The Wicked and the Just by J. Anderson Coats

be hired by burgesses to do donkey-work for a pittance.
    Move to hug him, but he holds me off with a simple embrace about the shoulders. Gruffydd says I should not touch him, for he’s always covered in road dust and town filth, but even when he’s just out of the river he puts me off.
    â€œHey, Gwen.” He presses a hand to his lower back and grimaces. “Please tell me there’s supper.”
    â€œNo quarry, I take it.” Pull out the bread the chatelaine gave me, the stale round I’ve been saving since midday. Mouth waters, but I tear off a piece for Mam and hand him the rest. “You look like Hell’s own castoff.”
    Gruffydd grins at me lopsided as he wolfs down the bread. “You too.”
    â€œWhat happened with the quarry?”
    â€œBurgesses.”
    Tear the bread into pieces for Mam. “Bastards all.”
    He shrugs. “I take what they give me. They’re the ones with the coin.”
    â€œThey hired that lapdog Tudur Sais again, didn’t they? And you said naught and let them.”
    â€œWhat would you have me do?” Gruffydd asks wearily. “Raise Cain? End up like Maelgwn ab Owain? His youngest finally died. She didn’t weigh much more than a hearthcat at the end.”
    Kneel, check Mam. Her breathing is steady. Stay knelt, even when there’s naught more to check.
    At length, Gruffydd says, “I saw Dafydd on the wharves. He asked after you.”
    â€œWe are not speaking of Dafydd now.” Shoot to my feet, glaring. “We’re speaking of how you must not let the likes of that slavish hound Tudur Sais take all the best work, especially when that work was already promised to you!”
    Gruffydd smiles sadly. “I know not what you did, but Dafydd is absolutely besotted with you.”
    If Gruffydd knew what I did with Dafydd, he’d beat him senseless instead of playing errand boy.
    Turn away. “Doesn’t matter what I did. I’ll not marry him. That’s the end of it.”
    Gruffydd flings a hand. “Because of me? I’m not a child, Gwenhwyfar! I can look after myself.”
    Today’s quarry incident would suggest otherwise.
    â€œSaints, how many times must I say it? To you, to Margaret, to Dafydd himself? Must I carve it into my forehead? The answer is no!”
    Gruffydd shakes his head. “And Marared is so kind to you. She says naught when you arrive late at the townhouse. Slips you food. Stands up to the master, if what I hear is true.”
    â€œMargaret. That’s what she calls herself within the walls.” Snort, roll my eyes. “If Margaret Tipley chooses to be kind to me, it should be because I work hard and do as she bids me. Not because she used to plait Mam’s hair, and certes not because she’d see me wed to the only son of her dearest friend.”
    â€œIt’s because she’d see the burgesses humbled and made to follow the law,” Gruffydd says. “And she’ll always be Marared to me.”
    â€œShe cannot be, not in there. Not as a burgess running-dog. And she’s in no hurry to leave.”
    â€œI’ll not throw stones at anyone for how they made their way when the English came,” Gruffydd replies quietly, “nor how they must live now.”
    Only so many times I’ll suffer this discussion.
    Hold up my coin cross-side out. Gruffydd takes the hint and pries up the hearthstone. There’s a moldy scrap of wool beneath. He unwraps it carefully on his palm. Together we count. Five. There are five silver pennies all together.
    â€œIt’s not enough,” he murmurs. “They’ll take something.”
    â€œMay God strike them down.” Can barely speak for choking.
    â€œThey can distrain what they like should we not pay,” Gruffydd says. “Damn taxmen will be here any day now.”
    Rub my eyes. Head hurts. Smoke rises like a shroud, silts me down.
    My little brother’s hands are cut up