Time and Chance by Sharon Kay Penman Read Free Book Online

response as thoroughly as he controlled the moment, and Davydd and Cynan hastily assured him that nothing had happened, nothing at all.
    Owain regarded them impassively, just long enough to communicate an unmistakable message: that he knew better. “One of our scouts has ridden in from the east,” he said. “The English king’s army is breaking camp at Saltney, getting ready to cross into Wales.”
    A murmur swept the hall, subdued and unsurprised. Cristyn moved unobtrusively to her lover’s side. The others, too, had drawn closer to Owain, putting Hywel in mind of the way people huddled before an open hearth on a blustery winter’s day. Only this storm would strike in August.
    “Papa . . .” Owain’s youngest son had followed his father into the hall. Rhodri’s eyes were as round as coins and his voice held the hint of a tremor. “What . . . what will you do?”
    Owain glanced down at the boy, letting his hand rest on Rhodri’s shoulder. “Well, lad, we shall have to teach this young English king how wars are fought in Wales.”
     
     
     
    THE ENGLISH KING’S command tent was lit by sputtering cresset lamps that gave off more smoke than light, and the men had to crowd in to see the map spread out upon the trestle table. The Marcher lords were dominating the discussion, for they claimed to know Wales better than the Welsh themselves. William Fitz Alan was embellishing his conversation with such sweeping arm gestures that he’d already caused one lamp’s flame to gutter out, and Walter Clifford was using his dagger for dramatic effect, stabbing down at the map as if he were thrusting into the heartland of Wales itself.
    “Here,” he said, “here is where our war begins and ends.” The dagger flashed, the knife biting deeply into the table.
    Henry looked down at the target pierced by that quivering blade. “I already know Owain awaits us at Basingwerk, Walter,” he said coolly, for he had little patience with posturing. “If he fights, it’ll be here. Was it really necessary to mutilate the table for that?”
    Most men were flustered by royal rebukes. Walter Clifford was oblivious to the sarcasm, as thick-skinned as he was single-minded. “What is more important, my liege?” he asked brashly. “A table or a chance to outflank your enemy?”
    “How?” Henry sounded skeptical. “We’ve agreed that we must march along the coast. What would you have us do, try to take an army over the goat tracks that pass for roads in most of Wales?”
    Clifford grinned triumphantly. “No, my lord king. But you could send a smaller force through the Cennadlog Forest.”
    “I know it sounds rash at first hearing,” William Fitz Alan said hurriedly. Furious with Clifford for presenting the Marcher plan as his own, he glared at the other man even as he sought to persuade the king. “The forest trails are indeed narrow and not easily followed. But with trustworthy guides, a body of lightly armed horsemen could penetrate those woods and reach the coast—behind Owain’s army.”
    Henry glanced inquiringly at Owain Gwynedd’s brother. “What say you, my lord? Can this be done?”
    Cadwaladr nodded vigorously. A tall, robust man in his late forties, with a cocky grin and thick chestnut hair that had not yet begun to grey, he was not one to pass unnoticed in any company. Only in his brother’s presence was he somehow diminished, a paler, lesser copy of the original. When seeing the two men together, Ranulf had occasionally felt an involuntary pang of pity for Cadwaladr, no more able to eclipse Owain than a man could outrun his own shadow. He was not surprised now that Cadwaladr should back the Marcher plan, for the Welshman’s courage was equaled only by his confidence.
    “I can do it,” the Welsh prince said, with just enough emphasis on the “I” to hint at doubts about the corresponding capabilities of these alien allies of his. “Give me the command and we’ll salt Owain’s tail for you, good and