The Unexpected Ally (34 page)

“Hello, Mother.” Cadwaladr’s lips were
cracked and bleeding, puffy from the beating that had bruised the
whole length of him. Rhiann had heard they’d close to killed him,
but from the look of him now, he wasn’t yet at death’s door.

“Son.” Alcfrith’s voice was as stiff as her
body.

Rhiann’s father ranged back in his chair,
legs crossed at the ankles to project his calm and deny the
importance of the moment. “Foolish whelp. I’d thought you’d put up
more of a fight, not that I regret the ease of your defeat. This
will allow me to reinforce my eastern border more quickly than I’d
thought. Penda will be pleased.”

“You and I both know why my company was not
prepared for battle today,” Cadwaladr said.

Cadfael shrugged. “Your men are dead and you
a shell of a man. What did you think? That the people would welcome
you? That I would let you take my lands?”

“My lands,” Cadwaladr said.

Rhiann’s father sneered his contempt. He
reached out an arm to Alcfrith and massaged the back of her neck.
She didn’t bend to him. If anything, the tension in her increased.
“You meet your death tomorrow, as proof of your ignobility.”

Cadfael waved his hand to Rhiann, signaling
her to refill his cup of wine and that the interview was over. She
obeyed, of course, stepping forward with her carafe. The guards
tugged on Cadwaladr, but as he moved, Rhiann glanced up and met his
eyes. It was only for a heartbeat, but in that space it seemed to
Rhiann that they were the only ones in the room. She expected to
see desperation and fear in him, or at the very least, pain.
Instead, she saw understanding. She could hardly credit it. When
had she ever known that?

“You’re wrong, Father,” Rhiann said, as the
guards hauled Cadwaladr away. “Cadwaladr comes to us as a defeated
prisoner, and yet, he has more honor, more nobility, than any other
man in this room.”

“He is the Pendragon,” Alcfrith said, with
more starch in her voice than Rhiann had heard in many years.
“Cadfael can’t change that, even by killing him.”

Rhiann’s father snorted a laugh into his cup
before draining it. He didn’t even slap the women down, so sure was
he of his own omnipotence. “You may keep your dreams.” He pushed
himself to his feet and turned to leave. “The dragon is chained;
the prophecy dead.”

Rhiann had heard about Cadwaladr her whole
life. As a child, men in Cadfael’s court had spoken of him as if he
were a demon from the Underworld, or worse, a Saxon, coming to
steal their home like a thief in the night. Later on, as she began
to piece the story together, she realized that he was only a little
older than she was, twenty-two now to her twenty, and their words
said more about their own fears than Cadwaladr’s power.

Rhiann’s father had married Cadwaladr’s
mother after Cadwallon’s death in battle, many miles from
Aberffraw. The High Council of Wales had wanted peace in Gwynedd,
in order to focus the concerted attention of all the native British
rulers on the threat of the encroaching Saxons. Throughout Rhiann’s
life, the Saxon kingdoms had been growing in number and power. Two
centuries before, the British kings had invited them in, but once
here, could not control them. The Saxons had overrun nearly all of
what had been British lands only a few generations before.

By now, everyone knew that the Saxons
wouldn’t ever return to their ancestral lands across the water. Her
father, Cadfael, and Cadwallon before him, had allied with Penda of
Mercia, but it had left a sour taste in the collective mouth of
their people. All the Cymry knew that it was only a matter of time
before the Saxons turned their gaze covetously on Wales.

The Council had settled upon Cadfael as the
man to impose peace amid the chaos of constant war, provided
Alcfrith agreed to the marriage. Rhiann suspected that
agreed
was too generous a word, and like most noble women,
Alcfrith had had little choice in the matter. While the High
Kingship had never materialized, and he didn’t even rule all
Gwynedd like Cadwallon before him, Cadfael did control a
significant piece of it: Cadwaladr’s birthright, as he’d said.

What Alcfrith had not done upon her marriage
was give up her son, instead sending him away to be raised by
another. Rhiann’s father had raged at Alcfrith time and again,
demanding to know to whom she’d given him. Alcfrith had refused to
say, and perhaps that was the bargain she’d made—safety for her
son, in exchange for her allegiance.

And now Cadwaladr was here, walking into the
lion’s den, although not quite of his own accord. Cadfael had spies
everywhere and had known of his coming. The story he’d put out was
that Cadwaladr’s small band had forded the Menai Strait and met
Cadfael’s army just shy of Bryn Celliddu. Cadfael hadn’t even
bothered to meet the force himself, instead delegating the task to
lesser men.

But Rhiann wasn’t so sure, especially now
that she’d heard Cadwaladr’s exchange with her father. Before the
feast, she’d questioned some of the older men in the garrison,
particularly those who’d held allegiance to Cadwaladr’s father once
upon a time. A few of them had muttered among themselves about the
evil Cadfael’s acts would bring to Gwynedd. One even mentioned that
he’d seen demons in the woods surrounding Aberffraw. The others had
dismissed that as fantasy, and then together they’d rebuffed
Rhiann’s questions, as they had every right to do. Yet each,
individually, had given her a look—like he wanted to speak—but
thought better of it. Why had Cadwaladr come, only to be defeated
so easily? Why had he sacrificed his men for such a fleeting
chance?

And sacrifice them he had. Cadwaladr was the
only survivor.

____________

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The Last Pendragon