The Brothers of Gwynedd by Edith Pargeter Page B

down early and like iron, before autumn was half over, fighting at last for Wales. The whole month of October was bitter and bleak, full of frosts and gales and snow, and in that camp by the Conway they froze and starved, killed and died, with no mercy on either side. The king's army was far too strong to be attacked in pitched battle, which in any case we Welsh never favoured, and it managed to keep open a supply line back to Chester, as well as bringing in supplies by sea from Ireland. But ships are flimsy against such storms as came down that year, and some foundered, and one at least was run aground by a clumsy steersman in the sands on the Aberconway side, and fought over bitterly by both armies, but the Welsh got away with most of its cargo. Their need was at least as great, for the king had landed troops from Ireland in Anglesey and captured or despoiled the late crops there. But King Henry went on doggedly with the building of his new castle, and the work grew rapidly.
      One of the few Welsh soldiers who had embraced Owen's cause was our courier back and forth to this camp at Degannwy, and brought us grim accounts of what went forward there, how the English had raided the abbey of Aberconway, across the river, stripped the great church of all its treasures, and fired the barns, how they had given up taking prisoners, and slaughtered even the noblemen who fell into their hands, until David took to repaying the murders upon the English knights he captured. Nightly the Welsh made lightning raids in the darkness, killed and withdrew. And daily the English, after every skirmish, brought back into camp Welsh heads as horrid trophies.
      These things he told us, and I could not forbear from watching Owen's face as he listened, for these were the heads of his kinsmen, over whom he desired to rule, and whose support he was wooing. But he was not of such subtlety as to question deeply what he did, and saw no further than the right that had been denied his father and was still denied him.
      "And I'll tell you," said the messenger, steaming beside our comfortable fire, "one they have killed, though he was brought in prisoner after an honest fight, and that's the youngest of Ednyfed Fychan's sons." This was the great steward who had served Llewelyn Fawr and now David, in all some forty years of noble, wise dealing, without greed for himself, and with the respect of all. And he was now an old man. "Hanged him," said our courier, "on a bare tree, high for the Welsh to see. And that David will never forgive."
      Sometimes I had wondered, as I did then, about this man, whether he was not carrying news two ways, and not all to the English side of Conway, for he was a bold and fearless creature, as he proved by his many journeys across that torn and tormented country, and would not change his coat simply to buy a little security.
      "Yet he cannot hold out long now," Owen said, wringing hard at the hope that was always uppermost in him. "Last time he gave in without much blood spilled, and now they tear each other like leopards, and he gives no ground. Surely he must be near surrender. They feel the cold, too. They have lost half their winter store, they must be as hungry as we, they cannot continue thus for long."
      I saw then the small spark that lit in the man's eyes when Owen spoke of "they" and "we," and I understood him better.
      "Last time," he said, "the season played false. Now the winter comes early and true as steel. And he has a list of loyal chiefs behind him, as long as your arm, such as he never had before. There's a name high on the list," he said, eyeing Owen all the while, "that will be known to you, the name of Llewelyn ap Griffith."
      Owen jerked up his head to glare across the fire. "He is there? In arms?"
    "He is there. In arms. And very apt and ready, too, in the teeth of cold and hunger."
    "You have seen him?"
      "I have. Close about his uncle very often, but he is trusted with a command of