“It’s as simple as that.”
Dafydd studied the toe of Caradoc’s left boot. “Well, understanding I am about the money, Caradoc.” He raised his eyes to his friend’s face. “But what about her ? She’s a Scot.”
“I know.”
“Not Welsh.”
“Yes, I understand that.”
Jon-Bron looked at him with eyes full of sympathy. “Money or not, it’s a terrible sacrifice you’re making, Caradoc. Are you that sure it’s necessary?”
“Yes, I am.”
“A merchant’s daughter,” Eifion mumbled.
“Since she isn’t noble, neither Rhys nor Richard will be able to say I’m making potentially dangerous political alliances, will they?”
“Aye, there is that,” Bran-Bron noted in a more hopeful tone.
Dafydd delicately cleared his throat. “Well, Caradoc, even if she’s got money and no political entanglements, it’s not as if you’re going to be bedding a pile of coins, is it? I mean, she’s not very… You could do better, that’s all.”
Like Cordelia, they didn’t think Fiona was pretty. Maybe she wasn’t in the way they meant, yet he found her attractive. Her bold spirit, her shining eyes, her kiss, her way of making him feel that he was the most desirable man in the world—these were things not to be taken lightly.
Yet he wasn’t about to reveal his innermost feelings to anybody, not even Dafydd. “I like her well enough.”
“And Cordelia? What about her? How did she take the news?” Jon-Bron asked.
Caradoc’s good humor diminished. “Ah, yes, Cordelia. She doesn’t approve, but that doesn’t matter. I must marry or risk losing Llanstephan, so marriage it will be.”
“What does Father Rhodri say?” Dafydd asked.
Caradoc fidgeted. He really didn’t want to talk about his discussion with Father Rhodri, either. The priest had immediately denounced the marriage as hasty and wrongheaded, a bad decision Caradoc would come to regret. Caradoc had stooped to reminding the priest that while Father Rhodri served God, he served the king and his people as well as God, and to do that, he needed a castle. To keep his castle he needed Fiona.
Unfortunately, Father Rhodri had stood stubbornly firm and refused to sanctify the marriage on the holy ground of his chapel. Only reluctantly had he agreed to bless the joining of hands in the hall.
The men exchanged knowing looks.
“What?” Caradoc demanded.
“He tried to talk you out of it, didn’t he?” Dafydd said.
“He thought I should pray on it and ask for God’s guidance.”
“Wise man, Father Rhodri,” Eifion remarked to no one in particular.
Caradoc fixed his steely gaze on the reeve. “I told him Fiona must have been sent by God in answer to my prayers to keep me from losing Llanstephan.”
Which he had. The rest had come after, when Father Rhodri had looked at him as if Caradoc had declared his intention to turn heathen. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to wash and change for the evening meal.”
There was no need for them to stare at him as if he had never washed before and wasn’t expected to. “Nothing wrong with wanting to be clean, is there?”
“No, no,” Jon-Bron and his brothers muttered as they got to their feet. “We’ll be seeing you in the hall, then, Caradoc.”
“Aye.”
The men filed out, all but Dafydd, who toyed with a thread from the blanket covering the cot beside him.
“You’re going to make a hole,” Caradoc remarked as the brothers exited and closed the door.
Dafydd stopped fiddling and clasped his hands.
Caradoc decided to ignore him. Nothing Dafydd could say was going to make him change his mind.
After removing his old tunic, he went to one of the jugs beside the basins and poured out some water. He rinsed his face in the frigid water, then threw back his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe one of the men had a comb he could use. And a dagger to scrape the whiskers from his face. He wouldn’t put himself at risk of Dafydd’s teasing by cutting his hair, but
Dafydd studied the toe of Caradoc’s left boot. “Well, understanding I am about the money, Caradoc.” He raised his eyes to his friend’s face. “But what about her ? She’s a Scot.”
“I know.”
“Not Welsh.”
“Yes, I understand that.”
Jon-Bron looked at him with eyes full of sympathy. “Money or not, it’s a terrible sacrifice you’re making, Caradoc. Are you that sure it’s necessary?”
“Yes, I am.”
“A merchant’s daughter,” Eifion mumbled.
“Since she isn’t noble, neither Rhys nor Richard will be able to say I’m making potentially dangerous political alliances, will they?”
“Aye, there is that,” Bran-Bron noted in a more hopeful tone.
Dafydd delicately cleared his throat. “Well, Caradoc, even if she’s got money and no political entanglements, it’s not as if you’re going to be bedding a pile of coins, is it? I mean, she’s not very… You could do better, that’s all.”
Like Cordelia, they didn’t think Fiona was pretty. Maybe she wasn’t in the way they meant, yet he found her attractive. Her bold spirit, her shining eyes, her kiss, her way of making him feel that he was the most desirable man in the world—these were things not to be taken lightly.
Yet he wasn’t about to reveal his innermost feelings to anybody, not even Dafydd. “I like her well enough.”
“And Cordelia? What about her? How did she take the news?” Jon-Bron asked.
Caradoc’s good humor diminished. “Ah, yes, Cordelia. She doesn’t approve, but that doesn’t matter. I must marry or risk losing Llanstephan, so marriage it will be.”
“What does Father Rhodri say?” Dafydd asked.
Caradoc fidgeted. He really didn’t want to talk about his discussion with Father Rhodri, either. The priest had immediately denounced the marriage as hasty and wrongheaded, a bad decision Caradoc would come to regret. Caradoc had stooped to reminding the priest that while Father Rhodri served God, he served the king and his people as well as God, and to do that, he needed a castle. To keep his castle he needed Fiona.
Unfortunately, Father Rhodri had stood stubbornly firm and refused to sanctify the marriage on the holy ground of his chapel. Only reluctantly had he agreed to bless the joining of hands in the hall.
The men exchanged knowing looks.
“What?” Caradoc demanded.
“He tried to talk you out of it, didn’t he?” Dafydd said.
“He thought I should pray on it and ask for God’s guidance.”
“Wise man, Father Rhodri,” Eifion remarked to no one in particular.
Caradoc fixed his steely gaze on the reeve. “I told him Fiona must have been sent by God in answer to my prayers to keep me from losing Llanstephan.”
Which he had. The rest had come after, when Father Rhodri had looked at him as if Caradoc had declared his intention to turn heathen. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to wash and change for the evening meal.”
There was no need for them to stare at him as if he had never washed before and wasn’t expected to. “Nothing wrong with wanting to be clean, is there?”
“No, no,” Jon-Bron and his brothers muttered as they got to their feet. “We’ll be seeing you in the hall, then, Caradoc.”
“Aye.”
The men filed out, all but Dafydd, who toyed with a thread from the blanket covering the cot beside him.
“You’re going to make a hole,” Caradoc remarked as the brothers exited and closed the door.
Dafydd stopped fiddling and clasped his hands.
Caradoc decided to ignore him. Nothing Dafydd could say was going to make him change his mind.
After removing his old tunic, he went to one of the jugs beside the basins and poured out some water. He rinsed his face in the frigid water, then threw back his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe one of the men had a comb he could use. And a dagger to scrape the whiskers from his face. He wouldn’t put himself at risk of Dafydd’s teasing by cutting his hair, but
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