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“It looks like it was a good catch today,” she said, pointing to the basket of fish.

“I go out earlier than most, my lady. That’s the trick.” He gazed out at the shimmering sea as though assessing its potential. “I’ve promised some fresh mackerel to the castle cook for the banquet you’ll be havin’ next week. I’ve caught some over Llanfaes way, but the water ’round Puffin Island will be the best bet, I’m thinkin’.”

Catrin gave him a startled look. The Welsh gentry had been invited, the cook had planned a menu, and the fisherman had decided on the best location to catch the requested fish. Her father had given her to understand the banquet was to celebrate her betrothal to the Duke of Bedford, and yet, it appeared that she might be the last person to learn of it.

“Then I wish you well,” she said. “And I shall look forward to tasting your mackerel.”

“They’ll be the best there,” he said proudly. “Least ways, that’s what Master Rhys always says about ’em.”

Catrin could not deny the warm glow she felt in her chest at the mention of Rhys’s name, but she kept her tone casual. “Rhys ap Tudor? Is he planning to attend?”

“It sounded that way when he stopped by the day afore yesterday.” Elfed frowned and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Unless he gets called away all of a sudden, I suppose.”

The warm glow sputtered and died. Rhys would be going to fight with Owain Glyndwr. Against the English. She would be returning to England to marry an English nobleman. It made no difference if she saw him again. Their lives were destined for very different paths.

“I hope that will not be the case,” Catrin said, keeping her response light. “I should enjoy seeing all the Tudors there.”

“Well, the family is yet at Penmynydd, my lady, so I daresay you will. After all, the banquet is not so far off, is it?”

Unfortunately, Elfed’s words—that were undoubtedly intended to reassure—had the opposite effect. Desperately attempting to ward off a looming sense of panic, she forced a smile. “’Tis true,” she said. “And there is much to be done before then, so we should be on our way and let you be about your business. Good day to you, Elfed.”

The old man gave her a puzzled look, then bowed his head. “And to you, my lady.”

Chapter 9

Owain Glyndwr’s summons was delivered to Penmynydd on the same day the Duke of Bedford set foot on Anglesey. Rhys had just finished dressing for the banquet when the courier arrived at the longhouse. He answered the knock on the door before either of his brothers reached it. After accepting the letter and giving the messenger a coin for his efforts, he stepped back into the room, broke his cousin’s distinctive seal, and read the dispatch.

“Well?” Ever the impatient one, Gwilym crossed the room in brisk strides. “What does he say?”

Rhys handed him the parchment. “He’s ready for us.”

“We are to leave right away?” Maredudd asked. He was standing beside Margaret, his arm around her waist.

Rhys nodded. “His men have organized a camp in the Snowdonia Mountains. He didn’t reveal the exact location, but we are to go to the church in Llanrwst, and a guide will meet us there. Men are gathering from all over North Wales. Each is willing to fight for the cause, but few have any military experience. He has appointed us to train and lead them.”

Margaret’s face turned a shade paler. “But Maredudd does not share the experience you and Gwilym have in battle.”

“I may not have fought abroad, but I can shoot a bow as well or better than the next man, Margaret.” Maredudd’s voice was grave. “But more than that, I am a Tudor. I am honor bound to do this.”

Her chin shook slightly, and she dropped her head. “I know.”

He pulled her close, and Rhys looked away. He wished it could be different, but there was no escaping the fact that Owain’s call to arms would be hardest on Maredudd and his young wife.

“What of the banquet at the castle?” Gwilym asked.

“We go,” Rhys said. “We have no other recourse. Today’s ferry will have departed by the time we reach Beaumaris, and if we fail to attend, the English might suspect something is afoot. Henry and his men have already left Scotland, and Owain believes they plan to enter North Wales on their return march. ’Tis vital that we leave for his camp on the morrow.”

“We’ve been preparing for days,” Maredudd said. “We are ready.”

Rhys nodded, not willing to tell his younger brother that physical preparation was the easiest part of going to battle. It was coping with the unanticipated emotional toll that crept into the hearts and minds of the bravest of warriors that was the greater challenge. Leaving Penmynydd and Margaret would be one of the hardest things Maredudd would ever do.

“Very well,” Gwilym said, reaching for his cloak. “Let us assess the enemy’s resources, eat his food, drink his ale, and be back before he knows what we’re about.”

“Lord Buckley is not the enemy,” Rhys said with irritation.

Gwilym raised his eyebrows. “Would you mind telling me why the English nobleman appointed by the English king as constable of the English castle in Beaumaris is not an enemy to the Welsh uprising?”

“Because he has nothing to do with Henry or the iron-fisted laws he’s trying to inflict on Wales. Lord Buckley was assigned to his post by Richard, and to the best of my knowledge, he’s always treated the people of Anglesey fairly.”