The last days of February blustered their way through the mountain passes. The raw wind ate through fur-lined cloaks and woolen garments. Richard glanced at Gwen huddling on Saffron. For the thousandth time, he regretted promising to bring her here.

It was folly and he was a fool.

He had truly not considered the magnitude of the undertaking when he’d held her close—small and shaking and certain only he could make the world right again—and blindly agreed to do whatever she wanted.

Even worse than the journey, what sort of a welcome awaited Black Hawk de Claiborne in the hall of the Prince of Wales? The knights he had with him wouldn’t be enough if Llywelyn decided to break the treaty of friendship.

They were awaiting the return of the messenger Richard had sent ahead for permission to proceed. He might have lost his wits where Gwen was concerned, but he’d be damned if he would surprise Llywelyn by showing up unannounced.

Christ, he should have refused! But she was so certain, and so adamant, that he knew if they hadn’t come and something happened to Elinor, she would never forgive him.

Sirocco snorted and tossed his head. Snow and ice crunched beneath the stallion’s hooves as Richard rode forward to meet the approaching messenger.

“Milord, they said to come at once. Princess Elinor is in childbed.” He lowered his voice, though Gwen was too far away to hear. “She’s having a difficult time, milord.”

Richard let out a slow breath, then turned and rode back to Gwen. It must have shown on his face because all she said was, “Tell me.”

“She is alive, Gwen.”

Her eyes grew distant, as though she were seeing something, then focused on him once more. “She is not well.”

Richard shook his head. “Nay.”

She kicked Saffron forward, and Richard signaled his men to follow.

Once they reached the castle, the greeting they received was subdued. Gwen was off Saffron before Richard could help her. Without waiting for him, she raced up the steps and into her father’s stronghold.

Alys scrambled after her, huffing and muttering.

Richard’s gaze wandered the structure with the trained eye of a warrior. Andrew rode up beside him. “Ye see the way they’re looking at us, milord?”

Richard nodded briefly. There was no mistaking the open hostility with which the Welshmen eyed Black Hawk and his men. “I’m sure Llywelyn is prepared for anything. Pray God he doesn’t decide to exact a bit of retribution while we are here.”

“What do ye want us to do?”

“We cannot sit on our horses and wait for a fight. Let us avail ourselves of the hospitality of the Prince of Wales. Tell the men to keep their weapons sheathed and their tongues silent. I’ll listen for any signs of trouble. I doubt these men realize the enemy speaks Welsh,” he said, grinning wryly.

Andrew returned the grin. “Aye, milord, I’d wager ye are correct about that.”

Richard dismounted, thankful he’d worn chainmail, and allowed a bowing servant to lead him into the hall.

---

“Gwen,” Elinor rasped, “how did you get here?”

Gwen stared in horror at the pale woman, so tiny, in the big bed before her. She sank down and took Elinor’s hand.

“Elinor, you knew I’d not stay away,” she said, choking back the lump in her throat. Elinor’s hand burned with fever.

“’Twas a girl this time, Gwen.” She turned her head to look at her husband. “The next one will be a son.”

Llywelyn wiped her brow with a moist cloth. “Aye, dearest, the next one will be a boy.” His hand shook as he pulled the cloth away.

“Where is your husband?” Elinor asked.

“He is with me,” Gwen replied, her throat closing with unshed tears. A girl. Neither by word or deed did her father show a shred of disappointment though she knew he must hurt inside, so desperately did he want a son.

“Ah. I’ve thought of you often. Is he good to you?” Elinor’s eyes clouded over slightly, her face creasing in a frown.

“Yes, he is good to me,” Gwen said, glancing at her father. “I love him very much. And he loves me.”

Elinor smiled. “I told you ’twould work out.”

“Yes, you were right as usual, dearest Elinor.” Elinor squeezed her hand. Gwen’s heart sank at the weakness of the grip. “Oh Elinor, when you are better, I will come visit you more often, and you must come visit me. Our children can play together, and we will make soap and perfume like we used to do.”

“Aye, I would like that.” She pulled Gwen’s hand to her cheek. “You are pregnant?”

“Yes. ’Tis due the end of August,” she said, refusing even to think of whether Richard would still be with her. She glanced at her father, found him watching her for once, his expression intense.

“Oh, ’tis so lovely! I will come and stay with you, Gwen.” She turned to Llywelyn. “May I go, my darling?”

“Of course you may,” he whispered, smiling. “Of course.”

They sat in silence until Elinor was asleep. Gwen’s heart was heavy as she slipped into the adjoining solar.

“Gwen!”

“Rhys!” All her pent up emotion bubbled forth when she saw the beloved face of her friend. She ran to him, flinging herself into his arms. He sank onto a bench recessed in the wall and cradled her against his chest, rocking back and forth.

“I saw it, Rhys. I saw it,” she said, tears spilling free at last as she clutched his tunic. “She is going to die.”

“Shh, Gwen. Don’t cry,” Rhys said.

But Gwen only cried harder, all the wretchedness of the world seeming to hang on her shoulders. Soon, Elinor would be lost to her, along with Richard and her father. Rhys held her tight and let her cry, murmuring to her softly.

---

Richard rose from the trestle table and motioned for a page. The black hawk of Dunsmore rippled on his surcoat, and he threw his mantle back to reveal his sword, lest any forget he carried it.

The boy came to him nervously. Andrew and the other men sat in silence, drinking mead and grimacing over the sweet taste. English ale was a damn sight better.

The entire hall fell silent while Richard inquired as to the whereabouts of his wife. He spoke in French, unwilling to let them know he understood Welsh. The boy, schooled in languages as a royal page should be, understood perfectly and motioned Richard to follow.

Richard heard the murmurs as he walked through the hall. As long as the hostility was only verbal he could deal with it, but at the first sign of treachery, he and his men were ready to fight.

They climbed a flight of stairs and the boy pointed him toward a door. It wasn’t completely closed and Richard pushed it open. Time froze. He stood, silent, unmoving, his heart a dead weight in his chest.

Gwen was in the arms of Rhys ap Gawain. Richard’s hand strayed to his sword. His very first thoughts were black, hateful. It was all he could do not to unsheath the vicious weapon.

They were oblivious to his presence and he turned to walk away, afraid he might lose his sanity.

“Richard!”

He halted, her musical voice like a dagger to his heart. She disentangled herself from Rhys’s arms and ran to him. Tears streamed down her face and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.

Rhys watched, his eyes locking with Richard’s, his face anguished.

“She is dying,” Gwen whispered.

Richard held Rhys’s gaze, his arms slowly closing around his wife. She was his. How could he ever imagine it otherwise? After a moment, he lowered his head and buried his face in the fragrant cloud of her hair.

“I’m so sorry, Gwen,” he said. Driven by a need he didn’t understand, he pressed kisses against her throat, her jaw, her cheek. He tasted the warm salt of her tears, ached to make them his own. “I’m so sorry, my angel.”

“Hold me, Richard. Do not let go. Please do not let go.”

Richard slipped one arm behind her knees and lifted her. She hugged him tight and he bent to press his cheek to hers.

Rhys stood rigid, his face carefully devoid of emotion. He brushed past them. Without turning, he said, “I’ll show you where to take her.”

---

Elinor, Princess of Wales, cousin to King Edward I, slipped into a deep sleep and did not awaken. She died three days later of childbed fever.

When the physician delivered the news to the group gathered in the solar, Llywelyn pushed to his feet, then shoved his way into his wife’s sickroom, calling her name. Richard caught Gwen when she tried to follow.

“Let me go,” she hissed, struggling.

Richard wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. She slumped against him and started to cry. Alys dabbed at her own eyes with a scrap of silk, and Rhys stood and walked to the window to stare into the bleakness beyond.

Llywelyn emerged sometime later, the only evidence of his grief in the red rimming his eyes. Richard let Gwen go. She went to her father and hugged him.

He hugged her back, then pushed her away and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Don’t cry, Gwen. Elinor would not have wanted you to cry,” he said, his voice raw. “Have you seen your sister? She’s beautiful, like her mother.”

“Father— ”

Llywelyn laid his finger against her lips. “Nay, lass.” He looked up then, acknowledged Richard for the first time since they’d arrived. “Dunsmore.”

“Prince Llywelyn.” Strangely, face to face with his enemy, Richard could only summon pity. Where was the vengeance, the hatred, that had burned in his breast for so long?

Llywelyn rubbed Gwen’s arm. “Did I tell you your sister’s name, lass?”

Gwen shook her head. “Nay, Father.”

His answering smile was sad, infinitely far away.

“Gwenllian. Elinor insisted on naming her Gwenllian.” He squeezed her shoulder, then strode from the room.

She turned, caught Richard’s gaze. His heart clenched at the way she looked at him, like he was her sole source of strength in the entire world. He swept her into his arms and carried her to their chamber.

With his foot, he dragged a chair over to the fire, and sank down on it. Gwen curled in his lap, clutching his surcoat in her fists.

She began to talk, telling him of Elinor and their friendship. He laid his cheek against her hair and listened, knowing she needed him to say nothing.

The light outside the windows faded and died, and still she talked. Eventually, her voice trailed off and he thought she was asleep. His hand strayed to her stomach, and her hand closed over his. “Are you afraid I will leave you, like Elinor left my father?”

“Nay,” he lied. “You are too stubborn for that.” He kissed her forehead. “You will stay just so you can vex me with your sharp little tongue.”

In truth, he was more frightened than he’d ever been in his life.

She yawned. “I will not go, Richard. I will not leave you.”

How could she promise that which she could not control?

“I know, my love.”

Even when she fell asleep, Richard didn’t move. He stared into the glowing embers of the fire and thought of the man who had killed his father. Where he’d once felt burning vengeance, he now felt nothing. Jesú, was he destined to always fail his father?

But what could he do that would be worse than the hell Llywelyn was now living? Aye, Richard recognized the pain on Llywelyn’s face, the same pain William de Claiborne had gone through when his beloved Catrin died.

Losing the woman he loved was punishment enough for whatever sins Llywelyn may have committed in the past. Though the prince may have taken Richard’s father, he had also given him Gwen.

Fear snaked through Richard, hard and cold. She promised not to leave him. She promised. How could he do any less for her?

Life was too short, too precious, to risk a moment of it. He would never live without her. He would never leave her.

He stood and carried her to the bed. She murmured something as he untied her laces. Carefully, he undressed her and tucked her beneath the covers. Her eyelids fluttered open and she entwined her arms around his neck, pulling him close.

He captured her lips in a soft kiss, his arms slipping beneath her to mold her body to his. “I cannot live without you, Gwen. I will take you across the sea, across mountains and deserts, through dust and heat and snow and ice, though you may hate me for it eventually.”

She smiled a sleepy, sad smile. “I knew you would not leave me.”

Richard lowered her to the mattress. Her arms slipped from his neck and her eyes drifted closed. He undressed and climbed in beside her, tucking her into the curve of his body.

No, he would not leave her. Now he prayed she would not leave him.

---

For the next few days, the Great Hall of the Prince of Wales was silent, mourning the death of one too young, too kind, too beautiful to die.

Gwen found her strength in Richard. Knowing he was there gave her the courage to deal with Elinor’s death, and with her father’s depression.

She directed the servants as Elinor would have wished, kept the hall running smoothly, and selected one of Elinor’s ladies to take over the task when she was gone.

She was busy going over the meal plan with the cook when Richard found her. He waited patiently until she sent the man on his way.

“What is it, Richard?” she asked, slipping into his embrace, uncaring they stood in the hall.

“We must return to Claiborne, sweet. ’Tis nearing time for the council.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, staring at his chest.

He raised her chin with a finger. “It cannot be helped, Gwen. I’ve waited as long as I could. Now that the funeral is over, we must leave.” He smiled softly. “Besides, I think Alys pines for Owain.”

Gwen swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. “Aye, you are right. We must go home. ’Tis just that I worry about him…”

“I know, love. But he needs time alone, I think. There is nothing more you can do.”

Gwen nodded. “When?”

“In the morning,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.

He left her to finish the tasks she’d begun, but she sank onto a bench instead. She’d wanted to ask her father about Dafydd’s claim, but there would be no time now. It was too soon to think of such things.

She noticed a group of her father’s warriors staring at her. She didn’t realize Rhys was with them until he stood and made his way toward her. He clutched a silver goblet in his hand, and when he sank onto the bench beside her, some of the mead sloshed over the rim and ran down his arm.

“How could you do it, Gwen?”

“Do what?” she asked, meeting his blood-shot stare.

“Do you know what they say about you?” he demanded, gesturing toward the men, spilling more mead down the side of his cup. “They say you are an Englishman’s whore, Black Hawk’s whore.”

Gwen stiffened. “I am his wife.”

“Aye, but you enjoy lying with him. You enjoy letting him touch you. You lick his bootheels like a bitch in heat.”

“You have had too much mead, Rhys,” Gwen said coolly, rising.

Rhys grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down. Gwen tried to twist free, but his grip only tightened. “You love the bloody bastard, don’t you?

Gwen glared at him. “Yes.”

Rhys’s grip loosened and she snatched her hand away. “Jesú, Gwen. How could you? You said you hated him. What happened?”

Gwen rubbed her wrist and sighed. “He is not what you think, Rhys. I did not plan to love him, but I do.”

Rhys laughed. “He isn’t what I think, eh? Do you plan to tell me he doesn’t kill Welshmen? That he has never gone to war against us? That he does not enforce the king’s laws—laws designed to punish us for being Welsh?”

“Nay,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast.

“And you still love him, despite all that?”

“Aye.”

Rhys shoved himself to his feet. “Then you are a traitor, just like everyone says.”