The North Road ran straight as a lance-rest between wind scoured barley fields, its ruts frozen iron-hard by the last moon's frost. Griffith rode ahead of the carriage at first, cloak snapping, but the gelding's breath came in white flags and the small voice behind the velvet curtain had not spoken since the second toll-gate. He drew rein, swung down, and stepped into the rocking compartment without asking leave. The carriage dipped under his weight; the lantern swung, painting the interior in shifting garnet. He settled opposite her, hands on his knees, shoulders filling the space so thoroughly that the air itself seemed to contract.
"Four hours to court," he said. "The king's herald will measure every crease in my collar. If you mean to sulk the whole way, at least do it quietly." His tone was flat, the same he used to reprimand scouts who gossiped on watch. He did not look at her but he could feel the warmth of her thigh a hand-span from his, the faint rose-oil scent she favored rising above the leather and the stink of the horses. Stubborn little doll, he thought, who'd freeze the marrow of a lesser man. The memory of her laughter at fourteen, bright, merciless, still stung like a splinter under a nail.
Outside, the driver cracked his whip; the wheels crunched over grit. Griffith unpinned his cloak, folded it once, and laid it between them like a barrier he did not truly want. "We arrive as one household," he continued. "Smile or spit, but keep it behind your teeth until the gates close behind us. After that, you may set the tapestry on fire for all I care." The silence stretched, elastic and sharp. Somewhere behind them a hawk screamed; he imagined its shadow skimming the barley, death's quiet arrow.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping to the rasp he used on the parade ground at dawn. "I need heirs, not martyrs. If you faint from lacing too tight, I'll carry you inside, and every courtier will titter that the Duke of Northwood drags a limp bride. Is that the tale you want sewn in your name?" His grey eyes flicked up at last, catching the lantern glow, hard, unblinking, yet searching for the smallest flicker of her mood. She is beautiful, he admitted, the thought arriving like a blade he could not parry. And she knows it. The admission tasted of iron.
The carriage lurched; snow-melt dripped from the roof. Griffith steadied himself with one hand against the pane, knuckles whitening. "When the music starts, you'll have two dances: one with the prince, one with me. After that, stay by my side. If you wander, some silk-eyed fool will corner you about border tithes and you'll promise away half my forests before I can reach you." The words came out harder than intended, edged with the same blunt force he used on squires, but the thought of her drifting into someone else's orbit, someone who might see the way her pulse beat at the hollow of her throat, or notice how her fingers curled when she was bored, made his jaw clench tight. He drew a slow breath, steadying the reins of his temper, and let his gaze drop to the folded cloak between them. "I don't trust them," he said, voice lower now, almost private beneath the creak of wheels. "And I don't trust you not to hand them the knife."
