Page 52 of The Ladies Least Likely
He knew it meant something to him. He felt a pull deep in his mind. That name had some hold over him—what?
“Why is everything around here Pen-something?”
“It’s the Cymric word for ‘head.’ Pencoed means ‘head of the forest.’ Pendragon, the title given our greatest heroes, means ‘head dragon’ or ‘chief warrior.’”
“So Penrydd means—” The word felt familiar in his mouth. But why? His head hurt, as if his mind were stretching.
“Headrest, literally, or place to rest your head,” she said softly. “Here we are.”
The trap emerged from a stand of alder and black poplar into a large field hemmed by a low stone wall and gate. On a green rise stood a small castle of grey stone, a fortified manor in the Jacobean style, built for show and not defense. Four cylindrical towers rose from the corners of a low curtain wall topped with battlements, but despite the medieval design the manor house was every bit as grand as Pencoed, with tall, narrow windows incised along the three floors and attics above. To the right, outside the stone wall, clustered modern outbuildings and offices, also dressed in grey stone. A few sheep browsing the far pasture lifted their heads and began to nose in their direction, until the corgi standing watch warned them back to the herd.
Gwen cleared her throat. “Do you want to go inside?”
“What, just stroll in and ask for a look around?” Their horse startled, flicking its ears at his sharp tone.
“You could,” she said.
“No,” Pen said. He knew strongly, though he couldn’t say why, he did not want to go into the house. Not yet.
But he knew it. He’d seen this house in a picture. A painting. He tried to remember where. It hung on a wall in a large hall—a foyer of a house he knew. A large house, in a large town. London. He had a house in London, and a painting of this house hung in the foyer, and he saw it every time he came in or out—for yes, he used the front door of great houses, particularly his own. And this painting hung in pride of place because this castle belonged to him.
His mind strained in several directions at once, trying to remember everything. Hewasimportant. He was possibly rich.
“Tell me about the family,” he said. The horse, still alarmed, shifted its feet as the dog trotted toward them.
Gwen held the horse steady, though her voice wavered. “They’re a Welsh family, an old one. Knights, possibly princes if you go back far enough. They fought for Welsh freedom with Owain Glyndwr. Then they stood for Henry Tudor during the War of the Roses and were raised to barons by Henry VII. They changed their name to Price, from ap Rhys—son of Rhys, that is—and became, like many, English lords with a Welsh estate. After the baron fought with George II at the Battle of Dettingen, and then defended the king during the Jacobite uprising, he was raised to a viscount. He spent most of his time in London, I’m told, and though the family seat is here, his heirs have never seen it.”
He'd meant to come here. The knowledge slithered over Pen like cold water poured on his head.Hewas the heir. He hadn’t wanted to be, hadn’t been raised for it, had run away from itin fact and joined the army. No, not army; navy. He’d been an officer in the Royal Navy. Not a half bad one, until he was blown up on the beach he saw in his nightmares. But this estate, and this family, were connected to him.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered.
“Does this mean anything to you?” She trembled like a dragonfly on a tender branch, rippling and iridescent, ready to dart away at any moment. But she reached out a hand to him, and he took it. He wanted something to anchor him. He wantedherto anchor him.
“Why are you showing me this?”
Her eyes were the grey of the rain-filled sky, as sad and stormy. “I want you to remember who you are.” Her voice was a thread. “I thought this might help.”
She knew. Pen’s entire body recoiled as the realization hammered him. This house belonged to him, and Gwen knew that and had brought him here. She knew his history. Did she know why he’d been attacked, tossed into a tiny Welsh rowboat, and turned out to sea?
Why hadn’t she told him?
Thunder burled over them, low and threatening. The corgi eyed the sky and trotted back to his flock, barking instructions. The horse stamped its hooves.
“Let’s go,” Pen said roughly. He almost saidhome, but St. Sefin’s wasn’t his home. He didn’t know where his bloody home was. London? Here? Somewhere else?
Pen.Penrydd. She had known his name. Hehadmet her before, in the room with her anger and the scent of bluebells. She had kept this from him and he wanted to know why. Anger boiled like lava within him, but stronger than the anger was a voice of caution that warned him to wait until he understood more. Exactly who he was, and how much she knew, and why she hadn’t shown him any of this right away.
He needed action. He took the reins and she handed them over without a word. The silence held as they drove back to Newport. She spoke only to give directions or ask him to stop so she might hop out to gather weeds or flowers by the side of the road, cramming her harvest more quickly into the cloth bags she’d brought as the clouds drew dark and close. At last they clattered over the wooden bridge spanning the Usk, where the scent of the marshes and a fringe of smoke from the riverside kiln lay heavy in the air.
The hair on the back of Pen’s neck rose an instant before two men emerged from the shadow of the ruined castle and stepped into the road, blocking their way.
“Stay, travelers!” called the large one, a tall man with thick shoulders and a too-small leather coat. Gaps showed among blackened teeth. “We be the toll masters, and yer to pay a toll.”
“There is no toll on Newport bridge,” Gwen said sharply, curling her hand into a fist around her riding crop. The horse shied, sensing her fear, and Pen held the reins steady.
“They is now. Hey, Minikin!” the large man called. “These two don’t know ’bout the toll.”
A fellow about half his height strolled forward, wearing a short leather jerkin and breeches and a feather in his tricorne hat. “Tsk, tsk,” he drawled. “That’s twice the fee then, innit?”
