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“I shall talk privately to the sheriff,” Maredudd said. “He can oversee my bailiff duties for a time, and in the event that Margaret needs extra help here, Dilwyn and Cadfan would step in if I asked them.”

“Your watchcare over the family home does you credit, Maredudd,” Rhys said. He placed his hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder. “I am sorry that you will be required to leave Margaret though.”

“Aye,” Maredudd said, his worried eyes seeking and finding his wife, who was now sitting by the fire with Lady Catrin. “That will surely be the hardest part of this endeavor.”

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Catrin accepted the cup of mulled mead from the young servant girl and took a small sip of the fruity drink. The fire had already done much to dry her damp gown and dispel the attendant chill, but she shifted uncomfortably. From across the room, the murmur of men’s voices reached her. She wished she could make out their words. Something unsettling was underway, of that she was sure. Something that involved a man named Owain Glyndwr. The same man mentioned by the peasant in Newborough.

Although she could not hear what Rhys and his brothers were saying, their unease was palpable, and she guessed that her presence in the longhouse was the cause of their angst. For perhaps the hundredth time, she wished for the confidence to be bold, to hold her head up amongst strangers, and to ignore the discomfit she so often felt in their company. But despite her upbringing amongst the nobility, none of those things came easily to Catrin. It would be best for all concerned if she left.

Rain still drummed on the roof above, but she turned to Margaret, who had taken the chair beside her. “I thank you for your hospitality, but I fear that our arrival was untimely. ’Tis really not so far to Beaumaris. If you would be so good as to send for our horses, Beti and I can be on our way.”

Margaret bit her lower lip anxiously. “I should hate to have you leave so soon, my lady. The rain has yet to abate.” She gave a hesitant smile. “And along with not wishing to incur the displeasure of my brother-in-law for sending his guest off so quickly, I confess, ’tis a pleasure for me to have the company of another female.”

Startled by this admission, Catrin studied the woman beside her more carefully. Margaret appeared to be close to her own age. Her brown hair was pulled back tidily into a caul net, and her dark-green gown—although not as fine as Catrin’s—was well made and flattered her dainty figure. Moreover, her warm, brown eyes showed the same hint of shyness that Catrin had seen so many times in the looking glass.

“Do you not have other women at the longhouse?”

“There are the servants, of course,” Margaret said, “but with Rhys’s and Gwilym’s return, I am rather outnumbered.”

Catrin smiled, experiencing an unforeseen feeling of kinship with this Welsh gentlewoman. “The castle is a lonely place for a woman also.”

Margaret looked at her curiously. “How do you occupy your time?”

“I ride whenever the weather permits,” Catrin said. “Most often, I stay within the environs of Beaumaris, but sometimes I travel foolishly far.”

“Such as today,” Margaret guessed.

Catrin laughed. “Indeed.”

Margaret’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Getting caught in the rain is easily done, my lady. Even in the height of summer, the weather on Anglesey is fickle.”

“And changes in an instant,” Catrin said, turning her head and listening to the sudden silence overhead. As quickly as it had come, the rain had stopped.

Across the room, tension still hung in the air, but here by the fire, the mood had changed. For the second time that day, and from an equally unlikely source, Catrin had been given a glimpse of friendship.

“I thank you for your kindness, Margaret,” she said, hoping the gentlewoman would recognize her sincerity. “I am most grateful.” She rose to her feet, and at her side, Beti rose also. “But I believe it would be wise for us to take advantage of the break in the storm.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Margaret stood and glanced at the men. They were still in deep conversation, so she signaled a nearby servant, who immediately retrieved Catrin’s and Beti’s cloaks. Catrin exchanged the empty cup for her cloak, quickly securing the heavy fabric at her shoulder.

“Come,” Margaret said. “I will have Dafydd make ready your horses.”

Perhaps it was wrong to walk away without expressing her thanks to Rhys, but given the undercurrents in the room, it seemed best. Catrin followed Margaret to the door and slipped out before any of the men realized she and Beti were gone.

Chapter 8

Catrin stood atop the castle walls, looking out to sea. A few fishing vessels bobbed up and down on the distant waves, and farther out, a ferryboat was tacking against the wind toward Beaumaris Harbor. She watched the larger boat’s laborious zigzag progression across the Menai Straits, wondering whether there was anyone or anything on board destined for the castle.

A week had passed since her encounter with Rhys ap Tudor at Newborough Beach and her first exposure to the name of Owain Glyndwr. Catrin had waited only until she and Beti had been out of earshot of the Tudors’ longhouse to question her maid about the mysterious Welshman. Beti had shared what little she knew: that he was an educated, wealthy landowner of ancient royal Welsh ancestry, who’d married well, been trained in the law, and had fought beside King Richard in Scotland. When Catrin had pressed her further, however, Beti had admitted that amongst the locals in Beaumaris, she’d heard growing rumors of his potential role as the leader of a Welsh uprising against Henry’s despotic rule.

On that long ride back to Beaumaris, Beti’s account had seemed almost fanciful. To rouse an entire country against the powerful English king was unprecedented. And yet, in the days since then, news of Glyndwr’s attacks on English strongholds within Wales had been arriving daily. Denbigh, Rhuddlan, Flint, Harwarden, and Holt had already experienced the scorching fury of the Welsh rebellion, and the inhabitants of Anglesey waited anxiously for word that the battles had left the borderlands and were headed northwest.

Owain Glyndwr’s name was now on everyone’s lips. The weariness so often apparent in the eyes of the locals had been replaced by hope. From the young seamstress who’d been helping Beti prepare Catrin’s bridal clothing to the crusty old fisherman at the harbor, it seemed that all the townspeople saw the Welshman as some kind of savior, a defender of their lives and property.

For the residents of the castle, however, the mood was different. Tension was mounting. The number of guards patrolling the walls had doubled, and missives were arriving from London every day. Each boat that came into dock triggered nervous anticipation over what news it might bring. The letter couriers had seen more of Lord Buckley over the last few days than had Catrin, and with no personal source of information, she was left to wonder when Henry’s retaliation would begin.

The uncertainty was unnerving, but she had discovered a silver lining to the heightened anxiety swirling around Glyndwr’s actions and Henry’s response. All the attention her father was giving to the burgeoning civil unrest lessened what he could give to her pending marriage, and Catrin secretly hoped that skirmishes along the border might delay the Duke of Bedford’s arrival. The thought of leaving Wales to marry the older English nobleman still filled her with dread.