Madog immediately sent four of the men in a race to Ruardean with a message in hand for her mother. Two days later, Gwenllian had him dispatch another party with a copy of the proposed revisions to the marriage contract. She had hoped that there was something complicated within the old contract that her father had drawn up those many years ago, something that she could reasonably demand required oversight from her uncle. But if it was there, neither she nor the lawyer could find it. She hoped that perhaps her mother might. In truth, it could not be more straightforward, and little more need be done than to change the name of Aymer to Ranulf. The king approved and Robert de Vere approved and the lawyers all approved. She must admit she could find nothing to protest, and so they were told they would be wed on the earliest day that the Church, with all its fasting days and holy days, would allow.

She saw him but rarely in the days before they spoke their vows, which suited her well. Most of her time was spent in the gardens, where she tried to identify every growing thing and where one time she saw a servant boy ripping wild burnet from the ground where it grew near the wall. She wondered if the fool who had set him this task knew that the roots were useless in summer. She thought of telling him that if gathered in autumn they would make a powerful tonic to stop hemorrhage – but then she heard the tinkling laughter of court ladies strolling nearby and stopped herself.

The women here stared at her rudely, and whispered as she passed. Their looks told her she did not belong; their pointed discussions about the coarseness of sun-darkened skin on a woman – or broad shoulders or uncommon height – were meant to wound. It shamed her that it did wound her, here in this place where such things mattered. The servant continued his work, weeding valuable medicine as rich women laughed at trifling things, and she did not stop him. She considered it charity in kind if such as these were to die bleeding for want of burnet tonic.

The next day one young lady, who cared for embroidery no more than Gwenllian did, approached her in the solar and she repented of her earlier unkind thoughts. The highborn girl ignored the general chatter of ladies over their needlework, and offered Gwenllian a book to read. It was filled with stories of King Arthur, and the girl asked if it were true that Arthur was Welsh. It seemed well-intentioned enough, and it was a far more interesting topic than the number of roasted swans that might be served for her wedding feast, so she sat in a corner with the girl and discussed how best to slay a dragon.