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Surprise flickered in Maredudd’s eyes. “As you wish, my lord.”

“You are married, are you not?”

“I am, my lord.”

“Then have your wife come with you,” Lord Buckley said. “There are never sufficient ladies at these gatherings.”

Maredudd inclined his head. “Margaret will be happy to oblige, my lord.”

“Very well.” Lord Buckley rose to his feet. “Until then, gentlemen.”

Offering Lord Buckley a formal bow, Rhys and Maredudd stepped off the platform to make way for another. Lord Buckley turned his attention to the newcomer, and the brothers took their leave, walking through the great hall and down the tower stairs without exchanging a word.

Once they reached the inner ward, Maredudd scanned the open area to be sure no servant or guard in the vicinity would overhear his softly spoken Welsh. “That is the first invitation a Tudor has received to dine at the castle since you and Gwilym were summoned to London. Lord Buckley obviously wishes to better know the famed archers who served as King Richard’s personal guards.” He glanced at Rhys. “But I have yet to decide whether his interest in you stems from admiration over what you have already accomplished or apprehension over what might come next.”

Rhys nodded. He’d detected the nobleman’s wariness when Maredudd had introduced them—a sentiment that had most certainly been heightened when he’d learned that Gwilym had also returned to Penmynydd. But despite Lord Buckley’s reference to their employ with King Richard, Rhys had gained little insight into the nobleman’s feelings about their service to the throne or to the recent change in the English monarchy. He looked back at the south tower and frowned. “Since admiration and apprehension usually give rise to very different responses, I should give a great deal to know which one Lord Buckley currently favors.”

Chapter 4

It was almost midday, and the sun was warm. Bees buzzed amongst the bramble bushes that lined the narrow lane, and from somewhere nearby, Catrin heard the fluting song of a blackbird. It had been three days since the storm that had confined her to the castle, and up until today, her outings had consisted of long, fast rides on her horse. Seren had reveled in his escape from the stables, and she’d been as anxious as he was for release from the castle’s confining walls. She’d willingly given Seren his head as they’d raced across the bracken-covered hills, but thanks to her father’s pronouncement regarding her pending marriage to the Duke of Bedford, the feeling of freedom she usually experienced while in the saddle had been elusive.

For the last five nights, she’d lain awake, battling crushing feelings of entrapment, but today, she had determined that if freedom could not be hers, she should set her heart on finding peace. And so, early this morning, she’d wandered the woodland behind the castle to gather a small posy of harebells. The delicate blue wildflowers had been her mother’s favorite and had seemed the perfect choice to take to Lady Buckley’s gravesite.

Already, the flowers were beginning to wilt, but Catrin grasped them tightly as she guided Seren up the narrow road that led to the Llanfaes Friary. Seren’s hooves beat a slow and steady cadence against the hard-packed earth, and at her side, the white mare carrying Beti echoed the rhythmic clip-clop. Her maid was not fond of horses, but she dutifully accompanied Catrin every day, even though she often ended up having to pull up and wait while Catrin and Seren raced away their restlessness. Beti likely considered today’s outing a reprieve after the wild rides of the last two days.

“Not much farther,” Catrin said, offering her maid an encouraging smile. “I can see the friary now.”

The roof of the friary chapel had just come into view over the tops of the trees. Beti shifted in her saddle. Her cheeks were pink, and Catrin guessed that if she hadn’t been clutching the reins so tightly, her maid would have been trying to fan some cool air across her face.

“The journey to Llanfaes is lovely,” Beti said. “But I confess, I’ll be right glad to find some shade.”

“You shall sit on the bench beneath the old oak tree whilst I visit my mother’s grave,” Catrin said. “The branches are wide, and I daresay the horses will also appreciate being out of the sun.”

At Beti’s look of relief, Catrin smothered a smile. The fact that her maid was willing to share her spot under the tree with Seren was a good indication of how badly she desired the shade. Catrin could only hope that her horse would be polite while they waited.

They rounded a bend in the road, and suddenly, the large stone structure was before them. The chapel faced the road, its large arched doorway reaching up to the arched window above. Behind the chapel, the building extended into a right wing and a left wing, one being the friars’ modest accommodations and the other, their refectory. A bell tower rose above the center of the structure, looking down on the small graveyard to the right of the chapel. Ivy clung to the side of the chapel wall, and a large yew tree and several oaks surrounded the graveyard.

Guiding Seren toward the nearest oak tree, Catrin slid out of the saddle and waited for Beti to dismount. The two horses immediately bent their heads and started grazing, and Beti moved stiffly toward the wooden bench leaning up against the oak’s trunk.

“I will not be long,” Catrin said.

Beti lowered herself gingerly onto the bench. “The horses will be happy enough with all this fresh grass at their feet, and I shall enjoy sitting quietly for a spell.”

Catrin stepped away from the tree and made her way across the grassy expanse in front of the friary chapel to the small gate that led into the graveyard. Moving carefully between the headstones, she headed to the far corner, where a new slab of slate marked her mother’s burial spot. Dropping to her knees beside the stone, Catrin ran her fingers gently over the name etched onto its surface: Lady Alwenna Buckley. She set down the posy of harebells at the base of the headstone and closed her eyes while her mind filled with memories of her mother.

Images from her childhood tumbled over each other. She pictured herself picking daisies with her mother and making daisy-chain crowns, sitting at her mother’s feet while her mother’s lilting voice recounted Welsh folktales and sang children’s nursery rhymes, and watching the red-breasted robins feast on the bread crumbs they threw out for the birds each winter morning. As Catrin had grown older, she and her mother had taken to riding together, and she cherished the memories she had of visiting markets, exploring the countryside, and galloping across wet, sandy beaches together.

“What would you say about my betrothal to the Duke of Bedford, Mam?” she whispered, instinctively addressing her in Welsh. “Would you agree with Father, even if it means that I never see Wales again? I know my choices are limited, and Father is concerned for my welfare, but . . .” Catrin paused and wiped away the traitorous tear running down her cheek. She took an uneven breath and squared her shoulders. “The decision is made, and I must be brave. Help me to be brave, Mam.”

She stayed still. A bird trilled its song, and another responded. A grasshopper chirped, and from somewhere nearby came the rhythmic swish, swish, swish of a scythe slicing through grass. Reluctant to relinquish the tranquility of the moment but knowing that it could not last forever, Catrin opened her eyes and slowly rose to her feet. Coming here had done nothing to change her future, but a small measure of calm had entered her heart. It was a start.

With one last look at her mother’s grave, Catrin turned and made her way to the gate. Releasing the latch, she glanced at the oak tree where the two horses were still grazing. Beti was sitting on the bench, her eyes closed, her head lolling gently.

“Good day, Lady Catrin.”

With a start, Catrin swung around. A friar dressed in a brown robe with a rope tied around his waist was standing a few feet away, a scythe clutched in his hand. Wiping the perspiration off his forehead with the small cloth in his free hand, he offered her a slight bow.

“Brother Robert,” Catrin said, greeting him with a smile. Of the dozen or so friars who lived at the small friary, Brother Robert had always shown her the most kindness. “I am happy to see you.”