Her mother gasped at this sign of denial. “You forsake us all.” Her words were bitter, her eyes accusing. Her hand flung out and pointed at Ranulf as she stepped toward them where they stood, her face filled with loathing and contempt. “And why? For this... this!”

Gwenllian moved swiftly. It was only instinct that made her move the bare step to put herself between her mother and Ranulf. It was instinct, too, that put her hand on the grip of her sword, still in his hands.

Eluned stared, disbelief plain on her face. Gwenllian stared back, her whole body tensed in anger. She would not draw steel on her mother, but nor would she suffer insult to her husband.

“Do ye not end this soon, your priest will ne’er hear the end of confessions today,” came Ranulf’s wry voice behind her.

He made it seem absurd. And so it was, but still she did not take her hand from the sword, nor shift from her ready stance. It was Eluned who looked away first, her shoulders sagging slightly in defeat. She looked to Ranulf, considering him silently for a length of time. What she saw there, Gwenllian could not know. Eluned only looked down, seeming to lose her thoughts for a moment before speaking quietly.

“There is much to do,” she said to the floor, a sullen curve to her mouth. After drawing a deep breath, she raised her eyes again to Ranulf. “Many things must this priest be told, so that Anselm may carry a pleasing tale to your king.”

Eluned turned away from them, making her way out of the hall. Before she reached the door, she stopped and turned. “I’ll tell him de Clare?”

“Nay,” Ranulf answered. “I have made a pretty bed for Clifford to lie in.”

Her mother raised her brows at this briefly before giving a decisive nod and sweeping out, leaving Gwenllian to wonder at this remarkable exchange. She could not bring herself to care what bed Clifford would lie in, or why, or for what purpose. It only mattered to her that somehow they now conspired together, her husband and mother on the same side, hiding truth by spinning deceit. She did not know that it pleased her, to think he too had been forced to play in her mother’s deadly game.

She looked to Ranulf to inquire of it, but his face stopped her words. He stood very still, staring at her hand where it rested on the sword he held. In the air between them was an intensity that emanated from him, the unmistakable feel of a man’s rising anger held in check. She tried to think of anything to say that was not a plea for him to look at her again.

“How did you find us here?” she asked finally.

“Davydd.”