“Dunsmore!”

Richard’s head snapped up. Rhys stood on the stairs, waving frantically. “The babe is coming!”

Richard was on his feet and up the stairs quicker than an arrow fired from a longbow. Rhys followed on his heels, stopping when they reached Gwen’s chamber. Richard flung open the door and entered, oblivious to Rhys’s shouting.

“Milord, you may not come in here,” the midwife said, rushing toward him with her hand outstretched.

“Like bloody hell,” he growled, shoving past her.

Gwen lay on the bed, her face pale and twisted in pain. She cried out suddenly, grasping handfuls of bedding in her fists.

Richard dropped beside her, clasping her hand and smoothing the hair from her face. “I am sorry,” he whispered belatedly.

Her glorious eyes were glazed. “Nay, ’tis I who am sorry. Rhys told me what happened, but I should have believed in you. I cannot blame you if you no longer want me—”

She screamed and he let her squeeze his hand until the pain passed, then kissed her moist brow. “Christ almighty, Gwen, you are my life. I will never let you go.”

The midwife, regaining her bravery, hovered over them, hands planted firmly on hips. “Milord, men are not allowed in the birthing chamber!”

“Do you wish me to go, love?” Richard asked, stroking the hair from Gwen’s damp forehead.

“Nay,” she whispered. “Do not leave me. I am frightened.”

He turned to the midwife. “Woman, if you wish to live beyond this day, you will tend my wife now. And if you wish me gone, then I invite you to remove me yourself.”

The woman blanched. “V-very well, but you must not interfere, milord,” she said in a near-whisper.

“Agreed.”

“’Tis not natural,” she muttered under her breath. The castle women hurried in and out of the room, fetching linens and hot water.

The midwife mixed something from her bag of herbals, then retrieved a pot and returned to Gwen’s side. Dipping her hand into the pot, she lifted Gwen’s chemise.

“What is that for?” Richard demanded.

The woman’s hand shook. “’Tis to rub on her belly to ease the pains. I-I thought you were not going to interfere, milord.”

“Aye,” he said curtly, clamping his teeth together.

As the hours wore on, Richard grew frantic. Gwen was soaked in sweat, her voice raw from her cries. She still gripped his hand, which was now quite numb, and he stroked her arm with slow, steady motions, trying to ease the pain in any way he could.

Her screams tore his heart in two. He begged God to spare her, certain she was going to die, certain God was going to punish him once more. He swore that if she survived, he would never make love to her again, never risk losing her just to gratify his own selfish urges.

“I… am… sorry… Richard,” she panted.

“Shh, my love.”

She screamed, clamping his hand so hard it hurt.

“Yes, Gwen, hold onto me. I will share it with you.” God, how he wished he could take the pain away! He had done this to her, and it was only fair he feel it with her, but Nature had contrived to make the burden solely hers.

“’Tis coming now,” the midwife said at last.

The scent of blood made Richard’s stomach churn. He was accustomed to the sight and smell of blood, but not when it belonged to Gwen. It was everything he could do to remain upright.

With a final hoarse cry from Gwen, the babe slid forth into the midwife’s waiting hands. Gwen collapsed, so small and pale in the huge bed.

Richard bent to kiss her sweat-soaked brow. He whispered endearments to her, stroked her face with a trembling hand. Her grip on him loosened and she gazed up at him, her lashes spiky with tears.

“’Tis a son. I know ’tis a son.”

A lump formed in his throat. “It matters not, sweet. ’Tis ours.”

The midwife returned with the babe. “You have a son, milord,” she said. As was customary, she’d washed the infant, rubbed his body with salt, his palate and gums with honey, and bound him in clean linen. And now she was holding him out to his father.

Richard didn’t want to touch the small bundle. He knew nothing about babes, except that they were incredibly delicate.

He’d never been comfortable around children, and he looked at this one with a mixture of awe and trepidation. He glanced at the midwife. She smiled and nodded, urging him to take his son.

He held his arms out hesitantly and she placed the tiny bundle in them. The baby’s face was pinched, his eyes screwed together tightly. His little mouth worked, mimicking suckling motions.

“He has black hair,” was all Richard could manage. ’Twas miraculous, this child he and Gwen had created! The red face didn’t resemble either one of them that he could see, but it didn’t matter. He’d thought the love he felt for Gwen was all he was capable of, but he recognized the familiar feeling stirring in his heart.

Gwen laughed weakly. “He has your hair, but he will have my eyes. Let me hold him,” she finished softly.

She held out her arms and Richard gave her their son. She cradled him to her, talking to him like they were old friends. Finally she looked up. “I have already thought of a name for him, if you agree.”

“What?”

She looked down at the babe, then back up at him. “William,” she said simply.

Richard’s heart swelled. He knew he loved her more in that moment than he ever had before. He touched a large finger to his son’s tiny cheek. “Aye, William ’tis.”

---

Gwen recovered in a few days time. She was up and around, though she remained in her chamber and out of the way of the Englishmen who now occupied Builth castle. Their presence was a bitter reminder of her father’s defeat.

She watched from the window as they made huge piles of the weapons they had seized. Her only comfort in her father’s death was knowing he was with Elinor. That alone made it bearable.

The wet nurse came to take William and she gave him up reluctantly. Noblewomen did not suckle their children.

Rhys came to see her frequently, as did Owain, and she delighted in their company. This day, however, she felt strangely alone. The empty chamber seemed to crush her beneath its solemn weight, its deafening silence.

She’d tried not to think of her father’s death too often, but now she could think of nothing else. They’d already taken his body north to the king and there they would cut off his head and send it to the Tower of London.

She sank onto the bed and cried. She’d not seen Richard very often since their son was born. And when she did, he was quiet, distant. How could she blame him?

Though she’d wronged him by leaving, she would do it again if faced with the same opportunity to make things right with her father.

She knew now it was her own guilt that made her doubt Richard. She was guilty for loving him, guilty for wanting him above all else. When she doubted his motives, it was really her own she was calling into question.

She heard the door open but she couldn’t stop crying. Then she was drawn into strong arms and she buried her face against his surcoat, sobbing all the harder now that he was here.

“I-I had to come, Richard,” she heard herself say. And then she was spilling the details of her dream, Dafydd’s claim, her entire life spent trying to win her father’s approval. She told him all of her disappointments, all of her childish efforts, all the hurt she’d never shared with anyone. His arms tightened around her. She tumbled on, telling him about her reconciliation with her father, their final moments together, the treasured words he’d said: You have never disappointed me. Remember that always.

Richard stroked her back. When she finally looked up, one tear slid down his face, and she reached up to capture it. Her open palm shaped his cheek and he rubbed against her hand, his eyes closing.

“He did not kill my father,” he said softly.

Gwen felt an enormous relief flood her. She didn’t know why it was so important he believe it, but it was. “I knew he could not.”

“’Twas Dafydd who did it.”

She hugged him tight. “I am so sorry, Richard.”

“I have not been truthful with you, Gwen.”

Her heart fell to her feet. Oh God, he was going to tell her he’d never really loved her, or he was married to someone else, or—oh God, she couldn’t think of the possibilities.

“Owain is my uncle.”

“What? But he is Welsh.”

“Aye, he is. And so was his sister, my mother.”

“Catrin,” she said, suddenly understanding.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I heard him say her name, though I knew not who she was. He promised her to look after you.”

A slight smile curved his mouth. “Aye. He is always reminding me of that.”

When he’d told her everything, she gaped at him. “Prince Madoc?” she said. He nodded. “Sweet Mary,” she breathed. “Did my father know?”

“Nay, I do not think so.”

Gwen laid her head against his chest and twisted the cloth of his sleeve in her fingers. “Gwilym ap Rhisiart,” she said, saying her son’s name in Welsh. “He will be prince of Wales.”

Richard shook his head. “Nay, Gwen. Edward will never allow it. He is finished with Wales. He means to conquer her for good.”

“You cannot let him take it away. ’Tis our son’s birthright. You are Welsh!”

“No! I am English, Gwen. I am not a Welshman.”

Gwen pushed away from him, suddenly angry he would be so vehement in his denials. “What is wrong, my lord? Are we not good enough for you? Is it truly so shameful to be Welsh?”

“Gwen—”

“No! My father spent his entire life guarding Welsh territory, Welsh heritage! You cannot allow it to slip away, not when it rightfully belongs to our son. Not when my father wanted it to be so.”

Richard quit the bed. “I am Richard de Claiborne, Earl of Dunsmore,” he said in French, smacking his chest. “I am an English Marcher lord. King Edward is my liege lord and what he commands, I do. Do not ever expect me to break my solemn oaths to my king.”

Gwen bit her quivering lip. “Will we never understand one another, Richard?” she whispered. “Must we always allow King Edward to come between us?”

Without a word, he spun on his heel and stalked from the chamber.

---

Within a few weeks, they set out for Claiborne castle. The gentle rocking of Saffron’s gait put William to sleep in Gwen’s arms. His chubby little cheeks quivered every now and then as his jaw worked.

She smiled. He was surely the most beautiful baby that ever lived and she loved him with all her heart. She raised her eyes to his father’s back.

Until two days ago, he’d been gone, commanding Marcher forces in the south. He’d not sought her out since returning. She’d lain awake at night, wanting him to come to her, wanting him to need her like she needed him, but he had not.

How could it ever be right between them again when the lines were so firmly drawn?

He would deny his own son his birthright and Gwen refused to understand how he could do it. She looked down at the sleeping babe in her arms. God how she wished her father had lived to see his grandson!

He would have made sure William inherited all that belonged to him.

Rhys’s laughter drifted to her from where he and Owain rode a few paces back. Now that her father was dead, Rhys refused to fight with Dafydd and Richard had allowed him and his men to come with them.

Gwen was surprised, but pleased. She did not know all that had passed between them, but whatever it was, they seemed to have formed a grudging truce.

Claiborne was only a few leagues away when a party of knights appeared. Gwen knew they were Richard’s from the hawk banner they carried and the colors they wore. Her chest tightened as Richard rode forth to meet them.

Andrew and five of the other men who had ridden from Builth Wells joined the waiting knights. Richard turned and rode back to her.

“You are leaving,” she said. She should be used to it by now, but she was not.

“Aye. I must return to the king.”

“How long will you be gone this time, my lord?”

He pulled his mail gauntlet off and ran his finger down her cheek, then slipped to William’s, caressing him as well. “I know not. Days, weeks…”

“Months,” Gwen said dully.

“Until Dafydd is stopped,” he replied. He smiled then, the first she’d seen in weeks. “What is wrong, wench? Miss me already?”

Gwen nodded and a lone tear spilled down her cheek. “Aye. I do not want you to go.”

His expression sobered. He sidled Sirocco closer. “Kiss me, then. Show me how much.”

He bent to her and she met him, losing herself in the heat and scent of him. It was she who insisted on deepening the kiss, she who slipped her tongue into his mouth and forced him to join her. His mouth turned ravenous as his hand came up to grip the back of her head. And then he broke away, pressed his lips to her cheek, her throat, William’s forehead.

“I love you,” he said. “Both of you.” He whirled Sirocco around to join the others, never looking back.

The knights broke into a gallop, the thundering of horses’ hooves and the chinking of metal still hanging in the air long after she’d lost sight of them.

Once again, King Edward had taken him from her.

---

The king was lodged at Rhuddlan castle when Richard returned to him. Since Llywelyn’s death, the spirit of the Welsh uprising was sinking faster than a ship full of holes and Edward was in good spirits.

“Dafydd calls himself Prince of Wales now, but the chieftains are deserting him quicker than a whore’s tongue. If we can get the slippery bastard out of the mountains, ’twill be over before the new year.”

It was late in the day and the two men stood on the battlements, gazing toward the Welsh mountains. The tang of salt and keening cries of gulls drifted to them from the sea at their backs.

The army sprawled across the valley below. The sounds of men and animals mingled with those of clanking metal and chopping wood as the evening tasks were carried out.

The bitter November wind ruffled Richard’s hair as he turned to look at the king. “There is something I must tell you, Ned.”

“Aye?”

Richard took a deep breath. “Madoc ap Maredudd was my grandfather. My mother was Welsh.”

When Edward didn’t say anything, Richard continued. He told Edward everything, how his mother and father met, how they defied Prince Madoc and King Henry, how eventually no one even remembered William de Claiborne’s dead wife had been a Welshwoman.

“Jesú,” Edward breathed. “’Tis why you speak it so well. And the beard. I always thought you kept it because it drove the ladies crazy.”

Richard laughed, rubbing his face. “Nay, ’tis because it suits me. And it reminds me of what I cannot escape.”

Edward ran his fingers through his blond curls, scratching his head. “Edmund de Mortimer thinks your wife guilty of treason.”

Richard sucked in his breath. “The bastard,” he hissed.

“Do you deny she was with Llywelyn?”

“Nay.” His jaw hardened. “I accept her reasons for doing so, though I did not approve. She is back at Claiborne now and will not leave again, I assure you.”

Edward braced his arms on the wall, leaning on them and gazing at the bailey below. “We will keep this to ourselves, Richard. The fewer people who know of your parentage, the better. Welsh ancestry is not uncommon in the Marchers, but none of them are married to a princess of Wales nor do they carry the blood of a Welsh prince.”

“If you think it best.”

“Aye, I do. I am the king of England, but even kings have limited power. The other barons might not take it so well. I would not have another revolt on my hands if it can be helped.”

They stood silent for a while longer. The setting sun turned the sky bloodred before disappearing, leaving an angry welt in its wake.

Richard voiced the question he had always dreaded. “Do you doubt my ability to serve you?”

Edward straightened, astonishment crossing his face. “Nay, Richard. God’s blood, I have not doubted that since the instant you pulled the Saracen off me. This changes nothing, though I wish you had entrusted me long ago.” He smiled sadly. “There are few men a king can call friend. My father made the mistake of never knowing whom to trust. I trust very few. I know you will not fail me, now or ever.”

“Nay, I will not fail you,” Richard echoed. “Now or ever.”

He turned toward Claiborne, imagining he could see it across the leagues. William would be Earl of Dunsmore one day. That would be enough. Gwen would understand eventually.

---

Dafydd held the English army at bay all through the winter months, despite his dwindling support. He was finally free of his brother, finally the prince of Wales, finally in control of his country and his destiny, and he intended to wrest it from England at whatever cost.

But his role as a double-traitor did not set well with his fellow countrymen now that Llywelyn was gone. Too many times, Dafydd had betrayed Welsh interests for English gold, and his countrymen began to wonder how soon it would be before he played them false again.

He retreated to Snowdon for the winter, only emerging when the spring thaw melted the frozen mountain passes. By then Edward had Gwynedd ringed with his forces, pressing Dafydd from all sides. Victory was imminent.

In late spring, two of the chieftains who had previously supported Dafydd came to parley with Edward.

“He is on the lower slopes of Cader Idris,” Edneyved ap Olfyr said before going on to detail the size and strength of Dafydd’s force.

Edward listened with feverish interest. When the two men were gone, he turned to Richard and the gathered Marchers. “Richard, you will lead the force that goes after Dafydd. I want him alive.”

Richard took fifty knights. They made their way southwest toward the Llyn Peninsula then cut to the east toward Cader Idris. He was anticipating a good fight with Dafydd. He wanted to kill him, but Edward forbade it.

Mayhap watching him suffer a traitor’s death at the hands of the executioner would be more satisfying anyway.

They camped within sight of the mountain, careful not to light any fires that would call attention to their presence. The night was beautifully clear and they were in the saddle before dawn, picking their way by starlight toward Dafydd’s hideout.

When they surprised the Welshmen shortly after dawn, Richard expected more of a fight. But knowing their time was up and lacking faith in their leader, they surrendered easily enough. Edneyved ap Olfyr marched Dafydd out of his tent at spearpoint.

“I give you this gift for your king, Black Hawk de Claiborne. Tell him to remember it well.”

Richard climbed off Sirocco. Dafydd spat at his feet. “We meet again, Prince Dafydd. Or would that be Lord Dafydd? I can never remember…”

“May you rot in hell, Dunsmore! I only wish I had succeeded in killing you, you half-Welsh whoreson!”

Two women ran toward them, both crying for Dafydd. Richard recognized Anne, but not the other one.

“Lisbeth,” Dafydd said, his voice cracking. She ran into his arms and he hugged her tight while she sobbed.

Anne came to an abrupt halt, her unbound hair swirling around her. “Dafydd?” she whimpered.

Dafydd didn’t look up. Richard felt almost sorry for Anne in that moment.

Her tear-filled eyes landed on Richard. “You,” she hissed, flying at him. Richard caught her, twisting her arms behind her. She screamed at him, blamed him for all the misfortune in her life. Then she started to sob. He freed her arms and she clung to him.

He stood rigidly. Unbidden, the image of a boy came to him.

For whatever reason, Tristan loved his mother. Certes, there must be something good about her even if Richard could not see it. Reluctantly, he put an arm around her. “Stop crying, Anne. ’Twill be all right.”

She sobbed all the harder. “I hate you,” she choked out.

“I know,” he said softly.

They set out for Rhuddlan castle later that day. Dafydd was accompanied by his wife and seven children and his mistresses, one of whom was Anne Ashford. Dafydd’s Welshmen marched to Rhuddlan as well. They would be required to swear fealty to their king, and then most of them would be released. A few of the chieftains would be tried for treason along with their prince.

Edward refused to see Dafydd, ordering him tossed into the tower instead. Lisbeth and her children were given quarters with Dafydd’s other children and their mothers.

Anne was granted an audience with Edward. Richard stepped back quickly when the door to the solar flew open and Anne ran out, shrieking so loud it echoed through the stone walls of the castle.

He entered, shaking his head. The musky scent of sex permeated the air, jolting Richard with the memory of how long it had been since he’d made love to Gwen.

Edward downed a goblet of ale. “Nothing like a good tumble in the middle of the day.”

“I do not believe she shared your sentiment, Ned,” Richard said dryly.

Edward’s laughter rang through the room. “Jesú, she just told me that was the best fuck she’d ever had. Of course that was before I told her her punishment for committing treason.”

“Which was?”

“I took your advice to go easy on her. I should think a life spent in a convent would be preferable to sharing the hangman’s noose with Dafydd.”

“Aye,” Richard said. It was less than she deserved perhaps, but more than she would be able to stand. Anne was lusty and sticking her in a convent was like depriving a starving man a crust of bread.

“I am going to convene a special parliament in Shrewsbury to try Dafydd. Hanging him outright would not send the message I want to Wales. I want them to see his humiliation, his condemnation.”

“When?”

“Immediately.” Edward smiled then. “I think you have time to go to Claiborne first.”

Richard stood. “If you do not object, I would like to go now.”

“Go then,” Edward said.

Richard bowed to his king before leaving the room. He ached to see Gwen and his son again. It had been months since he’d left her enroute to Claiborne. The memory of that kiss had sustained him through all the long months of the campaign. He vowed that when he saw her again, he was going to do a hell of a lot more than kiss her.

---

Dafydd paced the round tower room like a caged beast. Where had he gone wrong? When had he lost control? He’d had it all, and he’d let it slip from his grasp.

Questions with no answers. Once he’d been a prince, a lord, and a knight. Now he was nothing, nothing.

He raked both his hands through his hair, then sank onto the pallet against the wall and hugged his knees to his chest. It was all over now. His life was forfeit.

Edward refused even to see him, despite the fact he’d told the messenger he had information the king might be interested in. But Edward would relent eventually, once his notorious Plantagenet temper cooled.

Dafydd curled on his side and dozed, only waking when he thought he heard a key clang in the lock. The door swung open and he was on his feet instantly.

Gilbert de Clare entered, followed by Edmund de Mortimer. Gilbert spoke first. “We hear you have information about Dunsmore. What is it?”

Dafydd’s gaze went from one man to the other. Red Gilbert was not a man to mince words. Edmund’s countenance was stony, as if he were irritated at the Earl of Gloucester’s forthrightness.

Dafydd sat at the small table in the center of the room and crossed his legs. A lazy smile cracked across his face. “Well,” he drawled. “I cannot just tell you without some sort of payment, now can I?”

Gloucester looked taken aback. His face turned red and a vein stood out in his forehead. “You are not in a position to demand payment of any kind, you Welsh rubbish!”

Dafydd refused to be cowed. What more did he have to lose? “Nevertheless, I have something you want. You will pay for it.”

Gloucester took a step forward, his fists clenching. Edmund put a hand on his arm and said something too low for Dafydd to hear.

Gloucester nodded. Edmund joined Dafydd at the table. “You are a traitor to the Crown, Dafydd. If you expect us to work a miracle with the king, you are asking too much. He will not release you.”

Dafydd studied his knee. “Very well,” he said at last, lifting his chin proudly, defiantly. “I wish to see my wife and children again. I also wish them kept safe from Edward’s wrath. ’Tis my burden, not theirs. I want him to know they are not to blame.”

Edmund turned to Gloucester. A look passed between them and Red Gilbert nodded curtly.

“You have our word, Dafydd,” Edmund said. “We will plead your wife’s case to the king.”

Dafydd sighed heavily. May God grant him this one last boon. “Then I will tell you what I know about the Earl of Dunsmore.”