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“I daresay that’s so.” The old fisherman shuffled back to the stool beside his coracle. He looked up at the blue sky, then studied the horizon. “’Tis not so different than waitin’ for a storm to move in, is it? We see the signs in the sky, feel the pain in our bones, but until those pesky whitecaps are tossin’ boats every which way, we keep hopin’ it’ll blow on by.”

Rhys glanced up at the blue skies. “Is there a storm coming?”

The old man settled down on his stool and picked up the net with his gnarled hands. “The seagulls are already flyin’ low, but I reckon we’ve an hour or two afore the rain starts.”

Gwilym raised a skeptical eyebrow, but Rhys knew better than to question the seasoned fisherman or the large white birds skimming the waves nearby.

“Well, then, we’d best be on our way.”

Elfed nodded. “I would recommend it, Master Rhys. Wouldn’t do to arrive ’ome soppin’ wet after bein’ gone all this time. Not if you ’ave a choice leastways.”

“Sound advice, Elfed,” Rhys said. “Good day to you.”

Leaving the harbor, the castle, and the town of Beaumaris behind them, the brothers followed the coastal road south for about four miles before turning east toward the center of the island and the small community of Penmynydd. They were within a mile of their destination when a bank of dark, gray clouds appeared above them, and soon afterward, the first drops of rain began to fall. The ripening wheat growing in the fields nearby waved wildly in the stiffening breeze, and the hissing of raindrops hitting the leaves of the trees along the road increased in volume as they passed the familiar grove of oaks that marked the beginning of Tudor land.

Urging their horses into a canter, Gwilym reached the crest of the final hill moments before Rhys. He reined his mount to a halt, waiting for Rhys to join him, and together they gazed down at the gray-stone longhouse built up against the hillside in the dell below. The slate roof glistened in the rain, and smoke from the fireplace in the upper end of the house took to the wind almost as soon as it appeared. A narrow path crossed the grass in front of the longhouse and continued to an open yard at the back, where a smaller building that served as the kitchen stood.

The two men took in the scene in silence. A dog barked, and a woman with a shawl covering her bent head ran from the kitchen to the longhouse. Rhys’s grip on the reins tightened. Over the last three years, he’d maintained composure during deadly skirmishes and in the face of ferocious armies. Yet now, with his childhood home finally in view, he found himself battling uncertainty. How much had changed at Penmynydd since he and Gwilym had left? Maredudd was undoubtedly used to being sole master of the house now. Especially since he’d taken a wife during their absence. Would the new mistress resent their unannounced return?

“Who do you think that was crossing the yard?” he asked.

“I could not tell,” Gwilym said. He turned to Rhys, the water dripping off his hair doing nothing to diminish the eagerness in his eyes and voice. “But I believe ’tis time we found out.”

With a clatter of hooves, they entered the small yard together. Mud was starting to form on the surface of the hard-packed ground, and the men dismounted quickly, guiding their horses to the longhouse door. Gwilym rapped on the solid wood, and seconds later, footsteps sounded from within. The latch lifted, the door swung wide, and Maredudd stood before them.

“Well now,” he said, a huge grin splitting his face. “There’s a sight! I’d truly begun to wonder if you two Saeson would ever find your way back to Penmynydd again.”

“Saeson, he says!” Gwilym raised his eyebrows. “The man obviously doesn’t know that King Richard trusted only the finest Welshmen as his personal guards.”

Maredudd laughed and stepped out into the rain to pull first Gwilym and then Rhys into an embrace. “It’s been too long, lads. With no word from England, we were starting to worry.”

“Now, why would you do something like that?” Gwilym led his horse into the longhouse, and Maredudd stood aside to enable Rhys to do the same.

“Oh, I don’t know. Word of Richard’s imprisonment and death, along with his successor’s distrust of everything and everyone Welsh, may have played a part.”

“We stayed in England until we received firm confirmation of Richard’s death,” Rhys said. “He retained us with salary; we were honor bound to be there should he need us.”

Maredudd nodded, and Rhys saw a glimmer of something in his eyes. Not quite approval. Appreciation, perhaps. But Rhys wasn’t sure whether the sentiment was directed toward the loyalty he and Gwilym had shown their royal patron or to the fact that, unlike Gwilym, he was willing to give their younger brother a straightforward answer. Either way, he sensed a change in Maredudd, a maturity that hadn’t been there three years before.

“Dafydd!” Maredudd called into the upper room, and immediately, a boy appeared in the narrow passage that separated the living quarters from the stable. “Take care of the horses, would you, lad? A good rubdown and some grain.”

“Yes, sir.” With a deferential nod directed toward Rhys and Gwilym, Dafydd reached for the horses’ reins and led the wet animals through the door to the right.

The shuffle of animal hooves in the straw and the familiar smell of the cow house wafted in the air before the door closed behind the boy and their horses.

“A good lad, that,” Maredudd said. “Came to work here about a year ago from Bodfan farm.” He turned to open the door that led to the living quarters. “Now, come. You must meet Margaret.”

Rhys glanced at Gwilym. The enthusiasm he’d exhibited just moments ago had been replaced by disquiet. New servants and a new sister-in-law. It was as Rhys had supposed. Things were no longer as they had once been at Penmynydd.

Chapter 2

“Ouch!” Lady Catrin Buckley dropped her latest embroidery project onto her lap and popped her stinging forefinger into her mouth. “I cannot understand it, Beti.” She withdrew her finger and studied the red prick with a frown. “How can you sew and darn and embroider from morn until night without poking a single finger, while I have only to pick up a needle and it jabs me?”

Her elderly maid chuckled. “Many years of practice, my lady.”

Catrin gave a frustrated sigh. Practice would undoubtedly improve her needlework skills and save her fingers, but it was a high price to pay. She would rather do almost anything than sit in her bedchamber, pushing a needle and thread through fabric. It was only because an unexpected thunderstorm had prevented her planned outing this afternoon that she was currently sitting by the fire with her loathsome embroidery on her knee.

“I only wish that I didn’t dislike it so much,” Catrin said.