“Not madness? We near killed the man, and he a favorite of Edward’s. The king will watch as Ombrier escorts our men to the block. Or he will levy a fine that can pauper even us. Think you it can be otherwise?”

A smile slowly spread across Eluned’s face. “I do think it. Is common knowledge that Ombrier has been summoned to court, and has avoided his king’s command.” She raised her eyebrows, an impish expression fleeting across her lined features. “We deliver a wayward subject to the crown, not an injured favorite. Edward will not doubt our loyalty when he sees how well we serve him.”

That was a shock. Gwenllian found it difficult to disguise her admiration, possibilities and implications immediately set to spark by her mother’s words. “What scheme is this, mother?” she murmured. In faith, it was a sound plan. If the king wanted his pet returned, so much the better to get the man away from Wales and whatever mischief he plotted there. And if they erased the king’s doubt of Ruardean’s loyalty with the act, more the better.

She went back to the window, glancing down to find that Lord Ranulf was matched against Thomas Moel. The sound did not reach her, and the drab clouds overhead did not even allow sunlight to flash on the blades. It was impossible to follow the contest closely, but the excitement of the match reached her even here. Thomas was one of Ruardean’s best, and she could see that he was struggling against Morency.

“I’ll have the best men escort him, whether he wills it or nay,” she said to her mother, absorbed now in the fighting that Eluned ignored. The anger that had flared abated with the knowledge that the act would make Ruardean safer. She would see to it that he was delivered to the king. She would do it for Ruardean, and for her mother. As she would pursue the suit for Morency, for the sake of her mother’s dreams.

As she watched the sparring escalate, the clouds opened in a sudden and violent summer shower. The men below broke apart, all of them heading for shelter, the day’s practice abruptly ended at the height of excitement. Gwenllian put her hand out the window, letting heavy drops pound on her open palm. He was still there, when all others had fled.

He stood alone in the falling rain, his face turned up to the sky, a shadow against the day-darkness. She remembered it like a long-forgotten dream, the letter she had received from Lord Aymer. It came with the marriage contract, signed and official. Only ten years old, she had read it herself, proud that she could understand all the words from her lord husband. He had described his foster-son, every line soaked in love and pride.