Page 9 of Insurrection (Guard of Six #2)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Pentwyn Castle

I t was such a tiny place.

Compared to The Narth, Pentwyn Castle was, indeed, a tiny place. It was perched on the top of a hill in a vale that had been occupied for thousands of years. Therefore, the castle itself had been built upon an earlier fortress that had been occupied by the Welsh since the country was broken up into small tribes. This particular location had been occupied by the Elfael, the tribe that Ivor directly descended from.

The blood of his ancestors saturated this ground.

Like a holy site, Pentwyn had an aura about it. From the grass on the rocky ground to the sky above, and the walls of the mountains that reached for the heavens, the castle was situated in an area that was someplace between God above and the devil far below. Even now, Ivor stood on the top of the steps leading into the small, round keep, watching his men below, smelling the rain upon the air and feeling this land to his very bones. Bones that, not a week before, had been located at The Narth until the English came and took it away.

We are looking for outlaws, they’d said.

Ivor had had no idea what they were talking about.

Of course, they hadn’t believed him. From the moment the English army arrived until the moment they laid siege, the span had been less than a day. They had come for war and that was exactly what they did—create war. It rained down from the war machines they’d brought with them and in the flaming bolts that were fired over the walls of The Narth, burning anything that was worth burning. Outmanned and without an abundance of materials to fight back with, the Welsh had lasted longer than they should have, and that could be attributed to pure rage. Rage that the English had come, rage that they were intent on destroying men who were confused by their very presence.

Fleeing The Narth had been an act of self-preservation.

The rage faded into bewilderment, and bewilderment to indignance. It had taken a few days for them to regroup, but they had. The Welsh were, if nothing else, resilient. Resilient against an English king who kept trying to rule over their country, using knights and armies that numbered in the tens of thousands. Ivor felt as if he’d spent his entire life battling the English at one time or another, and the truth was that he had. He was born during an age when battles were normal. There didn’t seem to be a good deal of peace in Wales, if not because of the English, then because of petty warlords battling each other. Welsh-upon-Welsh hatred was something that was accepted because Wales had been divided into several minor kingdoms for a thousand years before Welsh princes tried to unify it. There were always men who held a grudge against fellow countrymen.

But it was different when the English came.

That gave them all something to focus on and unite against, so in a sense, the English and their aggression against Wales had done wonders for national pride and harmony. Every Welshman could agree that he hated the English, and that gave them a common cause. It was that common cause that bonded Ivor and his men together.

It would carry them through to victory.

“Has he returned yet?”

Train of thought interrupted, Ivor turned to see his second-in-command coming up behind him. Dai ap Cadell was a good man, dedicated, but perhaps a little too thirsty for English blood at times. That clouded his judgment as far as Ivor was concerned, because the man used hatred as his primary motivation, not logic. And logic was something that was needed desperately if they were to survive. Even so, he’d do anything for Ivor without question, and that made him an excellent second.

One Ivor could control for the time being.

“Nay, I’ve not seen him yet,” Ivor said in answer to Dai’s question. “He passed through our outer posts less than an hour ago, so he should be here any moment.”

Dai came to stand next to him, his dark-eyed gaze moving over the trees and gaps in the foliage much as Ivor’s was. They were awaiting a scout that had been south, into Penderyn, and their patience wasn’t limitless. When it came to the English activities, they needed to know what was happening.

Dai sighed heavily.

“Fud always moves slowly,” he complained. “The man is big and ungainly, like an ox. He moves like one, too. You should have let me send Davey or Gwil. They are faster on their feet.”

Ivor snorted softly. “They are also young and foolish and would probably walk right up to the gatehouse and get themselves killed,” he said. “Nay, we need a man like Fud. He may not be the brightest star in the heavens, but he is deliberate and careful. He will tell us what we wish to know.”

Dai knew that. Well, mostly . The man they called Fud was big and stupid, but Ivor was right—he was older and seasoned. He would make sure he was concealed, listen to the chatter of the villagers around him, watch the castle as much as he could, and then report back without fail. Younger men might be distracted by ale or a fight or pretty women.

But not Fud.

“I hope so,” Dai said, frowning as he watched the base of the road that led up to the walls of Pentwyn. Suddenly, he perked up. “There he is, Ivor. He’s coming.”

They could both see a man riding a raggedy horse at the bottom of the hill, moving slowly but picking up pace as they headed up the incline. They left their perch by the keep and headed toward the gate, through the bailey, pushing past men who had made an encampment on that rocky ground. By the time they reached the gate, Fud was just entering through a sea of curious soldiers. Men were grabbing at him, grabbing at his horse, and Ivor had to intervene. He boomed at his teulu , his men, and chased them away to allow Fud to enter the bailey. When the wooden gates closed behind him, Fud slid wearily off his horse.

“Well?” Dai demanded. “What did you see?”

Fud wasn’t fond of Dai. That was clear in the way he eyed the man. He didn’t even answer him.

His focus was on Ivor.

“More English,” he muttered. “They fly Henry’s flag.”

Ivor looked at him, horrified. “Henry?” he repeated. “The king?”

“Aye.”

Ivor’s jaw dropped. “Are you telling me that England’s king has taken over my castle now?”

Fud nodded. “I saw the standards with my own eyes,” he said. “They pulled the de Russe dragon down and replaced it with the golden lions. Many more men came also. There must be two thousand English at The Narth now, Ivor. Too many for us to fight.”

Ivor was beside himself. “Christ’s Bones,” he muttered. “De Russe must have sent for him. But he came so quickly!”

“He was coming before our battle was even over,” Dai said. “He had to. Henry’s army’s arrival was planned long ago.”

Ivor sighed heavily. “Mayhap,” he said. “But one thing is for certain—we are paying for the crimes of someone else. We never attacked the de Russe girl. But someone wants de Russe and Henry and everyone else to think we did.”

“What do you want to do?” Fud asked quietly. “Do we fight back?”

“Of course we fight back,” Dai said angrily. “Why would you ask such a question?”

Fud ignored him, his focus still on Ivor. “We cannot fight two thousand English,” he said. “We do not have enough men. If we were to tell Henry that we did not attack that girl, mayhap he would listen and leave us in peace.”

Ivor looked at Fud. The man had a simple view of the world, but it wasn’t usually na?ve. Just… simple.

He shook his head.

“Nay,” he said. “They would not leave us in peace. We cannot prove that we did not attack her, and therein lies the problem. We must fight back if we are to regain The Narth.”

Dai was pleased to hear that. “What about your mother’s people?” he said. “Pentwyn belonged to them. There are villages to the north with many men. We can summon them to help us.”

Ivor nodded, thinking on the people north of Pentwyn, many of whom were, indeed, distant relatives. Pentwyn belonged to his maternal grandfather, and through his mother had become his. His mother had been born there, in fact, but went to live at The Narth when she married Yestin, Ivor’s father. The Narth was where Ivor was born, and he wasn’t so apt to surrender it to the English.

But he had to see what was going on there for himself.

“I must speak with The Bryn,” he said. “Surely the man knows something. Surely he has been observing this English invasion into my lands. Fud, did you speak with The Bryn at all?”

Fud shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “You know he does not like me. The last time I tried to speak to him, he tried to box my ears.”

Ivor fought off a grin. “You have insulted him one too many times.”

“All I’ve said is that he’s a witch because he makes potions and tells people they will be cured.”

“And you do not think that has insulted him?”

Fud didn’t have an answer for him. He was a deeply devout man and viewed The Bryn as a sorcerer for the way he peddled his apothecary potions. Weary, he turned away, heading over to his horse and leading the animal off toward the makeshift stables. Ivor watched him go before returning his attention to Dai.

“I am going to Penderyn,” he said. “I must speak with The Bryn. Meanwhile, you will send me into the villages to the north and tell them that we require their men. Tell them that Adda ferch Bevan’s son, a Tywysog Elfael , requires their assistance against an English incursion.”

Tywysog Elfael.

Prince of Elfael.

That was what Ivor was, and certainly one of the last of his kind. His mother’s people were few these days, but the loyalty toward the smaller ancient kingdom was as strong as it was toward the larger kingdoms, like Gwent and Powys. It wasn’t something Ivor usually proclaimed to give weight to his requests, but in this case, he needed to.

He needed help if he was going to fight off this English invasion.

“Right away, Ivor,” Dai said. “I will go myself.”

“Nay.” Ivor stopped him. “If I am going into Penderyn, I need you here to oversee things. Send others you trust and tell them to hurry. We need hundreds of men, at least, but I will take what we can get.”

Dai nodded. “I will select the messengers personally,” he said. “When will you depart for Penderyn?”

“At dawn.”

“Then we have much to do.”

There was no time to waste.