“I told you, it is a feast day,” Arundal said. “Probably some obscure Welsh saint that no civilized Christian has ever heard of.”

Marcus knew better. They had been carrying planks and inks and candles, and he had seen their use before. Of more significance had been the moment chosen for this little procession. It amazed him that neither of the men waiting with him comprehended what had just occurred.

Nesta verch Llygad had just made it very clear that she now commanded the Welsh inside these walls.

Arundal angled toward Marcus. “The dark-haired lady with them. That was the daughter?”

“Aye.”

“I will admit that she has something about her …” His face broke into a leering smile. “It is rumored that Edward still wants her. He may not care for this betrothal of yours.”

Marcus did not need anyone to remind him of that.

“No doubt he will accept that you only sacrificed your pride for strategic reasons,” Arundal mused. “Once her father’s men are flushed out, he will get the archbishop to relieve you of the burden of her shame.” His smile turned mocking. “Or maybe not. Perhaps he will welcome the marriage, and give you a position at court so that he has her nearby.”

A pulse began throbbing furiously in Marcus’s head. If he stayed at this table, he and Arundal would be wielding their swords soon.

A cook appeared, nervous and flushed, carrying a long plank on his shoulder loaded with bread. Behind him another man hauled a huge cauldron that was so heavy it made him wobble.

Hubert strode over, shouting his displeasure at the delay. For good measure, he swung to box the first cook’s ear. The man saw it coming. He turned just enough for Hubert’s palm to slam into the plank balanced on his shoulder.

The plank abruptly tilted. Dozens of loaves flew through the air as if a catapult had hurled them. The cook veered back in amazement at the sight they made, pushing right into his companion who was equally distracted by the impressive display.

The cauldron fell. It landed on a foot and turned. Its thick, liquid contents lapped onto the floor.

Hubert bellowed. Arundal sighed. Marcus, concluding that it would be some while before anyone ate, left the hall.

Marcus entered the chapel as the last of the servants left. Hubert’s shouts still rang in the distance, but none of the Welsh appeared much concerned with his anger. A few even smirked when they stepped into the yard and heard his harangue.

He found Nesta down by the altar, setting out her little pots. A table had been constructed beneath a tiny window, and rows of lit candles, stuck on yet another plank, gave her more light.

“Do you intend to make religious images now, and seek inspiration here?”

“There is no room in my chamber for it, so I decided to bring my things here.”