him in the same breath, saying, “I am much obliged to the baron. Please tell my lord that Mérian would be delighted to accept his invitation.”
So that, apparently, was that: a decision that trod heavily on some of her most deeply held convictions, and Mérian was to have nothing to say about it. Since the downfall of Deheubarth, her father had been writhing like a frog in cinders, desperate to distance himself from the reach of Neufmarché.
And now, all of a sudden, he seemed just as eager to court the baron’s good favour. Why? It made no sense.
The very thought of spending the summer in a castle full of foreigners sent waves of disgust coursing through her slender frame. Her aversion, natural and genuine, was also an evasion.
For what Mérian refused to admit, even to herself, was that she had enjoyed the baron’s feast immensely. Truth be told, she had glimpsed an attractive alternative to life in a crumbling caer on the Marches border. She did not allow herself to so much as imagine that she might acquire this life for herself— God forbid! But somewhere in her deepest heart lurked the hunger for the charm and grandeur she had experienced that glittering night, and, heaven help her, it all danced around the person of Baron Neufmarché himself.
For his part, he had made it abundantly clear that he found her beautiful and even desirable. The mere notion awakened feelings Mérian considered so unholy that she tried to suffocate the fledgling thought by depriving it of all rational consideration. On her return to Caer Rhodl after the feast in Hereford, she had considered herself safely out of harm’s way and beyond the reach of the temptation the baron’s court represented. And now, without so much as an “If you please, Mérian,” she was to be sent away to the baron’s castle like so much baggage.
She pushed away from the window and flopped back on her bed. The thought that her father was simply using her to appease Neufmarché and further himself with the baron was too depressing to contemplate. All the same, that was the only explanation that made sense of the situation. If anyone else had suggested such a thing, she would have been the first to shout him down—all the while knowing it was her lot precisely.
In any event, the matter was closed to all appeal. Lord Cadwgan had made his decision and, regardless of anything Mérian or anyone else might say, would not reverse it. For the next few days, Mérian sulked and let everyone know exactly how she felt, delivering herself of long, soulful sighs and dark, moody glances until even Garran, her oblivious brother, complained about the damp chill in the air every time she passed by. But the evil day would not be held off. Her father commanded her to pack her belongings for her stay and had begun to make arrangements to take her to Hereford when Mérian received what she considered a reprieve. It came in the form of a summons for all the baron’s nobles to attend him in council.
The gathering was to be held at Talgarth in the baron’s newly conquered territory, and all client kings and landed lords, along with their families and principal retainers, must attend. It was not an invitation that could be refused. Under feudal law, the unfortunate who failed to attend a formal council faced heavy fines and loss of lands, title, or in extreme cases, even limbs.
Baron Neufmarché did not hold councils often; the last had been five years ago when he had moved his chief residence to Hereford Castle. Then he had served notice that he meant to remain in England and expected his nobles to be ready and forthcoming with their support—chiefly in rents and services, but also in advice.
Lord Cadwgan took a cloudy view of the summons to Deheubarth—the scene of the late King Rhys ap Tewdwr’s recent downfall and demise—considering it an insult to the Cymry and a none-too-subtle reminder of Ffreinc supremacy and ascendancy. The rest of the family felt likewise. Perversely, only Mérian welcomed the council, looking upon it as a pardon from the onerous duty that had been forced upon her.
Now, instead of Mérian going alone into the enemy camp, the whole family would have to go with her.
“You need not look so pleased,” her mother told her. “A little less gloating would better become you.”
“I do not gloat,” Mérian replied smugly. “But milk for the kit is