She had participated in a thousand meals in a thousand halls, large and small, yet it felt as if she had never truly been welcomed. This man, this knight of the prophecy, made her feel as if he cherished her presence. Did he? Was this all a dream, or as Elspeth thought, a masquerade? He had forced her to come to Wales, thinking her a spy, yet now he treated her as honored guest. It felt alien to her. How did she respond?
As she had avoided opening her mind to the others in the hall, she was caught unaware by the sudden commotion at a lower table. A young woman rose from the bench, jerking free of the older woman who tried to pull her back. Her voice rose above the general conversation.
“Rhys ap Griffyn, you have stolen Glynllew from the rightful heir,” she said loudly in English. “You forfeited all rights when you became English.” Before the older woman succeeded in pulling her back onto the bench, she spoke furiously in Welsh, to the murmurs of many of the guests. All conversation ceased, as those present turned to watch the high table.
Sasha did not understand her words, but there was no misunderstanding the effect the last comments made, as several men rose to their feet. Then Rhys stood. Several guards moved closer to the woman, and he gave a subtle gesture to halt them.
“Pray, speak your mind,” he said in English. “Let all hear your complaints.”
Sasha looked at the woman, who was really more a girl; her voice trembled, but she gave a defiant toss of her head, her hair covering indicating that she was married. Images filled the girl’s mind, a swift blur of faces, then a new grave, followed by the startling image of Gareth. An overwhelming sense of grief, betrayal, and despair filled her mind, but the words that emerged were angry.
Rhys stopped her. “Speak in English so that those here who are not Welsh understand.”
She said something sharp in Welsh, then in English said, “It is meet that we speak in the language you are more familiar with, for you are more English than Welsh. This castle belongs not to you, but to those who remained in Wales to protect the land and people. Lord Griffyn did not assign you as his heir, but named Gareth of Glamorgan to be lord here. You have cast him into a cell when he should be sitting where you now stand.”
“Where is your proof?” When the woman did not reply, Rhys asked again, “Where is the proof of Lord Griffyn’s disinheritance of me?”
Lifting her arm, the woman pointed. “Owain the steward has the proof. Ask him for it.”
All eyes moved to Owain, who stood at the screen behind the high table. He took several steps closer to the table, and Rhys turned to look at him. “You have this proof, Owain?”
Sasha felt the steward’s uncertainty, but his thoughts were in Welsh; brief images went through his mind, of bodies on shields, grief, chaos, then a document fed to the fire. He sighed.
“There is no proof of such a thing, my lord.”
“That is false,” cried the woman. “I was promised I would be wife to the lord of Glynllew and wed to Gareth. Griffyn ap Gryffyd of Glynllew swore it to me himself!”
There was the ring of sincerity to her words that Sasha recognized. Whether it was true or not, this girl believed it. Rhys stood silently, watching his steward, then turned back to the girl.
“You were misled. Whether by mistake or purpose, I do not know. Glynllew is mine by right and might, Mistress. If it pains you so much to break bread in my hall, you are excused.”
The older woman who had been sitting beside her took the girl’s arm, but she remained where she stood, gazing at Rhys with tears in her eyes. “‘Tis true. He would not have lied to me. I know he did not. He swore it.”
“Gareth is no blood kin to Griffyn ap Gryffyd. He is my mother’s nephew. My father did not ignore blood ties despite his anger. Not even a prince can undo that. Make peace with it, for it is both our lots to deal with our situations.”
Rhys turned and beckoned to a servant, who hurried forward with water and a cloth to wash his hands, then looked down at Sasha before speaking to the hall. “I must speak with my steward, but you are free to linger at table if you wish.”
Watching as Rhys and Owain left the hall, Sasha was momentarily distracted by the girl; she watched, too, glaring balefully after them, and finally submitted to the insistent pull of the older woman. Anger still fueled her thoughts, but grudging acceptance crept in to join a practical need for survival. It was not Gareth of Glamorgan she supported, but a dread of being banished from Glynllew. There was a strong connection to Rhys that the girl resented, yet recognized as necessary.
Sasha decided it may be best to know more.
“I KNEW HE WAS angry that I did not return once I was released as hostage,” Rhys said to Owain as they stood in the solar he had appropriated as his bedchamber, “but my father had made clear I had no place here.”
Owain poured wine into a goblet and held it out. “He was not angry as much as he was disappointed. We are beset by princes intent upon extending their boundaries, and Glynllew is between Deheubarth and Gloucestershire. A prize for Wales or England.”
Rhys took the goblet and drank, moving to the open window to look out at the rain. A fine mist dampened his face. Beyond the keep lay the river and forest. The Severn valley lay east, Deheubarth to the west, and Gloucestershire to the north—in view, just across the Wye.
“Most of Gwent is under Norman control,” Rhys said at last. “There will come a time to choose loyalties.”
“Aye,” Owain agreed. “Lord Griffyn thought you would choose England and bade me write a document granting possession to Morgan ap Gareth should he die without heirs, but then the old lord of Glamorgan died. Gareth of Glamorgan is his grandson. It fell to him, but your father bade me burn the document rather than allow Gareth to claim Glynllew if he should die. I did so. There should not be another copy, as it never left his vault until I burned it.”
“But Catrin knows of it, so Gareth must have heard of it somehow.”
After a long silence, Owain sighed. “It was not my intention to cause trouble, but when all was chaos in those days after your father and brothers were killed, I bade my son to fetch the document for me. I worried that should I be killed, it would fall into the wrong hands. Bowen is the only other living person who knew of it.”
“Is Bowen loyal to Gareth?”
“I did not think so, but ‘tis best you speak with him. He has sworn he is not, and I pray that is true, but who can know what is truly in a man’s heart.”
“Where was the document kept?”
“With the monks of the abbey. Your father paid for a vault there for your mother, and it was there we placed it with the prior for safekeeping.”
“There is a guarantee the prior has not read it?”
Owain looked startled. “It was sealed in a small casket. Bowen did not say it had been opened.”
“It matters little now, if it has been destroyed. Yet rumors will run rampant after Catrin’s claim.” He set the goblet on the small table near the fire. After a moment he said, “I am glad he did not hate me so much as to deny me as his heir.”
“Lord Griffyn never hated you. He hated your absence, but never you.”
“And I am to hold it for Richard when his own brother wants to take Glynllew, and there is Raglan and the Prince of Deheubarth who covet the castle and lands. The king wants only the revenues, but why Prince John? What does he want?”
“Power. If he takes this castle, he has encroached upon Rhys ap Gruffydd and stopped him from gaining more power. He already has de Braose in Abergavenny and now Glamorgan.”
Rhys sank down in the chair next to the table. Flames heated his left arm and side; it was welcome.
“What will you do with her?” Owain asked after a moment, and Rhys looked up.
“Catrin must be reconciled to her new position or be banished. I will court no dissent, as it will be difficult enough to
keep those men who followed my father. Any rumors that I am not committed to my father’s cause may cost me.”
“Yet King Richard expects you to be committed to his cause.”
“Richard’s cause is coins for the Crusades. He cares not if Wales falls into the sea as long as he has money to wage his Holy War.”
“And Prince John?”
“He will do anything to tweak King Richard. One day he will go too far, and the king will kill him. John must know that. Yet he continues. So I have liberated Prince John’s men.”
After a moment of silence, Owain asked, “Shall I send Bowen to you, my lord?”
“Yea. If he knows of the document and told Gareth, we must know, too.”
“Since I was in a cell, I did not send you messengers. It must be someone who can copy my writing and had access to my seal,” Owain said slowly. “The delays gave Gareth time to take the keep. If I had known his intention when he arrived, I would never have allowed him inside the gate.”
“He had a royal writ, so it would have done you ill to refuse him. With Prince John’s and Raglan’s assistance, he might have kept it had I not enough good men to win the day. Now it is in my possession as rightful heir. Send Bowen to me, and I will question him on it.
TO HIS SURPRISE, Sasha sat with Catrin; they worked the warp and shuttle of the looms, weaving wool into cloth. Wool spooled from bobbins, and treadles worked the weft.
“Where is the weaver?” Rhys asked, and Sasha glanced up at him.
“He was careless, so we sent him away.”
“Did you.” He studied them for a moment. “Do you know how to weave?”
“Women can do more than card and spin, my lord.”
“I see,” he said, although it must have been obvious to a goat that he didn’t see at all. “I will talk with the weaver. This is his job, and he depends on it to earn his bread and place. Just as soldiers guard the gates and scullery maids clean the kitchens, all must earn their place.”
Tilting her head to one side, Sasha’s hands stilled on the wooden bar. “What tasks have you set for me and your sister, my lord? We wish to earn our places as well.”
For a moment he said nothing; while her reasons mystified him, he saw at once that she had maneuvered him into making known a decision as to their presence in Glynllew. In truth, he had not yet decided either woman’s place in his castle or his life. Sasha had given no hint of treachery in the past week while she recovered, and Catrin seemed to have accepted her new status. But events could change without a moment’s notice.
“I have taken it under advisement,” he said curtly.
Catrin rose from the stool, holding the shuttle in one hand, blue wool looping back to the loom. “Owain explained the truth of things to me, my lord. I was grievously misinformed. Grant pardon for my rudeness.”
Her lower lip quivered slightly as she watched him, and for a moment Rhys didn’t know what to say. He had not expected her to be forthright and repentant. A glance at Sasha revealed her intense interest. She gazed at Catrin, her eyes big and dark, swallowing light from the lamps, like bottomless pools. In the days since last he’d seen Catrin or Sasha, he had pondered the resolution of their fates but not reached a satisfactory conclusion on what to do. Of the two, Catrin was the easiest to resolve. She could be sent to Gareth’s family in Glamorgan or allowed to remain in Glynllew.
It was Sasha’s fate he had not yet decided. Brian thought her a spy, but Owain said she had not been viewed with favor by Gareth. It could be all theater, for she was accomplished in playing a thespian role, but the steward was adamant she was innocent of a conspiracy with Gareth.
That left either Raglan, Deheubarth, or Prince John if she conspired. He had not ruled out any of them as capable of inserting a spy into his midst, but neither had he decided Sasha was the spy. To what end? Neither prince nor Raglan had more to gain than insight into his plans. Unless a spy was to drug the guards and open the gates, there was no great advantage worth the risk of discovery. It was unlikely that trick would be attempted since he had used it so successfully. Trusted tasters were instructed to test every pitcher of wine or ale for the guards, soldiers, and knights, for he would leave nothing to chance.
“Pardon is granted,” he said to Catrin, “for Owain assures me you were not made aware of the truth. We must decide where you will be content. Do you wish to return to Glamorgan?”
Catrin glanced quickly at Sasha, drew in a deep breath, and said, “I prefer Glynllew if it be agreeable to you.”
“Even if your husband is removed from here?”
She hesitated. He had deliberately left it open as to Gareth’s fate. Brian pressed for his execution, Sir Robert to hold as hostage, and Owain to wait and see which fate would best serve all possibilities. But Catrin could not know that.
Finally, she said, “I do not hate him. But neither do I wish to be with him.”
Rhys leaned against the wall, watching her. “Do you wish to go in service of the church?”
“Nay, I do not.”
He looked at Sasha. “And you, demoiselle? What is your wish?”
“I wish for a golden unicorn to fly me above the clouds,” she said pertly. “I am not so naïve as to think you will consider my wishes, beau sire. You’ll do what is best for people here, as you should.”
“As always, you surprise me,” he said. She smiled.
“I am pleased to hear it. I do not wish to be too familiar to you. That would be boring. So will you tell the master weaver that he must take greater care so the material is sturdy?”
“No, the steward will do that. Other matters occupy my mind at this moment.” He pushed away from the wall and held out his hand to Sasha. “Please accompany me.”
A brief hesitation, then she rose gracefully from the wooden stool in front of the loom. He caught the quick flash of concern in her eyes before she bent her head and dropped into a deep curtsey.
“I am at your pleasure, my lord.”
“I am not the king, demoiselle. Those courtesies are not expected.”
“As you wish, beau sire.” She promptly bent the knee in a quick bob.
“Your hand, demoiselle.” He placed her hand on his sleeve, nodded to Catrin, who also dropped a quick curtsey, and walked Sasha from the weavers’ room.
As they progressed to the winding stairwell, he said, “You were most difficult to locate. If not for the cursing wolf-cub, I’d not have known where to look.”
“I assume you refer to Biagio.”
“Who else? He has quite a repertoire of profanity, it seems. I’m grateful to be unfamiliar with the Italian language, so I understand very few of the phrases.”
“Biagio is proficient in many undesirable activities. Blasphemy is but one of his talents.”
They reached the next floor down, and Rhys turned her toward the solar. “I am intrigued by the possible extent of his talents.”
Sasha glanced up at him. “That sounds oddly ominous, my lord.”
“Does it? Only if he is involved in adverse activities, I would think.”
Guiding her toward the open door of the solar, he escorted her into the chamber. A small anteroom held tables, chairs, chests, branches of candles, and ornate tapestries on the walls. A screen separated it from the private area that held the bed and led to the garderobe. Tall windows let in light that flooded the anteroom; despite the warmth of the weather, a low fire burned in the fireplace against the outer wall. Wine and cups sat on small tables. Brian and Owain sat at a large table, ledgers before them. An armed guard waited.
A shiver went through Sasha; her fingers vibrated upon his arm. A faint scent of jasmine wafted toward him, and he knew without looking that her breath came quickly, lifting her breasts beneath the green and mulberry cotte she wore. He felt her apprehension.
Owain stood
as they entered, and Brian stood and turned, his gaze averting from Sasha. It was obvious he still feared she would bewitch them all.
“Am I to be detained, my lord?” she asked, her voice more steady than her trembling hand on his arm.
“Have you committed an offense for which to be detained?”
Her hand moved from his arm. “It is not necessary to be guilty to be charged and thrown into a dark cell.”
The reminder struck him, and he suddenly recalled her terrible condition after being kept in a cell for only days. Hard enough to be a man at the mercy of others’ whims; a woman’s fate was more difficult. For all her bravado, she was more fragile than she wanted him to know.
“No one is to be detained, demoiselle. We seek truth, not retribution.”
“Truth is in the eye of the beholder, my lord. My truth would not necessarily be yours.”
“I do not seek a philosopher,” he said shortly and nudged her forward. “There are two questions you will be asked.”
Owain looked down at the papers on the table, shuffled them about, then peered up at her from under his heavy brow. “It has been reported that the milk was soured this morning and may be the work of a witch’s spell. A kitchen maid claims you were near the pails and cast a spell. Do you admit to such a deed?”
“If I were guilty, would I be fool enough to admit it?” She turned to look at Rhys. “Am I to be accused of witchcraft?”
“Not unless you are a witch.”
That was the only answer he could give, as he must be impartial. Owain had charge of the questioning, but he would give the final decree. Brian had brought the maid to him earlier, and he had heard her out; he thought the girl easily led and suspected Brian may have put the idea into her head. That irritated him. He had little patience for the superstitions his knight fostered. Once he had held his own beliefs, but grim experience led him to different conclusions than Brian. He had no explanations for some mysteries, but he had yet to meet a mortal who could transform men into animals or become invisible.
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