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Day One
Rhys
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Osborn Boydell, Simon’s elder brother, had reached the front of the line. After waiting over an hour, it was his turn to bow before King Edward. “My king, may I introduce my family.”
The more these Normans smiled at each other and made polite talk, the more impatient Rhys became with the entire endeavor. Because of his role in Trahaearn’s escape, Rhys had spent the morning fearing that at any moment someone might point a finger at him, and he would find himself in chains. That constant anxiety had made it difficult for him to remain alert through all the bowing, scraping, and droning on about the majesty of the king. That said, the longer the day went on without the capture of Trahaearn or Rhys’s own arrest, the less likely either were to occur.
A stooped man of forty, Osborn was one of several minor lords of this region of England who had gathered to greet the king. Every day, he had been among those in attendance, along with his cousin, John. While younger than both Simon and Osborn, John was nonetheless the senior member of the Boydell family. His seat was at Dodleston, ten miles north of Overton.
As was common in Norman families, inheritance was based on primogeniture, and John’s father had been the eldest brother in his generation. Rhys’s Norman friend, Miles de Bohun, was in a similar situation. His elder brother had inherited the title of the Earl of Hereford from their father. That brother had died, leaving the title and lands to Miles’s nephew, Humphrey, who was only slightly younger than Miles himself.
Still, like Miles, Osborn was doing well for himself. Last year, Queen Eleanor had appointed him steward of her new manor right here in Overton-on-Dee. In fact, it was on the manor’s lands that the eisteddfod was taking place, and it was in the manor itself that Queen Eleanor had chosen to spend the fortnight with her ladies.
Through typically questionable means, the queen had acquired the land from its former owner, Robert de Crevequer. He was a nobleman sprung from an ancient Norman family, but one that had fought on the rebel side in the battle of Evesham during the Second Baron’s War. None of the locals seemed to remember Robert fondly, except for his one service to the area, which was convincing the king to grant a charter to Overton to hold a weekly market fair.
Osborn’s ancestors had also come with the Conqueror, but a more nervous man could not be found for a hundred miles. Today, he had brought his seventeen-year-old daughter, Emma, to the audience. He was hoping the king would give his approval during the coming week for an appropriate match for the girl. With her blonde hair, pale skin, and blue eyes, she was at the height of her beauty. It was fortunate for Osborn that Edward did not have a wandering eye. If one of his ancestors had been the king today, he might have taken her for himself.
Simon’s children were much younger than his brother’s, so he was not yet fretting over their future in quite the same way as Osborn. Through Simon’s royal service, first to Prince Edmund and then to the king, he had enough wealth to bestow a dowry on the daughter he had, and a satisfactory estate of his own six miles to the east of Overton to leave to his eldest son.
Rhys was thinking now that the reason the king had granted Overton its market fair in the first place was because he knew the queen had designs on the estate. And he had chosen Overton as the site of the eisteddfod, so the queen could assess her new manor and its surrounding lands in person. The royal household was always one for killing two birds with one stone.
Not even a month had passed since the death of King Edward’s son, Alfonso, so Rhys could hardly expect him to look on a man with a beautiful eldest daughter and four sons with favor. He also might still be smarting from the perceived treason of Trahaearn. Nonetheless, the king greeted them all with something of an avuncular look, inspecting them in order from Emma on down to the baby in Osborn’s wife’s arms. “Welcome, Osborn. And thank you for your service to the crown. It has not gone unnoticed. My wife is very pleased with the preparedness of the estate for her arrival.”
Osborn’s hand went to his chest. “It is the greatest honor of my life to serve her and you, my lord.”
He spoke the truth as he knew it, as Rhys constantly had to remind himself. This encampment was so close to Wales he could practically taste it on the wind, but the whole Boydell family was as Norman as it was possible to be. There was a reason why this part of the world was known to the Welsh as Maelor Saesneg—English manor.
The Boydell estate, where Simon had grown up and which Osborn had inherited, was located another mile to the south. Osborn was fortunate that he wasn’t expected to feed a thousand bards for a fortnight from his own pocket. Still, with the gifts, honors, and taxes arising from this event, the upcoming winter might be a lean one. He had to know that many who were associated with the queen in business matters came out the worse for wear, Robert de Crevequer among them.
All the more reason to make a good match for Emma. In the end, if everything went well, he might find himself in a better position than when he’d started.
The line of supplicants waiting to enter the king’s presence had grown with each hour that passed. At one point, Simon had caught Rhys’s eye and given him something of a beady look. Rhys returned it with as innocent an expression as he could muster and then endeavored not to laugh at Simon’s snort of feigned disgust.
And then Hywel appeared at the entrance to the pavilion.
As a younger brother of a nobleman in favor with the king, Welsh or not, Hywel could join the line, but he couldn’t just walk to the front and ask for what he wanted. There were at least twenty people between him and Rhys, and that could have been a hundred for all the difference it made. No matter the urgency, it just wasn’t done. He could look at Rhys, however, standing as he was a step or two behind the king and, with a few motions of his fingers, tell Rhys they’d found a body.
Until two years ago, they’d served together in Llywelyn’s court, which meant they’d been trained by the same men and learned the same hand signals as a means of communicating during a mission. Hywel then stepped outside again and disappeared from view. Rhys followed his shadow as he walked along the outside of the pavilion until he stopped at a point directly behind Rhys. Once Rhys took two steps back, they were separated by a matter of a few feet and the thin fabric.
While neither Rhys nor Hywel had the rank to come and go as they pleased, Simon was the captain of the king’s guard. Always observant, he sidled over. “Has something happened? Did they find Trahaearn?”
“I don’t know yet.” That Hywel had somehow found Trahaearn and that he was dead was the first thought that had occurred to Rhys too. He took one more step back and tapped the side of the tent twice. “What news, Hywel?”
So far, nobody else had noticed their peculiar behavior. Rhys was also happy to note that Simon hadn’t been able to read Hywel’s hand signals. It would be disappointing to discover they’d become common knowledge.
Hywel obliged, speaking in Welsh, not realizing Simon was there to listen. “It’s Moriddig, Owen de la Pole’s bard. He’s dead. Catrin is there already. We need you to come now.”
