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“Of course, my lady. I will see to him myself.”

Suddenly remembering all the English soldiers’ horses being stabled when she left, Catrin glanced around the dimly lit space. The shuffling and gentle bumping of horses in their stalls seemed louder than usual. “I apologize for giving you extra work when you have so many animals to care for.”

He took Seren’s bridle in his gnarled hand. “None more important than this one, my lady.”

Catrin watched him lead Seren back to his stall, then drawing on every ounce of her remaining strength, she made her way out the door.

A small group of English soldiers was walking across the courtyard, their voices raised and their gaits unsteady. It seemed that they had been celebrating. A vision of the burning friary and the huddled forms of the friars leaving in the wagon flashed before her eyes, and suddenly, Catrin’s shivering was not merely caused by the cold. Clenching her fists to curb her burgeoning anger, she crossed the inner ward with as much space between her and the inebriated vandals as she could manage. When she reached the door to the south tower, she slipped inside and shut it behind her. Leaning against the smooth stone, she tried to calm her ragged breathing. She pictured Rhys holding her upright as she fought to catch her breath beneath the oak tree, and her heart ached for all she had lost this night.

Ignoring the tears running down her cheeks, Catrin faced the stairs. One slow step at a time, she made her way upward. She had almost reached the entrance to the great hall when she heard voices drawing nearer. Lacking the energy to hurry past before encountering anyone and not willing to retrace her steps downward only to have to take them again, she kept on with her slow and steady progress, arriving at the arched doorway just as her father and the Duke of Bedford exited the room.

“Catrin!” She leaned against the wall, gasping, and her father reached out to her in alarm. “What has happened?”

“I . . . I . . .” It was impossible to talk when she could barely breathe.

“Calm yourself, child.”

Catrin closed her eyes, focusing inward. Inhale, exhale.

“Lord Buckley, I demand to know the meaning of this.” At the duke’s harsh tone, Catrin opened her eyes again. By the light of the torch overhead, the two men were gazing at her with equal amounts of shock. But whereas her father’s expression was one of deep concern, the duke’s was horrified. “By all the saints, Lady Catrin, if I learn that you have been seen in public in this state . . .” Fury contorted his narrow face. “Do you have any sense of what it means to behave as a duchess? No wife of mine should be thus—”

“Before you continue, Your Grace, let me tell you where I have been these past few hours.” Something inside Catrin had snapped. She took one more breath and pushed herself off the wall. At her hoarse voice, the duke took a stunned step back. “I have been helping others save the lives of friars trapped in the very building you so proudly led King Henry and his men to this evening. The building that you torched.” She coughed. At the pain in her chest, she clutched at the fabric of her filthy gown, but she forced herself to finish. “From this point on, you will have no need to worry about my lack of decorum. Whatever arrangement you believe you had with my father, you may now consider it void. I could never marry a man who willfully participated in the burning of a house of worship and the desecration of my own mother’s grave.” She looked from the duke’s livid face to her father’s ashen one. “Never!”

On shaking legs, she turned her back on them, and leaning heavily against the wall, she continued her slow, upward climb. She half expected one of them to come after her, to berate her for what she had just done, but the only sound coming from below was the low rumble of male voices followed by the echo of footsteps going the other way.

At last, she reached the door of her bedchamber. Turning the iron ring, she pushed it open and stumbled inside.

“Lady Catrin!” Beti rushed to her side, wrapping an arm around her and leading her to the nearest chair. “I’ve been so worried.”

“You were right, Beti,” Catrin managed. “I do own some measure of courage. And it finally rose to the fore.” Then because she had nothing whatsoever left to give, she lowered her head into her hands and sobbed.

Chapter 17

Rhys and Maredudd crouched behind the low harbor wall. A single bell tolled from the Beaumaris church clock, and the first rays of morning crested the tops of the Snowdonia Mountains to the east. In the faint gray light, they could just make out the movement of the guards atop the castle walls.

“On the hour and half hour,” Maredudd whispered. “That’s how often they rotate positions.”

Rhys nodded. They’d heard the march of feet in the darkness when the clock had struck six. “If we launch the boat before they change again, we should pass their notice until we’re out at sea.”

“We should act now. Before there’s any more light.”

“Aye,” Rhys said softly. “As soon as their footsteps fade.”

They both held still, listening for the echo of the guards’ footsteps heading north along the eastern wall.

“Go.”

Vaulting the wall in unison, they landed on the rocky seashore a few feet below. The crackle of shifting pebbles beneath their feet filled the air, and Rhys held up his hand. Maredudd paused, waiting. There was no warning shout from the watchmen, so, keeping their heads down, they hurried across the beach toward the spot where they’d left their borrowed fishing boat.

“To your left,” Maredudd said.

Rhys veered that way, spotting the upturned vessel immediately.

“You take the stern,” Rhys whispered, reaching for the small boat’s bow. “The oars should be inside.”

“Well now,” a gravelly voice spoke out of the gloom. “I was wonderin’ when someone was goin’ to come back and claim that boat.”

Instantly releasing his hold on the hull, Rhys drew a knife from his girdle as a figure appeared in the half-light.