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“Then let me stay,” Catrin said. “You know of my ability with horses, and the castle stablemaster taught me much. As your army grows, Bleddyn will need assistance to cope with the increased number of mounts.”
“You are no stablehand, Catrin.”
“Perhaps not, but I am happy to have everyone else at camp believe me to be one.” Lines of worry were still evident on Rhys’s brow, and Catrin wished she could erase them. “I am well aware that I must do my part to be accepted here, and I do not expect you to single me out for special treatment.”
He studied her in the lantern’s light, and she held her breath.
“What happened today at the banquet would likely happen every day,” he warned.
“I understand that now.” For the first time since she’d left the longhouse, hope rose to the fore. Perhaps there was a place for her here after all. If she knew Rhys was not thinking ill of her, she could surely endure being ignored.
“My brothers will undoubtedly consider allowing you to remain at the camp to be madness.” He sighed. “But I confess, I cannot abide the thought of sending you away.”
With trembling fingers, she reached out and touched the line that creased his forehead, following it softly until her fingers reached his dark hair. “It shall be well, Rhys.”
He reached up and took her hand. Moving it to his lips, he kissed it softly. “I pray that you are right.”
The latch scraped, and the door opened. Rhys released her hand and stepped back.
“I am returned.” Bleddyn walked into the light, noted Rhys’s presence, and instantly stopped and bobbed his head. “Marshal Rhys.” He glanced nervously at Catrin. “I am sorry that I was not here when you came.”
Rhys patted Castan’s shoulder, and the horse nickered. “’Tis no matter. You have had your hands full this night, but my horse has obviously been well cared for.”
“Yes, Marshal.” Bleddyn bobbed his head again. “He was fed and watered along with all the other horses.”
“I gather you were injured this week.”
Bleddyn’s nervousness increased. “Yes, Marshal.”
“Then I thank you for working so hard despite the discomfort.”
The stableboy smiled with relief. “Of course, Marshal.”
With a nod of approval, Rhys started for the door. When he reached it, he turned. “My thanks to you also, Catrin,” he said as though it were an afterthought.
She inclined her head, but before she had fully raised it again, he was gone.
Chapter 25
“Have you completely lost your wits?” Gwilym rose to his feet, placed the palms of his hands on the table, and stared down at Rhys.
“Sit down, Gwilym,” Rhys said.
“I will not.” Gwilym glanced at Maredudd, who was seated on the other side of Rhys. “Can you at least attempt to talk some sense into him?”
Rhys stood, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I am in command here, Gwilym, and I asked you to sit.”
With an exasperated snort, Gwilym dropped to the bench.
Rhys eyed him stonily for a few moments, then he too resumed his seat. “I am well aware that allowing Catrin to stay goes against camp policy,” Rhys said, silencing his brother with a glare. “But in this instance, I believe the Welsh resistance is placed at greater risk if we send her back to Beaumaris.”
“How is that exactly?” Gwilym said, folding his arms.
Rhys drew on every ounce of patience he could muster. “Even if Catrin can contrive some reason for being gone almost two weeks from the castle, how long do you think it would take the English to put together the pieces of the puzzle? She disappears the night before Henry sets out to trap the Welsh. The next day, the Welsh are unaccountably prepared for the English army—more than prepared even, some might say forewarned. Then, within a couple days of the battle’s end, Lady Catrin returns to the castle wearing a torn gown and the distinct marks of physical labor on her hands.”
“You yourself have touted Lady Catrin’s integrity more than once,” Gwilym said. “Why are you now questioning her ability to keep her time with the Welsh a secret?”
“I am not questioning her integrity,” Rhys said through gritted teeth. “I am questioning her ability to withstand torture.”
