It was so plain, when she said it out loud. Princes were not there to be loved. It was as senseless as loving a barrel or a trout or the pope. She could still hear Lady Eluned reciting his string of names and title, word after word after word. Then her own name next to it, one little sound anchored to nowhere and nothing. How could she love a prince.

“You like him more than pork pie,” said Robin quite reasonably. “That is no small thing.”

Nan turned her face to him. She could barely make out the outline of his profile.

“Do you still love Ansel?” she asked, and felt his fingers twitch against hers.

Robin had loved him from their boyhood, though none but Nan knew it. He had gone to the tourney knowing Ansel would be there, and they would see each other for the first time in many years. Last night he had whispered to Nan that Ansel was cordial and warm, with all the same passionate interests as when they were boys, and their meeting was joyful – until it was not. Ansel did not want him. Not that way. Robin did not say it outright, but he did not have to. She knew the sound of a broken heart.

“I know not,” he answered at last. “I think me I know naught of love.” He squeezed her hand, and twined his fingers with hers. “Nay, I know the hurt of it. But that is all.”

She turned her face back to the ceiling. There were tears that spilled over and trickled their way to her hair. She could weep for Robin. It must be for Robin. If she were to weep for herself, she might never stop. Her brother, her mother, Oliver, Bea. The Welshman. There would be no end to her weeping, so she must not let there be a start.

“Only a fool could not want you,” she whispered. “And he’s worse than a fool, to hurt you.”

She listened to the steady rise and fall of Robin’s breath, and felt his hand tighten gently on hers.

“He cannot change what he is, Nan. Though it brings pain to one who loves him, he cannot change what God and his birth have made him.”

The words were meant for both of them, a bitter truth. Her life had been spent in accepting injustice and sorrow, knowing from birth that to rail against it was wasted energy. But now there was something in her that seemed to beat against the bars of a cage, howling that it was not fair, it was not fair.

A prince. God save her, a prince.

“Make haste, girl, she waits!”