’Twas Christmas Eve and the music and dancing inside the Palace of Westminster were in full swing. The Yule log had been lit and would be kept burning through Twelfth Night.

Never had Gwen seen a hall so huge. It was well over two-hundred-feet long and the ceiling soared so far above her head, it made her dizzy to look up for too long.

The room was bedecked with holly and mistletoe and boughs of evergreen, so much that it would have smelled like a forest if not for the stench of hot tallow.

Men and women laughed and talked, clustering in small groups, while others danced and sang, their bright clothes muted by the rising smoke that made the room murky and dense. Gwen remembered hearing how the king entertained thousands in this hall, throwing great feasts that lasted for days on end. Well she could believe it.

The highest lords and ladies of the realm were turned out in all their finery, partaking in the grand feasting and entertainment the king and queen provided. There would be jousting tournaments and shepherd’s plays, mummers and minstrels, Welsh bards and colorful jugglers to enliven the banqueting.

Gwen had chosen a gown of crimson velvet with a gold chemise, and a jeweled girdle with emeralds, sapphires, and rubies that winked and danced in the torchlight. The sheer golden wimple she wore did little to hide her curls. She’d not braided them and they cascaded down her back in a mass of muted fire.

She glanced at Richard, and her heart swelled. He was so handsome in his crimson surcoat with the black hawk emblazoned on the front. His sword glittered at his side, reminding all who gazed upon him that here was a man of power and magnetism, a man not to be taken lightly.

King Edward approached them, smiling. “Gwenllian, my dear, you look ravishing,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips.

Gwen dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, Majesty.”

Edward raised her, his eyes lingering until Richard cleared his throat. The king released her, grinning.

“Now I see why you’ve not been back in three days. Certes, I’d not let her out of bed either if she were mine.”

Richard squeezed her hand. “My wife was overtired from the journey, Ned. I did not wish to ignore her.”

Gwen was amazed at how smoothly the lie passed his lips. Actually, Edward had it right the first time. They’d not been out of bed too often in the last three days.

Richard had given her the grand tour of Dunsmore House with its elegant gothic arches, gilded artwork, and vast windows. He’d taken her up on the walls and shown her the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Lambeth Palace as well as Westminster Palace and several of the highest-ranking earls’ residences, which were all within close range.

They’d also walked in the garden, though it was mostly covered in snow, except where the kitchen staff tended a plot for winter herbs and vegetables.

There was an arched trellis grown over with ivy, and hedges that stretched their limbs skyward. Gwen had thrown a snowball at Richard, then ran when he chased her. He’d caught her beneath the arch and they’d fallen to the cold ground, laughing, oblivious to the snow.

“God, how I love you,” he’d said before kissing her nearly senseless. As was inevitable whenever they touched, they’d soon ended up in the bedchamber.

Richard squeezed her hand again, and she knew he was remembering the same things.

The Earl of Gloucester came over, bearing a cup of wine for the king. “Ah, Dunsmore, I didn’t expect you to bring your wife to court. Surely that cuts down on your fun somewhat,” he said, his voice softly slurred from too much wine. “Must be tiring, plowing the same field night after night, no matter how pretty.”

Gwen stiffened. Richard took a step forward. Gilbert ducked behind the king.

Richard’s eyes flashed with hot fury. “You were never one for eloquent speech, Gilbert. Your lack of common sense is only exceeded by your lack of wit.”

Gilbert peeked around the king, his brow knit in confusion while he considered the insult. Gwen stifled a laugh.

“You’d best leave while you can still walk,” Edward murmured over his shoulder. “If you’d said that about my wife, I’d have killed you on the spot.”

Richard turned to her, his features still clouded with anger. She smiled to reassure him. “You are my valient knight,” she said in Welsh.

His look softened. “Keep staring at me like that, wench, and I will drag you to the nearest alcove and have my way with you,” he replied in the same language.

Edward coughed politely. “Richard, I wish to discuss the cr—”

“Majesty,” Richard interrupted, switching back to French. “Allow me to present my wife to the queen.”

He deposited her on the dais with Eleanor and her ladies, then left to rejoin Edward. Gwen watched him walk away, apprehension knotting her stomach. Richard was hiding something, and the possibilities frightened her.

---

Despite having very little sleep, Gwen was up at dawn, heaving into the chamber pot. She attributed it to the variety of food she’d sampled at Westminster.

She wiped a shaking hand across her mouth, then poured a cup of water. When she felt somewhat better, she got back in bed and curled up next to Richard.

She could not be sick today. Richard had promised to show her London with all its exotic sights and its amazing bridge with houses.

After they awoke, and he’d washed and dressed, he left her to finish dressing on her own, and she again felt the pull of the chamber pot.

“You should not go riding, Gwenllian,” Alys admonished. “I will send a message to Lord de Claiborne.”

“Nay,” Gwen cried, straightening. “’Tis over now. I feel much better.”

Alys’s chin thrust outward. “Nevertheless, you should remain in bed.”

“Alys, I want to see London. If you tell him I’ve been sick, he will never take me!”

Alys glared at her for a long moment, then deflated. “Very well, my lady. But I don’t like it!”

Gwen descended the stairs quickly, pulling on her gloves as she crossed through the spacious ground floor and out into the courtyard. Five knights sat their horses patiently. Richard leaned against the wall. He straightened as she approached.

“I’m sorry I took so long. I couldn’t find anything suitable to wear,” she lied.

He laughed. “Do not let Alys hear you say that, sweet. She’ll be sewing new gowns in a trice.” His eyes swept over her azure surcoat and matching cloak. He reached behind her and pulled the hood up, kissing her forehead. “I have a present for you, my love.”

She followed his gaze to the grooms who led their horses from the stables. “Oh!”

“Do you like her?”

“’Tis the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen!”

“Aye, she’s an Arab.” He took her hand and led her to the mare’s side.

The delicate looking animal swiveled her ears toward them and Gwen reached out to pet her. Her coat was like finest silk, even in winter.

Richard ran a hand over the horse. “She’s much stronger than she looks. Arabs are hardy, despite their fine bones and delicate lines. They’re usually hot-blooded, but I picked this one for her gentle nature, as well as her breeding.”

He pulled a lock of molten hair from under Gwen’s hood and entwined it with the mare’s mane. “’Tis the same color,” he said, gazing at her before saying softly, “She and Sirocco will have beautiful babies.”

“She must have cost a fortune,” Gwen murmured.

“A small price to pay for your happiness.”

Gwen bestowed a smile on him. “You are my happiness.”

He held out his arms and she went into them. “And you are mine,” he said before setting her on the mare’s back.

Gwen gathered the reins in her left hand, smoothing the mare’s neck with her right. “What is her name?” she asked as Richard swung onto Sirocco.

He reined in the stallion. “She doesn’t have a name yet. ’Tis up to you to give her one.”

Gwen stared at the flaming coat of the animal beneath her. “Saffrwn,” she said finally.

“Saffron?”

“Aye. She is the color of it and she is also rare and costly like it. ’Tis perfect.”

“Sirocco and Saffron,” he said, smiling. “I like it.”

London was even more amazing in person than it was from a window. They rode into town through Ludgate, first passing through the criminal neighborhood of the lower Fleet River. Gwen was appalled at the smell. Richard explained that people emptied their cesspits upriver and it was carried downsteam to empty into the Thames.

Once inside the bustle of London proper, Gwen was awestruck at the sheer numbers of people. They came in all sizes and descriptions, some hurrying through the streets, others stopping to talk and pass the time away.

The houses and shops were of wattle and daub, framed in timber, and instead of glass, had wooden shutters over the windows. Smoke rose from holes in the thatched roofs, clogging the air with the scent of burning wood.

Richard first took her to the market at Cheapside. A variety of vendors hawked their wares—cloth, wine, linen, fish, candles, leather. There were also vendors serving meat pies and ale and Christmas cakes. Mummers paraded through the streets, and troops of jugglers and musicians entertained on every corner.

It was afternoon by the time they finally reached London Bridge, and Gwen was weary. She could barely summon any excitement for the wondrous bridge with the tall houses.

She covered her mouth in sudden horror. Over the gate, severed heads were displayed on pikes, some only skulls, others in different stages of rot and being picked at by ravens.

“Are you ill?” Richard asked.

“Nay,” Gwen said. She took a deep breath.

He glanced up and swore. “Forgive me, Gwen. I forgot about those damned things. I should have warned you.”

She swallowed the bile in her throat. “Why are they there?”

“London doesn’t tolerate traitors. Their heads on pikes are reminders to all not to follow in their footsteps.”

Gwen forced a smile. “Please tell me more about the bridge. What is that city on the other side? ’Tis not still London, is it?”

“No, ’tis Southwark. This road leads to Canterbury and the Kent ports. Southwark is full of inns and… other things for the comfort of travelers.”

“Other things?”

“Aye.”

“Such as?”

“Jesú!” He actually looked uncomfortable for a minute, then he waved a hand casually. “Brothels, bathhouses.”

“Oh,” Gwen replied, not really interested.

“Are you sure you aren’t ill?”

She turned to look at him. He was frowning, but she barely noticed. In the distance, the golden-lion banner snapped in the breeze over a white castle. “I am rather tired,” she admitted. “Could we go back now?”

“Aye,” he said, turning to follow her gaze. “’Tis the Tower.”

“Ah, the Tower. My grandfather died there, you know. I never knew him, but my father says he fell to his death trying to escape. Little chance a Welshman had in a place such as this.”

Richard sighed. “You see why Wales must learn to adapt to England’s ways? This won’t go away, Gwen. Your father and his chieftains can make war indefinitely and England will remain. Wales must adapt or die.”

Gwen bristled. “The Welsh have survived for centuries, my lord. We have outlasted the Romans and the Saxons! We can outlast England.”

“Even with the whole of Wales at his back, which your father has never had, he could not defeat England. I don’t mean to hurt you, cariad, but ’tis the truth.”

Gwen bit her lip. Dear God, after seeing London, she feared Richard was right, but she couldn’t admit it. She turned away before she made a fool of herself and cried. “I want to go home,” she said.

“Very well,” he replied softly.

They turned their horses and rode back the way they’d come. Gwen’s spirit sank. She’d been so excited to see the city, the grand and glorious things these English had built, but now she knew how impossible it was for Wales to ever triumph against such a formidable foe. Forget prophecy, forget determination—England was the stronger, the more powerful. England would win in the end, just like Richard said.