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What had astonished him the most, however, was the seemingly genuine admiration she’d expressed for the friars’ endeavors, along with Brother Robert’s praise of her pleasant disposition after she’d left them.

Rhys shook his head as if doing so would settle his shifting thoughts into some semblance of order. Truth be told, it was as difficult for him to gauge Lady Catrin Buckley’s character as it had been to ascertain her father’s.

The door to the longhouse opened, and three men exited. Rhys immediately recognized them as long-time tenants.

“Good day to you,” he said.

His greeting was met with glowers and reluctant nods.

“We’ve ’ad better, Master Rhys, that’s for certain.” Dilwyn, the shortest, but burliest of the three, acted as their spokesman.

Rhys eyed them with unease. Something was most certainly amiss. Despite the hardships inherent in scraping a living off the land, these men were usually jovial fellows.

“I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“Good of you to say so, Master Rhys,” Dilwyn said. “I reckon yer brothers are as well. But bein’ sorry’s not goin’ to be enough to feed our families.”

The other two men mumbled their agreement, frustration evident in their tense stances.

“If you’ll excuse us, Master Rhys,” Dilwyn said, “we’ve all got animals that need feedin’.”

The men gave Rhys a second set of curt nods and headed out of the yard. Rhys watched them go, their muffled, angry voices reaching him until they were halfway to the upper road.

With a concerned frown, he walked into the longhouse. Dafydd, the young stableboy, was waiting at the door to the barn. Rhys handed him Castan’s reins and turned to enter the great room, where preparations were underway for the evening meal. One servant was setting out wooden bowls and trenchers while another was filling goblets with ale. The girl who had preceded him into the building with a basketful of bread had deposited her load on the table and was now receiving further instructions from Margaret.

His brothers were standing near the fire in deep conversation. Lines of worry etched Maredudd’s forehead, and Gwilym was pacing back and forth—a sure sign that his anxiety was on the rise. Bracing himself for bad news, Rhys walked across the room toward them.

Gwilym saw him coming and stopped midstride. “You took your time.”

Rhys ignored him. “I ran into Dilwyn, Cadfan, and Dai outside,” he said. “They did not appear happy.”

“They have good reason for their poor humor,” Maredudd said. He ran his hand across his face, but it did nothing to erase the look of concern there. “You recall the taxes we delivered to the castle a few days ago?”

Rhys nodded.

“Apparently, our payment was insufficient for the new English king.” Bitterness edged Maredudd’s voice. “Dilwyn, Cadfan, and Dai came to report that the sheriff has been traveling the neighborhood today, informing everyone that he just received word that King Henry is demanding more taxes from every Welsh household.”

“More?” Rhys could barely contain his indignation. “There is no more. The Welsh people have been squeezed dry for years.”

“Does the English king truly believe that Welshmen will sit back and watch their wives and children starve to death so that he can fill his table to overflowing?” Gwilym had started pacing again. “You mark my words. This will be the breaking point. And ’tis just as well that Henry does not realize what he’s unleashed.”

Rhys glanced from Gwilym to Maredudd. “There’s something more?”

“Merely rumors,” Maredudd said.

“He will act,” Gwilym said, his eyes flashing. “You know he will, Maredudd.”

“Who will act?” Rhys pressed.

“Owain Glyndwr,” Maredudd said. He looked slightly uncomfortable. “Word is spreading amongst the peasants that Owain is the one foretold in Welsh legend—the red dragon who will rise up to free the people from their English oppressors.”

“Whether you believe the legend or not, Owain is perfectly positioned to lead a rebellion,” Gwilym said. “Not only is he a Marcher gentleman with land, money, and connections amongst the nobility, but he also has claim to the Welsh throne as a direct descendant of the Princes of Powys and Cyfeiliog.”

“There’s been talk of rebellion before,” Rhys said.

“Not like this, Rhys. You should have heard Dilwyn, Cadfan, and Dai. They’re desperate. And they represent a lot of other desperate Welshmen. The peasants and laborers are ready and willing. They’re convinced that if Owain leads out, other nobles will follow.”

“Have you received any word from Owain?”