When the couple stood before her, the woman yanked on her arm.
“Bow,” she hissed.
“Magda, I see you’ve brought us quite a few new servants. Even pretty ones,” a woman’s lilting tones made Gressa look up. Standing so close, Gressa noticed the woman’s unblemished skin was like cream, her blue eyes were the hue of sapphires, and her hair was even darker than Gressa’s. The woman was beautiful in a way Gressa had never seen before. The woman turned to the man standing beside her, but they spoke in a language she did not recognize. When they finished speaking, the woman turned to Gressa. “What are you called?”
The two women relied on Magda to translate.
“Gressa.”
Gressa received an elbow in her still sore ribs.
“That’s ‘my lady’ to you. You’re in the presence of the prince and princess.” Gressa had not noticed her male captor now stood on her other side. She wondered why it would matter if the couple could not understand her.
“She is new to our land. Do not punish her. She will learn soon enough.” Gressa did not miss the edge that had crept into the princess’s voice, and Magda reinforced it as she murmured beside Gressa. When she glanced up, she noticed the princess was not looking at her but at her husband, who in turn, was staring at Gressa will unmistakable lust.
The woman pushed her down the board until she stepped on a wooden dock. Gressa stumbled off the ship, her leg and back wounds still causing excruciating pain that she attempted to hide. As she stepped foot on the dock, the world began to close in as her periphery turned black. She swayed and tried to take a deep breath, but the world tilted. She managed two steps towards the royal couple before the harbor and people faded to black.
Gressa remained ill will a raging fever for a fortnight, and it was another six weeks before she was on her feet and able to walk more than the distance across her chamber. During that time, she learned as much Welsh as she could, wanting to understand what happened around her and what people said about her. Gressa’s first meal in the prince and princess’s great hall was exhausting. Walking to the hall and the noise were tiring to her body, but the attempts to be polite when people stared at her, along with not understanding the all of the language, frazzled her nerves. She was glad to escape. The prince’s covetous looks made the entire experience one she wanted to avoid for as long as possible.
Gressa intended to stay as far from the royal couple as she could, but it was only a fortnight later that the prince summoned her to his private chambers. It filled Gressa with trepidation entering the room that held an enormous bed, and the only other occupant was the prince.
“Gressa, it pleases me that you came so quickly.” The prince, Dafydd ap Llywelyn, was a handsome man in his early twenties. Gressa had already learned that he purported to love his wife, but she was pregnant and would not welcome him into her bed. “As you can imagine, I have been lonely these past weeks with Princess Enfys being unable to keep me company.”
Gressa stepped back against the door. She wanted nothing to do with the man, nor any other man, but she feared what her rejection would mean for her safety.
“I sympathize with the princess and how unwell she feels. I suffer the same malady each morning, and even well into the afternoon.” Gressa had not told another soul that she was expecting, having only had it confirmed by a midwife that morning. She had been feeling ill for weeks but assumed it was her injuries. As her body recovered, she could not explain why she felt weak and nauseous until she counted back to the last time she had her courses. It had been before she married Strian. Now, she prayed it would be enough to discourage the prince. She watched his expression as it passed from surprise, to disgust, to anger. She slid her palm onto the door handle in case she had to run.
“And who would be the lucky father? You have not been here very long. How could you know already?” Dafydd sneered.
“The father is my husband.” Gressa did not want to give him more information, and she was not sure how much information would keep her safe.
“Husband? You never mentioned you were married.”
“I was never asked.” She watched the anger on his face grow and added, “Your Highness.”
“And where would this husband of yours be? Did he not protect you from becoming a thrall? That doesn’t seem like much of a husband to me.”
Gressa’s mind raced as she tried to devise a way to escape without infuriating the prince further. She was beginning to see a temper that truly frightened her. Even her father’s ranting and raging did not convey such a danger.
“My husband searched for me, but I was too weak to call out to him. He fought our jarl and other men, but they outnumbered him.”
“That seems a weak excuse. If he loved you, he would not have given in so easily.”
Gressa recognized the manipulation for what it was. Dafydd wanted to sow the seeds of doubt, so he could undoubtedly be the one to come to her rescue. She just prayed it was Strian who came instead.
Dafydd inched forward as though he were approaching a skittish mare. He offered her a smile that others might believe was sincere and charming, but the hardness in his eyes put Gressa on edge even more. The nervousness made her stomach churn, and in turn, made her feel nauseous. Her hand covered her mouth as she tried to choke down the bile rising in her throat. The burn only made her body want to cast up her accounts even more. She tried to shake her head as the prince continued to inch forward.
“Your Highness, I’m not feeling---” Gressa could not squeeze out any more words before she darted to the chamber pot and threw up.
“Woman!” The prince’s enraged face only made Gressa heave for a second time. “Get out! Do not show yourself again in my presence.”
Gressa wiped her mouth with her sleeve and bolted for the door the prince now held open. She did not stop running until she reached the tiny chamber they had assigned her. Once there, she breathed a sigh of relief that she had thwarted the prince’s attention. For now.
“Gressa. Gressa.” Strian watched the faraway look in Gressa’s eyes as she faced the altar where Bjorn and Tyra had been standing only moments ago as they pledged their love and fidelity. “Gressa?”
Strian gave her a little nudge and was grateful that she looked at him, even if her eyes were misty.
“What’s wrong?” Strian whispered.
