Dawn was a smear of bruised purple and reluctant grey in the sky when Morfudd shook him gently awake. The air in his chamber was frigid, the embers in the hearth long dead. He rose stiffly, Cadogan's body protesting every movement, but the cold resolve from the previous night remained. Glyndŵr awaited.
Morfudd pressed a small, hard apple into his hand – a treasure, likely hoarded. "For the journey," she whispered, her eyes glistening. "May the spirits of the old paths watch over you, Cadogan bach." She then helped him into a slightly thicker, though equally patched, woolen cloak she must have procured from somewhere. It smelled faintly of her herbs and woodsmoke, a small, familiar comfort against the unknown.
There were no grand farewells, no well-wishers at the gate of Caer Maelog. When he descended into the lower bailey, the five men assigned to him were already there, huddled around a tiny, sputtering fire they'd coaxed to life. Their expressions were as bleak as the morning. Their meager belongings – a few bedraggled packs, the aforementioned rusty weapons – were piled nearby. A single, bony packhorse, laden with two poorly secured sacks that probably contained their collective "official" supplies, stood dejectedly, its ribs showing.
The one-eyed man, whose name he'd learned from Morfudd was Rhys, a disgraced former man-at-arms, hawked and spat into the mud as Cadogan approached. The others – two lanky youths named Owain and Griff who looked barely old enough to shave, a stooped, older man called Dai who coughed incessantly, and a silent, brooding figure known only as Madog – merely watched him with dull eyes. This was his army, his retinue, his hope for taming Glyndŵr. His heart sank, but he kept his face impassive.
"The horse is laden?" he asked, his voice cutting through the morning chill, surprisingly firm. Rhys grunted. "As much as that nag can carry. Barely enough grain to see it to Glyndŵr, let alone us." "We'll manage," Cadogan said, though he had no idea how. He surveyed them. "Are all prepared to march?" A series of grunts and reluctant nods was his answer.
The main gates of Caer Maelog creaked open with a groan of protesting timber, revealing a muddy track leading away from the fortress. No one from the Arglwydd's family was there to see them off. He glimpsed the broader of his two half-brothers watching from a parapet, a familiar smirk on his face, before he turned away, already bored. Cast out, indeed.
With a curt nod, Cadogan led the way, if one could call his unsteady gait 'leading'. He set a slow pace, dictated by his own recovering strength and the laden packhorse, which Dai, the coughing older man, seemed to have taken charge of. Rhys and Madog walked together, muttering darkly, while the two youths, Owain and Griff, trailed behind, kicking at stones, their expressions a mixture of fear and a strange, youthful fatalism.
The land immediately around Caer Maelog was sparsely cultivated – small, hard-won fields of barley and rye, already harvested, the stubble stark against the damp earth. A few low, turf-roofed dwellings huddled near the fortress walls, their inhabitants peering out with cautious, incurious eyes as the small, grim procession passed. Within an hour, even these signs of habitation grew scarce. The track narrowed, becoming little more than a rutted path through increasingly wild, scrubby heathland. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain.
Cadogan walked in a bubble of intense concentration. His mind worked tirelessly, cataloging the terrain, observing his men, trying to recall any scrap of information about Glyndŵr that might have slipped through Morfudd's fearful descriptions or Cadogan's own fragmented memories. He remembered nothing useful of the place itself, only a vague, childish dread associated with its name.
He focused on his men. Rhys was clearly the alpha of this pathetic pack, his one good eye constantly scanning, his demeanor openly insubordinate. Madog was a cipher, silent and grim, but he moved with a hunter's watchfulness that Cadogan noted. The two youths were green, terrified, and likely useless in a real crisis. Dai, the old man, seemed resigned to his fate, his cough a constant, rattling punctuation to their march.
Leadership, he knew from his 21st-century studies, was not about pronouncements but about presence, about competence, about fostering a shared purpose, however grim. He had none of their respect, and little physical presence to command it. Competence would have to be his weapon, once he found an opportunity to display it.
By midday, the sky had opened up, a cold, drizzling rain beginning to soak through their cloaks. They stopped in the meager shelter of a rocky outcrop to chew on some of Morfudd's hard bread. The mood was sullen. "How far to this cursed barony?" Owain, the younger of the youths, finally piped up, his voice cracking. Rhys snorted. "Too far for the likes of us to walk back from, boy. Two days hard march, if the bogs don't swallow us or the Green Men take our heads." "Green Men?" Griff asked, his eyes wide. "Aye," Rhys said, his good eye glinting with malicious satisfaction as he looked at the youths, then flicked a glance at Cadogan. "Wild folk. Live in the deep woods of Glyndŵr. Don't take kindly to Maelog's men. Or any men, for that matter."
Cadogan listened, filing the information away. Folklore, perhaps, but likely rooted in some truth about hostile local tribes or outlaws. Glyndŵr was not just empty; it was contested. "We will post a watch tonight," Cadogan stated, his voice calm. "Two men, two-hour shifts." Rhys laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Watch for what, lordling? Bad dreams? Or are you expecting a royal welcome in this wasteland?" "For whatever comes," Cadogan replied, meeting Rhys's stare. "Wolves. Raiders. Green Men, if you believe in them. We are few, and our safety depends on vigilance." He looked at the others. "Rhys, you will take first watch with Madog. I will take the last with Dai."
A surprised silence greeted this. He, the sickly lordling, offering to take a watch? Rhys's smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of something else – grudging respect, or perhaps just confusion. Madog merely grunted, his gaze unreadable. The assignment of Dai, the weakest, with himself was a calculated risk. It showed he wasn't shirking, but also that he didn't trust Dai alone, or perhaps was using the older man's presence as a less threatening partner for his own watch.
As they resumed their march under the weeping sky, the terrain grew wilder still. The track had all but disappeared, and Dai now led the packhorse through gorse and heather, his cough echoing in the damp air. The silence of his companions was broken only by the squelch of their boots in the mud and the relentless sigh of the wind. Late in the afternoon, as they navigated a narrow defile between two rocky hills, Owain, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped, holding up a hand. "What is it, boy?" Rhys growled. Owain pointed, his hand trembling, to a tree just off their path. From one of its lower branches, something dark and misshapen was hanging.
It was the desiccated corpse of a man, clad in rags, strung up by the neck, swaying gently in the breeze. A crude warning, or simply the aftermath of some forgotten frontier justice. Glyndŵr, it seemed, was beginning to announce its welcome.