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Day Two
Catrin
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Catrin could have had her pick of a half-dozen men, any one of whom would have jumped at the chance to escort her to Cole’s funeral. Guy was one such suitor, John le Strange another. She couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that the real reason they were interested in her was not because of her wit, intelligence, or charm but because of the small settlement she’d inherited from her husband. The vast majority of her husband’s estate had gone to her son, as was appropriate, but he’d made dispensation for her too.
Even with all that, she had to ask herself why she’d sent the boy to find Rhys. Was it to torture herself? By going to the barn this morning, she’d put herself in his path on purpose, to try to discover the truth about him and what happened at Cilmeri. Now, after her conversation with Aron, at a minimum, she owed him an apology. She’d treated him badly, openly questioning his honor, and he probably never wanted to speak to her again.
She had hardly finished the thought, however, when he appeared before her, with his wise brown eyes and a not-quite-smile that hovered perpetually around his lips. The relief she felt at the sight of him had her turning to put away her needlepoint, but really to hide her welcoming expression, which she had been unable to prevent from transforming her features.
In this case, it wasn’t Rhys she was trying to hide from but the other ladies in the room.
By the time she turned back, he was bowing over her hand. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was seeing to the body.”
Safe to say, no man of her acquaintance had ever spoken those words to her before. And yet, it felt normal that he would. That opening also provided an opportunity for her to talk about something external, even if it was his murder investigation, and she leapt to take advantage of it. “Were you able to speak to anyone about Tomos?”
“One of the masons came down to the church to identify him.”
She had been waiting for him in the women’s solar, and they’d been speaking in Welsh, so none of the three other women present could understand them, though they were all looking on with evident curiosity. Remembering her manners, Catrin introduced Rhys, and then allowed him to raise her to her feet and help her with her cloak.
Thankfully, Margaret, the senior lady-in-waiting, was not present, so no more explanation than she was going to Cole’s funeral was required. But she could still feel their eyes on her back as Rhys escorted her from the room.
Rhys appeared to take the entire scene in stride, and not until they reached the water gate did he remark on the circumstances of his reception. “You looked surprised to see me.”
Her expression turned rueful. “I suppose I was.”
“But it was you who sent for me, wasn’t it?” His words came not as a retort but somewhat blankly and told her he’d never considered refusing her call, no matter how badly she’d treated him.
Her heart warmed, and she finally acknowledged that her brother had been right: she knew Rhys, even after twenty years apart. The needed apology formed on her lips because she didn’t want to go another moment with him thinking she distrusted him. But before she could get out a single word, they were interrupted by the arrival of Rolf le Strange, as evidenced by the green chevron on his shoulder.
She pressed her lips together instead.
“My lady.” He bent over her hand in greeting. Even without the chevron, she would have known who he was by his slightly oily tone. John was equally abhorrent, but more laconic in his speech pattern.
As Rolf straightened, his eyes slid first to Rhys, who nodded back, and then fixed on her other hand tucked into the crook of Rhys’s elbow. Rolf’s nostrils flared in annoyance for just an instant, before his expression smoothed. His recovery was so quick, in fact, she almost wasn’t sure she’d seen it.
Math the Waterman was ready for them, having brought his boat to ferry mourners across the river to the graveyard. Rolf stepped into the boat first and then held out his hand to Catrin. Since she and Rhys were still on the dock, she couldn’t reasonably refuse, so it was Rolf who helped her to a seat in the bow.
Rhys took the usurpation in stride, though he kept checking Catrin’s face. She was trying to keep her expression impassive for Rolf’s sake, but also let Rhys know she wasn’t happy. With a slight movement of her left hand, she indicated the seat next to her and, without further ado, Rhys stepped into the boat without help, by-passed Rolf, to whom Math had just handed one of the mooring ropes, and plopped himself down next to her. He put one arm behind her, reaching for the rim of the boat to her right, and held onto the rim next to him with his left, stabilizing both the boat and them, and behaving as if he couldn’t imagine a better spot in which to find himself.
Rolf turned around and visibly balked at the sight of them sitting so closely together. At first it appeared he was going to try to stand for the journey until Math said, in heavily accented French, “Sit, my lord, or we might go over.”
While Rolf obeyed, no happier than before, Rhys leaned in to Catrin to whisper in Welsh in her ear, “Math hasn’t allowed one of his boats to capsize in living memory. But I would give a great deal to see Rolf end up in the river.” Then, as she hid her smile, he bobbed his head at Rolf and said, “Can you swim, my lord?”
Rolf’s chin jutted out. “No.” He sneered. “I suppose you can.”
“Yes,” Rhys said simply.
Catrin elbowed him in the ribs. “That was petty.”
“Around him, I can’t seem to help myself, and his brother is no better.”
“No.”
Being united in opposition to someone else was better than not being united at all, but it was a cheap way to foster camaraderie. Unless they found genuine common ground, their friendship would fail in the end. She thought again about apologizing, but even if Math was a friend to Rhys, she didn’t want to speak of important things in front of him.
Catrin shifted to try to get more comfortable on the hard wooden seat. Fortunately for her rear, the journey was a matter of yards, and then they reached the little dock on the southern bank.
When the priest had announced the time of the funeral, she had supposed the mourners would consist only of her, Rhys, and the priest. But when they arrived at the grave, they were greeted by a genuine crowd. In addition to Rolf, not only was Guy fitz Lacy present, but he’d brought a half-dozen guardsmen from the castle along with him. Oliver the undercoroner was there as well and Richard de Pulesdon, the new Sheriff of Caernarfonshire. He and Guy were the two halves of the law in the county, with the sheriff responsible for overall order and the coroner primarily interested in the monetary value the king could derive from a death.
To Catrin’s mind, it was typical of Edward, who was always strapped for gold, to see even death in terms of money and power. Heaven forbid a man die without the king extracting whatever he could from the loss, usually at the expense of the bereaved family.
The system had been established after the arrival of the Normans, whom, in the early years of the conquest, the English were killing wherever possible. When a corpse of any stripe was reported, the coroner levied a heavy fine on the inhabitants of the associated village, on the assumption that the dead man was Norman. The fine could only be avoided by proving he was English.
So far, here in Caernarfon, neither dead man was Norman, so Catrin wasn’t at all sure what role Guy was going to be playing in collecting the king’s due. To her, the system of levying fines seemed a good way to encourage local people to immediately bury any body they found and not tell the coroner at all. It was a wonder the villagers hadn’t done that with Cole rather than risk pauperizing themselves more than they already were. It was testament, perhaps, of their trust in Rhys to protect them.
The day had dawned sunny, but was ending gray. Gray days in Wales were far more normal than the few sunny ones they’d had, but she would have liked Cole to go out with a sunset.
The actual mass for Cole’s soul had happened after she’d spoken to Aron, a service Rhys had not attended. His absence had surprised her initially, until it occurred to her that nobody had told him it was happening, including her. From the few words he’d said, he’d been examining Tomos’s body up until the moment she’d summoned him.
Once the gravediggers set to work covering the body, the small group of mourners dispersed.
The priest, accompanied by Rolf le Strange, then approached Catrin. “Thank you for coming, child. You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to, Father. I knew Cole for many years, and I would like to tell my son I attended his burial.”
The priest bent his head in acknowledgment and moved away. Rolf le Strange bowed also, but when he came up, his eyes were on Rhys. “Your services are no longer required. I will escort the lady home.”
Rhys became like an ice statue at a feast. Catrin herself was more than a little confused by Rolf’s behavior, since up until now it had been John who’d expressed an interest in her. The men’s eyes met for a momentary contest of wills before Rhys actually smiled. “Thank you very much for offering to relieve me of the duty, but the lady herself asked me to escort her to the graveside and back, and that is what I intend to do.”
Catrin felt her own shoulders squaring, and she again slipped her arm through Rhys’s. “As Rhys said, my lord, thank you so much for your kind offer, but it would be improper to arrive with one man and leave with another, even at a funeral.”
Rolf couldn’t actually argue with that, but his features became somewhat frozen too, his jaw tight, and he gave her a sharp nod. “Of course. Forgive me for overstepping.”
“There is nothing to forgive, my lord,” she said sweetly. “I appreciate your gracious offer of escort.”
Frustration entered Rolf’s eyes, but he could do nothing in the face of her relentless politeness. He turned on his heel and strode after the priest.
Rhys immediately swung Catrin around and began walking with her in the exact opposite direction. The narrow track followed the southern bank of the River Seiont and would eventually take them to the bridge upstream from the mill where the mason’s body had been found. It was a bit of a walk, some of which was uphill, and, now that the sun had set, it would grow dark, but he seemed to understand as well as she that anything was better than returning to the castle in the same boat as Rolf.
Catrin went along with Rhys for some distance, until they were no longer visible from the graveyard or the castle, before finally coming to a halt in the middle of the road. “Enough, Rhys.”
He stopped too, eyebrows raised. “Enough of what?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
“But I don’t know.”
Somehow, yet again, she found herself digging in her heels rather than giving him the apology he deserved, but when it came down to it, the words stuck in her throat. She was angry at him rather than contrite. “This game you’re playing.”
He faced her. “Game?”
He really was making this difficult.
“Yes. Game. The most dangerous one I have ever encountered, more along the lines of chess than ring the peg.”
Rhys’s tipped his head back to look up at the darkening sky. His hands were on his hips, one foot higher than the other on the sloping road. Then he looked down at her, his eyes searching.
She didn’t look away this time and, after a count of three, through which he still didn’t say anything, she finally said what she’d wanted to say to him but hadn’t been able to. It wasn’t an apology for doubting him, but rather a desperate plea: “You were a member of his teulu, as your father was before you. On your father’s soul, tell me what happened.”
She was talking about Cilmeri, and this time he didn’t pretend not to understand.
“We were ambushed.”
“Ambush or accident? I heard that Prince Llywelyn was separated from the bulk of his army, and the English came upon him unawares. At first they didn’t even know who it was they were attacking.”
Rhys laughed mockingly. “That’s what you were told happened because the truth is rather less noble.”
She bit her lip. “Please tell me. I can’t bear not to know a moment longer.”
Rhys bent his head in a posture she recognized as indicating he was gathering his thoughts, and when he finally spoke, his voice was harsh. “Roger and Edmund Mortimer sent a letter to Prince Llywelyn, begging his forgiveness for opposing him and asking him to meet them to receive their homage. They said they were ready to switch sides and come to terms.”
Catrin stared at Rhys, barely breathing. “No. They didn’t. That’s not what—” At his dark look, she swallowed down her denial and nodded. “Go on.”
“The night before Prince Llywelyn’s death, we toasted to what we hoped was imminent victory. In retrospect, we were foolish to hope the Mortimer brothers were telling us the truth, but at the time, it hadn’t seemed like an outrageous proposition. They had shared ancestry, being descended, with Llywelyn, from princes of Wales. And King Edward had slighted Edmund Mortimer on more than one occasion, even going so far as to refuse to confirm him as earl and as heir to his father’s estates, even after he’d confirmed Roger in his. There were few things more important to a lord of the March than his pride, and King Edward had hurt Edmund’s.
“Instead of driving a wedge between Edmund Mortimer and the king, the king’s disdain moved Edmund to further heights of sycophancy, striving to prove to the king—and maybe to his brother as well—his steadfast loyalty.”
“So Llywelyn went to the rendezvous.” She couldn’t keep the sadness out of her voice.
“Llywelyn had positioned his army to oppose the English forces at the bridge across the Irfon, only a short distance from Buellt Castle. He designated his captains and made his preparations, but then went himself with eighteen of us to meet the Mortimers. We rode blindly into the ambush they’d laid.
“That day, I fought to what I believed was my last breath. In the midst of the melee, I was battling one man when a second confronted me. A blow to my head from the first, followed by a thrust through my midsection from the second, convinced my attackers I was dead.”
The look on Rhys’s face was so anguished, Catrin knew he was telling the truth, not that he could have lied about something as important as this. Her heart twisted that she’d made him retell it. “But you weren’t dead, obviously.”
“The blow rendered me unconscious. The thrust to my belly, while bloody and deep, wasn’t enough to kill me just yet. I awoke in darkness, face down in the snow, among dead friends and the headless body of our prince.” He wet his lips before continuing. “With my own hands, I carried Prince Llywelyn’s body away from the battlefield to the Cistercian Abbey of Cwm Hir.”
Her head came up, and her eyes were wet, threatening to spill tears down her cheeks. “That was you?”
He nodded. “I was ill for many months. By the time I recovered from my wounds, Prince Dafydd had been captured and the war was over.”
Dafydd was Llywelyn’s younger brother, who’d taken up the fight after Llywelyn’s death. Though Dafydd had betrayed Llywelyn multiple times, it was King Edward he’d betrayed in the end, and Llywelyn to whom he’d remained loyal, up until the moment Edward had hanged, drawn, and quartered him and dragged his lifeless body through the streets of Shrewsbury. To this day, both his head and Llywelyn’s slowly rotted on adjacent pikes at the Tower of London, a warning to all who dared go against the king. King Edward and Dafydd had been friends since childhood, so Dafydd’s betrayal had been all the worse in the king’s eyes.
Catrin took a step closer and then another until they were no more than a foot apart. “Why then, when you looked at me in the hall that first night, did I see shame in your eyes?”
“I failed him, Catrin.”
She tsked. “If you failed him, then we all failed him. I know now without asking that you did everything you could to save him.” At his nearly imperceptible nod, she continued, “How would your death have made anything better for anyone, especially him?”
“Many a day I wished I had died on that field.” Rhys’s eyes returned to his feet.
It was such a simple statement, but in so much error, and she tried to tell him so, putting all of her own twenty years of sorrow and loss into her voice. “It would have been easier to have died, but then who would have been left to return to Gwynedd, to raise the flag, and to carry on in his name?”
He lifted his head. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
She put a gentle hand on his arm. “I know you are.”
His eyes narrowed. “You know?”
“I’ve asked the right people the right questions.”
His expression cleared, and he surprised her by laughing. “Aron. You talked to Aron.”
She reached up to put both hands on either side of his face. “Daily you are striving to help our people. And now, I’m going to help you.”
