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But
my head hurt so badly I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I couldn’t
fight him anymore. Even Elisa would have to agree that whatever
Llywelyn was, he was unexpected.
    He picked up the blanket that I’d dropped to
the floor when I’d gone for the knife and tucked it around me.
    “Sleep,” he said.
    I closed my eyes. And then I opened them
again when I realized there was no way I was going to be able to
sleep with Anna on the other side of the room. I sat up. Llywelyn
watched me, his hands on his hips. Out of bed again, I hurried to
where Anna lay and crouched to grasp the rockers. With gentle tugs,
I got her bed moving across the floor.
    “Marged,” Llywelyn said. “Don’t do that.”
His voice held a definite exasperation this time, but still, he
nudged me aside and bent to the cradle. With a slight exhale of
air, he lifted the trundle bed, his arms under the rockers, and
carried it across the room.
    “Please put it there,” I said, pointing to a
spot on the floor beside the bed. He set the cradle down and I
climbed back under the covers. I reached out and found that the
tips of my fingers could just touch the rail of her bed. I rocked
her gently. Anna sighed and rolled onto her side. I looked up at
Llywelyn. “Thank you.”
    He canted his head in acknowledgement, and
despite my fears and uncertainties, I finally closed my eyes and
slept.
     
    * * * * *
     
    “I must speak with the Prince!”
    I swam awake, fighting through a strange fog
of half-remembered dreams and conversation from the night before.
Someone was pounding on the bedroom door and shouting in a confused
mix of French and Welsh. Or, at least confused to me since I
couldn’t make out every word. The intent, however, was clear.
    Abruptly, the pounding stopped and a stern
voice cut through the commotion on the other side of the door. “The
Prince is . . . busy.”
    “Stand aside! I must speak with him! Wake
him for me!”
    “My brother, Dafydd, is a bit
intemperate.”
    My breath froze in my lungs. I turned my
head and found myself looking into Llywelyn’s face. He was lying on
the bed—and admittedly it was a big bed because he was at least
three feet away—with his elbow on his pillow and his head propped
up on one hand, looking at me, clear amusement in his eyes. He had
an almost impish expression on his face that told me he was
enjoying himself enormously.
    “What’s happening?”
    “It seems my brother seeks an audience with
me. I suppose I ought to let him in before he wakes Anna.”
    Llywelyn’s chest was bare and as he threw
back the cover, I sure hope he has something on his lower
half ! had barely passed through my head before he straightened,
wearing—
    Oh dear God! Absolutely nothing!
    I must have squeaked because Llywelyn shot
me a look of amused condescension. He reached for his breeches,
which he’d left at the foot of the bed, and pulled them on. Didn’t
medieval people wear underwear? And if they didn’t, did he have to
make this whole thing so authentic?
    Stirrings and bangs came from the other side
of the curtain and then Llywelyn appeared on my side of the bed,
fully dressed, his finger to his lips. He tugged the curtain closed
so it hid me. He left a little gap, however and through it, I could
see Llywelyn stride to the door and open it to reveal an agitated
man, his hair flattened to his head and his helmet under his arm.
Despite that, he was extraordinarily handsome, younger than
Llywelyn, shorter and not as lean.
    “My lord,” the man said. “Brother.” He bowed
his head.
    “What is it, Dafydd?” Llywelyn said, in
French. “I was sleeping.”
    The man dismissed his words with a shake of
his head. “I’ve already breakfasted.”
    “Good for you,” Llywelyn said, his voice
dry.
    “Not all of us are lay-a-beds,” Dafydd said.
This was so patently unfair I wondered that Llywelyn didn’t correct
his brother, but he didn’t, just let the silence drag out until
Dafydd filled it with his news. “Clare