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of all they'd lost, lost because of him. And neither Nell nor Ellen nor Juliana had been able to convince him otherwise. Indeed, it seemed to
Juliana that the less they blamed him, the more he then blamed himself. Amaury de Montfort had once told her of a powder made from the opium poppy, a strange powder that men craved more than food or money or women. Juliana occasionally found herself wondering if grieving, too, could possess a man's soul, become a habit impossible to break.
"Juliana?"
"No, I think not, beloved. Oh, I grant you that Ellen did spin fantasies once, pretend Llewelyn would one day send for her, honor the plight troth. She had to have hope, something in which to believe. But you're talking now of a woman grown, not a lass of thirteen. I think she will always take an interest in
Llewelyn and in Wales, but no more than that. You need not fear for her, Bran.
Our Ellen was never a fool, and she is no longer a starry-eyed child."
Bran's relief was obvious. "Last year, when she balked at Guy's offer to find a husband for her, I feared she might be deluding herself about Llewelyn."
Juliana felt no compunctions at breaking a confidence, for she was
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sure Ellen would want Bran to know; Ellen would do almost anything to give ner brother peace of mind. "Her reluctance had naught to do with Llewelyn. It was partly because she did not want to leave your mother, not so soon after
Richard's death. And partly because she was loath to live in Italy."
Bran showed neither surprise nor indignation, although women were rarely given a say as to whom they were to marry. He had, in the anguished aftermath of
Evesham, promised Ellen upon the surety of his soul that he would never allow her to be wed against her will. "Well, now that Guy's prospects are bright enough to blind, we ought to be able to do better than an Italian alliance.
I'll talk to Guy."
"Bran . . . how long can you stay this time?"
He gave her a sideways look, alerting her that his answer would not be to her liking. "Two more days," he said reluctantly, and then, "Ah, sweetheart, do not look like that! I cannot help it, in truth. I promised Guy I'd be back by the first week in March. Philippe and Charles have abandoned the Crusade, are on their way home. Guy thinks we ought to be on hand when they reach Tuscany."
Juliana bit back her disappointment; she was wise enough to realize that Bran would shy away as soon as she began to make demands. She smiled, said with forced cheer, " 'Philippe and Charles.' I presume you mean the King of France and his uncle, the King of Sicily?"
"Who else?" He sounded faintly bemused, and she hid a smile. To Bran, it was perfectly natural to refer to those powerful monarchs by their Christian names, and he could never understand why the familiarity sounded so strange to her ears. But then, he was the grandson and nephew of kings, not likely to be over-awed by crowns or the men who wore them. She sighed at that. How different were their worlds and how distant, for all that she lay within the circle of his arms, legs entwined, so close she could feel his breath upon her breast.
Having emptied his own cup, Bran now reached over to share hers. "I'll be back soon," he murmured, "mayhap even by Whitsuntide," sealing his promise with a lingering, wine-flavored kiss.
She nodded, knowing he would if at all possible. She doubted that he truly felt at home anywhere after Evesham, but for certes, not in
"afy, for there he was starved for sun, stunted and chilled in his brother's spreading shadow. Raising up, she kissed the pulse in his throat. So
°ften had she heard Ellen's childhood stories that she sometimes felt as she'd lived them herself. It had always been Harry and Bran, Bran and Harry, two halves to the same coin. They might have been twins, so closely attuned were they to each other's moods; it was a family joke at if Harry were cut, Bran would bleed. It was not surprising that Guy come to resent a comradeship so intense, so exclusive.