A low hum rumbled around the great hall as Aeron, daughter of Mervyn, Prince of the Three Mountains, took her seat on the right side of the oak throne at the centre of the dais. Above her, the blackened beams of the great hall rose, and firebrands fixed to the square-cut stone spluttered. Their acrid smoke mingled with the sweet smell of the fresh rushes underfoot and their flames threw shadows across the nobles gathered below. Despite the spring sunlight streaming in through the upper windows, the air in the Ancestral Hall pressed in on her.

Although the blood pounded in her ears, Aeron carefully arranged the green woollen skirt around her legs and smiled calmly at the assembly as she waited.

Chattering voices announced the arrival of Sian, her father's wife. She bustled in surrounded by her women. She smiled regally as she progressed down the hall, but her sharp eyes noted who rushed forward to give her homage.

Not for the first time, Aeron cursed her misfortune.

Why couldn't Bryn have stayed on his horse?

She didn't mourn her brother. How could she? She'd hardly known him. In the nine years since she'd left court, her brother had become a stranger. But his death had brought her home.

Sian's eyes narrowed and her mouth gathered into a tight purse as she studied her stepdaughter. Her gaze lingered on the fabric stretched across Aeron's breasts and then travelled down.

Sian settled herself on the chair, waved her attendants away with a flick of her hand and smoothed the rich, Arabian silk over her knees. Its bright colours swirled in the fresh straw at her feet. She studied Aeron again.

"You look more like the village wet nurse than a princess. Your waist is slim enough. But those hips! No doubt you could birth twins together through them," she said.

Aeron regarded her stepmother coolly. "As it is the duty of a prince's wife to produce healthy sons either singly or together, I would have thought my hips are to my credit."

She let her gaze rest on Sian's flat stomach that had never swollen to accommodate a growing child.

Sian winced and then sent Aeron a chilling smile that reached no further than her sharp cheeks. "To be sure. Therefore it is passing strange with such attributes," she swept her eyes up and down Aeron again, "that you never gave Llewellyn of Pen Bryn a child. Although he had five sons by his first wife."

Two patches of red splashed onto Aeron's cheeks and she forced her fingers to stay unfurled on her lap.

"Let us pray that God blesses your new marriage and gives you the pleasure of bearing a son for Alun ap Dylan," Sian added.

Aeron tucked a stray lock of raven-black hair under her veil carefully. "I am not betrothed to him yet, and all know of your interest in Alun ap Dylan's pleasure."

As if he knew they spoke about him, Alun stepped onto the dais and bowed low to greet Sian.

"Welcome, Alun ap Dylan," she said as she held out her hand for him to kiss.

"May I say how handsome you look today, my princess," Alun replied, his light brown hair flopping forward.

Sian turned to Aeron. "I doubt you remember Aeron, she was only a child when you last saw her, my lord, and is scarcely more than that now."

Alun's gaze ran slowly over Aeron and settled on the swell of her breasts. He raised a well-manicured hand to his mouth and smoothed back his moustache. "I am afraid I must disagree. My dear cousin Aeron is certainly no longer a child."

Aeron maintained her polite smile. She had not seen Alun for fifteen years but she remembered him well. He was older and the well-constructed face now wore a friendly, open look, but his grey eyes still had a chill in them.

Alun took hold of Aeron's hand. "Dear cousin, I trust you are fully rested from your journey. The princess tells me you were out of sorts when you arrived yesterday."

"It's hardly surprising I am not quite myself. I am recently widowed and shocked at the great change in my father."

"We all grieve. My father and I have taken as much of the burden off our Prince's weary shoulders as we can…out of consideration and our love for him." Alun shook his head slowly. "Poor Bryn. So young, so young." He flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. "You too are young, my dear, for a widow. How many years have you now?"

"Twenty-three."

"When we are wed-"

"My father has yet to choose his successor and my husband. Do not count your hens until they are safe in the roost, Lord Alun."

Rage flashed briefly across Alun's face. Fifteen years ago, she would have felt his hand heavy on her for such a remark, but now he seemed to have mastered his temper, in public at least.