But she had refused it, telling him to take the men and supplies across the bridge as soon as it was complete. No men could be spared if they were to finish and cross the bridge without losing more days. Tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, she would come meet them near the main road, with their prisoner in tow. It was a decision she came to in haste, more concerned that the day not be entirely wasted in this foolishness. She made it a command, and was glad that it was followed without question; she had not lost the power to command, at least.

Well she knew, though none would ever say it, that she must now prove her worth to men who had not doubted it before this day. It would never end, the proving. It was never enough that she was more highborn, or more wealthy, or had a greater title, or had bested them all. In another group of soldiers, it would be enough for the man with noble title to be named leader. But she was not a man.

No, not a man, but a woman who knew the ways of men. As a child when it began, she had to show she was as strong as her boy cousins, for them to accept her. And then she had to show that she was stronger than them, and then that she was strongest of all – until now if she showed but the slightest hint of weakness, it was as though she had done naught in her life but sit in the solar to embroider and gossip. And then she had to show that she could fight as well as them – and then better, and then best, until now she must be unbeatable or else it were like she had never lifted a sword. And now: she had bested Morency, but she must hold him or she was not fit to lead men.

She had to be a legend, her mother had said. So she was. It had sounded a great and glorious thing, a secret that would one day be sung by the bards. But never had she guessed that it would require this endless proving of herself, always holding on to power with the very tips of her fingers. To say nothing of the mud and rain and cold. Whether she became what her mother wanted or if she remained only the simple soldier she believed herself, there would always be these hard lessons of what it meant to become a knight. A true knight. Not like Ranulf of Morency, whose knighthood had been bestowed on him in thanks of the blood he shed. In thanks of the knife in the night that killed the old king’s political rival, and killed all thought that Gwenllian might become a meek bride.