Dafydd ap Gruffydd strolled confidently to his audience with the king. He’d waited two weeks for this meeting. He was irritated Edward had put him off for so long, but it was the Christmas season, and all of England had come to a grinding halt to enjoy the feasting and merrymaking.

He entered the king’s solar and frowned. It was never a good sign when Black Hawk de Claiborne was around. Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, and Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, were also in the room, as well as the king’s brother, Edmund of Lancaster.

“Come, Dafydd, drink with us,” Edward called out.

Dafydd accepted a goblet and took a seat beside Gloucester. He avoided the hawk-like gaze of the Earl of Dunsmore, and raised his cup in salute to the king. He would deal with Dunsmore soon enough.

“What did you wish to speak to me about, Dafydd?”

Dafydd darted his gaze around the room. “I was hoping to speak to you in private, Sire.”

Edward swept his hand toward his earls. “We are in private, Dafydd. ’Tis only my closest advisors.”

Dafydd gritted his teeth. He didn’t bother to point out that two of the men present were the most powerful of the Marcher earls. His complaint involved lands in the Marches. “Of course, Majesty,” he deferred, bowing his head. “I am certain Your Majesty could not know of these things, but the lands you so graciously have given me are being harassed.”

Edward looked scandalized. He leaned forward in his chair. “How is that, Lord Dafydd?”

Dafydd knew he had emphasized the English title deliberately. It did not bode well.

“Your Justiciar of Chester, Reginald de Grey, has accused me of harboring outlaws. To that end my woods have been cut and I have been called to defend my possession of lands that are within Wales.”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Harboring outlaws?”

Dafydd gripped the goblet. He darted a look at Dunsmore. This was Black Hawk’s doing, he was certain of it. Richard de Claiborne took perverse delight in thwarting his desires.

“Nay, Majesty. I am a loyal vassal. Why would I endanger my holdings so?”

“I believe you Dafydd, do not worry. I must ask these questions though, to satisfy the concerns of my advisors.”

“Of course, Majesty,” Dafydd aquiesced. He toyed with his cup. “My castles have also been called into question.”

“Did you obtain permission to build them?”

“I applied for writs, if that is what you mean.”

“Well there can be no problem then,” Edward said, leaning back in his chair.

Dafydd ran a finger around the rim of his goblet. “But what of my woods and my Welsh lands?”

“You have nothing to fear, Lord Dafydd. Just appear in court with the proof of possession and the justiciar will harass you no more.”

Dafydd took a quick swallow of wine. The damn stuff was nowhere near as satisfying as a draught of Welsh mead. He checked his rising temper. The lands in question lay inside Wales. They were all he had left of the birthright denied him by his brother. He would not give them up or defend his claim in an arbitrary English court. “Majesty, by the Treaty of Aberconwy, that can only be determined by Welsh law.”

“Yes, but I believe those lands connect to the ones I seized in the rebellion. Therefore, since they touch lands that are technically English, you may be called to appear in an English court.”

Dafydd seethed. There was no way he was going to win this power play. “Aye, Majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

Despite everything he’d done to help Edward achieve his victory, it still came down to one thing—Dafydd was not English and could never be, no matter how many titles or privileges Edward heaped upon him to hide it.

---

The Twelve days of Christmas were a time of merriment and cheer, a time when common men and nobles alike celebrated from sunup to sunup. The Palace of Westminster was no exception, hosting the grandest celebrations of all.

Great banquets were set up daily and kept plenished until the last revelers fell into a drunken sleep. Ale and wine flowed freely, along with mead and spiced hippocras. People danced and sang and played games until the early morning when they staggered home to rest for a few hours before starting all over again.

Tonight was Twelfth Night, the last night of the celebrations. Soon, the earl of Dunsmore’s household would return to the March.

Alys laid out the cream-velvet dress that was her favorite creation. Gwen fingered the silver and gold embroidery, the white ermine trim, the string of pearls sewn into the neckline.

“Sweet Mary, ’tis beautiful!”

“There’s a matching mantle and slippers, too, my lady,” Alys said proudly.

“Whatever would I do without you, Alys?”

The old woman blushed and began helping Gwen into the gown. She finished lacing it, then fitted a gold and silver girdle around Gwen’s waist.

Gwen smoothed the soft cloth over her belly. “I don’t remember this being so tight when you fitted me.”

Alys touched Gwen’s cheek. “Have you thought how long ’tis been since you last had your flux?”

Gwen’s hand splayed over her abdomen. “Since before…” Dear God, since before her wedding two months ago! “I am with child,” she whispered.

Alys beamed, her eyes shining. “Aye, I thought you might be.”

Gwen stood immobile for a long time. “Where is Richard?”

“I believe he is with Sir Charles and Owain. Shall I get him for you?”

Excitement bubbled in Gwen’s soul. She wanted to tell him right away, but it was almost time to leave for the palace. “Nay.”

She would wait until they returned home tonight. They would make love as usual, and when they were curled up together afterwards, she would tell the man she loved that she carried his child. It would be perfect.

When she joined Richard in the courtyard, his appreciative stare sent ribbons of heat spiraling through her. She slipped her gloved hand into his, and he drew her close.

“You look just like a fairy princess I saw once,” he murmured.

“Where did you see this fairy, my lord?” she asked with a coy smile.

“In a cave of lights. ’Twas in a Welsh mountain, where sights such as that are not uncommon. A sight to behold, she was. All fire and beauty, so much that I was instantly taken with her.”

“And what did you do with this fairy, my lord?”

“I impaled her on my sword,” he said very seriously.

Gwen laughed. “You are so wicked! Did she like it, pray tell?”

He grinned. “She didn’t complain, as I recall.”

Gwen sidled up to him. “Mayhap you will demonstrate for me later,” she said, her voice a husky whisper.

“Jesú, but you are a tease, wench.”

She slanted him a look. “Am I exciting you?”

“Unbearably.”

“Then let us skip the festivities and create our own,” she said.

He swung her into his arms and set her on Saffron. “Edward is expecting us, love. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return.”

Gwen sighed her disappointment and resigned herself to a long evening. Keeping her secret turned out to be more difficult than she’d imagined. The ride to the palace wasn’t long, but she found herself staring at her husband’s handsome profile, aching to tell him her news.

Fortunately, King Edward separated them as soon as they arrived, waving Richard over to where he stood with the earls of Lincoln, Warwick, Oxford, Gloucester, and Pembroke.

Gwen joined Queen Eleanor’s group of ladies on the dais. Catherine de Lacy patted the seat beside her, and Gwen sat down.

“Marriage agrees with you, Gwenllian,” Eleanor said.

“Thank you, Majesty.” The news was bursting inside her, but she couldn’t tell these ladies before she told Richard.

“You positively glow. Doesn’t she glow, Margaret?”

“Indeed she does!” Margaret de Valence exclaimed. The other ladies nodded vigorously. Gwen murmured her thanks demurely.

Of course she glowed! She was in love with the most handsome man in all the world, and the proof of that love grew within her even now.

How she ached for an end to this evening so she could have Richard to herself!

But time had a funny way of dragging when you wanted it to go the fastest. The conversation on the dais was varied, ranging from babies to servants to sewing to cosmetics to war. The wives of Edward’s most powerful barons were not empty-headed. Oft times, the responsibilty of running the castle fell on their shoulders when their husbands were gone, and they were well versed in a variety of endeavors.

Queen Eleanor waved a hand toward where her husband clustered with his barons. “Edward is going to drive me mad with all this talk of a crusade,” she said, picking at the golden lions on her surcoat. “I do not wish to make another journey to the Holy Land.”

“You could always stay here with the rest of us, Majesty,” Margaret offered.

Eleanor laughed, the sound like that of a small bird chirping. “Nay, I could not live without my Edward for so long. The last crusade took four years and I was with him every step of the way. When he goes, I go.”

Gwen felt a sharp prickle begin at the back of her neck. It crept down her spine, growing and spreading in time with her suspicions. Richard had gone on the last crusade with King Edward. She remembered him telling her of a place called the Sahara, a place with fiery desert sands and a wind named Sirocco.

Almost frantically, her eyes sought him out. He wasn’t hard to find. His dark head towered over the other barons, but even had that not been the case, he would have been unmistakable. How could any man ever compare to the splendor of Richard de Claiborne?

She watched him, unable to tear her gaze away for fear he would disappear if she couldn’t see him. She knew—dear God, she knew!

Richard was leaving. She didn’t have to ask him. The same fierce loyalty that drove him to risk his life in the borders would send him halfway across the world to fight and mayhap die for his king.

Unconsciously, Gwen clutched her stomach. What of their child, their son? Aye, she knew it was a son. She did not know how, but she knew it nonetheless. Would he grow up without a father, take his father’s place long before he should?

Gwen drew in a shaky breath. It was a fact of life that men went to war. Her father had. Rhys had. But the thought of Richard in such danger terrified her to the depths of her soul.

She’d been so frantic for him when he’d left to stop the raid. If she admitted it, she’d been frantic the day she’d seen him leap onto Sirocco and charge the attackers at the cave. How would she live, fearing for him with every breath, missing him with every fiber of her being?

The smoke was choking her. Her blood pounded in her temples as the music and laughter swelled in her ears. She had to get out of the hall, had to be alone for a little while. Quietly, she rose and slipped away from the queen and her ladies.

---

Gwen wandered the passages and rooms of Westminster Palace. She knew not where she was or where she was going. All she wanted was to forget.

She opened a door and stumbled out into a quiet courtyard. Though the air was cold she never noticed. Angrily, she swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks. Never had she cried so much until she married Richard!

She giggled almost hysterically. Mayhap she would not cry so much when he was gone. She sank down on a stone bench. Nay, mayhap she would never stop until he returned.

Gwen thought she understood what Richard’s aversion to falling in love had been. Well she could imagine his father’s grief at losing his wife. Richard had said he never wanted to care that much for a woman. Did that mean he didn’t love her as much as he might? Was that why he could manage to leave her when she could not bear the thought of living without him?

She didn’t know how long she sat before she felt the hand on her shoulder. She jumped, half expecting to see Richard. “Dafydd!”

He smiled. “One and the same,” he replied, sitting down beside her. “What are you doing out here, Gwenllian?”

“Nothing. The hall just seemed stifling so I decided to go for a walk. What brings you out here, Lord Dafydd?”

He sighed. “Will you not call me ewythr?”

“Uncle?” Gwen said increduously. “I think not!”

Dafydd shrugged. “I’m not as bad as all that, Gwenllian. My brother and I just happen to disagree on the best way to run Wales.”

“Is that why you tried to murder him?” Gwen couldn’t keep the contempt from her voice.

“’Twas a mistake. I’d give anything to change it. And it was not just I. The prince of Powys wanted his death much more than I did.”

“Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn,” she spat. “He would have placed you on the throne merely to serve his own ends.”

“Well, we did not succeed, and ’twas almost ten years ago it all began. I’ve had time to regret that youthful mistake.”

Gwen glowered. She was too upset about her own life to worry about Dafydd’s. It made her bolder than she would have dared ever dream. “Tell me about my mother. Why did she leave? Or did he send her away, as you claim?”

“He did send her away, Gwen. Not directly, but he did it all the same.”

“Why?”

Dafydd hesitated. “Because he believed her unfaithful. Eurwen could not bear it, and she left.”

Gwen’s breath shortened. “Unfaithful?”

He nodded. “Llywelyn has never had much luck at siring children. When you came along, well…”

Gwen leaned heavily against the bench, stunned into silence. Dear God, all these years. That was why she could never gain her father’s affection, why he’d bargained her future so easily. He did not believe her his child. It made so much sense now.

“He never denounced me,” she whispered.

Dafydd shrugged. “He had no proof.”

Gwen stared into the darkness. Her father could have denied her if he wanted, proof or not. He was the Prince of Wales for God’s sake. Whether she was truly his or not, he’d raised her as his own, given her a title. If nothing else, she owed him for that much.

Gwen was too lost to hear the approaching footsteps, or to realize Dafydd had risen and was staring at the intruder in silent challenge.

“’Tis a pleasure as always, Prince Dafydd. Or would that be Lord Dafydd? I can never remember which side it is you are on.”

Gwen’s gaze snapped to Richard. Her heart turned over at the sight of him. She wanted to lose herself in his arms even while she wanted to slap his beloved face for not telling her about the crusade.

Dafydd smiled lazily. “One day, Dunsmore, I’m going to delight in seeing you beaten.”

“I hope you intend on living a long time,” Richard said, baring his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile.

“Oh I do,” Dafydd replied, sauntering off toward the palace.

Gwen felt a chill wash over her. It did not surprise her they were enemies, but something in Dafydd’s tone set her on edge. Too confident, too certain of himself.

But she couldn’t think of that right now. All she could think of was the man towering over her. He pulled her up and drew her against him.

“Jesú, you are freezing. Why did you come out here?” he demanded.

Gwen clung to him, let his warmth flow over her. She closed her eyes. Emotion rolled through her in waves as she fisted his surcoat in both hands, pressed against him, breathed in his unique scent.

She told herself she should not behave so. She told herself she should be railing at him. Screaming, slapping, kicking, clawing. She held him tighter.

“Come,” he said, pulling her toward the door.

When they were inside, he strode down the passage, then swept her into a shadowed alcove. Her teeth began to chatter.

Richard swore, then started rubbing her arms vigorously. He caught a servant hustling past and ordered him to take them to a private room with a fire.

The man bowed jerkily. “M-milord, I would have to find the chamberlain, and—”

“Take us to a room now, my friend, or you will find yourself without a very precious part of your anatomy,” Richard threatened in a quiet voice. “I care not who you have to insult to do it. Blame the earl of Dunsmore when any ask you.”

“Aye, milord. This way, milord,” he replied.

He led them to a richly appointed room with a roaring fire, then bowed profusely when Richard gave him gold coin for his trouble. Richard barred the door while Gwen went to stand beside the fire.

She stared at the odd-looking rug spread before the hearth. ’Twas a beast with hideous fangs, long dark hair around the head, and a smooth tawny hide.

“’Tis a lion,” Richard said behind her.

“A lion,” she repeated. She’d had no idea ’twas what a lion truly looked like. All she’d ever seen was the lion device on the King’s coat of arms. Certes, that did not look like this.

“Why did you leave the hall without telling me?”

Gwen faced him, studied his features as they hardened with anger.

“Christ, I’ve been searching for you half the damn night! And what the hell were you doing with Dafydd ap Gruffydd?”

Gwen started to laugh. She couldn’t stop, even when his face seemed carved from stone. He grabbed her arms and shook her softly. Gwen hiccoughed the last of her giggles, then fell into silence, staring up at him, knowing all the hurt she felt inside was written on her face.

“When were you going to tell me?”

His expression crumbled. He turned away and raked his hands through his hair, then sat heavily in a chair, his legs sprawled out in front of him. His gaze lifted to hers. “Soon,” he said.

“When do you leave?”

“I do not know yet. Six months, a year.” He shrugged, his finger tracing the edge of the table. “There will be a meeting in the spring to determine.”

Six months! God, if he left then, she would bear his son without him. For some reason it frightened her, and she knew what Elizabeth must have felt. Her pulse quickened.

“Can you not stay?”

His jaw hardened. “Nay.”

The silence stretched between them until he shot out of the chair and pulled her to her knees on the lion rug. He cupped her face between his hands, feathered kisses along her forehead, her jawbone, the slim column of her throat. “As God is my witness, I do not want to leave you, but I must.”

“I am pregnant,” Gwen blurted.

He leaned back on his heels. Gwen bit her trembling lip. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. She’d said it in a desperate hope he wouldn’t leave her if he knew, even while she realized it was futile.

“You are certain?” he asked, his eyes wide.

Gwen nodded. “I’ve not had my courses since we were married.”

He was kissing her suddenly, crushing her to him. He lifted her against his heart, then laid her back on the rug, leaning over her, endlessly kissing her. “I love you,” he murmured in Welsh, over and over, as his lips trailed down her neck. She could feel the beat of his heart, fast and strong, mingling with hers.

Just for now, just this once, she wanted to forget the inevitable and join with him as they were meant to do in this glorious moment they shared. She would think of the Crusade, of her father, later.

There was no need for foreplay. They both knew that only when they were joined deeply would they be able to forget, at least for a while. Gwen arched her hips up to receive him, glorying in the powerful feel of him moving within her.

Their mating wasn’t uncontrolled for once. Long minutes passed while Richard lay completely still, concentrating all his lovemaking on her mouth. In those moments, she could feel him deep within her, their hearts beating as one.

Gwen didn’t even care when she felt the hot trickle of tears running across her temples. Richard brushed them aside, whispering love words that only made them fall faster.

“Oh Richard, ’tis not close enough,” she said. “It can never be close enough.”

“I know, my love, I know.”

Gwen had no doubt he understood. No matter how closely they were joined, it was never close enough.

When it was over and he cradled her against him, Gwen clutched him tight, never wanting to let go.

Tonight, she’d lost a father. Soon, she would lose a husband.