She was close to it now, even in the vast coldness of the hall, even wearing her armor, with her sword at her hip. She had refused to take direct command of the men, insisting it was no longer her place and that she had come only to advise her mother. Every day that passed, she had more reason to be glad of the decision. She could not imagine what her men would make of her. They would not fail to see how near to weeping she was, so often, if she were among them.

Instead she passed the days with her mother, sitting silently while listening to various emissaries of possible allies. Eluned had taken care in the last few weeks to plant the notion of a new Gwenllian for a new Welsh rebellion, a symbol to rally reluctant men. It was a whisper that had become a rumble, and now began to grow and spread through the countryside.

“I ask you again to stop this,” she said now, loud enough to cut across her mother’s continued speech. Gwenllian repeated the litany of reasons she had recited every day since coming here. “The time is not ripe. Wait until Edward’s head is turned by more trouble in his French lands, or when he takes the Cross again as he intends. Were every man in Wales to fight tomorrow, still I say you cannot win against this king.”

Eluned’s face softened. To Gwenllian’s surprise, her mother walked to where she sat and placed her hand over the apple that Gwenllian held.

“All this have you said to me before.” She smoothed the hair beside Gwenllian’s face, tucking it behind her ear in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture. “You tire yourself in saying it so often.”

It was said tenderly, yet it incensed Gwenllian. She dropped the apple to the table and stood, toppling the chair as she did so. She glared at her mother.

“Is you who tires me. You will not listen! Why wish me here if you will not hear me?”

The familiar pinch of contradiction appeared in Eluned’s lips, but she did not answer. Gwenllian knew it was because the only answer could please neither of them: her mother wished her here to fulfill a role Gwenllian flatly refused. She wore her shirt of mail only from habit, for comfort and for show. But she would not lead men, nor make herself into a legend to lure them to fight the English king.

“Wait for their discontent to grow,” she said, striving to keep her temper. “In another year, as they are forced to live under English law and watch Edward build his castles on every hill of Wales, they will come to you without you ask them.”

Eluned shook her head. “Is already begun,” she said, the very picture of calm and reason. “We act soon, before Edward can suspect our strength.”