“Like a bird across the sky,” she said. “It pays no heed to the paths laid out by men.”

He pressed her hand tight to his heart, and nodded. “We will make a way that suits us. Every day, if you will have me.”

Her hand came to cover his at her cheek, gripping hard. He pulled back to see her face and thought he might die of this feeling, of the happiness and the hope that leapt in him at the look in her eyes.

“Welshman,” she whispered, her heart pounding so that he felt it against his fingertips. “We will make a way.”

She kissed him then, fierce and eager, her mouth hard against his for a brief and dazzling moment. It was sudden, unforeseen, because she was as swift and fearless in her love as in everything.

“If you will defy the king then I will dare to be a lady, Welshman. I will have you. Be you beggar or prince, I will have you, and never let you go.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

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Outside the tiny village church, the priest who had heard her confession married them. If he thought it strange his prince should marry this uncouth foreigner who only this morning had confessed murder, he hid it well.

Nan’s breath caught when she saw the party that waited to bear witness to their vows. They were not as grand as the greatest lords of the king’s court, but she knew the look of men of consequence. The one with the harp goggled at her when she looked at him direct, so she lowered her chin and averted her eyes, knowing it was not as graceful as it might be but at least it was better than her habitual glare.

She married her Welshman with her hair in a mess beneath the hood of a plain traveling cloak, Fuss at her feet, blades on her arms, and not a scrap of silk or pearls on her. Her tongue did not falter to say his many names, this prince who would defy a king to make her his lady wife.

She would not be daunted. She loved him. They would make a way together.

It was not the tower, but the hall of the ancient manor house where they had their impromptu wedding feast. It was filled with his people – her people now – who bowed to them and embraced them with equal fervor, as familiar as old friends. The man with the harp was Rhys, the chief bard, who was joined by many fellows. They sang poem after poem into the night. She pleased one by asking if he would sing of Arawn of the otherworld, and then spent a pleasant hour listening to one performance after another, all the bards having their own versions of the legend and competing to see whose was judged the best.