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“But of course.” He gestured toward her chair. “Please. Be seated.”

Catrin took her seat gratefully, and the duke sat beside her.

Remaining on his feet, her father looked out over the large gathering and cleared his throat. “I should like to welcome you all to Beaumaris Castle and thank you for your attendance here tonight.” His powerful voice resonated throughout the hall. “We are grateful for the opportunity to celebrate the safe arrival of the Duke of Bedford to Anglesey and to announce his betrothal to my daughter, Lady Catrin.”

A chorus of cheers and clapping followed her father’s proclamation. Catrin kept her eyes lowered, willing this moment of being the focus of all attention to pass. Her father waited until the guests’ exuberance calmed, then with a nod to the page at the door, he lowered himself to his chair. Immediately, everyone else in the room took his or her seat, and as the hum of conversation started once more, a stream of servants entered the great hall, bearing enormous platters of smoked mackerel, roast pork, pheasant, and duck, along with baskets of fresh bread and flagons of ale. Goblets and trenchers were filled to overflowing, and in the center of the room, the minstrels began to play.

Beside her, the duke offered her some bread. Catrin took a small piece. She wasn’t sure which would be more difficult—forcing food down her throat or engaging in conversation with this stranger. Unfortunately, she was expected to do both.

“I hope your journey went well, Your Grace,” she said.

“As well as could be expected with the threat of Welsh marauders hanging over us,” the duke replied. A large piece of meat hung from the dagger in his hand, and he was chewing loudly. She watched in perturbed fascination as his pointy teeth bit into the meat again. “Totally lawless, the lot of them. I cannot imagine how much you must have suffered living amongst such backward people.” He leaned closer, and Catrin instinctively moved back. “But do not fear, my dear. Now that I have seen how things are for myself, I shall talk to King Henry. I have his ear, you know.” He gave her a smug smile. “I will see to it that this onerous assignment is given to another. Your father shall be back in England in no time.”

Catrin stared at him. Backward, lawless people? To whom exactly was he referring? In her three years living amongst the Welsh people, she had yet to meet anyone who fell within that category. In fact, if the stories she’d heard were true, the Duke of Bedford would have greater success finding those of that ilk on the backstreets of London.

“I would be glad to have my father live closer to me, Your Grace, but I would not have you think we have been unhappy here. The island of Anglesey is exceptionally beautiful, and its people have served us well.”

“I see that you have been sheltered from all that lies beyond these castle walls,” he said. “Your father is to be commended for his protection of your sensibilities.”

At the duke’s condescending expression, Catrin’s indignation rose. The nobleman knew nothing about her everyday life or the goodness of the friars at Llanfaes, the graciousness of the Tudors of Penmynydd, or the many services that had been rendered them by the merchants in Beaumaris. She tore a bite-size portion of bread off the piece in her hand and put it into her mouth. Eating still held no appeal, but perhaps it would prevent her from saying something she might later regret.

The duke took a long drink of ale, and Catrin looked away, for the first time allowing her gaze to fall upon those gathered in the great hall. Servants wove between the trestle tables and long benches lining the walls, offering pottage, baked apples, and ale to the guests. She recognized the knights and the few noblewomen who resided at the castle sitting nearby. Another table was filled with men wearing the Duke of Bedford’s colors. On the opposite side of the room, the castle squires filled two tables, and the visiting Welsh gentry took up the remaining seats.

Drawn to the trestle table farthest away, Catrin searched the gentry for a familiar face. A woman with brown hair plaited into an elegant coronet and wearing a dark-blue gown and short veil sat with her head turned away. As Catrin watched, the woman spoke to the dark-haired man at her side before facing the head table again. It was Margaret. Catrin smiled, and Margaret returned it with a shy smile of her own. Then the Welshwoman leaned forward to speak to someone else, and in the gap Margaret’s movement created, Catrin saw Rhys. He was sitting between Gwilym and Margaret, and at that precise moment, he raised his head, and his eyes met hers. He did not smile or dip his head in greeting, but for several long seconds, his gaze held hers.

“Lady Catrin?”

Catrin blinked, and the spell was broken. “I apologize, Your Grace. I was momentarily distracted.”

“Indeed.” He frowned and surveyed the room before turning back to her. “I was suggesting that we take a ride on the morrow. Your father has told me that you are an accomplished horsewoman.”

A vision of racing Rhys across Newborough Beach niggled its way into her thoughts, but she pushed it away. To become more comfortable in the Duke of Bedford’s presence would require spending time with him. Perhaps that daunting prospect might be more appealing if she were astride Seren. “I should like that,” she said.

“Shall we say ten o’clock?”

Catrin nodded. “I will meet you at the stables.”

Obviously pleased with the arrangement, the duke pierced an apple sitting on his trencher and started eating again.

With ale flowing freely, it was not long before many of the men’s voices became overly loud. Raucous laughter coming from the table where the squires were sitting was drowning out the lute’s mellow notes. Tasting a tiny piece of the smoked mackerel just so she could tell Elfed she had, Catrin wondered how soon she could escape the revelry without being impolite. She glanced at her father. He was staring across the room, a slight frown across his brow. She followed his gaze. Several of the Welsh gentry, including the Tudors, were coming to their feet.

“Father?”

“It appears that the Welshmen are ready to leave,” he said.

With rising anxiety, Catrin watched the men approach the head table. Maredudd reached them first, with Margaret at his side. He bowed, and she curtsied to the Duke of Bedford, then to Lord Buckley and Catrin.

“Your Grace, my lord, my lady,” he said. “We thank you for inviting us to join you, but if you will excuse us, we must be on our way. Night is drawing on, and we have a long journey ahead.”

Catrin’s father dipped his head in acknowledgment, but Catrin kept her eyes on Margaret. Something was wrong. It almost looked as though her newfound friend had been crying.

Pushing back her chair, Catrin rose to her feet, and ignoring her father’s and the duke’s astounded expressions, she walked around the head table and stepped off the platform to stand beside Margaret. “Are you well?” she asked softly.

“I am, my lady.” She gave Catrin a slightly forced smile, and Maredudd stepped closer.

He exchanged a tender look with his wife and offered her his arm. “Farewell, Lady Catrin,” he said.

Catrin met his eyes, and suddenly, she knew. The time had come. The Tudor brothers were leaving far more than the castle banquet; they were leaving the island. She swung around. Rhys was within hearing, but so too were her father and the duke. “Rhys,” she said softly. He took a casual step closer, and she turned her back on the men at the table and slipped into Welsh. “Godspeed. May you be kept safe and well in your new endeavor.”