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As if agreeing wholeheartedly, the stallion in the closest stall shook his mane and snorted. The horses were restless, and the incessant drumming of rain on the slate roof above was doing little to pacify them.

“Now then, Seren.” Aldwin reached out his gnarled hand, and the stallion stopped his fidgeting and dropped his head to accept a rub along his silky black nose. “Just look who’s here to see you.”

Catrin stepped forward, and Seren shifted to nuzzle her shoulder. Aldwin gave her a craggy smile.

“I am grateful to you, Aldwin,” Catrin said.

He gave a nod and moved away. She raised the latch on the stall’s gate and slipped inside. The old stablemaster had taken a special interest in Catrin when her mother had lain dying of the illness that eventually took her life. During those difficult weeks, Catrin had spent many hours in the stables, pouring out her broken heart to her horse. Aldwin had never questioned her need to be there. He understood. And because he’d been nearby during that difficult time, he was also the only person in the castle besides Beti who knew her best-kept secret.

Catrin’s earliest memories were of her mother singing to her in her native language. Lady Buckley had spoken to her in Welsh until she was old enough to leave the nursery, and even afterward, when they’d been alone, they’d often reverted to speaking the old language. Beti, of course, had known this from the start, and even now, she occasionally spoke to Catrin in Welsh, but the only other time Catrin used her second language was when she spoke to Seren.

Her mother had once told her that she was convinced horses responded better to the lyrical tones of the Welsh language than to the harsh sounds of English. Whether that was actually true, Catrin could not say, but Seren listened when she spoke, and it was somehow easier to share her hopes and heartaches with the stallion in her mother’s tongue.

Aldwin had always given her time alone with Seren, but on the night her mother died, he’d hovered closer than usual, concern obvious in his brown eyes. Between sobs, Catrin had told the stallion that her mother was gone. The horse had moved nearer, standing still while she’d placed her arms around his neck, and when Catrin had finally raised her head, Aldwin had given her a sympathetic smile.

“I always wondered about the gift you and Lady Buckley have with the horses,” he’d said. “I reckon that ancient language may have somethin’ to do with it.”

Catrin had stared at him, fear momentarily replacing her grief. Fluency in Welsh was not considered an admirable attribute for an English noblewoman. Indeed, if it were known abroad that she spoke a language the English kings associated with disloyalty or, even worse, treachery, she could easily find her own life in jeopardy.

“I beg you,” she’d said. “Tell no one of this.”

Aldwin had clicked his tongue the way he did when he was correcting one of the stablehands. “If I was to tell anyone that you and yer mother whisper like the fairy folk in the ears of yer horses, I don’t think there’d be too many people believing me. Best to keep that to meself, I’m thinkin’.” He’d entered a neighboring stall to check on a new mare. “You keep on tellin’ Seren yer woes, my lady. In whatever language you choose. A good horse is the best listener there is. No matter how heavy the troubles, their shoulders are bigger than ours.”

Since then, Catrin had followed Aldwin’s advice many times. Often her conversations with Seren occurred during their long rides across the countryside or along the beach, but sometimes in the evening or early-morning hours, Catrin visited him in the stable. Whenever she appeared, Aldwin ensured that she was left alone and that no stableboy was close enough to hear her.

She glanced over the stall now. Aldwin had disappeared.

“Seren,” she whispered brokenly in Welsh. “I am to be married. To an older English nobleman whom I have never met.” The horse’s dark eyes met hers, and he stood still, waiting. She ran her hand down his long neck, taking a ragged breath as her tears finally started to flow. “Somehow, I must find the courage to face my new future, but as of this moment, I know not how that is to be done.”

Chapter 3

After two days of rain, the clouds cleared and the skies turned a newly washed blue. Grateful to leave the confinement of the longhouse, Rhys led his horse into the yard and breathed deeply of the damp, fresh air. Chaffinches sang in the nearby trees, and from somewhere over the rise, he heard the bleating of sheep coming from the pasture. Slipping his longbow over his shoulder, he mounted his horse. Castan tossed his head and stepped sideways, as anxious as Rhys to be on the move.

“I wager you’ll be safe enough making the journey without your bow,” Maredudd said. He was already astride his horse and was watching Rhys with amusement.

Rhys ran his fingers over the highly polished yew at his side. Over the last three years, donning his bow and quiver had become second nature. Perhaps it was an unnecessary encumbrance now that he was home, but he was not quite ready to relinquish it. “I daresay. But as you carry two full bags of coins, it cannot hurt to keep it with me.”

Maredudd gave him an acknowledging nod. “I have yet to need a weapon for the journey to Beaumaris, but if it brings you comfort, by all means, bring your bow along.”

“Or abandon your design to accompany Maredudd, and join me for some target practice,” Gwilym said, meeting them in the yard with his bow and quiver full of arrows.

Rhys grimaced. “Although I’m sorely in need of practice, I should like to assess the situation inside the castle for myself. Going with Maredudd will enable me to walk past the guards without explanation.”

“Do you expect to find something untoward?” Maredudd asked.

“Elfed feels there’s something amiss,” Gwilym said, waggling his eyebrows. “He feels it in his bones.”

Maredudd grinned. “Elfed, the old fisherman?”

“The same.”

“When did you happen upon him?”

“When we disembarked at the harbor,” Gwilym said.

“Aye,” Rhys added, looking pointedly at Gwilym. “And if you’ll remember, he correctly predicted the storm we’ve been under these past two days. And he did it while the skies were yet blue.”

Gwilym inclined his head. “He did that. And if you and I have learned anything from our time abroad, ’tis that we are better off when we know where our adversaries are located.” He pointed his bow toward the path that led to the upper road. “Go discover what you can. Whether the residents of Beaumaris Castle be friends or foes, I shall be anxious to hear your impressions.”