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uneven, his mouth contorted, dark hair drenched in sweat. She placed the candle in a niche of the headboard, then touched him gently on the cheek. "Bran?"
He jerked upright, eyes wide and staring, chest heaving. "You're all right, beloved," Juliana said soothingly, "you're awake now." After a moment, he reached for a corner of the sheet, wiped the perspiration from his face, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. She watched as he crossed the chamber, moving barefoot through the rushes so as not to awaken his squires, snoring on pallets by the hearth. When he returned to the bed with a wine flagon, she was touched to see that he'd remembered to bring a cup for her. No matter how much he was hurting, she thought sadly, his manners never failed him.
After Bran propped pillows behind his back, Juliana rolled over into his arms.
She knew better than to ask questions, for in the three years that they'd been sharing a bed, only once had he been able to share with her the dream, too.
But she had no need to hear it again. She could still recall each and every word he'd uttered, haunted by that one harrowing glimpse into the desolation, the guilt-ravaged depths of Bran's soul.
She knew that bad dreams came to all men, dreams of demon spirits, a dread of the unknown. But not for Bran such phantom fears and shadows. For him, reality was the nightmare. It was not enough, she thought bitterly, that he must live with the knowledge that he'd failed his father and brother when they'd needed him the most. No, the fates had decreed that he must also reach Evesham in time to see his father's head on a pike.
Her anger was unfocused, futile, for whom could she blame? She loved this man so very much, and yet that love was tearing her apart, for she could not help him. She could do naught but break her heart trying.
She knew Bran would not be able to sleep again; he never could after one of the Evesham dreams. She sought now to banish drowsiness, to keep him from dwelling upon his own dark thoughts. "Tell me more about Ellen's Welsh
Prince," she teased. "What does he look like? Is he handsome? Would I be smitten at sight of him?"
That coaxed a shadowy smile. "Well, I cannot say that he set my heart aflutter, but I suppose women find him pleasing enough to the eye. He is tall for a Welshman, and dark, of course. Ah, and he is cleanshaven, save for a mustache, after the Welsh fashion."
She leaned over, touched her lips to his cheek, for he, too, was dean-shaven.
Most men wore beards, but not Bran, for Simon had not.
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"Why do you think Llewelyn has never married? Passing strange, is it not?"
Bran shrugged. "In earlier years, I suspect he was too busy fighting his brothers for control of Gwynedd, then defending what he'd won against the
English Crown. I suppose he would eventually have taken a wife had he not been compelled to make peace with Davydd. Scrape away the gilt from Davydd's promises and you'll find naught but dross, t^welyn knew that as well as any man, knew he had to imprison Davydd for life or else make it worth his while to stay loyal. And so he offered to make Davydd his heir, which is either an act of sheer inspiration or one of utter desperation."
"Which do you think it is?"
He shrugged again. "You'd best ask Ellen that. When it comes to Wales, she is the family sage, not I." He drained his cup, set it down in the floor rushes.
"You called Llewelyn 'Ellen's Welsh Prince.' Was that a jest, Juliana? Or does
Ellen still harbor false hopes? She always did dote on those foolish romances, those minstrels' tales of love unrequited and eternal. Does she still see
Llewelyn as one of those gallant heroes, a Tristan or Lancelot?"
Juliana did not respond at once, pondering his query. She felt no conflict of loyalty between her lover and her friend, for she knew how much Bran loved
Ellen. She sometimes wished he loved his sister a little less, for she knew, too, that each time he looked at Ellen and his mother, he could not help thinking