Page 8

Rhys ignored his question. “Have you heard mention of the Duke of Bedford? Has he visited Beaumaris?”

“The Duke of Bedford? What reason would he have to travel to North Wales?”

“To find a wife,” Rhys said. “He has requested the hand of Lord Buckley’s daughter in marriage.”

“Then I wish him well. And I hope he maintains a well-stocked stable. Lady Catrin likely has much to recommend her, but I hear say that she would rather spend her time with that stallion of hers than with any visiting nobility at the castle.”

“The stallion with the Welsh name,” Rhys mused.

“Lady Catrin’s mother, Lady Alwenna Buckley, was Welsh,” Maredudd said. “She passed away near a year ago. ’Tis possible that she named the horse.”

Rhys raised his eyebrows. “King Richard appointed Lord Buckley as Constable of Beaumaris Castle knowing that he had a Welsh wife?”

“Mayhap he thought her presence in the castle would help appease the locals.”

Rhys pondered that for a moment. “Where did Lady Buckley’s allegiance lie?”

Maredudd shrugged. “I saw her only twice. Both times, I was at the castle, and both times, she appeared every bit an English noblewoman. I did hear rumor that she was wont to speak Welsh to the townspeople, but whether she felt any sense of loyalty to one nation over another, I cannot tell.”

They’d reached the west tower, and Rhys followed Maredudd up the spiral staircase and into the great hall. A fire was burning in the enormous fireplace, the flickering flames offsetting the damp chill in the vast room. Long tables and benches had been pushed against the walls, and on a low platform at the far end of the room, a silver-haired nobleman exuding the presence of someone in authority sat behind a large table, a ledger book and quill before him.

Rhys watched as the nobleman exchanged a few words with the man Maredudd had identified earlier as Griffith ap Dafydd before taking the Welshman’s proffered purse and pouring the coins onto the table. Another man standing at Lord Buckley’s elbow carefully counted the coins into a wooden box. After another short interaction, the nobleman scratched a notation in his ledger, and Griffith ap Dafydd stepped away from the table and off the platform.

When the nobleman looked up from this writing, Maredudd moved forward. “Lord Buckley,” he said, bowing his head.

“Maredudd ap Tudor.” The silver-haired nobleman greeted Maredudd and turned curious eyes on Rhys.

“My brother,” Maredudd said. “Rhys ap Tudor.”

“Yes,” Lord Buckley said. “I see the familial likeness.” His gaze dropped to the longbow still strung across Rhys’s shoulders. “Your reputation as one of King Richard’s finest archers precedes you, Rhys ap Tudor, but I had not heard that you had returned to Penmynydd.”

“My brother and I arrived but three days ago, my lord,” Rhys said, offering him a slight bow.

Lord Buckley raised one eyebrow. “So Gwilym ap Tudor has also returned.”

“He has, my lord.”

The nobleman leaned forward, his eyes not leaving Rhys’s. “And do you plan to stay now that King Richard is gone?”

Rhys met his gaze without flinching. Before leaving for Ireland with King Richard, he had occupied various governing positions on Anglesey, including bailiff and sheriff, but he was not sure whether his recent service for the deposed king would be an asset or an encumbrance in gaining a similar position now. He received the distinct impression that Lord Buckley was similarly conflicted.

“That has yet to be determined, my lord.”

Giving Rhys one more penetrating look, Lord Buckley reached out his hand for the two leather purses that Maredudd carried.

“The taxes from the commote of Malltraeth, my lord,” Maredudd said as the money spilled onto the table.

Lord Buckley waited in silence while the man at his side tallied the coins. Rhys looked away. He’d been in Maredudd’s position in the past. Taking from the local people’s meager incomes to fund the building of English castles in his homeland had never sat well with him. But there was little that could be done. If the smallholders and tenants of Malltraeth refused to pay, they lost their homes.

Lord Buckley waited until the man at his side gave him a total, then he dipped his quill in ink and recorded the figures in his ledger.

“You have done well, Maredudd ap Tudor,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rhys saw Maredudd tense and knew that he was as uncomfortable as Rhys had been in his part in transferring the meager resources of their neighbors to the king’s coffers.

“I am merely fulfilling my assignment as bailiff of the commote, my lord,” Maredudd said.

“Hmm.” Lord Buckley steepled his fingers and studied the two men thoughtfully. “Three weeks hence, there will be a banquet at the castle. I should like you and your brothers to attend.”