“And I have told you,” her mother cut in, “that it is a style long honored among the people of Wales, and carries no such import as it might among the Normans with whom you are more familiar.”

Gwenllian quickly averted her eyes so the priest would not see her reaction to this outrageous declaration. She had just enough wits to hold her breath and wait for his response. If this priest knew the tales that were spreading like wildfire among the common folk, he might say now that he had heard tales of the old Gwenllian of legend, and of the whispers that she lived again and would fight again. For the rumor to reach even his ears would mean her mother had outdone herself. It would also mean that other churchmen and Normans knew of it, which might be disastrous if it connected to her.

Gwenllian found she didn’t care if he knew, though it was her own life at stake. She was tired of all of it, the intrigue and the endless maneuvering. She found she only cared that Ranulf still did not look at her, did not even seem to remark her presence.

Now he spoke to the priest, politely curious.

“You have mentioned this to Brother Anselm?”

The priest blinked at him, surprised. “Brother Anselm?”

Ranulf cast an apologetic look at Eluned. “Who serves the abbot at Abingdon, and is a dear friend to Lord Burnell. In truth, full half the news of the Marches comes to the king’s court by way of Brother Anselm. And for this reason,” he said, turning back to the priest, “I would know if they have learned of Lady Gwenllian’s style of dress.”

Many times had she seen the servants at Morency reduced to pale speechlessness when confronted with the most mild and harmless glance from their master. But now she was reminded of what it could do to a man, when Ranulf wished to put fear into him with a look.

“I... the strangeness to the Norman... the Welsh... no cause, I think...” The priest stammered and blinked into the forceful gaze of Lord Morency, conveying nothing except the depth of his own fear. He gradually looked away and subsided into mumbling, almost to himself, something about how it was a strange household he served.

When Ranulf’s hand landed lightly on the man’s shoulder, he jumped as though scalded. “I would have you say me yea or nay, if you have spoke aught of my wife to Anselm.”

“I have told him that she came to dwell here, and she is ever with Lady Eluned to greet the many guests who have come here.” His voice was fairly pleading. “Nor can I say if I described her dress with any detail except that it is exceeding strange and savage, as so much of the Welsh ways are.”