‘Seren Arianaidd.’ He keeps his voice low in an effort to maintain some privacy, but in truth there is too much rowdiness, too much commotion all around us, for anyone to hear our conversation.

‘My Prince.’

‘You are enjoying the feast, I hope?’

‘The food was excellent. The musicians are tolerable. The dancing has provided me no small measure of amusement.’

‘Wait until Hywel takes to the floor.’ He smiles. ‘He dances like nothing on God’s earth.’

‘I cannot agree. I have seen him dance before. I was put in mind of a bear I once saw goaded into a jig at Brecon horse fair.’

‘And did this bear sing also?’

‘Great heavens, spare us Hywel Gruffydd in song.’

‘I do not have your gift of foresight, my Prophet, but I foretell Hywel in fine voice before the night is out.’ He falls silent, then asks, ‘Are you not pleased? I listened to your words, I acted upon them. I have seen to it the vipers of your vision will not prosper here.’

‘You let the vipers live.’

‘Their slaughter would have come at the price of many good men, and they are slippery creatures. I could not be certain I would slay them all. Better this way, I believe.’

‘The slipperiest creature here is a member of your wife’s family.’

‘Still you persist in attacking my wife!’

‘The pact with the Mercian Queen was her brother’s idea, was it not?’

‘An idea that has spared many men and secured the future of the crannog and the village.’

‘So you trust.’

‘I do. I gave my word, and I have that of the Queen of Mercia. Do you not trust me to govern? Do you not consider me capable of my princely duty?’

‘You I know. You I trust. Beyond that, I sleep with my blade at my hip.’

He takes in my words and thinks on them for a moment before speaking. ‘That you trust me humbles me, Seren. For when I am in your presence I do not trust myself.’

I look directly at him now and the fierceness of his gaze, the unmasked longing in it, quickens my blood. He lifts a hand as if to touch me again.

‘My Prince, you must not…’ I am aghast to feel a tightening in my chest at the thought of his touch.

A roar from the farside of the room heralds the start of Hywel’s ale-fueled speech. He has clambered unsteadily onto one of the tables and stands, goblet held aloft, calling on the gathering to listen to him. His hair is even wilder than is normal for him, his bulky frame straining at its seams.