Page 17

Rhys seemed to understand. “I pray it will not last,” he said. He glanced back at the row of humble cottages. “The villagers’ hardships are sufficient without adding to them further.”

“Aye,” the man said. “Prayer and Owain Glyndwr are all we have left, are they not?” He slapped the reins, and the weary horse responded with another step along the road. “You’d best make haste, Master Rhys. The storm’s movin’ in right quick.”

Catrin waited only until the old man was out of hearing. “Is something amiss?”

“The sheriff of Anglesey just received word that King Henry is placing an even greater tax upon the people of Wales.” He pointed back at the straggling row of stone houses. “These people have nothing more to give beyond their homes and their lives.” She saw the muscle in his jaw tighten. “Mayhap they will lose them both.”

Catrin stared at him. What could she say? She, who lived in an English castle and had never had to worry about her next meal, let alone being made homeless. “Is it certain? This new tax?”

“I have no doubt the demand has been made,” he said. “But whether the Welsh people will comply is another matter entirely.”

What did Rhys mean? Surely no one would dare go against the king’s orders. And who was Owain Glyndwr? She wanted to ask, but doing so would reveal her Welsh fluency, and she was loath to do that yet. Not that she thought Rhys would respond the way most members of the English nobility would and look down upon her for speaking his native tongue. Quite the opposite was probably true. But she had long since learned that people spoke more freely and candidly when they did not think she could understand, and as someone who was usually offered nothing more than polite niceties from those she encountered, she was reluctant to lose her ability to hear the truth.

She glanced at Rhys now. Whoever Owain Glyndwr was, he surely wielded significant influence. The very mention of his name had changed Rhys’s mood from friendly to contemplative, and despite the whistling wind, a blanket of silence had fallen between them.

Chapter 7

Following the narrow dirt road, Rhys, Catrin, and Beti rode past the last of the lowly dwellings and headed northeast across the rolling hills. There had been a noticeable growth in the trees and shrubs during Rhys’s three-year absence, and occasionally, they happened upon a newly built wall or a freshly cleared field, but the area was familiar enough that Rhys gave little thought to their route. Between his anger over King Henry’s recent decree, his concern over Owain’s undetermined plans, and his awareness of the beautiful noblewoman riding alongside him, he had plenty to occupy his mind.

He had hoped to spend the journey learning more about Lady Catrin, but the wind made conversation difficult, and the explanation she’d requested following his interaction with the peasant from Newborough had been a poignant reminder of their very different backgrounds. It was best that he remember that and focus his energies on preparing for what might lay ahead should a Welsh rebellion arise.

They were less than a mile from Penmynydd when the first drops of rain began to fall.

Lady Catrin raised her head, studying the gray sky. “I would like to think that this rain will blow past, but there’s no sign of a break in the clouds,” she said.

Rhys looked upward. “Aye. I fear we shall be wet before we reach shelter.”

As though the heavens were listening and had simply been awaiting his prognostication, thunder rolled and the light sprinkle became a heavy downpour.

“We are not far from Penmynydd,” Rhys said. “You can wait out the storm there.”

Beneath her hood, Lady Catrin nodded. “Did you hear, Beti?” she called to her maid.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then let us make haste.” Rhys dug his heels into Castan, lowering his head against the rain as his horse broke into a canter. Beside him, Seren responded immediately, and a few yards behind, the white mare kept pace. Less than five minutes later, they clattered into the yard outside the longhouse. Rhys slid out of the saddle and hurried to Seren’s side.

“Come,” he said, raising his arms to Lady Catrin.

She hesitated for only a moment, then she placed her hands on his shoulders, and he grasped her by the waist and lowered her to the ground. She met his eyes, awareness crackling between them before she lowered her arms and stepped away.

“I thank you,” she said softly.

“Of course, my lady.”

He swung around to assist Beti off her mount, grateful for the distraction afforded by the simple act.

“This way,” he said as soon as Beti was on her feet.

Lady Catrin had ahold of Seren’s reins, so he took Castan and the mare and led them to the longhouse door. Raising the latch, he ushered them inside, then called down the narrow hallway.

“Dafydd!”

Immediately, there was the sound of hurried footsteps, and the door to the stable opened.

“Here I am, Master Rhys.”

“Good lad.” Speaking in Welsh, Rhys handed Dafydd two sets of reins. “You already know Castan. These other two horses are from the castle, so they’ll be needing extra good care. Especially Seren here.” He slid sideways so the boy could get a better look at the black stallion.