, carefully and willing to back off if needs must be.
"Allow me…"
Cuhelyn nodded curtly. Ever since the healers had declared his wound healed, he only allowed Hywel to see it. Not that he would be ashamed of it; why would he? It was an honourable injury, the proof that he had been willing to lie down his life for his Prince as every honourable guardsman would. But it was also a deeply personal aspect of his life; one that was not meant to be gaffed at. He would rather appear before the entire court naked than show off his stump.
With feather-light fingers, Hywel removed the silver circlet, laying it on the shelf next to the bed. Then he pulled the linen cloth away, giving the stump a critical glance. This had become something of a recurring ritual between the two of them, so he could tell if the maimed limb was inflamed or irritated in any way. Yes, it was healed – ad much as it could – but there was always need for caution.
"Does it still give you pain?" he asked, ghosting his fingertips over the still new skin.
It seemed healthy enough today; paler than Cuhelyn's face, of course, or his remaining hand, and just a touch pink from where the linen had been chafing against it all day. Fortunately, it did not feel warmer than it should be.
Cuhelyn shivered under his touch.
"It is still tender," he murmured, feeling himself harden from the mixed sensation of caress and mild pain.
He had learned not to be embarrassed by the reaction of his body; this happened every time Hywel touched his stump. He leaned back against the lean, strong frame of the prince and allowed a ragged sigh that was making his chest ache to escape. Only when alone with Hywel could he afford to be weak; even if only for a moment.
One nimble hand of the prince found its way into his chausses and closed around his aching need with confident familiarity.
"Do you need me to do something about it?" Hywel murmured.
Cuhelyn hesitated. He needed sleep to be strong tomorrow, and love-play always left him exhausted – more an exhaustion of the heart that still missed Anarawd so terribly that it physically hurt than that of the body. But finding temporary release also meant better sleep… and he desperately needed Hywel's comforting closeness tonight.
"If you wouldn't mind," he replied, his voice breaking, for it would always be just a substitute, never what it had been with Anarawd, and Hywel knew that and accepted that, and with the small part of his heart that had not died with Anarawd, Cuhelyn loved him for that acceptance.
"Why would I?" there was a smile in Hywel's voice. "You would do the same for me; have done so many times. Shield-mates, remember?"
"Shield-mates," agreed Cuhelyn, giving himself up to the tender ministrations of his young lord.
They had been sleeping, deeply and peacefully, when the alarm came.
First, there was a sudden clamour of the main gate of the maenol. Even in his sleep, Cuhelyn recognised the muted thudding of hooves, followed by the agitated exchange of voices between the rider and the gate guards and, with the instinctive readiness of one who had been responsible for his lord's safety all his life, he rolled out of bed, wide awake within a heartbeat, and started putting on his clothes one-handedly in a haste.
Only moments later the murmur of voices rose into loud orders, and the men of the royal household started gathering in the ward, drowsy with interrupted sleep but ready to face whatever might be coming up against them. Owain's weapons masters had trained them well.
Then the sound of a horn blasting cut through all the agitated noise. Hywel, too, rolled from his brychan onto his feet like a cat, awake and braced for dealing with the situation, should his father need him.
"What happened?" he demanded, putting on his clothes with the quick, practiced moves of a warrior, used to get ready in the shortest time if he had to.
Cuhelyn, struggling with the sleeves of his cottee, shrugged, and suppressed a curse.
"Someone rode in; in a hurry," he replied. "Only one horseman, from what I could hear."
"The guards would not rouse the llys for nothing," Hywel, already dressed, yanked Cuhelyn's cottee into the right position. "Go and find out what it is. I will be with Father."
Cuhelyn nodded and hurried off into the ward, at the very moment when the horn blared again, echoes ricocheting between the timber buildings and quickly fading away, swallowed by the wooden walls. But the call had been heard by all that were supposed to hear it, obviously. The young men of Owain's teulu came hastily, armed and ready to fight any enemy foolish enough to attack the royal seat of their lord. Lamps and candles were kindled in the many lodgings of the maenol, although the servants, too, remembered their training and did not leave their chambers, so that they would not get in the way of the men-at-arms.
Taking a quick look around, Cuhelyn spotted a jaded horse, apparently ridden down by a messenger carrying urgent news, led to the stables. Its rider, a sturdy, dark Welshman in his prime, ignored the many-voiced questions from the crowd, sweeping aside the hands that tried to stop him, all but breaking a path for himself to the Great Hall.
He appeared vaguely familiar, but at the moment Cuhelyn could not remember his name. He was not one of the nobles frequenting the court, but he must have visited it from time to time.
Just when the messenger reached the steps leading up to the Great Hall, the crowd suddenly fell silent. The door above them opened, and out came Owain Gwynedd, still in his bed gown but looking not a tad less commanding than in his festive finery, followed by Hywel on one side and by the squire sent to rouse him with news of the coming on the other one.
"Here I am," said the prince, loud and clear and as unshakable as ever. "Who has come wanting me?"
He came to the edge of the steps, and then the light from within the Hall fell upon the messenger's face, so that Owain recognised him. "Is that you, Goronwy?"
Now that he had been given a name to put to the face, Cuhelyn knew the man, too. Goronwy up Dewydd was Owain's trusted man in Bangor; the one to keep an eye on Bishop Meurig and his dealings with Canterbury, but also to help protect the town and its people in times of need, as he was a trained warrior and an excellent strategist. If he came in person all the way, and that at nighttime, too, those times of need had to be very close indeed.
So must have thought Owain as well, for he did not waste any time to question the man.
"What news has brought you from Bangor in such haste?" he asked.
Goronwy bent his knee hurriedly yet respectfully. In haste he might be, but that was no reason to be found lacking manners when in the company of royalty.
"My lord, early this evening a messenger came from Caernarfon," he replied. "'Tis his word that I have brought here to you as fast as a horse can go. About Vespers ships were sighted westward off Abermenai; a great fleet in war order."
"What kind of ships?" asked Owain, although the answer was fairly obvious. This would not be the first time that adventurers from the Danish kingdom of Dublin would come to raid Gwynedd; nor would it be the last time.
"The seamen say they are Danish ships from Dublin," replied Goronwy, as expected. "They came to force your hand, my lord."
"In what way?" inquired Owain calmly. "Whatever dispute I might have had with the kinfolk of my grandmother, they have long been resolved."
"That may be so, my lord," said the messenger darkly. "But it is also said that Cadwaladr, your brother, is with them. That he was the one who brought them over in the first place, hoping that they would avenge and restore him, against your judgement. It seems that the fealty he could not keep for love he has bought with promised gold."
A roar of anger and resentment filled the ward at that news, swelling on like the waves of the angry sea. Welsh princes fighting among each other for power and land was one thing. A sad thing but, unfortunately, one people had grown used to throughout history. But bringing the Danish sea raiders, a common enemy, against one's own people just to wrestle allowances from one's lord and brother was an outrageous step few would have been foolish – or desperate – enough to risk.
The Danes were uncertain allies at best, who served their own purposes before everything else. And once they got truly carried away with the raping and pillaging and bloodshed, they were not easy to call back. Not even upon the promise of gold.
The only person completely unfazed by the news was Owain himself; not that that would surprise Cuhelyn. He had come to know the Prince of Gwynedd as a man with a quick mind and as one who would never allow disorder to turn life within his writ upside down. His penteulu, the captain of his guard and a man of similar disposition, was already at his side, awaiting his orders. They had an understanding between them that went back at least twenty years and no longer needed many words.
"And there is no doubt about this report?" asked Owain, although truly, there could hardly be any.
Goronwy ap Dewydd shook his head tiredly. "None, my lord. The man I have it from saw them himself from the dunes."
Owain nodded, unsurprised. His men knew their duty and were usually reliable.
"How many ships," he then asked.
Goronwy shrugged in apology. "They were too far away to be sure. But there is no question where they came from."
"And small doubt why," muttered Hywel angrily. "We were told that he had fled to them. Why else would he come back with a force of ruthless sea robbers if not for reckoning?"
"If that is what he wants, I shall give him one," said his father composedly; then he turned back to the messenger. "How long, would you say, till they come to land?"
"My lord, before morning, for certain," the man replied. "They were under full sail, and the wind is steady from the west."
Owain took a deep breath, considering his choices – which were far from ideal at the moment.
"What do you thing?" he asked Hywel.
"One of four from all the horses in ours tables have been ridden far yesterday, even though not too hard," his son answered thoughtfully. "And many of the men-at-arms who had travelled with us to Llanewy and back sat in hall late into the night and are still full of mead."
"The ride that now is before us will be urgent and fast," added Andras ap Caradog, the penteulu, with an unhappy grimace.
Riding hard and fast with men still curing a sore head was not a pleasant journey; or a safe one. Owain knew that, too, but he had no other chance than take every able-bodied warrior with him. The Danes were not an enemy that should be underestimated.
"The time is short to rise even half of Gwynedd," Hywel, who entertained similar thoughts, said in a low voice. His father nodded.
"True. Nonetheless, we shall make sure of the reserves and collect every man available between here and Caernarfon as we go," he turned to Urien, his head clerk. "I want six couriers. One to go before us now, the others to carry my summons through the rest of Arlechwedd and Arfon. Call them all to Caernarfon. We may not need them, but there is no harm in making certain."
Urien, a rotund little cleric with a cheerful disposition, received his orders with commendable calm; he had served the Prince since having finished his schooling, after all. With wide gestures as if he would herd poultry, he ushered his clerks to the writing room, and they went with similar composure to prepare the sealed messages the couriers would bear to the chieftains of the two cantrefs before the night was over.
Owain then turned back to the ward, to the men-at-arms still awaiting his orders.
"Every man who can bear arms, get to your beds and take what rest you can," he spoke in a raised voice that carried easily to the farthest corners of the ward. "We muster at first light."
None of the young men were happy with those orders – they would have preferred to move on at once – but they obeyed nonetheless, dispersing reluctantly under the watchful eye of Andras ap Caradog. Because the Prince had been right, of course. Moving the entire host across country in the dark would have been foolish; not to mention an unnecessary waste of time and strength. It was better to ride in the morning, with both men and beasts rested; that promised better speed and better discipline.
Princess Gwladus, who had as firm a hand over her own household as Owain over his men-at-arms, had sent her ladies and agitated maids back t the deeper recesses of the Great Hall, out of the way of the Prince. Cuhelyn joined the stewards, elder counsellors and the menservants responsible for armoury, stables and stores who would be putting together the supply train following the army.
He was not needed for the planning of this campaign but Hywel was; and where Hywel went, Cuhelyn followed.
And there Hywel was indeed, quiet and attentive at his father' side, ready to go wherever he might be needed. A little further away stood Gwion, not part of Owain's counsels and likely wishing him to fail, but still interested. Cuhelyn even noticed the canons and the Benedictine monks, standing in the ward in considerable distance from each other, yet aware of the danger for Gwynedd and concerned about it, even though, on their way to Bangor, they would not be immediately threatened.
Prince Rhun did not show his face; nor seemed Owain bothered by his absence. Cuhelyn wondered briefly if the elding had taken notice of the dire news at all or was still sleeping peacefully in his chambers. Why would Owain keep him in ignorance?
Was he afraid that his favourite, the apple of his eye, would insist on riding with them in the morning and get killed in the inevitable battle with the Danes? Or was he afraid that his spoiled elding would embarrass him in a fight? Cuhelyn had seen Rhun spar with his weapons master and knew the older prince was good with the sword – but would that be enough in a true battle?
A quick glance at Hywel's wry face revealed that the younger prince was likely having similar thoughts.
"So, this was the dire consequence Bledri ap Rhys had warned us about," Owain finally said. "He must have known what my brother had planned. It was a fair warning, none more honest; I will give him that."
"It makes no sense, though," said Einion ab Ithel. "Why give us a warning at all when Cadwaladr was already on his way with his Danes? They cannot be simply called back; even if you would give in and reinstate your brother in his lands, they would demand their price."
"Cadwaladr still has enough treasure stowed away to pay his Danes if needs must be," replied Hywel with a shrug. "Perhaps Bledri was his safety rope."
"Or he is just a traitor to his own lord as well," muttered Cuhelyn darkly. "Perhaps he saw the strength of our forces and decided to turn his coat."
"That is a possibility," agreed Andras ap Caradog. "Shall we question him, my lord?"
Owain shook his head. "No; let him wait his turn, we have other things to do before morning. If he is secure in his bed, he will keep."
"True; but is he secure in his bed?" asked Tudur ap Rhys. "Or has he perhaps used the excitement to seek a way out of the maenol?"
Cuhelyn blanched by that thought. If Bledri managed to get to Cadwaladr, with all he had undoubtedly learned from Gwion about Owain's strengths and weaknesses, the numbers of his troops and the supply lines, the army might ride straight into a death trap in the morning. He needed to be hunted down!
Before Cuhelyn could have voiced his concern – and volunteered for that task – the head groom came running from the stables, where he and his men had been preparing the horses for Owain's couriers. He appeared very agitated, which was unusual for him, as he was an even-tempered man as a rule.
"My lord, one of the horses is gone from the stables, and harness and gear with him!" he exclaimed.
Hywel raised his head with a sharp jerk. "Are you sure about that?"
"Sure, my lord," the man replied. "We checked again, wanted to provide the best steed for your lord father in the morning, and that was when we saw that the horse was missing."
"What kind of horse is it?"
"A good young roan, my lord, without any white on him," explained the groom. "Everything belonging to him is gone, too: saddle-cloth, saddle and bridle. Whoever took him had a good eye for horses."
"What about the horse he ride here?" demanded Hywel sharply. "His own horse that he brought to Llanelwy with him?"
The man gave him a confused look. "Whose horse, my lord?"
"That of Bledri ap Rhys," supplied Cuhelyn quietly. "A dark grey, dappled lighter down his flanks. Can you remember it? It was still jaded from yesterday. Is it still here?"
The head groom nodded in understanding. "Yes, I know that one; mo match for the roan that was taken. And yes, he is still here. The thief knew how to choose."
"And meant good speed!" hissed Hywel, his eyes burning with anger. "He's gone, no doubt. Gone to join Cadwaladr and his Danish mercenaries at Abermenai. How the devil did he ever get out of the gates, and with a horse, no less?"
His father shrugged. "There is no way locking a man in, if he truly wants to get out and is nimble enough to do so. Any wall built my man can be climbed, for a high enough cause. And he did admit openly that he is my brother's man, to the last degree," he turned back to the messenger. "Everyone with common sense would keep to the roads in the dark, and Bledri ap Rhys did not strike me as a fool. Did you happen to come across anyone riding west on your way here to us?"
Goronwy ap Dewydd shook his head tiredly. "No, my lord. Not since I crossed the Cegin, and those I met before were our own men whom I have met many times; neither were they in any hurry."
"He will be far out of reach in no time," said Hywel through gritted teeth. "We must at least start somebody off on his tracks with your writ, Father. We might be fortunate. A horse can fall lame when ridden hard in the dark. A man can lose his way in a land he does not know well. We may halt him yet, if the pursuer is determined enough."
"I will go," offered Cuhelyn simply, his eyes glittering in the dark. "I shall bring him back. Alive, so you can judge him, my lord, if I can. Dead if he leaves me no other choice."
Owain gave him a piercing look; then he nodded. "So be it. Take the fastest courier horse left in the stables and hunt him down. He made no promise to stay, that is true. But we cannot allow him to bring his knowledge to my brother," he turned to the steward who had run to question the men keeping watch on the postern gates of the llys. "Well? What did you find?"
"No man was challenged, none passed," reported the steward. "The men know him by sight, even though he is a stranger. However he broke loose, it was surely not by the gates."
"I did not think so," the Prince agreed. "They always kept a thorough watch on the gates. Well, Cuhelyn, be on your way as quickly as you can. Hywel, come to my chambers; we have plans to make," he looked around briefly, watching his messengers mount. "Gwion, we do not blame you for what happened; nor is any of this your concern. Go to your bed and remember the word you have given to us. You can always take it back, of course," he added drily, "but in that case you will have to wait under lock and key for our return."
"I do not go back on my given word," replied Gwion indignantly. "I gave it and I shall keep it."
"And I shall trust it as long as you give me no reason to reconsider," said the Prince. "Go now; there is nothing for you to do here."
Nothing indeed, thought Cuhelyn, heading back to Hywel's chambers to collect his saddlebags and his gear. Gwion had already done what he could do, providing Bledri ap Rhys with all the gathered knowledge about Owain's movements and forces and defences during that urgent and private meeting in the chapel of the llys.
And why should he not? Gwion had never promised anything except not to escape. Bledri ap Rhys had made no such promise. Nor had Gwion ever pretended to hide his unwavering loyalty to Cadwaladr, regardless what other people might think about the object of such loyalty, deserved or otherwise.
Could he be blamed if he had helped his unexpected ally to break out and return to his Prince? And after half a year in Aber, he would know every horses that stood in the royal stables; and which one to chose and how to spirit it away for Bledri's use. After all, he was allowed to move at will within the walls, including even the tref that lay outside the gate.
Cuhelyn shook his head. All this mattered very little at the moment. There would be time later to examine Gwion's involvement in Bledri's escape in great detail. Right now, his task was to bring Bledri back. Alive, if possible, to challenge him before the whole court… and kill him. Dead, if the man was foolish enough to resist.
Cuhelyn hoped that Bledri would be foolish enough, underestimating a one-armed opponent. That way, any future efforts to escape justice would be safely thwarted.
He saw Gwion heading back towards the chapel, where he was joined by the two Benedictine brothers. Good. Under the watchful eye of old Brother Cadfael, he would not get the chance to do anything foolish.
Or so Cuhelyn hoped. He actually liked Gwion, his mirror image in so many things, and would have hated it if the fool got himself killed for some heroic – and useless – act on Cadwaladr's behalf.
With a conscious effort, Cuhelyn pushed the problem of Gwion to the back of his mind, turning his focus to things that needed his immediate attention.
Packing his gear. Collecting Owain's writ. Getting a horse.
The hunt was on, and this time he won't return empty-handed.
~TBC~
