I stand there, stunned, unable to believe he rejected me outright. I blink once, twice, three times.

  Now what? Where do I go?

  I exhale and turn for the street. If I can’t leave the city, I need to sell the horse. I can’t afford to feed the both of us with no employment. Perhaps I can—

  “Leaving so soon?”

  I spin around to see a man standing in the doorway. He’s much thicker than his servant and wears a tunic of softer gray hues and a fur-lined cloak. Graying hair brushes the tops of his shoulders, and his narrowed eyes scan me from head to toe.

  “Hello, young man,” he says. “I’m told Cadwyn sent you?”

  His authoritative demeanor cows me, and I take a step back. Years of experience and knowledge reflect on his face. Somehow I fear he’ll know I’m a woman if he gets too close. “Yes. I’m looking for work.” Suddenly I remember the bread Cadwyn gave me, which I had forgotten in the horror of the execution. My fingers fumble at the tunic, finding it in the pouch tied around my waist. “She sent this for you.”

  He takes it from me and turns it over in his hands, studying it, his brow furrowed. Then he looks up at me.

  “You seem a bit young to be on your own.”

  The statement is riddled with a question. I square my shoulders and try to mimic my brother’s stance when he attempts to look older. How old am I? Can I pass for fifteen? “I’m past sixteen years, sir.”

  His servant guffaws behind him, and Anarawd lifts an eyebrow. My face flames. Perhaps not.

  “Almost,” I amend. “I’m almost to sixteen years.”

  “Not a day past thirteen,” the servant murmurs in his ear.

  I sigh. Am I so inept that I made myself a child? “I’m small for my age. But I’m very capable in the fields or in the kitchen.”

  “You can do kitchen work?”

  Diawl. Have I given myself away? I brush it off quickly. “Yes, I’ve shared the burden many times with my mother and sister.”

  “Why is your hand wrapped?”

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  I glance down at the bindings over my palm. “A healing injury. I don’t want it to reopen.”

  Master Anarawd glances behind me at the horse. “Is that yours?”

  I clutch the beast’s reins and let out a careful breath. I’m prepared to let him go. “Yes, master.”

  “How are you with the animals? Can you muck a stable?”

  I groan inwardly. We had two horses, before King Afon confiscated them. During the warmer days the horses roamed the land, but in the cold of winter, we locked them up in the winter room with the chickens. Every day someone had to rid the space of their waste. The memory of the stench of steaming, hot manure splitting open on the tines of my pitch fork wicks through my mind, strong enough that my nostrils flare, certain I catch a whiff of it.

  I never made it out without getting the stinky matter on my hands and clothing, and no amount of snow or hay would conceal it or make me feel clean again.

  But I won’t turn the job down, not if that’s what he has available for me. “Yes, Master. I can muck a stable and saddle a horse.”

  “Then I will offer you this. For room and board, you can be one of my stable boys. I already have one, Gar, and he’ll be in charge of you. Can you abide by that?”

  I nearly wilt in relief. “Yes. I can do that.”

  Master Anarawd nods. “Your horse will stay in my stables. He belongs to the king now, and I may use him whenever I need.”

  I hesitate. What if I need to flee and can’t get to the horse? But the animal isn’t mine. I knew it might come to this. I nod again. “Yes, my lord.”

  He grunts. “I can’t be a lord when I live in the king’s shadow. Just hlaford, if you must.”

  “My hlaford,” I say.

  “Stick with master.”

  “Master,” I echo.

  “Gar!” he shouts, leaning his head out the door. To me, he says, “I’ll have Gar take your horse to the stables to rest and eat while I show you your room.”

  I nod. We stand there a moment longer, and Anarawd’s brow twitches. He swivels and yells toward and open door at the back of the house.

  “Gar!”

  A teenage boy a few years younger than myself comes darting around the house, leaping over the edge of the pig pen, hand securing his hood to his head so it doesn’t fly off. “Master,” he pants. “I’m sorry. I was on my way the first time, I just—”

  Master Anarawd takes the horse’s reins from me and holds them out, cutting off Gar’s explanation. “This is Myrddin. You’ll train him in everything you know. He’s apprenticed himself to me. Take his horse to the stables.”

  Gar turns and appraises me, and I do the same to him. His eyes are a startling shade of clear gray, and brown freckles mar the pale skin along his nose. Most of his hair is tucked up under his hood, but the longer ends tickle the back of his neck, and I see hints of red in the blond color.

  He is not a Briton.

  “Are you a Pict?” I blurt out.

  His lips curve into a scowl. “I am Cymry.”

  “There will be plenty of time to ask Gar questions later, Myrddin,” Anarawd says. “Come, I’ll show you around.”

  I glance back to see Gar leading the horse away, and I’m still puzzling out his existence. Perhaps I misjudged King Wthyr. If he allows other peoples to gather and make a home here, he might be friendlier to my cause than I expected. Would he send a garrison back to my village? Protect us while we rebuild? Insist on fair treatment?

  Even display righteous indignation over King Afon’s actions and challenge him for his land?

  Anarawd is speaking as he leads me down a hallway, but I don’t hear him. I blurt out, “What must I do to get an audience with the king?”