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“His allegiance is to the king,” Gwilym said. “You know that as well as I. He’ll act on the king’s orders—whether the reigning English monarch be Richard, Henry, or the next power-hungry nobleman who claims the throne.” He gave Rhys a piercing look. “And you’d best remember that when his daughter walks into the great hall this evening.”

Rhys rolled his eyes and reached for the dagger he’d left on the table. Tucking it into his girdle, he turned to Maredudd. “We should be on our way.”

Maredudd nodded and placed Margaret’s cloak across her shoulders. “Dafydd has the horses ready.”

Although Owain’s letter had been expected for days, its appearance had suddenly made the risks ahead more real, and each member of their small party took advantage of the journey to Beaumaris to ponder what lay before them. The chill in the evening air hinted at colder weather to come, and Rhys wondered if the Snowdonia Mountains had received their first dusting of snow yet. October was a hard time to set up camp. Conditions would worsen quickly as winter set in. Along with adequate shelter for the men and horses, they would need an ample supply of fuel and food. Advance planning would be crucial—not only to their success in battle but also to their survival in the mountains.

Maredudd and Margaret rode together, occasionally exchanging softly spoken words. Gwilym rode beside Rhys, but to Rhys’s relief, he did not offer any further commentary on the inhabitants of the castle. The truth was Rhys had been anticipating the banquet with an unsettling mixture of eagerness and dread. They were emotions that he’d rarely experienced simultaneously outside a battlefield, and he lay the blame for his disquiet squarely at the feet of Lady Catrin Buckley. He had thought of her far too often in the days since she’d slipped away from the longhouse without a word. The English noblewoman destined to marry the Duke of Bedford had no place in his future, but something about her had touched him deeply, and despite their differing backgrounds, he found himself wishing that he could know her better.

He tightened his hold on the reins, grateful that Gwilym was not privy to his private thoughts. Perhaps he was as much of a fool as his brother believed. He could only hope that seeing Lady Catrin in her proper place, with her betrothed at her side, would do more to clear his thinking than a week’s worth of distractions had done. He glanced to his left. The flags above the castle towers were now visible over the tops of the trees. It would not be much longer before they reached the drawbridge, and when they entered the English bastion, it was imperative that he keep his wits about him.

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“I cannot attend the banquet.” Catrin clutched the back of a chair in her bedchamber and took three deep breaths. “Truly, Beti, I am unwell.”

Beti clucked her tongue. “’Tis only the jitters, my lady. Once you are in the great hall and seated beside your father and the duke, your anxiety will ease.”

“Or worsen.” The deep breaths were not helping. “What man wants a shaking leaf for his wife? Or one so weak that she collapses in front of a large assembly?”

“Nonsense. You do not realize your own strength, my lady. Mark my words, your courage will rise to the fore.”

Catrin shook her head miserably. “If I am possessed of such courage, it does not appear to be manifesting itself today.”

“Do not be so sure, my lady.” Beti gave her an encouraging smile. “Besides, you have only to walk into the room and the duke will be enchanted.”

Catrin closed her eyes. A mere three hours ago, she had watched the duke and his entourage disembark the ferry from her viewpoint on the east wall. At least twenty men wearing unfamiliar yellow-and-black surcoats had ridden behind the duke as they’d made their way to the castle’s south gatehouse. The wide brim of his feathered hat had made it impossible to see his face, but he’d sat upon his horse with the confidence of a highborn nobleman. When he’d disappeared from view, she’d hurried back to her chamber, and she’d been preparing for her meeting with him ever since.

Beti had drawn her a bath, and once Catrin’s hair was washed and dried, her maid had twisted her silky locks into two elaborate plaits pinned to her head beneath a simple gold circlet. Shimmering gold beads decorated the neckline and edges of the sleeves of her new burgundy gown, and a gold girdle hung around her slender waist. Outwardly, she was as prepared as she could be to meet the man who would be her husband; inwardly, she was as unsettled as one of cook’s pigs’-feet jellies.

A knock echoed through the bedchamber, and Catrin started. She opened her eyes and placed one hand over her churning stomach while Beti hastened to open the door. Her father stood without.

“My lord,” Beti said, dropping to a curtsy.

“I am come for Lady Catrin,” he said.

She nodded and stood aside so he could enter the room. “She is ready, my lord.”

Forcing her feet to move, Catrin stepped around the chair. “Good evening, Father.”

He studied her, the look in his eyes softening. “I wish your mother were here to see you, Catrin,” he said. “She would be most proud.” He extended his arm. “Come. The duke awaits you in the great hall.”

Catrin placed her hand on her father’s arm. Her fingers trembled, but he did not seem to notice. Without further comment, he led her out the door, and as she took her first steps down the spiral staircase, she heard the solid click of her bedchamber door closing behind her. The guests were gathered, and her father was beside her, but Catrin had never felt more alone.

Torches in the wall sconces above her head flickered as they passed, and the sound of voices coming from below increased in volume with each step she took. When they reached the entrance to the great hall, her father paused.

“We shall walk directly to the head table,” he said. “The duke and his men will be seated by now. You will take your place between us.”

“Very well.”

He gave her a pleased nod and pushed open the wide door. Immediately, all talking was replaced by the scraping of benches across the wooden floor as the occupants of the great hall silently rose to their feet. Vaguely aware of many eyes upon her, Catrin kept her gaze straight ahead and focused on her breathing. At the head table, an unfamiliar man was standing beside an empty chair, watching her progress across the room. He was short and thin; his white hair touched his shoulders and matched his neatly trimmed white beard.

“Your Grace,” Lord Buckley said when they reached him. “May I present my daughter, Lady Catrin Buckley. Catrin, His Grace, the Duke of Bedford.”

The duke lowered his head in greeting, and Catrin curtsied. “I am honored to meet you, Your Grace,” she said.

“Likewise,” the duke said. “And I might add, your father did not exaggerate your beauty, my lady. You are quite lovely.”

The undisguised admiration in his small dark eyes made her squirm. “I thank you, Your Grace.”