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freely, who fights like a man, whose red hair proves her freakish nature. I don’t like a woman so handsome men fight for her and with her for the privilege of her bed.”
    Art limped to the bedside table and dropped the purse with a resounding clunk . “Ye just told me she was not old, fat, and ugly.”
    “So?”
    “Ye didn’t tell me she was handsome.”
    “So?”
    Art hummed a little tune. “Are we going to stay here, then?”
    “The sun’s gone down, you silly old dickweed,” Griffith answered. “Of course we’re staying—tonight, and until I deliver that damn purse. But only until I deliver the purse. So ?”
    “So nothing. Ye’re young and strong. Ye know yer mind best.”
    “And you’ll not interfere?”
    “Nay, master.”
    “Ha. When a cat can lick her ear!”
    Pleased, Art limped back to the pile of saddlebags and leather pouches they’d brought from London. “Never seen a castle like this in Wales. Why don’t ye lie down again? Ye’re looking choleric.”
    Griffith grunted as he lay down. “Will I never win with you?”
    Art ignored him, showing his Welsh contempt for the English and their fighting skills. “Instead of catapults and weapons, the grounds inside the walls are full of flowers. ’Twould be conquered in a fortnight in Wales.”
    Distracted, Griffith said, “Perhaps putting his castle on an island in a lake gives Wenthaven a feeling of security.”
    “Bah! They keep the chickens penned and his men-at-arms hidden in their own barracks.”
    “Not his men-at-arms,” Griffith corrected. “These are mercenaries.”
    “Ah.” Art comprehended immediately. “No wonder the earl keeps them separate from himself, then. They’re likely to see a chance to conquer from within. Especially since he’s hired a wad of them. Doesn’t he know having yer own men is best?”
    Griffith stroked his chin. “He has hired an army, hasn’t he?”
    “Heard a lot of Welsh out there.”
    “’Tis common knowledge the Welsh are the best fighters in the Isles.”
    “And why shouldn’t our lads fight for English coin and English plunder? Want me to go chat with them, casual-like, and find out what’s up?” While Griffith hesitated, Art opened the bags and dumped them onto the floor. “What do ye want me to save out?”
    “Traveling clothes. We’re leaving for home tomorrow.”
    “’Tis a shame not to stay and get acquainted with Lady Marian.”
    “Traveling clothes,” Griffith repeated with emphasis. He didn’t want to discuss Marian with Art anymore. He didn’t even want to think about Marian.
    An Englishwoman, he thought contemptuously. He’d learned the depths of an Englishwoman’s love when he rode to London after the victory of Bosworth Field and heard the tales of Elizabeth of York.
    He’d told Marian the truth. Elizabeth’s callous disregard for her brothers’ fate and the rumors of her willing liaison with Richard had sickened him. They had sickened Henry, too, and he dragged his feet about marrying the strumpet. Then Parliament made their sentiments known. Henry must keep to his pledge to wed Elizabeth. Henry had bowed to necessity, repeating his battlefield vow—that nothing and no one would take the throne from him.
    Girding his loins, he’d met with Elizabeth—and come away with a changed attitude. Neither a blow to the skull nor a caress to the groin should have softened Henry so, but he married Elizabeth without another murmur and behaved in a seemly manner about it.
    Elizabeth seemed a charming woman, Griffith admitted, but her betrayal with Richard could not be banished from his mind, and he wondered how Henry managed to subdue his revulsion. Perhaps he’d been seduced by her youth and charm, perhaps…Griffith remembered the tiny span of Marian’s waist and speculated about the breasts he’d glimpsed beneath the fur-trimmed neckline.
    Perhaps, Griffith admitted, Henry had lost his heart to an Englishwoman’s arts. But sorrow, war, and anguish had hardened