He threw his challenge so lightly she had risen to it without even realizing, the memory of his boyhood insults about her horsemanship suddenly surfacing in her mind. “Of course! It’s not more than a dozen miles…” Too late she sensed danger, and his next words filled her with foreboding.

“A small party, well mounted, could do it in an hour or so, no doubt. Just you and I, madam. The guide and my men. This will be no trip for a bevy of lady’s maids.”

She glanced at him warily, but he was intent on tracing the chased pattern of the goblet with his thumbnail and refused to meet her eye.

“Find fresh mounts for Prince John and his followers,” she commanded suddenly, her mind made up. The waiting servant bowed and turned toward the door. “Saddle my chestnut and tell Ifor the huntsman to be there to guide us to Castel Dinas. We leave at once, then we will be back by dark. Does that satisfy you, my lord?”

He jumped to his feet, grinning like a boy, as he swept up his gauntlets and adjusted the sword belt at his waist. “Indeed it does, my lady.”

The wind freshened as they rode out of Hay toward the west. Ifor, a small curly-headed figure on his raw-boned cob, trotted ahead, a bow slung across his shoulders, while behind followed the four knights who had accompanied John from Hereford. Matilda felt a momentary pang of anxiety when she saw the escort was so small but her pride would not let her press more men on the prince. If he thought four men sufficient for the king’s brother, then so be it.

They rode swiftly, following the narrow but well-marked track that wound around the foot of the hill toward the little trading borough of Talgarth, the horses’ hooves kicking up great clods of the soft red earth. John rode in silence, his mouth set, but she thought she saw a gleam of triumph in his eyes as he turned once to look at her. She whipped her horse to keep up with him. “Ifor is a good man, Your Highness. He will take us by the most direct route. Are you familiar with Brycheiniog?”

“I am not.” He glanced up at the thickly wooded shoulder of hillside to their left. “But I thought I would improve my acquaintance with the de Braose possessions.” Was that innuendo in his voice and in the sidelong glance he sent her? She felt another tremor of warning.

The road was rough and muddy from the recent rain, and the ride took longer than she expected. Parts of the track had been washed away, and Ifor had to lead them away from the smoother ways into the thick woods, where they bent low over their horses’ necks, avoiding the sweeping branches of the trees. Although they had left Hay before noon, the light was already beginning to fail as they trotted into Talgarth. Again she felt the warning prickle under her skin. How were they to return by nightfall if the road was so slow?

She noticed John draw his dark cloak over his hauberk, concealing the intricate details of his brooch and belt. Curious eyes followed them down the main street of the town, and she was glad they had Ifor with them, calling out friendly greetings in Welsh as they passed toward the bridge over the angry red waters of the swift-flowing Enig Brook. The prince’s exasperated report of the failure of the negotiations with Lord Rhys had filled her, once she had overcome the accustomed pang of worry about Tilda, with a sense of foreboding. She knew, as perhaps John did not, just how quickly the vengeance of the Welsh could make itself felt in the valleys of the wild country round them.

The horses climbed slowly out of Talgarth away from the square peel tower that guarded the bridge. Before them lay the mountains. Matilda cursed herself for allowing them to come at all. It was growing late and the slowness of the ride meant that, with the heavy clouds hanging so low over the peaks, it was growing dark, and this was no place to be benighted. Shivering, she pulled her cloak more closely around her shoulders and kicked her mount close up behind John’s. The escort closed tightly about them and they rode in silence save for the occasional clink of harness or the click of hoof on stone. Matilda could see John’s hand on the hilt of his sword as he looked about him. At last he too seemed to be growing nervous. Before them the mynydd-dir rose in a high barrier, misty and black. Behind, the broad Wye Valley was lost to sight behind the band of woods.

They rode hard, not sparing the horses on the rugged path which followed the wandering of the tumbling Rhian Goll, running angry and muddy red with flood waters from the mountains. A cold drizzle was beginning to fall. To their left the great triangular hill of Mynydd Troed rose in a massive shoulder in front of the clouds.

Castel Dinas stood sentinel over the pass. It was an awesome, lonely place. Matilda could feel her horse beginning to tremble, perhaps sensing her own fear. Its ears pressed flat on its head, its eyes staring, it followed its companions as their guides wheeled off the track and turned up a steep turf ramp that led to the walls of the castle itself.

“Open up there,” John shouted into the gale. “Lady de Braose demands entry.” But there was no answer; the gatehouse was deserted.

The horses had come to a rearing halt outside the north entrance. On either side a deep dry ditch encircled the high escarpments of the castle. Before them the gatehouses flanked a strong nail-studded gate. The builders had obeyed William’s orders well so far.

John forced his frightened horse near enough to the gate to allow him to beat on it with the hilt of his sword. “Ho there! Entry!” he shouted, but the wind whipped the words from his lips. Behind them the clouds were flying up the pass, gray, thick, hiding trees, mountains, perhaps men…From the corner of her eye Matilda thought she saw something move below, on the side of the hill. The palms of her hands were sweating with fear and the horse, sensing it, plunged suddenly sideways fighting the bit, poised to bolt back the way it had come.

Then at last a small gleam of light showed in one of the high slit windows of a gatehouse.

“Open up, you lazy clods.” John put every ounce of strength he had left into his shout. “Lady de Braose wants entry to her castle.”

At last they heard the bars being slid back and the great slabs of oak swung open to reveal half a dozen men, drawn swords in their hands, streaming torches held above their heads for light. Piles of dressed stone and mortar, weird white shapes in the gloom, lay all around in the shelter of the bailey’s walls. At the far side the lower part of the new keep showed pale and square, obviously unfinished, in the darkness.

“Who is the constable here?” demanded Matilda. “Why was there no lookout posted? Prince John and I have ridden far and fast. We do not expect to be kept waiting outside like serfs.” Her fear had turned to fury. Gripping her whip, she wheeled the horse. “Shut the gates now, you oafs, before half the countryside wanders in at your invitation. Where is the captain of the guard?”

Four of the men ran to push the gates shut and slid the bars across into the sockets. One of the soldiers came forward and dropped on one knee. “The constable is sick, like many in the garrison, my lady. Forgive him. He did not know anyone was coming.” The man hesitated and looked quickly over his shoulder at his companions. “It is hard to keep a full lookout up here.”

Matilda was not to be appeased. “Hard! Hard to keep a lookout! Then post some more men, sir. I don’t care if you have to carry them up, but do it. You could be attacked and overrun and have the enemy sitting before your fire before you knew he was at the gate.”

“May I ask the nature of the illness that strikes down so many of this garrison?” John’s lazy voice broke in suddenly.

“I don’t…I don’t know, sir. ’Tis very common…”

“They’re all dead drunk, Your Highness.” One of the other soldiers stepped forward suddenly, his face lit by the torchlight showing a scar from eyebrow to chin. “That’s the illness of Castel Dinas. If you’d been an hour or so later I’d have been down with it myself, and probably my fine companions as well. There’s not a man will stay sober the night through here and keep his sanity.”

John looked at Matilda and raised an eyebrow sardonically. “Perhaps we should join them in their merrymaking, my lady. God’s teeth! It doesn’t look as though there’ll be much service here tonight. You, fellow.” He nudged the kneeling man with his foot. “Show Lady de Braose and myself the splendors of your new tower. We need food and wine and warmth.”

The man scrambled up, and bowing, ran ahead of them toward the keep. It was Spartan indeed. A hearth had been built into one wall in the new fashion but it lay empty. Instead a pile of logs burned low in the middle of the floor, the smoke straying through the room and escaping at last through the doorway from which they had entered. Around it were the snoring sleeping figures of a dozen or so men. Goblets and jars of wine had fallen to the floor, and the room stank of stale wine and vomit.

Matilda pulled her cloak to her nose in disgust. “Get them out,” she ordered, her mouth set.

“But, my lady-” The man looked at her aghast.

“Get them out.” She had raised her voice only a little. “Is the hall of my lord and husband going to be used as a pigsty? Get them out and swill the floor. Now .” She shouted the last word, stamping her foot. The soldier, with one look at her blazing eyes and set chin, bowed and ran to the sleeping forms, setting about them with the flat of his sword.

John looked around and then strode to the staircase in the wall. “Perhaps there is a solar that would be more habitable,” he commented sourly, and ran up, his spurs ringing on the stone. There was a moment’s silence and then she heard him call. “It’s clean and dry here. We’ll make this our headquarters. Fire and lights!” The last words were bellowed in a voice meant to be obeyed.