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say, if anything.
    Rosalyn filled the gap. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Sir Simon. The last time we were together was at the feast of Ascension.”
    If it had been, Beresford did not recall it. A stiff silence threatened to wrinkle the air before Senlis smoothed it over with the bland comment, “I understand that Gwyneth comes to us from the north.”
    When no response was immediately forthcoming from Gwyneth, Beresford dared to look at her straight on, albeit cautiously. It was left to Rosalyn to supply the account of Gwyneth’s journey southward. For the next few moments, Rosalyn and Senlis bandied words, as if it were expected that they should carry the conversation.
    During this exchange, Beresford thought he had discovered the flaw in the jewel of his wife-to-be. He relaxed and broke into the banter with the blunt statement, “She is mute.”
    Rosalyn broke off, her pretty lips parted with a kind of scandalized delight. “Ah, but no, Sir Simon, she is not.”
    “I see. Does she lack Norman?” He looked down at Gwyneth and saw two spots of pink flushing her alabaster cheeks.
    “No,” Lady Rosalyn answered.
    “Is it English that she prefers?”
    “I must suppose that she does.”
    “Have you heard her speak in any language?”
    “Why, yes, of course.”
    “What, then?” he demanded abruptly. “Is she simple?”

Chapter Three
     
    Gwyneth’s anger cleared the constriction in her throat, although she almost choked on that healthy anger as she drew her breath to speak.
    “If I have said nothing thus far, sire,” she said in a low, clear voice, “it is because I have found that men—in particular husbands—are not partial to women’s chatter. In the present circumstance, I sought to please with silence over speech.”
    Senlis clapped a friendly hand on Beresford’s shoulder. “There, you see,” he remarked jovially, “she speaks! And very nicely, too!”
    “Yes, I speak,” Gwyneth said, looking first at Senlis then bravely at Beresford. Her heart quailed slightly at the sight of him, but she strove to keep her gaze steady. “Perhaps it will benefit you were I to tell you about myself, so that you will understand when I miss a phrase in Norman or fail to find the correct word.”
    “But, of course!” and “Please do!” Rosalyn and Senlis encouraged. Beresford grunted.
    “My father’s father was a Dane,” she explained, struggling against panic, “so I learned Danish very young, although I grew up speaking English. My late husband, Canute of Northumbria, and his men spoke English, as well, although it was mixed with Danish. The Normans have not conquered northern tongues as thoroughly as they have northern land, so I have learned your language mostly through tutors, but with little practical use. I pray you to excuse any errors I make.”
    She fell silent again, feeling breathless, nearly exhausted. She did not, however, lower her eyes, but kept them raised and alert.
    Rosalyn smiled. “That certainly explains the matter, does it not? Norman, Danish and English. Very versatile.”
    Gwyneth drew a painful breath. “Only necessary,” she said.
    Senlis glanced at Beresford. It seemed he needed to step in again to keep the conversation afloat. “You will not have much call for Danish at Stephen’s court, but you will find English of great use, especially in Simon’s household! Now, as for excusing your errors in Norman, my lady,” he said with a gallant bow, “I am afraid you have given us none to excuse!” He referred this point to Beresford. “Has she, Simon?”
    Beresford said nothing until Senlis’s elbow nudged him into biting off a brief “No.”
    Senlis smiled charmingly. “Our Beresford is given to silences just as you are, my lady,” he informed her affably, “and when he breaks silence, he is a plain-speaking man.”
    “So I have perceived,” she replied.
    “Which is, of course, what we all like best about him,” Rosalyn offered, insinuating her fingers