The clarity began even before she read the letter he brought, before even she knew he carried it. At a glance, she knew he was sent by Madog. There was nothing to indicate it, yet she was more certain of her cousin’s hand in this than anything else she had known since she had come to Morency. Just as well did she know that whatever message this man bore was a dangerous one, and that it would decide the whole of her life.

In response to her questioning, the messenger admitted that he had come by way of York and had not been to London or Windsor. It was said in a perfectly careless way, with a look that told her there was more to be known and only in secret. She had just begun to wonder if it would seem strange to dismiss her ladies so that they might be private, when Ranulf came through the door.

She inclined her head slightly to acknowledge him, and said simply, “A messenger come from York, my lord.”

It was only the slightest change in his face, an easing of the tension in the lines around his mouth that likely only she would notice. His relief that this was not word direct from Windsor – from Edward – was plain. He came to her side and gave her a look that reminded her that it did not matter if it might seem strange to dismiss her ladies. If she wished privacy, she should have it. She bid them leave her.

In a gentle flurry, they left the room. Ranulf’s eyes went to Adela and rested there a moment longer than they should, following her as she made her exit. In some distant part of her mind, Gwenllian thought she should hate the lovely girl and knew that, at the very least, she should wish to stick a dagger in her husband’s belly. Envy or jealousy or both, those would be the natural responses.

But Gwenllian had known for some years that she was an entirely unnatural woman. In her heart, she could not fault him for being drawn to such a face. Had she herself not stolen looks at him at every chance? There was a power in beauty that she could never learn, not with any amount of close study. Unnatural woman that she was, she only felt a twinge of sadness, that she herself was not more fair to look upon.

He turned his attention to the messenger and spoke.

“What word bring you from York?”

The messenger bowed his head and said with faint apology, “A message for the Lady of Morency, my lord, and no other.”

“Do you speak Welsh?”

She had asked it too quick, too sharp – and made the mistake of asking it in Welsh. She could feel Ranulf’s startlement, but the messenger only showed confusion as they both looked at him expectantly. She watched as he pulled out a letter.