No note fell out. No scrap fluttered to the ground. She enjoyed Marcus’s surprise.

“Did you think I would pass a letter right under your nose?”

Marcus refolded the design and handed it back to Iolo. “Pity that you did not. I asked you to contact him.”

“Do not wait on me to do so, since I can’t. I have told you many times that I am but a pawn in all of this, not a king or a knight.”

He did not appear convinced, but with a shrug he walked away.

A heavy exhale blew out of Iolo. “My gratitude for warning me, my lady. It wouldn’t have done for him to hear what I was about to say.” He backed up against the wall so there would be no more surprises. “There is a man in the town. A stranger. Staying at the wainright’s. He sought me out. Knew my name because of my brother’s journeys to Bala. He wants to meet with you.” Iolo lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think it is one of your father’s people. He didn’t say so, but that is what I think.”

“He will not let you bring the message to me?”

“He must see you himself, he said. I was to tell you it was very important.”

It must be, for such a risk to be taken. The danger was not only the messenger’s, but also hers.

It must be about Genith. Perhaps Carwyn had sent word that she was on her way to her marriage. Another possibility occurred to her, however, and her stomach turned. Maybe Genith had taken ill, or been injured during her journey. The image of her sister suffering in that rough camp full of men, with no woman to attend her, invaded her mind.

“I will try to find a way to come, Iolo. Tell this man to wait. He is not to leave unless I send word through you that meeting him is impossible.”

Marcus visited the yard again the next morning. He watched Nesta move among the farmers and merchants, and saw the way they greeted her. She had been doing this since she came, he guessed, since she chatted with some as if they were old friends.

Most of them were Welsh. That these lands had been a part of England for centuries did not matter. That the blood flowing in their veins was as mixed as his own was irrelevant. If asked, those men and women below him in the yard would call themselves Welsh. Nesta was not the King’s whore to them, but the daughter of Llygad ap Madoc, and the closest thing they had to royalty.

The farmer Iolo’s wagon made its slow way to the gate, passing Nesta on the way. She said a few words to the big man, and it seemed to Marcus that an expression of concern flickered beneath her smile.