her supplication but he was too quick for her and instead clasped her chin. His fingers were warm and surprisingly
delicate, though his touch, as he lifted her face, was insistent. Edyth’s lips felt suddenly dry and she put out her tongue to lick them. Griffin’s eyes flickered.
‘I am honoured to be here in your beautiful palace, Sire,’ she managed, painfully aware of the Welsh courtiers – a rough-edged gang of soldiers and their pretty, dark-haired
wives – crowding round.
‘You are,’ he agreed with a slow smile, ‘and I shall be very pleased to have you.’
He placed strange emphasis on the word ‘have’ and Edyth, still caught in a curtsey before him, felt it judder in her blood. Behind her, her mother shifted and prodded at her but what
could she do? The king was looking straight at her, his fingers still beneath her chin and his eyes drilling into her own.
‘I hope we will not trouble you, Sire,’ she stuttered out.
‘Trouble me?’ Finally, thank goodness, he raised her to her feet. ‘I think maybe, Edyth Alfgarsdottir, you will trouble me greatly.’
Now her father was laughing too, a rough, awkward sound, more like a donkey than a man. Edyth was horrified.
‘Sire, I do not mean to . . .’
‘Hush, Lady Edyth. Do not fret. I like trouble, do I not, men?’
He let go of her at last and turned to his courtiers who laughed too and called back. They spoke in their own language, though even with the lyrical infection there was little doubting the bawdy
tone. Edyth forced herself to look modestly down but inside her blood was throbbing. The boys were introduced, even Morcar bowing low and earning himself a hearty pat on his little back, and then
Griffin suddenly turned.
‘Lady Edyth, Lady Meghan, meet the Lady Gwyneth.’
The king reached back and, as if playing some sorcerer’s trick, produced a woman from the crowd behind him. She jerked forward, staggering a little, and glared at the king as she righted
herself and faced the newcomers. Looking at the lines around her eyes and across the hand she lifted reluctantly towards them, Edyth hazarded she must be about her own mother’s age, but life
had clearly not been as kind to her. Where Meghan’s prettiness was fleshed out with good eating and fine lotions, Lady Gwyneth was slender to the point of skinniness and her face, although
striking, was gaunt and strained. Edyth could not help herself looking back at the king glowing with health and vitality and wondering why he kept this woman so poorly.
‘You think I do not feed her,’ Griffin said.
Edyth jumped. Had she spoken aloud?
‘Of course not, Sire.’
‘I am forever telling her to eat but she defies me!’
Lady Gwyneth rounded on him, hands flying to her thin hips.
‘I am not yours to command.’
‘So you persist in believing.’ The king grinned at Edyth. ‘Lady Gwyneth cherishes her anger.’
‘Lady Gwyneth,’ the lady spat out, ‘has much to be angry about.’
Edyth looked from one to the other, amazed at such a raucous exchange. There were arguments aplenty at the English court but always behind walls. Thin walls perhaps – certainly not thick
enough to keep determined gossips away – but walls all the same. She looked around at Griffin’s court openly enjoying the lively exchange and felt dangerous laughter begin to build
inside her as the royal couple squared up to each other.
‘Perhaps, my lady, you would rather I had married you?’
Edyth saw her mother’s eyes widen and had to fight to smother her own surprise. Gwyneth, however, thrust out her bony hips and glared at the king from near-black eyes.
‘Perhaps, my lord, I would not have married you in a million years.’
‘Strange – you came eagerly enough to my bed.’
Several of the men cheered and Meghan put her hand to her head as if she might faint. Edyth saw Alfgar slip an arm around his wife’s waist, but his own eyes were alight with amusement and
she found time to wonder if
delicate, though his touch, as he lifted her face, was insistent. Edyth’s lips felt suddenly dry and she put out her tongue to lick them. Griffin’s eyes flickered.
‘I am honoured to be here in your beautiful palace, Sire,’ she managed, painfully aware of the Welsh courtiers – a rough-edged gang of soldiers and their pretty, dark-haired
wives – crowding round.
‘You are,’ he agreed with a slow smile, ‘and I shall be very pleased to have you.’
He placed strange emphasis on the word ‘have’ and Edyth, still caught in a curtsey before him, felt it judder in her blood. Behind her, her mother shifted and prodded at her but what
could she do? The king was looking straight at her, his fingers still beneath her chin and his eyes drilling into her own.
‘I hope we will not trouble you, Sire,’ she stuttered out.
‘Trouble me?’ Finally, thank goodness, he raised her to her feet. ‘I think maybe, Edyth Alfgarsdottir, you will trouble me greatly.’
Now her father was laughing too, a rough, awkward sound, more like a donkey than a man. Edyth was horrified.
‘Sire, I do not mean to . . .’
‘Hush, Lady Edyth. Do not fret. I like trouble, do I not, men?’
He let go of her at last and turned to his courtiers who laughed too and called back. They spoke in their own language, though even with the lyrical infection there was little doubting the bawdy
tone. Edyth forced herself to look modestly down but inside her blood was throbbing. The boys were introduced, even Morcar bowing low and earning himself a hearty pat on his little back, and then
Griffin suddenly turned.
‘Lady Edyth, Lady Meghan, meet the Lady Gwyneth.’
The king reached back and, as if playing some sorcerer’s trick, produced a woman from the crowd behind him. She jerked forward, staggering a little, and glared at the king as she righted
herself and faced the newcomers. Looking at the lines around her eyes and across the hand she lifted reluctantly towards them, Edyth hazarded she must be about her own mother’s age, but life
had clearly not been as kind to her. Where Meghan’s prettiness was fleshed out with good eating and fine lotions, Lady Gwyneth was slender to the point of skinniness and her face, although
striking, was gaunt and strained. Edyth could not help herself looking back at the king glowing with health and vitality and wondering why he kept this woman so poorly.
‘You think I do not feed her,’ Griffin said.
Edyth jumped. Had she spoken aloud?
‘Of course not, Sire.’
‘I am forever telling her to eat but she defies me!’
Lady Gwyneth rounded on him, hands flying to her thin hips.
‘I am not yours to command.’
‘So you persist in believing.’ The king grinned at Edyth. ‘Lady Gwyneth cherishes her anger.’
‘Lady Gwyneth,’ the lady spat out, ‘has much to be angry about.’
Edyth looked from one to the other, amazed at such a raucous exchange. There were arguments aplenty at the English court but always behind walls. Thin walls perhaps – certainly not thick
enough to keep determined gossips away – but walls all the same. She looked around at Griffin’s court openly enjoying the lively exchange and felt dangerous laughter begin to build
inside her as the royal couple squared up to each other.
‘Perhaps, my lady, you would rather I had married you?’
Edyth saw her mother’s eyes widen and had to fight to smother her own surprise. Gwyneth, however, thrust out her bony hips and glared at the king from near-black eyes.
‘Perhaps, my lord, I would not have married you in a million years.’
‘Strange – you came eagerly enough to my bed.’
Several of the men cheered and Meghan put her hand to her head as if she might faint. Edyth saw Alfgar slip an arm around his wife’s waist, but his own eyes were alight with amusement and
she found time to wonder if
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