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They 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.”
She looked up at him, blue eyes roaming over his face like she was learning it anew. The beauty of her struck him again, but it affected him far less than the simple fact of her nearness. Close enough to touch, when he had thought never to see her again.
“It is not mine to choose who rules here,” she said, answering him in his language, and dropped her eyes.
“Nay, that choice is not yours.” He reached out and took her forearm, slipping the knife into the brace. “Yet the blade is yours.”
His hand held her wrist, thumb over her speeding pulse. There was a calm resolve in her, a certainty at the center of her unease. She waited to see what he would do, knowing she had slain men in the shadow of his keep, not regretting it at all though it may mean her own death.
How poor a prince she must think him, if she believed for one instant that this was why he sought her.
“You would have given him mercy,” she said.
He did not deny it. He only set his thumb over the warmth of her pulse and remembered his first sight of her. “Will you always save me, Nan?”
Her fingers uncurled, knuckles brushing loosely against the inside of his wrist – and then moved against his skin with a purpose, a tiny caress.
“If I could.”
It was barely a whisper. He watched her eyes press closed, just for a moment, savoring the touch. Then she lifted her hand away and turned, reaching to pull her hood up, stepping away as though she would leave now, already, with so few words.
“Stay.” His voice too was barely above a whisper, because to watch her walk away closed his throat. But she heard him and halted, her hands still gripping the hood. “I have renounced my betrothal. I will marry no one but you.”
She did not move for a long moment. There was no expression on her face, only a numb stillness. “You cannot renounce it.”
“I can. I have.”
It seemed to him his heart had stopped beating, lying dead in his chest, waiting for her to speak. After a moment she shook her head just barely, her brows drawing together in confusion as though she worked to decipher his words.
“You cannot.” Her hands had dropped the hood to her shoulders and she looked up at him. “You must do as the king commands. You must, if you are to live, and rule.”
He wanted to kiss the frown from her lips, but he only drank in the sight and sound of her. “I will rule with you by my side, or not at all.”
She was shaking her head, denying it, staring at him until he saw her finally understand that he meant it. It did not gladden her, or make her throw herself into his arms. She only pulled her cloak tightly around herself and turn to look again at the sparkling lake.
“You belong here. It’s why you felt the loss so keenly, because you are meant to be here.” Her eyes scanned the peaks around them. “You are not meant to give it up.”
“Nor am I meant to live without you.”
She only shook her head again, so stubbornly sure, refusing to believe him. Of course she would not believe him. He had given her every reason to disbelieve.
“Nan, listen to me.” Urgency strained his voice. “Think you that I do not know the risk? Think you that I would not give this and more – as much as you would give to keep me safe?”
Silence. Always silence, because she thought it was only words. He stepped closer to make her hear him.
“Let him take my land. Let him take my power and my title and my name. Let him take all of it, every possession to the very clothes off my back – and at the end I will come to you on my knees, pitiful and powerless, just as you found me. And I will call him a fool for making so poor a trade, for before God I swear that you are a prize greater than any kingdom.”
She blinked rapidly. He could almost feel her barriers crumbling, all her feeling flooding free of its careful containment. She looked out on the green hills. It was the same way he looked at them, with love and wonder. “You belong to this place,” she said. “It belongs to you.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “It is my heart. And my heart is naught but a desert without you.” He looked at her in the midst of the mountains, the shimmering water, the wide sky. “Well do I know it is what I deserve for leaving you, that no place on this earth can be home to me, without you are in it.”
She looked up at the sky and took a ragged breath, fighting off tears. Fuss was whining faintly, pressing himself against her feet but looking at Gryff, confused. “I think me it would be a great sin, to take you from your people.”
“I care naught for sin or virtue.” He looked at Fuss sitting at her scuffed boots, and at the purse of nails on her belt, and how a strand of hair clung to her neck. “Gladly would I give my soul into the fires of hell if you would have me, even if only for a day.”
She made a choked sound, more tears than laughter. “And I would call you a fool to make such a poor trade.”
He was a fool. Only a fool would ever have let her go. Only a fool would stand here, wanting to touch her, seeing her tears, loving her even more because she thought of his people and of him, but never of herself – yet still he was as uncertain as a boy, because she did not say yes.
“Will you have me, Nan?”
She was very still. Her gaze passed over him, from the scar at his ear to his fine woolen tunic, his belt studded with gems and the ancient golden brooch that pinned his cloak.
“I would have my Welshman,” she answered, switching out of Welsh.
He heard the hope, the yearning for what they had been once – alone together and nameless as they wandered hidden paths – and shook his head. It could not be that again.
“You must take a prince,” he said. “Though the king may strip me of all titles and possession, it is a prince you would take as husband now. And if God grants that I am permitted to rule though I have defied my king, then I will rule, Nan. With you at my side as lady.”
The look she gave him was helpless, despairing. “I am no lady.” Her eyes dropped to her hands where they gripped the edges of her cloak, as though they had never done anything but scrub floors and peel turnips. “You’ve seen it yourself, what I come from. I could never be no great lady.”
He looked at the stubborn set of her mouth, the little frown that put a crease between her brows.
“Already are you greater than any lady I have ever known.” She made a scoffing sound, opening her mouth to dispute it, but he would not hear it. It angered him beyond reason, that she believed she was so small. “You think yourself insignificant, born to naught, and yet you are here. You are here, Nan, and why? You have said it is not yours to choose who will rule this place, but it is you who has ended the last threat to its prince. With your own hands. Already you have chosen.”
He stepped closer to her and took her wrist again, ignoring the tension in her as she resisted the movement. He pointed at the empty place on her forearm where a blade was still missing. “When you did see a girl in danger – just a girl, ordinary and humble, a stranger to you – did you leave her to her fate? Nay, because you are no meek and shrinking servant.” She was looking down at where he held her, her hand tight in a fist, but she did not pull away. “Who could be more worthy to protect and love my people, to rule them as their lady? None but you.”
She shook her head, a faint and bewildered rejection. “I am not... I am no one.”
“No one!” He dropped her arm and put a hand to her chin, tilting it upward, making her look at him. “When I would have you come here as naught but my lover, you did scorn me. For dignity, for your honor, which you would not put aside for anyone. Not for anyone. You refuse a prince and call yourself no one?” He shook his head, amazed. “Even great ladies do not scorn princes, Nan, nor yet queens. But you did. And you were right to do so.”
She did not see it, this fairy queen who had stretched out her hand and transformed him from a shadow of a man into a prince. He took her face between his palms, soft skin beneath his fingers.
“Full well do I know I am unworthy of you. But all that I have, all that I am is at your feet, Nan. You have only to take it.”
Her breath was harsh against his fingertips, shallow breaths as she gazed at him. “I want to.” She blinked, and the tears spilled over, a delicate splash against her cheek. “God forgive me, I want to. But it is not how the world is made, Welshman. There is no way in it for one born so low to marry one so high.”
There was a plea in her, as though she wanted only to understand how it could be, how it could possibly work. As though she had forgotten what she had taught him.
“The roads made by kings are not the only paths a man may travel,” he reminded her. He brushed the tears away with his thumbs. “Is you who told me that we need not follow in the ways the world has fashioned for us.”
Her eyes searched his face, like she looked for some way to dispute and deny, afraid to hope. He leaned his forehead against hers, willing her to believe. He waited – he would wait here forever, her breath against his lips, her warmth between his hands. Just this moment, forever. Just this place they made between them. There was nothing else he wanted.
Her hand came up to lay against his heart.
“Like a bird across the sky,” she said. “It pays no heed to the paths laid out by men.”
He pressed her hand tight to his heart, and nodded. “We will make a way that suits us. Every day, if you will have me.”
Her hand came to cover his at her cheek, gripping hard. He pulled back to see her face and thought he might die of this feeling, of the happiness and the hope that leapt in him at the look in her eyes.
“Welshman,” she whispered, her heart pounding so that he felt it against his fingertips. “We will make a way.”
She kissed him then, fierce and eager, her mouth hard against his for a brief and dazzling moment. It was sudden, unforeseen, because she was as swift and fearless in her love as in everything.
“If you will defy the king then I will dare to be a lady, Welshman. I will have you. Be you beggar or prince, I will have you, and never let you go.”
