Her mother’s gaze fixed on their joined hands, and Gwenllian snatched hers away.

“Mother,” she began.

“For this,” interrupted her mother, speaking in Welsh, “for this, you say me no?”

Gwenllian denied it. “I say you no because to say yes is the ruin of us all.”

“It is your refusal that is the death and ruin of us all.”

She shook her head, a hopeless gesture. “I beg you will not do this thing.”

Her mother said nothing, only gave a disgusted look before turning and walking swiftly out of the trees.

Gwenllian followed. As they passed the place where Madog and Davydd stood waiting, Eluned spoke to them without pausing in her brisk pace. “With me, kinsmen. We leave this place at once.”

The inner court was full of familiar faces. Hugh Wisbech had brought ale to the men – her men, who looked at her dress in amused amazement. She could feel the restraint from them, that they were careful not to greet her as they would if she wore armor.

“There is daylight enough to take us to the priory of Saint Andrew,” Eluned was saying, still in Welsh, to no one in particular. “Bring me my horse.”

Gwenllian looked at the Ruardean men, who were plainly unhappy with this announcement. Nearly all of them looked toward Gwenllian in confusion, waiting for her to affirm her mother’s words.

She stepped close to her mother and said low, “Your anger punishes these men. Let them take their rest here, and to the priory on the morrow if you will be so hot-headed.”

“We ride now. I will not stay here.”

A burst of annoyance at this childish declaration nearly caused her to begin shouting at her mother once more, in full view of men who would understand every word. Instead she looked to Madog.

“There is room enough in the knight’s quarters,” she told him. “Choose you well no less than eight strong fighters to escort my mother in safety to Ruardean tomorrow.”

Madog nodded, but Eluned bristled.

“We ride now,” repeated Eluned, her voice rising. “My entire party.”

The bustle of activity in the court had stopped. All eyes were on them. Even the Morency servants, who could not understand a word, sensed the tension and stared.

“I will not send my men to serve you in this folly,” Gwenllian bit out.

“They are not your men! They are sworn to Ruardean. And you...” Her mother gave her a look of bitterest disappointment. “You are sworn to Morency.”

Gwenllian stood rooted to the spot. It was true. All of these men she had commanded for years were not truly hers. They were vassals of Ruardean. They were fated to become part of her mother’s army in rebellion, and Gwenllian had no right to stop it.