Somehow, she had found her way into a chamber that she thought might be the queen’s solar. She believed it was Robert de Vere who had brought her here, but she could not remember it clearly. Indeed, she could remember nothing at all that had happened since the king had said she must be married, save for her overwhelming certainty that she must be very, very careful to reveal nothing of her true thoughts to the king. In that moment, she had entered that mood she knew when sparring, where the world shrank to only those things that fell within reach of her blade, her immediate surroundings, her next step. King Edward had looked at her, controlled and commanding, and spoke of a just solution, and her blood had turned cold.

A few of the queen’s ladies were here, making conversation amongst themselves. When she had not responded to their greetings, they had decided she was overheated and, after pressing a goblet of some cool drink on her, they left her blessedly alone. She spent an immeasurable amount of time staring out the tiny window, seeing nothing.

“Lady Gwenllian.”

His voice roused her. It was him. The man who would be her husband. He did not look overcome with joy at the prospect. Truly, she was a fool for never having considered wedding him as a possible solution to the never-ending dispute. It was simple and expedient. It should have been proposed immediately when Aymer of Morency had died. Perhaps it had been proposed. Perhaps her mother had not wished it, having other plans for Gwenllian, and had simply never spoken of it. It should make her angry, but she could feel nothing at all. She only stood in a confused haze and realized that Morency had asked her something, was looking at her expectantly.

“Be assured the selection is the finest to be found,” he said.

She worked to understand him. “Selection?”

“Of hawks,” he clarified, and his tone told her that he was repeating himself, and forcing himself to be patient. “I think it likely King Edward will make you a wedding gift of a falcon. If you be desirous of a particular bird, be assured he will discover your feelings.”

Distantly she could hear the other ladies in the room murmuring appreciation of this evidence of her future husband’s thoughtfulness. But she only looked at him, at that little scar that cut across his eyebrow, and remembered how he had looked at her in his fever. And suddenly she knew absolutely, without question, that she could not trust herself with him. Too easily would she forget who she was, and who she must be. Guard against a soft heart, she thought with a fervor.

He smiled politely, but his look was intent with some meaning he was trying to convey. “The hawk house is not far.” He offered his arm, and she took it, understanding that they were on display here.