Page 257

“ W hat did you say it was called?” Pen asked as they rattled down another rutted farm lane, this one lined with brambles and blackthorn.

Gwen was tense this morning, her eyes heavy and shadowed from staying up late harping for Sir Mark’s guests, and then dancing again in the kitchen as the Pencoed servants cleaned up after the great folk and enjoyed the leftovers of their lavish supper.

Pen had perhaps nipped too much of the leftover drink.

The revelry had lasted far into the night, but all Pen really recalled was dancing with Gwen.

Gwen’s face glowing with laughter as she looked up at him, Gwen’s blush when he put his hands on her waist to lift her or let a hand slide over her hip as they completed a figure.

Gwen’s indrawn breath when he stole a kiss in the shadowed hallway before she squeezed his hand and went upstairs to bed.

That Gwen was gone. She was prim again in a traveling gown, her wild hair stuffed under her bonnet, her hands in leather gloves because she wanted to stop every few yards to gather weeds from the roadside.

It would take them hours to get back to Newport as it was, and the fine day was turning on them.

The sun that burned off the mist that morning as they left Pencoed Castle had given way to clouds rolling in from the east, a low grey ceiling threatening rain.

He’d wanted to head straight back to town to stay ahead of the weather, but Gwen insisted on a detour to the north, another great house that she wanted him to see.

“It’s called Penrydd.”

Gwen was driving this stretch, and she had a steady hand on the reins. Pen didn’t mind being her passenger; it gave him a chance to study the countryside. “That’s the name of the house,” she said. “And the title given to the family.”

Her eyes flickered to him. She said the name as if it meant something to her.

He knew it meant something to him. He felt a pull deep in his mind. That name had some hold over him—what?

“Why is everything around here Pen-something?”

“It’s the Cymric word for ‘head.’ Pencoed means ‘head of the forest.’ Pendragon, the title given our greatest heroes, means ‘head dragon’ or ‘chief warrior.’”

“So Penrydd means—” The word felt familiar in his mouth. But why? His head hurt, as if his mind were stretching.

“Headrest, literally, or place to rest your head,” she said softly. “Here we are.”

The trap emerged from a stand of alder and black poplar into a large field hemmed by a low stone wall and gate.

On a green rise stood a small castle of grey stone, a fortified manor in the Jacobean style, built for show and not defense.

Four cylindrical towers rose from the corners of a low curtain wall topped with battlements, but despite the medieval design the manor house was every bit as grand as Pencoed, with tall, narrow windows incised along the three floors and attics above.

To the right, outside the stone wall, clustered modern outbuildings and offices, also dressed in grey stone.

A few sheep browsing the far pasture lifted their heads and began to nose in their direction, until the corgi standing watch warned them back to the herd.

Gwen cleared her throat. “Do you want to go inside?”

“What, just stroll in and ask for a look around?” Their horse startled, flicking its ears at his sharp tone.

“You could,” she said.

“No,” Pen said. He knew strongly, though he couldn’t say why, he did not want to go into the house. Not yet.

But he knew it. He’d seen this house in a picture.

A painting. He tried to remember where. It hung on a wall in a large hall—a foyer of a house he knew.

A large house, in a large town. London. He had a house in London, and a painting of this house hung in the foyer, and he saw it every time he came in or out—for yes, he used the front door of great houses, particularly his own.

And this painting hung in pride of place because this castle belonged to him.

His mind strained in several directions at once, trying to remember everything. He was important. He was possibly rich.

“Tell me about the family,” he said. The horse, still alarmed, shifted its feet as the dog trotted toward them.

Gwen held the horse steady, though her voice wavered.

“They’re a Welsh family, an old one. Knights, possibly princes if you go back far enough.

They fought for Welsh freedom with Owain Glynd?r.

Then they stood for Henry Tudor during the War of the Roses and were raised to barons by Henry VII.

They changed their name to Price, from ap Rhys—son of Rhys, that is—and became, like many, English lords with a Welsh estate.

After the baron fought with George II at the Battle of Dettingen, and then defended the king during the Jacobite uprising, he was raised to a viscount.

He spent most of his time in London, I’m told, and though the family seat is here, his heirs have never seen it. ”

He'd meant to come here. The knowledge slithered over Pen like cold water poured on his head. He was the heir. He hadn’t wanted to be, hadn’t been raised for it, had run away from it in fact and joined the army.

No, not army; navy. He’d been an officer in the Royal Navy.

Not a half bad one, until he was blown up on the beach he saw in his nightmares.

But this estate, and this family, were connected to him.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered.

“Does this mean anything to you?” She trembled like a dragonfly on a tender branch, rippling and iridescent, ready to dart away at any moment. But she reached out a hand to him, and he took it. He wanted something to anchor him. He wanted her to anchor him.

“Why are you showing me this?”

Her eyes were the grey of the rain-filled sky, as sad and stormy. “I want you to remember who you are.” Her voice was a thread. “I thought this might help.”

She knew. Pen’s entire body recoiled as the realization hammered him. This house belonged to him, and Gwen knew that and had brought him here. She knew his history. Did she know why he’d been attacked, tossed into a tiny Welsh rowboat, and turned out to sea?

Why hadn’t she told him?

Thunder burled over them, low and threatening. The corgi eyed the sky and trotted back to his flock, barking instructions. The horse stamped its hooves.

“Let’s go,” Pen said roughly. He almost said home , but St. Sefin’s wasn’t his home. He didn’t know where his bloody home was. London? Here? Somewhere else?

Pen. Penrydd . She had known his name. He had met her before, in the room with her anger and the scent of bluebells.

She had kept this from him and he wanted to know why.

Anger boiled like lava within him, but stronger than the anger was a voice of caution that warned him to wait until he understood more.

Exactly who he was, and how much she knew, and why she hadn’t shown him any of this right away.

He needed action. He took the reins and she handed them over without a word.

The silence held as they drove back to Newport.

She spoke only to give directions or ask him to stop so she might hop out to gather weeds or flowers by the side of the road, cramming her harvest more quickly into the cloth bags she’d brought as the clouds drew dark and close.

At last they clattered over the wooden bridge spanning the Usk, where the scent of the marshes and a fringe of smoke from the riverside kiln lay heavy in the air.

The hair on the back of Pen’s neck rose an instant before two men emerged from the shadow of the ruined castle and stepped into the road, blocking their way.

“Stay, travelers!” called the large one, a tall man with thick shoulders and a too-small leather coat. Gaps showed among blackened teeth. “We be the toll masters, and yer to pay a toll.”

“There is no toll on Newport bridge,” Gwen said sharply, curling her hand into a fist around her riding crop. The horse shied, sensing her fear, and Pen held the reins steady.

“They is now. Hey, Minikin!” the large man called. “These two don’t know ’bout the toll.”

A fellow about half his height strolled forward, wearing a short leather jerkin and breeches and a feather in his tricorne hat. “Tsk, tsk,” he drawled. “That’s twice the fee then, innit?”

“Tha’s what I thought.” Gap-tooth grinned. “Let’s have a look at the bags, aye?”

“You will not!” Gwen exclaimed. “That’s food and medicine, and I will not have you dirtying it with your paws.”

“Dirty paws, is it!” The large man glared. “Les’see how you like the dirty paws on you, moll!”

“Touch her and I’ll part that paw from you,” Pen said coolly.

“Oh, the mort’s yours, then? Well, can the cove handle his fists? If you don’t pay the toll, you pay a forfeit. And if you don’t post the cole, you pay with the moll.”

“I will not be payment for anything!” Gwen fumed. “Let us go before we call the watchman.”

Thunder rolled through the sky, and the horse huffed. The little man took the bridle and held it as if guessing Pen had thought about driving the animal on, running the men over if need be.

“Squeak for the kenchin!” the thief chortled. “We’ll beat him all hollow when he comes, but we’ll chafe your cove first, little cat!”

“Oh, very well,” Pen said with a sigh, handing Gwen the reins and descending the trap. “Let’s have this done then, shall we?” He began unbuttoning his rough woolen coat.

“Pen, don’t,” Gwen said. There was no one about, the shops being shuttered and the citizens in their homes, buttoning up against the storm. Pen only hoped he could make a better account of himself than he had the last time he’d stood up to a larger man.

“This won’t take long,” he told Gwen with a bravura he didn’t feel. “I’ll comb the brute’s head, and we’ll go.”

“We owe them nothing!” Gwen exclaimed. “Besides, that’s the glaw taranau coming, the thundering rain. We’ll be wise to take shelter.”