As he made his way back to the farmer’s dwelling, he made sure to stay low to the ground and move swiftly. He dodged behind houses and jumped over fences. He could hear the distant sounds of what he thought might be combat but he didn’t return to find out. His destination was Castell Mallwyd. Whatever men were left after the skirmish with the English would also return there, as they’d been instructed to do. He didn’t even know what happened to Colvyn. He’d not seen the man since he set out after Keller, who had been inside the church with Chrystobel and Izlyn.
Like a coward, Gryffyn had fled the scene. He returned to Castell Mallwyd before the nooning meal and it was deserted, so he set about scrounging together a meal from whatever Colvyn had in his food stores and waited for Colvyn and his men to return. It wasn’t a long wait. He hadn’t been back an hour yet before men started trickling in.
For as many men as the Welsh had against half as many English, the wounds upon the Welsh were bad. It was clear that the English had been the victors, but Gryffyn waited with hope – hope that Colvyn had managed to wrest one or more of his sisters from Keller, but by the time Colvyn returned shortly before sunset, it was clear that he didn’t have the women with him. He was empty-handed.
Gryffyn, who had been watching from the derelict battlements, could only feel great disappointment and great fury. He met Colvyn down in the bailey as the man, astride his shaggy pony, wearily entered the grounds of his destitute castle.
“What happened?” Gryffyn demanded. “Where have you been? And why are my sisters not with you?”
Colvyn didn’t say a word as he dismounted his steed. But once his feet hit the muck of the bailey, he walked up to Gryffyn and punched the man right in the face. Gryffyn staggered back, falling to one knee has he put a hand to his stinging cheek. When he looked up, it was to see Colvyn looming furiously over him.
“That is for being a coward and fleeing a battle that you, in fact, instigated,” Colvyn seethed. “I lost twenty-seven men. Twenty-seven! And what did you do? You ran like a woman!”
Gryffyn was livid but he was wise enough not to strike Colvyn in return. The man was a Welsh prince, after all, and the men at Castell Mallwyd were loyal to him. At least, they were for the time being. Gryffyn had been trying for three days to change that.
“I was wounded,” Gryffyn hissed, indicating his torn tunic and the stitches on the skin beneath. “I was bleeding all over the damn place and went to seek aid. By the time my wound was tended, the battle was over, so I returned here. Are you telling me that it was not over? Was there more fighting that I missed?”
Colvyn growled and turned away. He was disgusted, exhausted, and enraged, which was a nasty combination, and Gryffyn fleeing the battle had only fed that anger. He’d always known the man to be dramatic and cowardly, but this was more than even Colvyn believed him capable of. After pacing a few feet away, he abruptly stopped and turned to Gryffyn.
“This is the last time,” he said, his voice low and hazardous. “We will not attack the English again. Twice we have tried and twice we have been defeated. There will not be a third time, at least with the amount of men I have. This is a task for a much bigger army than what I have.”
Gryffyn could see his cause slipping away. He could not lose Colvyn’s support, not now. He could not face defeat in any fashion and quickly, his mind began to cook up an alternative scheme. The English were too powerful against the under-armed Welsh. Other than a massive Welsh army, which was highly unlikely, Gryffyn had to be smarter than de Poyer. There had to be another way to best him.
In the past, Gryffyn had free reign of Nether and it was easy to do what he wanted to with his sisters. Beat them, jail them… he could do as he wished. Now, de Poyer was there to protect them… he was there. What if de Poyer was not at Nether? An idea began to bloom, forming in desperation because Gryffyn could not let this go. He could not fail!
“There is a simple way to solve this issue once and for all,” Gryffyn said, saying it loud enough so that Colvyn’s men could hear. “The English have already proven that they can best us in combat, so we must choose another tactic. If force does not work, then mayhap a lack of force will. Mayhap it will be as simple as walking into the castle, regaining my sisters, and reclaiming the wealth that the English have stolen from me.”
Colvyn wasn’t agreeing with him. “This is another trick, d’Einen,” he muttered. “You speak in foolish riddles.”
Gryffyn shook his head violently. “I am not, I assure you,” he said passionately. “There is a secret passage by which to enter Nether. I used it myself the other day to gain access. We can use it to get into the fortress.”
Colvyn threw up his hands in frustration. “Get in for what purpose?” he demanded. “The English will be inside, waiting for us, and this time they will kill us all.”
“They cannot kill us if they are not there.”
Colvyn was about to fire a retort but Gryffyn’s softly uttered statement had his curiosity. He knew he shouldn’t ask. God knows, he knew he shouldn’t. But he couldn’t help himself.
“Explain.”
Gryffyn tried not to sound too excited, knowing that convincing Colvyn would not be easy. He motioned to some of the soldiers standing nearby to come closer, to hear his plan. He would build a case of public opinion for his scheme and then Colvyn would have no choice but to agree to it. Gryffyn was astute that way.
“If another Saesneg-held castle is being attacked by Welsh, then other Saesnegs will ride to their aid,” he said, sounding quite logical. “Hen Domen Castle is the closest English castle. It is a day’s ride from here. If we send de Poyer word that the lord of Hen Domen needs assistance, then we can lure the man out and away from Nether. He will take his army with him and once they are gone, we can sneak into Nether and reclaim the castle.”
In truth, it was a reasonable plan. If the English were removed from Nether, then the matter of taking the castle and saving the sisters would be a relatively simple thing. But the scheme was almost too simple. Surely there was a hole in it somewhere.
“Hen Domen is the seat of the Earl of Shropshire, Robert de Boulers,” Colvyn said, torn between interest and refusal. “I have had dealings with them before, as has my father. They are rather warring towards the Welsh.”
Gryffyn leapt on that bit of information. “Do you have a missive from Shropshire?” he asked. “Does your father? We will need to see the de Boulers seal in order to duplicate it on the feigned message.”
Colvyn shook his head. “I do not but I am sure my father or brothers might,” he said. “My father had some dealings with de Boulers’ father several years ago when they were trying to set boundaries of the earl’s properties.”