Page 28

“I lost my mother when I was but a boy. My father died ten years later, with my sister and wife following soon after.” Bitterness tinged his voice. “I have learned that life rarely follows the path we would choose for ourselves, Lady Catrin. The sooner we accept that, the less disappointed we will be.”

Catrin looked away. Marriage to the Duke of Bedford was certainly not what she would have selected for her future, but she refused to believe that simply accepting her fate—no matter how miserable—was the answer. She saw no happiness in that. And life without happiness was no life at all. No matter what lay ahead, she could find joy in emulating the kindness of her mother, appreciating the beauty around her, and delighting in her rides with Seren.

At last, they reached the final bend in the road, and the narrow lane widened into the friary’s entrance.

“You see the chapel before us,” Catrin said, pointing to the arched doorway. “The friars’ accommodations are to the back of the building, and the graveyard is to the right.” She paused and gazed out to sea. “My mother loved the view from this spot. It is well that she is buried here.”

“No matter the outlook, my lady, a final resting spot in England would surely be preferable to one on this remote island.”

Catrin battled to keep her irritation in check. “Perhaps you forget, Your Grace. My mother was Welsh.”

The duke’s dark eyes narrowed. “For the sake of my cousin, your father, I have agreed to overlook that fact. And in the future, you would do well to refrain from mentioning it to others.”

Stunned, Catrin could only stare at him. She’d known that there were many among the English nobility who distained the Welsh people, and the Duke of Bedford had already exposed his prejudice by his response when she’d greeted Margaret at the banquet and young Ewan in town, but to ask her to disavow her mother’s heritage—her own heritage—surely, he could not ask that of her.

“Make no mistake, my lady,” he continued, his voice growing in intensity. “Once we are wed, there is never to be any mention of your connection to Wales. And the Gaelic language that you have used so brazenly this day shall not cross your lips again.”

On Seren’s reins, Catrin’s hands trembled. Could the duke truly be so cruel? Without Welsh, part of her would die. The songs and stories of her childhood would be gone. Her connection to her mother would be weakened; her communication with Seren severed completely.

From the tower above the chapel, the bell tolled. To those in the friary, it was a call to prayer; to Catrin, it sounded eerily like a death knell. Dread seeped into her heart, but she raised her chin. “I fear this detour has kept us out too long after all, Your Grace. We should return to the castle.” Then, without waiting for a reply, she wheeled Seren around and started back the way they had come.

______________________________

Rhys stood on deck as the ferry slipped away from Beaumaris harbor. In the distance, he thought he’d heard the faint ringing of the bell at Llanfaes Friary, and he raised his head now to scour the hillside for a last glimpse of the bell tower above the trees.

“I had not thought we’d be making this return sail so soon.” Gwilym stepped closer, his eyes on the castle. “It seems but yesterday that we were standing here, reading that poor boy’s missive from the Duke of Bedford.”

Rhys nodded. It did seem like yesterday, and yet so much had happened in the interim. His thoughts inevitably flew to Lady Catrin. He had not even known her name then; now he knew her smile, her daring on horseback, her reserve amongst strangers, and that she spoke his native tongue. He still could hardly believe the last, but at the close of the banquet, she had addressed him with no hint of hesitation and had understood his reply. It was no wonder that her horse bore a Welsh name and responded so well to Welsh commands.

“You wondered what manner of men Lord Buckley and the Duke of Bedford might be,” Gwilym said. “Now you know. You have met them both.”

“Lord Buckley remains an enigma,” Rhys said. “He collects taxes from the Welsh and then invites them to dine with him; he loyally serves the English king and yet chose to marry a Welsh woman.”

“And the Duke of Bedford?” Gwilym asked.

“He’s a stoat.”

Gwilym laughed. “His beady eyes, thin nose, and pointy teeth put me in mind of a weasel, but I grant you, his white hair would be seen on a stoat.”

“I daresay his disposition is much like those oversized vermin also.”

Gwilym shrugged. “He did not appear pleased when Lady Catrin left the table to converse with Margaret, but I doubt he will be on Anglesey for long. We shall not have to look upon his stoat-like features or concern ourselves with his disagreeable character again.”

No. But Lady Catrin would. Rhys’s jaw tightened. During the time he’d spent fighting with King Richard, he’d become well practiced in sizing up a man’s character. Nothing honed that skill better than knowing your very life depended upon an accurate assessment. Rhys had taken the Duke of Bedford’s measure within seconds. And he did not like what he had found. No amount of whiskers could completely hide the nobleman’s weak jaw or mean mouth, and when Lady Catrin had walked across the great hall toward him, the glint in his eyes had been both calculating and covetous. Rhys had no voice or control over the matter, but if he had, Lady Catrin would not accompany the Duke of Bedford as far as the stables—let alone England—and marriage would be out of the question.

“How is Maredudd faring?” Rhys needed to focus on something else.

Gwilym pointed at their brother. He was standing across the stern from them, gazing upon the receding coastline of Anglesey with the intensity of a drowning man. Rhys released his hold on the railing and crossed the deck in a few quick strides.

“You shall return soon,” he said, placing his hand on Maredudd’s shoulder. “Once the men are organized and the camp is running smoothly, I shall ensure that you have a few days to visit Margaret.”

Maredudd stiffened. “I do not need special consideration, Rhys. I aim to do my part.”

“I know you will. We all will.” Rhys’s lips quirked upward. “’Tis the Tudor way, is it not?”

Beneath his fingers, Rhys felt his brother’s shoulders relax.

“Aye,” Maredudd said, offering him a wry smile. “Curse our Tudor integrity.”