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It did not take long to gather the fallen geese and ride back to camp. As they approached the longhouse, Dyfan exited the building.

“Dyfan,” Rhys called.

The Welshman shaded his eyes and waited for them to draw closer. Rhys held out the geese to him.

“Take these in to Enid, would you?”

Dyfan’s face lit up. “Well, there’s a grand sight.”

“Two geese with only two arrows,” Catrin said, her tone hinting at her continued amazement.

Dyfan laughed. “Knowing Marshal Rhys’s skill with a bow, if you’d told me two geese with one arrow, I’d have likely believed you.”

Rhys smothered a smile as Catrin’s brow puckered, her expression perplexed. Catrin had not accompanied him hunting and rarely visited the archery-practice areas. She had only ever seen him tutoring others and had no way of knowing how comfortable he was with his bow.

“Enough,” he said. “See if you can convince Enid and Nerys to exchange those birds for the porridge we were to eat tonight.”

“Yes, Marshal,” Dyfan said cheerfully. “Although, I doubt they’ll need much persuading.”

He headed back into the longhouse, while Rhys and Catrin made for the stable. When they reached the door, Rhys dismounted and turned to help Catrin down. She was watching him silently, her hands still on the reins.

He hesitated. “Is something amiss?”

“I heard you were a skilled archer but supposed the locals in Beaumaris exaggerated your proficiency.”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “I am no better than Gwilym.”

She gave him a small smile, and he reached for her, grateful when she placed her hands upon his shoulders.

“After all these weeks spent in each other’s company, what else have you kept hidden that I should know about you, Rhys ap Tudor?”

He lowered her carefully to the ground but did not immediately remove his hands from around her. How he wished he could tell her how much he loved her and that his greatest desire was to one day make her his wife. When she’d told him she had no regrets about her decision to leave the castle and her life here, he’d wanted to say something beside the river. But then the geese had come, bringing with them a poignant reminder of their desperate situation.

Until this rebellion was over, his hands were tied. He could offer her nothing—no comfortable home, no financial security, not even his presence at her side.

“Rhys?”

Despite his best efforts, a portion of his frustration must have shown on his face, for her curiosity had melted into concern, and it was suddenly needful that he say something—anything—to assuage the apprehension in her eyes.

“You may not know that I cannot tell purple from blue.”

She looked at him blankly. “You cannot tell purple from blue?”

He shook his head. “It has been that way for as long as I can remember. I am unable to pick out purple designs on blue cloth, and the bluebells in the woods near Penmynydd appear the same color as the foxgloves.”

“Truly?”

He chuckled at her astonishment. In the last few years, the number of times the nonsensical peculiarity had affected him was so few he rarely thought on it. Now he was grateful it had come to mind and had distracted her so well.

“Aye. But do not remind Gwilym of it. I endured sufficient teasing at his hands as a boy to last into my adulthood.”

She smiled. “So I imagine.”

“And if the king ever wears a stunning purple tunic and I mistakenly call it blue, I shall simply have to hope he will forgive me.”

This time, she giggled, and his heart lifted. “Perhaps it would be best to avoid mentioning it altogether.”