exasperation.
“And what of the northern road?” asked Ealdorman Gruffudd Barciau.
Bronwen tilted her bowl forward to scoop a small bit of broth into her spoon as she waited for Rhodri to answer.
He merely lifted the goblet to his lips. His boredom stained his face just as the wine stained his lips.
“Your Highness?”
Rhodri nodded, but he did not speak and instead took another sip of wine.
“Do we have Your Highness’ permission to garrison the shires in the northern ealdormanry?”
Another advisor spoke up. “Could that not provoke—?”
“And if it does?” shot back the king.
The venom in his voice was palpable, as Bronwen had grown accustomed to hearing from men too scared to show their fear. Their rage failing to hide the quiver of a boy hiding behind his nursemaid’s skirts.
Bronwen placed a hand on her stomach, round and plump with child. She did not remember a time when her husband had uttered even the simplest of kind words to her. Even as she carried his child within her, he did not seem to pay her any mind at all.
Rhodri was speaking, but his words held no weight. He babbled on about war and the death of his people with the same lightness one would speak of an annoyance of rain or a chill in the air. Yet, Bronwen knew, it was not a malicious uncaring tone. Rhodri spoke as though he did not hear his own words. He spoke as though his very breath could give out under the strain of putting sound to them.
She thought back to her short time as Alric’s wife, and was astonished to find herself longing for his kind presence in the room. While she did not love him as he loved her, never did she feel neglected. Instead, Alric danced on her every word and sought only to see her happiness. Why had she despised being married to him so? She no longer remembered. All she remembered was how fiercely her passion for Rhodri had burned. But passion soon ebbed as the days of winter grew shorter and darker.
It was not that Rhodri was cruel to her. She had whatever she desired: fine linens and silks, jewels, gold—everything but the kindness of his voice. He could not be bothered to give her a smile or even something as quaint as the turn of the corner of his lip in amusement. Emotions seemed just out of his grasp, fuzzy shapes in the distance just beyond the reach of his fingertips.
She looked at him, her thoughts drowning out the sound of his voice. She watched as the soft stubble of his unkempt face caught on the top of his lip as he spoke. She loved him. Despite all of it, she still loved him.
“If you will excuse me, my lord husband, I will take my leave from your table.” Bronwen stood, ignoring the stunned faces of the council who believed a woman should not interrupt their arguments. “Talk such as this is for men, and I have grown tired.”
Rhodri gave her a quick nod before he returned to the conversation, and she left the hall.
She did not know why she had chosen to join him this night. Perhaps she had grown tired of taking her meals alone in her quarters. Now, she longed to sit in the warmth of her bedroom in front of the roaring fire. Her feet ached and her back felt as though she had slept beneath a stampede of stallions.
Her legs were still unaccustomed to the added weight of her womb, something she took notice of as she lumbered her way up the central staircase to the second floor.
The room was warm and cheery with the fire burning brightly. The heavy tapestries which covered the window had been pulled back, per her orders. While she enjoyed the warmth of the hearth, she still had hot spells, and the room grew far too closed for her liking. The fresh winter air was a blessing in all but the deadest night.
“Are you well?” Mara asked as she carried a warm pitcher of water into the room. “I heard you left the hall. Did you wish to sup alone?”
“I could not bear to listen to them argue politics any longer.” Bronwen turned to face her.
“You have always enjoyed