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chairs. A fire burned a few yards away, where several of her brothers’ quail had been roasted over the flames. Gathered around the fire were another group of knights, pages, and squires, who nibbled on quail and crusts of bread, grease running down their fingers as they guzzled ale from pewter mugs.
    In the shade of the pavilion, Gwen crossed to one of the servants, who stood holding a bowl of fresh water. She washed her hands clean of dirt and blood before drying them. Holding her arms out to Achart, she implored him to cut the sleeves of her kirtle away with his dagger.
    “I do not wish to eat with the blood of those bastards dripping onto my plate,” she said. He obliged her, ripping through the sleeves of her gown with his sharp knife.
    “Such language for a lady,” Achart teased , and handed the bloody rags off to another servant before sheathing his dagger once more. “Mother would be livid to hear you using such foul words.”
    Gwen puckered her lips distastefully. “Mother is not here, thank the gods.” Lady Enid would have suffered an apoplexy had she witnessed her daughter’s daring back in the woods. Then, even the sight of her bare arms, now free of the kirtle’s sleeves, would have been enough to send her into a fit. As it was, Gwen would have to burn her surcoat since it would likely never come clean of the bloodstains.
    She sat between Jorin and Leofred, accepting a chalice of red wine from a serving girl. She drank deeply, the strong wine both tart and sweet on her tongue. She closed her ears to talk of hunting, horses, and women as she picked at her meal. The quail was well seasoned, and the salad of wild greens and berries dressed with herbed olive oil refreshing. Still, Gwen could eat no more than a few bites as her mind wandered.
    In a few days’ time, Prince Gaiwan Bainard would arrive at Seahaven for the ceremony that would seal their engagement. Though the Toustains were no longer considered royalty, Lord Clarion and Lady Enid never forgot to remind her that she was of noble blood. Her grandfather had been a king, and his father before him, and his father before that. What better way to secure a powerful ally than to wed their dau ghter to the Prince of Lerrothe? The large island province was so far away—across the Elyri Sea—its land foreign and unknown to her.
    She always knew th e day would come when her father would choose a husband for her, and she would be forced to leave her home to become lady of another manor, the wife of a powerful lord. Still, she’d thought to be wed to a Dinasdalian, taking her no further from home than Vor’shy, but it was not to be. Within a year’s time she would be wed in a ceremony befitting a queen; after all, she would rule Lerrothe at Gaiwan’s side when he ascended to the throne in his father’s place.
    It was a daunting prospect, even more so than becoming lady of her own castle and fief. The closer the day loomed, the more anxious Gwen became. There was nothing to be done for it now. The ceremony was planned; all the great lords of Dinasdale and their families would descend upon Seahaven for the occasion. The agreement could not be undone, and would be sealed by a bedding ritual, which was a Lerrothian custom. Once her virgin’s blood was spilled upon the sheets, she would truly belong to Gaiwan. The wedding ceremony to follow was merely a spectacle for the benefit of the people and the holy temple, but as far as she, Gaiwan, and the gods were concerned, they would be wed in truth.
    Gwen had always been high-spirited, a trait her father admired and her mother despised. For most of her life, she’d done as she pleased with no one to stop her. Her mother might criticize, but as long as her father doted on her, there was nothing to be done about her nature. Now, she would be the property of her husband, who was agreeable, yet arrogant and superior. He would surely require obedience of her. As she pushed her food back and forth across her plate,