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T hey brought him Rhodri’s body a little more than a week before the wedding was to take place.

“There was one other dead, my lord prince, and three wounded who yet live. All have confessed that they followed his command, with murder in mind.”

The captain of the guard continued, explaining that those who survived could not agree on who the attacker had been – only that it had been done quickly and suddenly, just as twilight fell – but Gryff knew it was her even before he saw the single blade that had been left in Rhodri’s throat.

He removed it himself, slipping a nail into the hole where the hilt should be and pulling it free. His hand would not let it go. He looked down at the body and remembered the rat dead of a poison that had been meant for him all those years ago.

He gave orders for the surviving conspirators to be questioned further, and announced they would be judged according to Norman law.

When his captain suggested that Rhodri’s head be set on a spike above the tower, as Edward had done to his enemies, Gryff forbade it immediately.

The men of his guard seemed to think this was because he thought it too gruesome a sight for the wedding feast, but he had not even considered that.

“We will not follow such a savage example,” he announced. Not all Norman ways were superior. “Let him be buried in the valley where all princes of this land rest, for he was my father’s son. But the ground will not be consecrated, nor will his grave be marked.”

Later he would speak to Rhys and ask the bard to compose verses about how Rhodri need not have met such an end had he accepted Norman rule.

Gryff felt no sympathy for his bastard brother, but he could not deny it was tragic that Rhodri had spent his life in resentment because he clung to a dead tradition.

It was Gryff’s duty to make sure his people understood that they must adapt if they were to survive.

Lady Margaret expressed horror when she was told of it that evening, and wondered if they should not be wed until the new year.

“What if others who wish you harm are among the guests?” she asked, and Gryff struggled to hide his amusement at this obviously manufactured concern. There was too much hope in her at the idea of postponement, just as there had been far too much difficulty in choosing a date.

He looked at her, so demure and colorless, overwhelmed by the stone walls of this place that she was meant to call home. Never would she slay an enemy. She was a lady, with all the docile virtues praised in courtly songs.

It suddenly seemed a great sin to give his people a puppet for a prince, and this subdued woman for their lady.

She was perfectly acceptable, but not more than that.

She would have pity for the Welsh, but she would never understand them or the deprivation they suffered.

What children she gave him would be like her: dutiful and timid, removed and restrained.

She could not teach them how to be fierce in defense of what they loved, nor how to survive unspeakable hardship.

Never would she dare to tell him he was wrong, or move closer to his side when danger threatened.

There had been another wound just under Rhodri’s ribcage, made by a long blade that would have reached his heart, as though she would not leave anything to chance.

Now he looked at the blade he held, the one she had left behind.

Short, sharp, wicked. Only a day ago – hours – it had been on her arm and felt the beat of her pulse.

She should be in France. But instead she was here. For him.

“I will not marry you,” he said, the words spoken before he had even realized his intention. He did not let himself think of the consequences. He did not care. “Forgive me. I will not.”

Lady Margaret blinked first in incomprehension, then stared at him in astonishment – and he realized it was the first time he had seen a frank reaction from her.

She lowered her head slightly as though to hide it, and bid her ladies leave them.

They hurried out of the room, leaving him alone with her.

“Have I so displeased you, my lord, that you will renounce the promise you have made to my father and our king?”

He did not know how to answer truthfully, so he did not answer it at all. Instead he read the silence that came from her and found that beneath her carefully composed, meek demeanor, her mind was working feverishly. It was entirely unexpected, as surprising as if she had sprouted wings.

“By Mary, I believe you are full relieved I will renounce it.” He could not stop the incredulous smile that came over his face. “You do not wish to marry me?”

She gripped her hands together and blurted, “I do not wish to marry anyone, my lord!” She looked up at him with something like impatience. “Nor can I see that it matters what my wishes are. I must marry. My father commands it.”

“You cannot be married without you consent to it. Would you not rather pledge yourself to a life of devotion? Would your father dare gainsay a calling from God?”

Her breath sped up. She glanced toward the door, where her ladies no doubt waited outside, trying to hear whatever they could. He could see the idea take hold of her, a spark in her eye as she considered it.

Will would hate him for this. It was he who had chosen her – there was some advantage to him in getting her married off to just the right man, some intricate web of alliances and favors that Gryff had not bothered to learn.

It only made him feel a sudden sympathy for this woman, who was as much a pawn as he was.

Now her eyes were alight with intelligence, the meek passivity tossed aside.

What a terrible thing, that she had been so forced to hide her true nature beneath this submissive mask.

“Go now to the abbey of your choosing, and give yourself to God,” he said. “I will send men of my guard as escort. You may say in truth to your father that I did refuse this marriage, and it is none of your doing.”

She was frowning in concentration, her mind calculating. She nodded once, twice, then looked up at him again with a curious mixture of decision and doubt and, surprisingly, concern for him.

“But will there not be consequences to you, my lord? Why would you defy your king?”

He curled his fingers around the knife in his hand, evidence that she had been here. That she did not revile him. That she still cared for him.

For love, he might answer. For his people, for himself. For the blood he had cursed, for the title he had thought meant nothing. For her.

“Because I am a prince,” he said, his eyes on the blade in his hand. “Because I was born to be Gruffydd ab Iorwerth, not a common Welshman, and I will defy the whole world if I must.”

A falconer’s daughter said the fair lady who spoke their language so well was on foot, and could not have traveled far.

He sent riders to the nearest villages to seek any news of her while he arranged an escort for Lady Margaret, who was quick enough to travel now that the destination was more desirable.

The abbey she named was not far from Will’s home, so he sent word ahead to ask that Will would see her small party was accommodated as they passed through his lands.

He told the cleric who wrote the message to be clear that it was not Lady Margaret at fault, that Gryff had chosen another bride, and that his most fervent wish was that Lady Margaret arrive at the abbey quickly and without incident.

He could only hope that Will would forgive him for thwarting his plans, and smooth the way with King Edward.

Then he began preparations for his own journey. If he did not find her, he would go to Lady Eluned. He would prostrate himself before her, if he must, and ask where Nan had gone.

In the end he did not have to go further than a few miles. It was only the next day, just an hour after his former betrothed had departed, that he found himself outside the tiny village church. He remembered it well from his youth.

Father Ifor had heard her confession just that morning, and said she had gone up the mountain path to see the lake.

The priest did not believe in any such pagan ideas as fairy queens, but he did recall that the princes had often wandered there when they were very young.

It seemed to please her, he explained to his prince, and though she said she was headed north, she and her little dog had taken the path up to see the place. They had not yet come down.

It was the same path Gryff had imagined her on, a hundred times. The same lake where he had dreamt she stood, with flowers at her feet and dagger in hand. He commanded his guard to stay at the foot of the path, and climbed.

He found Fuss first, waiting near the top of the path among the trees, keeping guard.

The dog was overjoyed to see him, whining and dancing, falling to the ground on his back with tail thumping as Gryff rubbed his belly.

When he moved forward Fuss did not run ahead to warn her, but stayed at Gryff’s ankles, looking up at him with tongue lolling happily as they walked.

She stood at the edge of the water, looking out over it. She wore her cloak, the hood down and her hair pulled loosely back, falling free of its simple tie, the mountains rising up all around her. He felt the sight engrave itself onto his heart.

She must know it was him, because she only stood and waited. He knew every inch of her so well that though he saw naught but her cloak, he knew her hand had gone to the weapon at her belt and now eased away from it. Her breath was held as he came toward her.

When he stood beside her, an arm’s length away, he held out her blade. She looked down at it, but did not take it.

“I dreamed of you here,” he said to the tender curve of her lashes, the gentle flush in her cheek. “All my brothers and me, facing you. You were to choose one of us to be king, and I was filled with such a dread that I woke.”