Robert contemplated this in silence for a moment. “Aye, we must get you out. But annulments are never quick, so we have time to make a plan.”
“I cannot wait much longer—”
“I must go,” he whispered. “I will look for you here tomorrow night at the same time.”
“If something happens and we do not meet again,” she said, gripping his hand, “tell my family I love them and miss them with all my heart.”
“We shall meet tomorrow,” he said, giving her hand one last squeeze.
She waited until Robert was safely out of the chapel. After saying one more prayer, she rose on stiff legs to wake her guards. They escorted her to her chamber, where she bid them good night and barred the door.
Her mind was still on her conversation with Robert as she turned from the door. A shriek caught in her throat. In the moonlight from the narrow window, she could see the outline of a man sprawled on the chair beside her bed.
“Did you enjoy the music?” Maredudd Tudor asked.
Chapter Twenty-three
Catherine was so tired of riding that she was sure she would never be able to walk normally again. She lost her headdress days ago. Her hair hung in a tangled mess. Her gown was so filthy that if they did not reach their destination soon, she just might rip it off and ride naked.
Maredudd said he was taking her to his home on the island of Anglesey on the northwest coast. After establishing a false trail to the south, he took her inland and headed north, across countless streams and through endless forests. He apologized for the rough travel, explaining that Glyndwr ordered him to take every precaution. Even his own people must not learn where she went or with whom she traveled.
Catherine longed with all her heart to wash, to sleep in fresh sheets, and to eat a meal prepared by anyone other than Maredudd Tudor. The only benefit to her physical misery was that it diverted her from dwelling on how much she missed William, Jamie, and Stephen.
They crossed the isthmus onto Anglesey at low tide. A few miles farther, they reached Plas Penmynydd, the large fortified manor that was the Tudor home. When Maredudd lifted her from her horse before the entrance to the house, he had to hold on to her to keep her from falling.
Still clutching his arm, Catherine looked up into the hostile gray eyes of a pretty dark-haired woman. She was well rounded, almost plump, and a few years older than Catherine.
What caught Catherine’s attention, however, was the lady’s apricot silk gown. All her life, Catherine had taken her fine gowns for granted, but at this moment, she coveted this one with a piercing envy. It was so veryclean.
“Marged, come greet me properly, love, and meet our guest,” Maredudd called out.
So, this angry woman in apricot was Maredudd’s wife. Catherine suddenly felt aware of her own disheveled appearance.
In that moment, a boy of about five ran out of the house and barreled into Maredudd. He lifted the boy up, laughing, and settled him on his hip. When the boy turned his head to look at her, Catherine was taken aback by the sheer beauty of the child.
“Who is the lady, Father?” the boy asked.
“This is Lady Catherine FitzAlan. She will be our guest for a time,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Lady Catherine, meet my lovely wife, Marged, and my son Owain, lead troublemaker of Plas Penmynydd.”
Catherine nodded politely at Marged, then turned back to the boy. “To be lead troublemaker among the Tudor men,” she said with a smile, “is quite a feat.”
Catherine remembered almost nothing of her first evening at Penmynydd. She was taken to a bedchamber, stripped of her filthy gown, and soaked in a tub of steaming water until her skin puckered. She was asleep on her feet as the maid dried her and helped her into a plain shift for bed.
The smells from a waiting tray roused her long enough to eat. The food was so delicious she nearly cried with pleasure.
The sun was high when she awoke the next day. Sadness weighed upon her heart like a stone. How would William ever find her here in Anglesey? Would she ever see her home again? And what of the child she carried? Tears fell down the sides of her face and into her hair, but she was too bone-weary to lift her arms and wipe them away.
Sometime later, a maid peeked through her door. “I’m to help you dress, m’lady.”
Catherine was about to object that she had nothing to wear, when the maid held out a lovely, pale green gown.
She decided that with God’s help and a clean gown, she could face what came.
A few minutes later, she followed the maid down the stairs to the main floor of the house. The hall was empty, save for Marged Tudor and a couple of servants.
“Good afternoon, Lady FitzAlan,” Marged greeted her. “I understand you had a hard journey.”
The woman smiled kindly at her, all the hostility of yesterday gone.