“Convince him!” Gwenllian burst out. “I am to convince him!”

“Hark well, Gwenllian.” Conviction burned in her mother’s eyes, and her voice had steel in it. “There are men enough for an army, and none of the Welsh lords who are so willing have a fraction of your strength, or skill. They need a leader, and if Llewellyn will not act then Gwenllian shall serve. It is as I have said it would be.”

Gwenllian turned away. She stared at the tree before her, the fruit hung in hard clusters amid the glossy green. It did not seem real.

War. Insurrection and treason. And she was to lead it, against Edward, because Eluned dared to dream it. Her happiness at seeing her mother was swallowed whole by the disbelief that now gripped her.

“The meanest shepherd will clamor to follow you, I swear it. Do you doubt it?” Eluned asked.

She did not answer, nor turn to her mother’s voice. An unexpected anger began to swell in Gwenllian’s chest. She drew a deep breath, looking through the leaves to see Madog standing with Gwyn, near enough that they might hear raised voices.

“Mother,” she began, striving for calm.

Sensing her resistance, Eluned cut off Gwenllian’s words with her own, filled with vehemence.

“I have told you, Welshmen have fought for the memory of Gwenllian for a hundred years. How much more will they fight for a living Gwenllian of flesh and blood, who wields a sword as well as any man?”

“These are fanciful tales, invented in my girlhood for amusement, not for war.”

“No,” Eluned said flatly. “It was always for this. It has all been for this. And now the time has come. You know how the Welsh suffer under Edward’s heel, his cruelties and their discontent. They but wait for the chance to take action. It wants only the spark.”

Eluned walked forward, coming around to face Gwenllian, who still did not move.

“You are the spark.”

Gwenllian gave a sharp shake of her head. “No.”

“Yes. Now is the time.”

“It is not,” she insisted, her resolve hardening. “There cannot be such a time.”

Her mother gave a familiar huff of annoyance, and Gwenllian felt an equally familiar anger in response.

“I tell you that it is now! Think you that you understand these matters better than I?” Eluned challenged.

“I understand that it is madness to go against Edward.”

“It is madness only if you do not have wit to match his. Well enough can I see how this may be done, and well enough can you carry out the plan.”

Gwenllian knew from long practice that it was pointless to contradict her mother, who was stubborn sure and determined to win not just the argument, but the war she envisioned.

“Did you not meet the king at Windsor, mother?”

She shrugged. “A brief audience.”

“Could you not see the man he is?”