Peryf was panting and his first gasped-out words were not all that intelligible to Ranulf. “One of your men just arrived with news of a ship seeking entry into the harbor at Cemlyn. That I understand, Peryf. But why do you think it is Hywel?”
“Because… because Cemlyn is not a port for trading. If a ship were bringing over goods from Ireland, it would most likely head for Llan-faes or Pwllheli. Why would it put in at Cemlyn? There’s no town there, and the nearest royal manor is at Cemais. Hywel must have paid them to let him ashore. Nothing else makes sense.”
Ranulf was still not convinced. “Suppose it was just coming in for repairs?”
Peryf’s messenger spoke up then. “It did not drop anchor, my lord Ranulf. The winds were contrary and it was unable to enter the harbor. After several failed attempts, it sailed off to the east, hugging the coast. If they had an urgent need for repairs, surely they’d have kept on trying? I followed for a time and it seemed to me that they were seeking another harbor on the sheltered side of the island. As I told Lord Peryf, I truly think their intent was to put passengers ashore.”
“Nothing else makes sense,” Peryf repeated. “I think we should ride for the east coast. There are several coves and harbors suitable for landing. Dulas, for one. But the best harbor by far is at Traeth Coch. I am certain that Hywel means to land there.”
“And what if you’re wrong and the cog sails ere we can get back to Aber Menai?”
Peryf shrugged. “We’ll make it worth his while to wait.”
The other man’s sudden, uncharacteristic extravagance proved-if it still needed proving-just how worried he truly was. Ranulf conceded the argument with a joke about getting Hywel to pay for the additional expenses, and hoped that he was not motivated by a desire to put off his sea voyage for another day.
THE ISLE known as Anglesey to the English and Mon to the Welsh had once been called Ynys Dywell, the Dark Island, so heavily wooded was it in bygone times. But by God’s Year 1171, much of its deep, primal forest had been cleared away, for the low-lying, fertile land was ideally suited to farming, and Mon had long functioned as Gwynedd’s granary. With neither mountains nor wealds to hinder their progress and less than fifteen miles to cover, the men expected to reach Traeth Coch before dark. Skirting the edges of the vast river marshes of Cors Ddyga, they soon had the sun at their backs. The morning’s chill had been overtaken by an afternoon warming, giving rise to patches of the fog so common to an island climate. By the time they were in sight of the church at Pentraeth, which overlooked the bay, dusk was beginning to cast lengthening shadows and the day’s light was slowly ebbing. The waters of Traeth Coch had darkened from sapphire to a twilight indigo and a ship was anchored in the cove.
As they drew nearer, the sails unfurled and took the wind, a sudden burst of brightness against the hazy sky, and then the ship was in flight, gracefully cresting the waves of the bay as it headed for open water. They began to yell, spurring their horses forward. But then they saw the men standing at the water’s edge, saw the one taller by a head than the others, hair the color of the sun, legacy of the silver fox, and their shouting changed timbre, soaring skyward with great relief and even greater joy.
The reunion was noisy, jubilant, and somewhat chaotic, for two of Peryf’s brothers had accompanied Hywel to Ireland and now had to be welcomed home, too, as did Hywel’s son Caswallon, and Ranulf’s son, the newly named Bleddyn. For a time, voices merged, laughter rang out, and they were able to forget that death had brought them together, the death of a well-loved father and a formidable prince.
Tathan was the man of the hour, lavishly praised for accomplishing his challenging mission with dispatch and aplomb. He had located Hywel within two days of his arrival in Dublin, bearing his heavyhearted message of Owain’s death. Hywel had at once made plans to return to Wales straightaway, but the Irish weather was even more erratic than in Wales and winter gales had stranded him for weeks, unable to find any ship’s master foolhardy enough to venture out into the cauldron of the Irish Sea.
“Is it true,” Hywel demanded, “that you were really going off in search of me?” When Ranulf nodded, he burst out laughing. “Once or twice in your cups, you pledged to go to Hell for me if need be, but nary a word was ever said about Ireland!”
“Rhiannon made me do it,” Ranulf said, and Hywel laughed all the harder. Caradog joined in with mock indignation, wanting to know why he was not being commended for his willingness to accompany Ranulf, and his brothers roared when Hywel pointed out that he was crazed enough to think a sea voyage to Ireland in the dead of winter was an opportunity for adventure.
Hywel wanted to know all that had happened during his absence, more amused than alarmed by Peryf’s dour suspicions about Davydd and Rhodri. “I know folklore holds that an apple never falls far from the tree, but Cristyn’s Dead Sea Fruit landed halfway between Limbo and Purgatory.”
That sally sparked much merriment among Hywel’s audience, and Ranulf thought, not for the first time, that Hywel could transform words into weapons with the ease of an alchemist. He shared what little he knew of happenings in England, then, that Thomas Becket had landed on English shores on the first of December, after excommunicating the bishops on the very eve of his departure. Hywel did not seem surprised by this, commenting dryly that Becket would do well to heed an ancient Welsh proverb; a wise man ought not to let his tongue cut his own throat.
Hywel also had news to impart, briefly relating the current turmoil in Ireland, where Dermot, the King of Leincester, had allied himself with one of the most powerful of Henry’s Marcher barons, Richard de Clare, Lord of Pembroke, in an attempt to stave off his Irish adversaries. “Dermot offered de Clare his daughter and the promise of his realm upon his death. I daresay the English king would like to see a Norman kingdom in Ireland about as much as he’d enjoy watching Becket consecrated as the next Pope. So I think it safe to say that the next time he gets to hungering for lands not his, he’ll be looking toward Ireland, not Wales.”
Among Hywel’s talents was one particularly valuable to a prince: the ability to inspire confidence and hope in his followers. Now that he was back on Welsh soil, safely back in their midst, the morrow was once more full of promise. They well knew that the loss of Owain could have dealt a death blow to Gwynedd if he’d not had a son worthy to succeed him, if he’d not had Hywel.
The day was done, which meant that the night must be passed on Mon, for no man in his senses would attempt an evening crossing of the Menai Straits. In his urgency to return to Wales, Hywel had taken the first ship from Ireland whose master was willing to make a January voyage, one that had been too small to transport horses. Now, after some discussion, it was decided to head for Llan-faes, where Owain had a manor and stables. Amid much good-natured bickering and jesting, some of Peryf’s men offered their mounts for the use of the new arrivals, and horses were found for Caswallon, Bleddyn, and Peryf’s brothers Iddon and Aerddur. The rest of Hywel’s men agreed to wait at the Pentraeth church until additional horses could be dispatched from Llan-faes, and by the time it was all sorted out, dusk had staked its claim to the island and sea fog was swirling in to hide the horizon.
Hywel had brought back an Irish keepsake, a young wolfhound as big as a pony, and it loped easily beside his stallion as they rode toward Llan-faes. He’d named it Cuchoigriche, he explained, which meant “hound of the border,” laughing at Ranulf’s futile attempts to get his tongue around the unfamiliar Irish. He’d said little of his father so far, asking only for assurances that Owain had been buried in consecrated ground despite dying excommunicate. Ranulf knew him well enough not to push, though. Hywel’s grieving had been done in private, for he did not find it easy to offer up glimpses of his inner soul, not even to so close a friend as Ranulf. Instead, he entertained Ranulf and Peryf and the others with a rollicking account of Bleddyn’s romantic conquests, claiming that the lad had broken numerous female hearts in Dublin during his short stay. Bleddyn flushed and denied all, but Ranulf could see that his son was secretly pleased by the attention and he made careful note of the names Hywel was bandying about-Aine and Mor and Sorcha-to tease him in the days to come.