She hardened her jaw and pulled her arm out of his hand. “Ruardean is not Welsh.” Resentment swelled within her. She was equally Norman as she was Welsh, yet this court would see her only as a dark and suspicious other in their fair midst. Ranulf of Morency would be made her husband and granted all power over her, and she could wear no armor against it, nor carry a sword to defend herself. Verily, she thought she might choke on the bitterness of it.

He stared hard at her, and she stared back, unwavering. He was so tall as to make her glad of her own ungainly height, that she did not have to tilt her head too far back to meet his gaze. What he saw there must have satisfied him. Or perhaps he had no wish to argue.

“Ruardean’s loyalty is in question, and I am to ensure its fealty to Edward,” he said simply. “My own loyalty is proven by this service.”

So he was under suspicion, and her mother was under suspicion. Her terrified respect for King Edward deepened, knowing that he had unerringly chosen Gwenllian as the best way to control the situation. Her mother could not use the power of Ruardean to any effect, without Gwenllian. And my life and fortune will be tied to a man who must obey the king lest he lose his own head, she thought. Oh he was clever, this king. It was a perfect way to constrain them all.

“Well, then,” she observed, “we shall be very, very good children, you and I.”

He made a sound that was equal parts amusement and hopelessness. “Aye. We shall.”

He turned to walk away but stopped after a few steps and spoke to her over his shoulder. “Be wary when you speak with your cousin.” Of course he would know she would waste no time in speaking to Madog, and that there was no use in trying to keep her from it. She nodded in agreement.

His eyes dropped to her shoulders, waist, feet, before something between a pained grimace and a genuinely amused smile crossed his face. “Praise God there will be time to find a more comely dress for the bride.”