Grey’s disdain. Though not a man of great station or wealth, he had been afforded some responsibilities in recent years, only to have them snatched away at whim by Lord Grey. At his age, the dangerous life of a rebel against the king held a very unsavory appeal.
“God’s stinking breath,” Griffith muttered, “I thought you knew where the hell you were going. Well, I won’t tarry here waiting for starvation to take me. We’ll follow that trail... and if his men are watching us, I pray they recognize you in this failing light.”
Griffith ap David spurred his horse and lurched ahead.
“Allow me,” Tom growled.
“By all means. You can ride in a circle just as aimlessly as I can.”
The trail took them directly away from the groggy hamlet—closer to the crags that crowded skyward. They soon found their path clinging tentatively to the thin shoulder of an escarpment. Rocks dislodged by their horses’ hooves clattered down the steep slope.
“We should turn back,” Griffith said between his chattering teeth. “This wind will send us to our graves.”
He thought he glimpsed a figure ducking behind a rock above them, then convinced himself it was only a shadow. Darkness was descending and there was neither moon nor stars to light their way. His stiff muscles protested going on any more, yet they couldn’t stop now. Turning his head, he glanced back toward the village, thinking of the food being cooked over its fires, but they had already lost sight of its buildings with all the twists in the roadway. He would have risked his life to beg for a bowl of stew, despite the great price that he knew must be on his head by now. Surely they would die in these hills anyway, with nothing more to claim than what they had fled with and the two horses stolen from Lord Grey’s barn in retaliation for his trickery.
Before he turned back to gauge the willingness of his guide, Griffith heard a thud upon the trail before them. His eyes flew wide as a spear tip pricked his throat. Gruff hands ripped him from his saddle. He landed on his shoulder on the road, jagged stones cutting at his cheek.
A well-aimed boot punched him in the kidney. Dark cloaks swarmed above him. He clutched his head in his hands to protect his face, while they rained blow after blow upon his frozen body. The air was crushed from his lungs. His only thought was the need to breathe.
As he gasped for air, they hoisted him up and slammed his back against a rock.
“Who are you and what business do you have here?” one of the ambushers snarled.
Still fighting for breath, Griffith opened his eyes to mere slits. He swallowed and tasted blood draining down the back of his throat. A sidelong glance told him Tom was in no shape to answer. His friend lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. Griffith counted the number of his attackers—only four, but it might has well have been forty, so swift and ruthless they were.
“We seek...” Griffith began, as one of them grabbed his hair to lift his head up, “a man named Rhys Gethin of Cwm Llanerch.”
A trickle of blood ran from one of his nostrils. It felt as though there were bars of iron squeezing his chest from every side.
One of the attackers pulled a stone cudgel from beneath his cloak and raised it above his head. “There is none by that name here.”
“No.” A man from behind shoved him aside. He stepped forward and by the dim light of a starless night all that Griffith ap David could see was the ragged outline of a bearded chin. “Let him state his business first.”
Fighting against the stabbing sensation in his ribs, Griffith coughed and for a moment it was all he could do not to give in to unconsciousness, the pain was so intense.
“Your business?” the bearded one questioned, stooping to within just inches from his face.
“I come seeking aid. Lord Grey would have my head. Mine and other Welshmen’s, as it pleases his fancy. He promised me many things—a pardon among them. But if not for
“God’s stinking breath,” Griffith muttered, “I thought you knew where the hell you were going. Well, I won’t tarry here waiting for starvation to take me. We’ll follow that trail... and if his men are watching us, I pray they recognize you in this failing light.”
Griffith ap David spurred his horse and lurched ahead.
“Allow me,” Tom growled.
“By all means. You can ride in a circle just as aimlessly as I can.”
The trail took them directly away from the groggy hamlet—closer to the crags that crowded skyward. They soon found their path clinging tentatively to the thin shoulder of an escarpment. Rocks dislodged by their horses’ hooves clattered down the steep slope.
“We should turn back,” Griffith said between his chattering teeth. “This wind will send us to our graves.”
He thought he glimpsed a figure ducking behind a rock above them, then convinced himself it was only a shadow. Darkness was descending and there was neither moon nor stars to light their way. His stiff muscles protested going on any more, yet they couldn’t stop now. Turning his head, he glanced back toward the village, thinking of the food being cooked over its fires, but they had already lost sight of its buildings with all the twists in the roadway. He would have risked his life to beg for a bowl of stew, despite the great price that he knew must be on his head by now. Surely they would die in these hills anyway, with nothing more to claim than what they had fled with and the two horses stolen from Lord Grey’s barn in retaliation for his trickery.
Before he turned back to gauge the willingness of his guide, Griffith heard a thud upon the trail before them. His eyes flew wide as a spear tip pricked his throat. Gruff hands ripped him from his saddle. He landed on his shoulder on the road, jagged stones cutting at his cheek.
A well-aimed boot punched him in the kidney. Dark cloaks swarmed above him. He clutched his head in his hands to protect his face, while they rained blow after blow upon his frozen body. The air was crushed from his lungs. His only thought was the need to breathe.
As he gasped for air, they hoisted him up and slammed his back against a rock.
“Who are you and what business do you have here?” one of the ambushers snarled.
Still fighting for breath, Griffith opened his eyes to mere slits. He swallowed and tasted blood draining down the back of his throat. A sidelong glance told him Tom was in no shape to answer. His friend lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. Griffith counted the number of his attackers—only four, but it might has well have been forty, so swift and ruthless they were.
“We seek...” Griffith began, as one of them grabbed his hair to lift his head up, “a man named Rhys Gethin of Cwm Llanerch.”
A trickle of blood ran from one of his nostrils. It felt as though there were bars of iron squeezing his chest from every side.
One of the attackers pulled a stone cudgel from beneath his cloak and raised it above his head. “There is none by that name here.”
“No.” A man from behind shoved him aside. He stepped forward and by the dim light of a starless night all that Griffith ap David could see was the ragged outline of a bearded chin. “Let him state his business first.”
Fighting against the stabbing sensation in his ribs, Griffith coughed and for a moment it was all he could do not to give in to unconsciousness, the pain was so intense.
“Your business?” the bearded one questioned, stooping to within just inches from his face.
“I come seeking aid. Lord Grey would have my head. Mine and other Welshmen’s, as it pleases his fancy. He promised me many things—a pardon among them. But if not for
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