It was not long until they left the solar in search of a certain tapestry which the girl, Suzanna, said beautifully depicted Saint George slaying his dragon. Finding and admiring it, they were remarking that perhaps embroidery wasn’t so very useless after all when the sounds of swordplay reached them.

Suzanna tugged at her hand. “Come, we shall see who among these men could slay such a beast.” And in a few steps, they were looking out on the bailey.

He was there. Her eyes found him immediately. He was not fighting, but leaned against a wall and watched other men spar. The sun was hot, and he wore only a linen shirt that clung to his sweating body, front and back, outlining every detail. He laughed at something said to him and reached for a wooden cup to slake his thirst, the lithe, fascinating muscles stretching with his movement.

“Haps the king has made a love match.” Suzanna was looking at her, full of playful mirth. She smiled and leaned in, as though to share a secret with laughter in her eyes. “I am assured it be not sin to admire your husband for more than his lands.”

Gwenllian snorted at this, but felt the embarrassed flush spreading across her face. She could think of no response beyond, “Is not a love match. Only duty.”

The girl made a small grimace. “Know you my betrothed, Lord Ferrante? He is a fat Italian prince with a wen and a bad temper. Were that my own duty were so well-shaped as yours.”

Poor Suzanna could not be more than fifteen years of age and yet, Gwenllian reflected, it was unusual she was not already bearing the fat Italian’s children. She would have asked why the girl was not already in Italy, but now he was walking toward them. For a confused moment, she was frozen with panic as she could think of no reason he would approach her except to talk of swordplay. But Suzanna’s words were still hanging in the air – betrothed, betrothed – and she remembered he would have more to speak about than who between them was better with a blade.

He greeted them both, and Suzanna engaged him briefly on the topic of dragon-slaying. His courtly manners were irreproachable, and she watched him speak easily to her with just enough gallantry and charm to make the girl feel flattered by his attention, but not so much that she mistook it to mean anything more than a passing conversation. She could wish he had exercised such care with his words for all the long days he had spent in her company. But then, it seemed he was entirely happier here.

No sooner had she thought it than he contradicted this assessment. “My lady Gwenllian,” he said, “I have made arrangements for our travel to Morency. We can depart at our leisure after the wedding feast.”