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 heâs always covered in road dust and town filth, but even when heâs just out of the river he puts me off.
âHey, Gwen.â He presses a hand to his lower back and grimaces. âPlease tell me thereâs supper.â
âNo quarry, I take it.â Pull out the bread the chatelaine gave me, the stale round Iâve been saving since midday. Mouth waters, but I tear off a piece for Mam and hand him the rest. âYou look like Hellâs own castoff.â
Gruffydd grins at me lopsided as he wolfs down the bread. âYou too.â
âWhat happened with the quarry?â
âBurgesses.â
Tear the bread into pieces for Mam. âBastards all.â
He shrugs. âI take what they give me. Theyâre the ones with the coin.â
âThey hired that lapdog Tudur Sais again, didnât they? And you said naught and let them.â
âWhat would you have me do?â Gruffydd asks wearily. âRaise Cain? End up like Maelgwn ab Owain? His youngest finally died. She didnât weigh much more than a hearthcat at the end.â
Kneel, check Mam. Her breathing is steady. Stay knelt, even when thereâs naught more to check.
At length, Gruffydd says, âI saw Dafydd on the wharves. He asked after you.â
âWe are not speaking of Dafydd now.â Shoot to my feet, glaring. âWeâre 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!â
Gruffydd smiles sadly. âI know not what you did, but Dafydd is absolutely besotted with you.â
If Gruffydd knew what I did with Dafydd, heâd beat him senseless instead of playing errand boy.
Turn away. âDoesnât matter what I did. Iâll not marry him. Thatâs the end of it.â
Gruffydd flings a hand. âBecause of me? Iâm not a child, Gwenhwyfar! I can look after myself.â
Todayâs quarry incident would suggest otherwise.
âSaints, 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!â
Gruffydd shakes his head. âAnd 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
âMargaret. Thatâs what she calls herself within the walls.â Snort, roll my eyes. âIf 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 Mamâs hair, and certes not because sheâd see me wed to the only son of her dearest friend.â
âItâs because sheâd see the burgesses humbled and made to follow the law,â Gruffydd says. âAnd sheâll always be Marared to me.â
âShe cannot be, not in there. Not as a burgess running-dog. And sheâs in no hurry to leave.â
âIâll not throw stones at anyone for how they made their way when the English came,â Gruffydd replies quietly, ânor how they must live now.â
Only so many times Iâll suffer this discussion.
Hold up my coin cross-side out. Gruffydd takes the hint and pries up the hearthstone. Thereâs a moldy scrap of wool beneath. He unwraps it carefully on his palm. Together we count. Five. There are five silver pennies all together.
âItâs not enough,â he murmurs. âTheyâll take something.â
âMay God strike them down.â Can barely speak for choking.
âThey can distrain what they like should we not pay,â Gruffydd says. âDamn taxmen will be here any day now.â
Rub my eyes. Head hurts. Smoke rises like a shroud, silts me down.
My little brotherâs hands are cut up
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