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They were approaching the sand dunes, and she raised her hood to protect her face from the blowing sand. The fabric also hid her smile. Rhys ap Tudor was coming to know her. Her sheltered lifestyle did not lend itself to developing relationships beyond general acquaintance. This tiny step toward friendship was all the more appreciated because of its rarity.

The horses lowered their heads and continued past the sand dunes, reaching the woodland as Beti and her mare emerged from behind the first line of trees.

“I am glad you are returned, my lady,” Beti began. “The sky is portending another storm and . . .” Her voice caught, her eyes widening as Rhys appeared from behind Catrin.

“It is well, Beti,” Catrin hastened to reassure her. “This is Rhys ap Tudor of Penmynydd. He happened upon me at the beach and offered to escort me back to you.”

From her place astride the white mare, Beti bobbed her head. “’Tis an honor to meet you, Master Rhys. I have heard much good of the Tudors of Penmynydd.”

“I thank you, Beti.” He looked at her curiously. “You are Welsh. From which part of the country do you originate?”

“Flintshire, sir. Not far from the Marchlands. I served Lady Catrin’s mother when she was a child. Her family home was just outside Flint.”

“A beautiful area. I have ridden through the town on numerous occasions.”

Beti beamed, and Catrin’s heart warmed to see a gentleman show such kind attention to her servant. A gust of wind caught the corner of her cloak, making it flap. Seren tossed his head and snorted nervously.

“We should go,” Catrin said.

Beti nodded, and Rhys turned to Catrin again. “Would you permit me to ride with you as far as Penmynydd?”

Ever since her mother’s death, escaping the busy castle on horseback had been a balm, particularly on the days when her emotions were raw. Beti had always been close by, but Catrin had jealously guarded the solitude her rides afforded and had treasured the freedom to go wherever she wished without needing to compromise her desires for those of another. She was quite used to being alone. Preferred it even. And so, she was rather unprepared for her feelings of pleasure at Rhys’s request. “We would be happy for your company,” she said.

Rhys smiled, and Catrin discovered that despite the worsening weather, she was looking forward to her return journey.

They rode through the forest, emerging on the outskirts of the small community of Newborough. A cluster of stone houses lined the road, and outside the nearest one, three women were gathering armfuls of long grass that had been cut and piled beside the cottage door.

“What are they doing?” Catrin asked.

Rhys glanced at the women. “They’re taking in the marram grass before it rains,” he said. “The women gather grass from the sand dunes and use it to make mats, ropes, and nets.”

She watched one of the women emerge from the cottage to pick up another large bundle. “I’ve never heard of marram grass being used in such a way.”

Rhys shrugged. “The people of Newborough have been forced to discover new means of making a living.”

“Forced?” Catrin caught the hint of bitterness in his voice.

He looked at her curiously. “You do not know the history of this village?”

She shook her head, suddenly feeling ashamed. Her mother had gone out of her way to talk to the people they’d encountered on their rides, but during their first years on Anglesey, Catrin’s natural shyness, coupled with the awkwardness of youth, had kept her silent. Maturity had help her find her voice since then, but beyond the friars at Llanfaes Friary and a few tradespeople in Beaumaris, she’d made no effort to come to know the local people or their stories. “Would you tell me?”

For a few moments, Rhys remained silent. He watched a dog chase a young boy between the houses to their left before turning his gaze back to her. “Up until the turn of the last century, Llanfaes was a thriving community, boasting the main harbor on the island, along with the most productive land.”

“Llanfaes?” She looked at him in confusion. “But there’s only a friary there.”

“Nowadays, that is true. But many years ago, there was much more. It was an important trading center for ale, wine, wool, and herring.

“When work began on Beaumaris Castle, Edward I decreed that all ships should dock at Beaumaris. He forced the closure of Llanfaes’s harbor and appropriated their ferry and trade routes. Determining that Llanfaes’s fertile fields should be used to produce food for his garrison at the castle, he then evicted the townspeople and relocated them here, on the other side of the island.”

“Everyone? All at once?”

He nodded. “I daresay King Edward did not consider the Franciscan friars to be a threat, so the friary and its inhabitants remained, but everyone else left. The men tried to resume their previous professions in Newborough, but the sandy soil could not sustain the crops they were wont to producing in Llanfaes, and the gently sloping bay was too shallow to accommodate ships. In order to survive, they were required to seek different livelihoods.”

A cart full of wood approached from the other side of the forest. The driver sat, his shoulders slumped as the thin old horse pulled the heavy load against the prevailing wind.

“Good day to you.” Rhys greeted the man in Welsh.

The man gave a deferential nod to Catrin before responding frankly. “I would wish the same to you, Master Rhys, but there’s an ill wind blowing from England that does not bode well for any Welshman.”