After being run out of Aderinyth, Rhodri had announced that he would go to Rome and appeal to the Pope. It was too ridiculous to be taken as anything but jest; he knew as well as anyone that the Church cared nothing about this dispute. But Rhodri had disappeared and for nearly three months now, there had been no sign of him in England or Wales. Either he was licking his wounds in private or plotting to somehow usurp Gryff’s place.

“Were I to die, would Edward grant him these lands?” Gryff asked.

“I hope not,” was Will’s answer. “But I dare not say it is impossible. We have a pragmatic king in Edward, and he sees the value in having a Welshman of the old blood as ruler here, one who owes his place to him.”

More than ever, Gryff did not like to think how Rhodri would rule these people if allowed. It was another vindication of his decision to return, despite the cost.

If not for Will’s persistence, they might never have settled on a date for the wedding. Lady Margaret seemed as disinclined to wed as Gryff did. She rejected every proposed date, citing Church restrictions on certain days of the week and saints’ days and the many periods of abstinence – all of which, when considered together, did not allow any day of the year when they might hold a wedding feast. Finally, they had agreed on a day just after Michaelmas, and the decision hung like a millstone around his neck. Guests would begin arriving in only a few weeks.

His future wife’s only redeeming feature was that she was not outright scornful of his people. She very obviously found their customs strange – the Welsh habit of warm familiarity that was more egalitarian than the Norman way seemed especially difficult for her – but she seemed to be attempting to adapt to it. Gryff saw little of her, as she kept to the chapel and her chambers in the tower, and he preferred it that way. He could not imagine their wedding night, or ever being happy to go to the bed of a woman so meek and pious.

One day after Will had left, Gryff came to the solar in the old manor house to find her there without her ladies, standing alone at the window. He felt a flash of anger toward her, because she stood where he had imagined Nan so many times.

They were nothing alike, in looks or temperament. Lady Margaret’s silence was not soothing. There was no mystery to it, or quiet communication, or even peace. He only felt quietly judged with every breath.

“My lord,” she said, and cast her eyes down demurely as she stood with folded hands.