Chapter 9

The Opening

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S he could not stop it. She could only command her legs to move, move quickly, do not make a sound, do not let him hear the awful racking sobs that had begun in the first breath after she had convulsed in release beneath him.

It was appalling. She stopped at the seat beside the window and shoved a pillow hard against her mouth and was stunned to find she could not control it. It was outside all her experience of herself. She was no stranger to weeping, had known tears enough for a lifetime – but this was something more, something that terrified her. Frantic, she pulled her heavy robe over nakedness, biting her lips together in an attempt to contain the sounds that leapt from her throat. If he heard her sobbing, he would come to her. He would comfort her and ask why she wept and she had no answer. She only had her mortification and horrible, uncontrollable, inexplicable sobs.

In the lamplight she saw her thick slippers and did not pause to put them on. She only picked them up, transferred them into the fist that still held the cushion pressed to her mouth. With her other hand, she took up the lamp and left their rooms, desperate to be somewhere he would not follow. She must not see him until she had some control, or until she could understand why the sobs would not stop.

She stumbled down the hall, down the stairs, no idea where she might find any corner where she could be alone until she was outside a little chapel. It was the queen's small chapel, where she and her ladies said their prayers when they did not wish to trudge through the cold air to the larger church. It looked at a glance to be empty.

Eluned left the lamp just inside the door and retreated to the darkest corner, her arm braced against the wall. There she hunched over herself, a curl of misery around some wound that left her weak and gasping. There was no stopping the sobs, so she no longer tried. She wept and wept, muffling the grief in the pillow, a storm of anger and sadness that ripped through her and left her confused and helpless and humiliated.

It was like any other storm; she must wait for it to pass. But it lasted so long that after a while she sat herself down on the floor and pulled the slippers over her numb toes, buried her face against her knees and soaked the heavy robe with her tears. At last, when her face was swollen and her throat parched with thirst, the tears slowed to a trickle and she tried to make sense of it.

Robin , she thought, my Robin . There was no reason for her to weep. It had felt like a miracle, his skin hot against hers, the feel of him moving in her, every inch of her awake and exulting. He touched her, and she felt like a song being sung. Impossible as it was, it had truly been her – her body, her heart – transformed into something sublime. He could make her into that. How stupid she was, that she had believed it would only be a comfort. A little tenderness, perhaps a little excitement. Not the same wild, pagan pleasure of their youth. She would never have suspected it could be that. She wanted it again, now – his mouth on hers, his arms around her. But even as she thought it, the hot tears slipped down her face anew.

It softened everything in her, to think of him. Better to think of something with no soft edges.

Poison , she told herself. An accident. The blade . But that pulled a fresh sob from her, so she pressed her hand to her mouth and drew slow and steadying breaths. She no longer knew herself.

Full of fire, he had said. Cold and calculating, daring and bold. Alive. He remembered her. He knew her. And still he looked at her with love. Still he wanted to lie next to her in the night.

The tears had stopped. She put her hand to the wall and found a niche there, a statue of some saint inside. She levered herself up by its toes, then retrieved the lamp. There was oil enough inside it for a few hours, at least. There were woven rush mats on the floor of the chapel, a beautifully embroidered cushion meant for kneeling, and little else. She picked up the cushion, taking it back to her dark corner. In the quiet here, now that the tears had subsided, she would calm herself. Lamp in hand, she saw that the statue in the niche was of the Madonna. It was carved from wood and looked at her with sweet, forgiving eyes.

For a moment, she was back in the chapel at Ruardean, laying prostrate on the stone floor through the night while her husband described the evil spirits that tried to steal her soul and drag her to Hell. She could hear his voice even now, promising he would save her from them.

"Too late," she said softly to the Madonna, to Walter's memory. "They have got me, in the end."

Spots of pain appeared along her jawline, the size and shape of his fingertips pressing into her flesh. The old anger was a distant throb, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. Years of her life, the shape of her soul, all formed by those few hours. Deception and trickery, heartless strategizing, hard choices that had made her hard. She did not think Robert could fool himself into admiring her still, if he could have seen her through those years.

But he did love her, and she felt it like a pain all through her. Within a fortnight, she could be assured that Mortimer had returned the hostage safe home. Ten days, say. At the Epiphany, the boy would be safe home and she could act against Mortimer. She could have those ten days with Robert, loving him as freely as she had always wanted. But it would be ten days spent hiding the ruinous hatred that lived in her, and hiding what she planned to do. She contemplated it for the barest instant.

No. She could not do it. It would be too much like that time with Walter, manipulating him into her bed, giving her body while hiding her heart. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed at the tickle of phantom tears that had once dripped into her ears. Even the memory of it made her feel foul and loathsome. That had been done out of necessity, because she must do it to survive. There was no such need with Robert.

And more than that: she loved him too well to let him bed a lying murderess.

She sat under the watchful eyes of the Madonna until the dim light of sunrise began to filter in. Her tears were spent. Her fingers ached with cold. She pressed her hands to her body beneath the robe for warmth and when they were thawed, she could feel the brush of Robert's hair against her palms. It was silky, soft as a baby's – a detail she had forgotten.

But she could also feel cold flesh. She could feel her uncle's lifeless hand in hers, and Madog's. She wished she could forget the feel of them. She wished it. But she could not.

I f she did not need to dress, she would have delayed returning to their rooms. But she was too acutely aware of her nakedness beneath the robe, the unrelenting chill in the air, and the sounds of the household waking. She was relieved, upon entering, to see that the servants were already stoking the fire and setting out food and drink. She was not ready to face him alone.

Robert stood at the window, holding open the tapestry to look outside and letting in a flow of frigid air. He did not turn, even when he heard the servants greet her.

"Nay, leave the water on the fire," Eluned said to the girl who had hurried to pour it out for her. It was her habit to wash in the morning, and she felt the need of it more acutely than ever. Under the robe, she smelled of him. Of them together. But she would wait until she might do it discreetly. "I will wear the velvet gown, the yellow."

The girl went to the inner bedroom to fetch the clothes. Eluned reached for the linen square near the basin, dipped the edge of it into the water over the fire, and wiped her face free of tear stains while his back was still turned. Then she took up the cup and drank honeyed water down in gulps, easing the burning dryness in her throat. She gripped the goblet and stared at the fire.

"My lady." The servant emerged from the bedroom, holding the yellow gown. She wore a troubled look. "I do not find your shift."

The heat had only begun to creep up her neck when Robert turned. His look pinned her, forbidding her to move as he came to stand before her. It was a more commanding look than she had ever seen from him, and it sent an incongruent surge of strongest lust through her belly. She turned her eyes down to hide it from him, and saw that he held something out to her. It was only a ball of fabric clutched in his fist, but she knew it was her shift by the button he held between his thumb and forefinger. The griffin etched into its surface seemed to mock her.

"Leave us." The girls seemed to hesitate at his command, looking to Eluned for confirmation. She opened her mouth, but he spoke before she could, loud and firm. "Go. Now."

The girls hurried out and left them alone, but she did not raise her eyes to his. She could not look away from her shift in his hand. She waited for him to say whatever he would say, fearing her mind was not quick enough to answer him well. But he said nothing, and the silence spun out between them. When she could no longer bear it, she took a deep and bracing breath and spoke.

"You were looking to the sky." She gestured faintly toward the window where he had stood, where last night he had kissed her. "Do you ponder some great question?"

"I was watching Kit depart. He journeys to his home today."

"Oh," was her witless reply.

She had meant to be distant and cool, but he was in command of the moment. She looked at his fingers gripping the linen, curled and motionless, and tried not to think of how different her body must have felt to him. Soft with age, a sagging imitation of the body he would have remembered. His was more solid, harder with muscle, and she should not be thinking of it. His friend – they were speaking of his friend, who went to retrieve his son.

"Fortune is with him," she said, "that the snows have been so light. But it will be a bitter cold journey." Robert stayed silent. She swallowed. "You did not go into the yard to bid him farewell."

"I waited here. For you."

She heard accusation beneath the words, and knew she should choose her response carefully. There were ways to manage men, to placate and cajole and distract – yet she had no wish to manage him. She could not bring herself to maneuver and gently deceive, not with him. Shrewd thinking was well out of her reach in any case, so she could only speak plainly.

"And here I am." She summoned her courage and met his eyes. There were shadows beneath them. "What would you have me say?"

There was a long moment in which he looked at her, considering. She felt a stab of apprehension about what he might see in her, and stiffened her spine, gripped her hands together.

"Why did you end what was between us, those many years ago?"

She blinked. "Why...why I ended it?"

"Why that moment, what prompted it?"

Caught off guard, she only stared at him. It confounded her, that he would demand an explanation of her actions eighteen years ago and not for last night. But she could see he was in earnest, impatient for an answer.

"I told you then, why we–"

"You said only that it was impossible."

"It could not last, we both knew–"

"Damn you, forget what we knew." His hands were on her shoulders now, his breath hot on her face. "Tell me what happened that I must swear never to come near you again, that you would not come away with me, tell me why ."

There was pain in her shoulders from his hard grip, and tension in her neck from straining away from his vehemence. Everything in her had gone still in reaction to it, even her breath. It woke her from her bewilderment, made it easier to issue a freezing command. "Release me," she said through clenched teeth, "and I will tell you."

He eased away from her. One step back and his hands fell in fists to his sides as he waited for her to answer him. She clung to the little anger that had granted her the icy calm, but it was already slipping away. She had too near an understanding of madness to think him beyond his senses, and too clear a view of his nature to believe he would want to frighten her, or hurt her.

"Walter suspected me," she said shortly. "A servant spoke careless words. He never knew your name, nor did I wish him to learn it and so I knew it must end between us."

His thumb passed over the button – the ugly, lumpy, long-forgotten button from a shoe she had never worn again – and she knew from the way he traced the edge of it with his nail that he had done so over the years a thousand times, a hundred thousand, a million. She turned her face away and looked instead at the gown that the girl had set on a chair. The golden velvet seemed to catch all the morning light. Her eyes ached with the glow of it.

"Did he hurt you, Eluned?"

She did not know how to answer the gentle question, but found she had begun to shake her head in denial nonetheless. She stopped, and frowned. "No. Yes. I...you have heard he was mad?"

"I heard the rumors later."

"That was the beginning of it. The Church did not name him holy, nor did they wish to name him heretic. He did not preach nor seek followers, so they took pity on him." She smiled a little wryly, remembering Brother Dominic's letters. "Aloud, they called it fervent belief, and in whispers they said it was a kind of madness."

She heard Robert draw a breath, and knew what he would ask. She raised a hand to forestall it. "He believed my soul in great danger, and he must watch over me every instant. I knew it must end between us, that it should never have begun. So I banished you from my life." She stroked a finger across the velvet, against the nap, then again to smooth it over. "I tell you, it was not lightly done."

He came toward her, a hesitant step that brought him near enough for her to hear the soft sigh he gave.

"You made the choice for both of us, then," he said with a disapproval she could not miss, "to protect me from him."

She swung around so swiftly that she nearly collided with him. She stepped back a pace to accommodate her outthrust chin. "Gwenllian," she said too loudly. "My daughter, to protect her. Aye, and you – and me, and all my family. Think you that it could have been any different if you had known?"

He looked at her, his dark gaze passing over her face. "Nay. Even had I known, you would have decided it the same. And I would have been even more lovesick and full of vain hope for all these years." He dropped the shift finally, and it came to rest atop the golden gown. He looked at it now, and she could not read his expression. "Yet you might have come away with me, if you did not love your place here so well."

This was too much. "My place here? At Walter's side?" She did not hide her scorn. "You forget I risked it every moment I was with you."

"And you forget that I know you, Eluned. Even then, you wielded what power your marriage gave you with relish. You were born to it. You had great dreams, and no small ambitions." He gave a rueful smile. "I have only ever wanted you, but you wanted all the world."

For a wild moment she looked about for something to smash, so forceful was the anger that swept over her. But it dissolved when she saw in his face that this was not accusation at all. It was only the story he had told himself for so long. It was what he believed of her nature, and his own. She swallowed, grasping at calm reason amidst her indignation.

"Do you say you have only ever wanted me?" she challenged. "Oh, verily. That is why you bought the lands from Aaron and improved them, and why you stayed to the bitter end at Kenilworth. That is why you have toiled for years to increase the value of your French estate, to build your wealth through the vineyards. That is how you preserved the Aquitaine from Spaniards, how you have made yourself a favorite of the king and even now will gain a Marcher lordship. Through your lack of ambition ."

After a moment his mouth quirked in a familiar half-smile, the one designed to deflect suspicion that he cared for anything at all. "Most of it was done in defiance of my father."

"Then call it your greatest ambition, to displease your father by making a great man of yourself. Only do not say that I am the only one with ambitions that kept us apart."

She turned away, regretting that she had said those last words. It did not matter now, her own vain hopes so long ago. It did not matter that she had grown sick as she waited for him when Walter went off on Crusade. She had indulged foolish dreams for months, knowing he would hear of it – and then more months, sure he had heard of Walter's madness – until she finally understood that Robert would not return to her. He had made a new life for himself, and she had forbidden him to come to her in any case.

That was when she had truly put away the last of her love. She did not fault him for it, then or now. If there had been no kind of respectable life for her with him in France, there had been even less for him as her lover in England. But it had hurt, and she had felt like such a fool for expecting him to run to her side at the first opportunity, so many years later. She had almost forgotten that time, and would be happy never to think of it again. But by Mary, let him not pretend that he had done naught but sit in France pining for her.

"No matter," she said quickly. "It is past. It is all the past, and I will not relive it. Any of it. I will not ."

Her eyes fell on the psalter, still resting on the seat beneath the window. In the silence she stared at it, and the light that sparked off the jeweled cover seemed to mock her. Even as she declared the past dead, she could hear her uncle telling her that the little ruby on it was plucked from the crown of the Queen of Heaven, and Brother Adda gently chiding him for teasing her.

She put a hand to the bared stone wall between the tapestries to feel the steadying cold against her palm. This was not why she had come here, to lose herself in love, to resurrect all the old feelings and sort through them. She had one purpose only, one duty left to her. She must choose carefully what she dared to desire, and the desire for revenge on Mortimer was sharp, strong, uncomplicated. It did not cause her to weep the night through.

Suddenly Robert's step was behind her, quick and purposeful, and she turned to find he was headed to the door. He opened it, calling to one of his men, a member of his household guard.

"Go you and find the hunting party that leaves this morning," he instructed the man. "Tell them I will join them directly. Then let young Henry prepare my mount and weapons." Robert turned back into the room and, without looking at her, walked into the bedroom.

She watched him open a trunk, pull out a cloth bag, and begin to gather clothes into it. He did it all in silence but not in anger. He only looked weary. When he finished and swept his cloak across his shoulders, he paused at the threshold of the door to look back at her.

"There are wolves near the village, and Edward would have them hunted."

She nodded and searched the silence for something to say. "God grant you will find them soon, in this cold." He did not move, nor speak, and she could not help herself asking, "You will return this evening?"

"I cannot say. It is not likely," he said, and she bit her lips against protesting the danger of it.

She should be relieved. In his absence, she could lay her plans and prepare. With luck he might even be gone until the Epiphany. Her tongue would not move to bid him farewell.

"All night I have lain awake in an empty bed, with only this to dwell upon. Whatever your reasons in the past, I cannot escape the truth that if you wanted me now there is naught to stop you having me. Yet you shun me, and flee our bed, and stand there stiff in every limb. I will live no longer in hope and dread, Eluned."

She opened her mouth, but could say nothing. She could only hear his words echoing endlessly inside her head. Hope and dread. They were such living things. How long does love live on , she had wondered, if left unfed? Here was her answer.

It was better this way. For him, for her. She was sure it must be better.

"If I have made a great man of myself, it is because I knew you then." His mouth tried to form that half-smile, but failed. He abandoned his well-worn irony and all his charm, and spoke so plainly that it caused a burning in her throat. "To love you was the making of me. But now it is only my undoing."

He left, and she stood there – stiff in every limb, just as he said – staring at the spot where he had been. She stayed there for so long that when Joan came to find her, the noon bells were tolling.

I t was easier, when he was gone. There was no distraction, and she could give herself entirely to her purpose. Aside from the first night of his absence, when she had made the mistake of trying to sleep in the bed she had shared with him, she felt only an increased detachment. When the hunting party had been out for five days, Isabella Mortimer came into the hall, brushing snow from her cloak and saying they had sent word of their success and would soon return.

"I would guess from the messenger's words that they could have had it done in three days," mused Isabella as she warmed her hands by the fire. "But it is the season for diversions, and they would prolong their sport."

Roger Mortimer had joined the party, a fact that had threatened Eluned's pleasant detachment when she learned of it. But she had wasted no time in taking advantage of his absence. Isabella spoke freely of his tendencies and habits, giving Eluned a fine idea of the best way to strike at him. She even thought his sister would not mourn him much, so plainly did his debauchery disgust her.

She watched now as Isabella Mortimer's eyes strayed discreetly to the musicians who played a sweet chanson . The handsome man whom Kit had named Robert de Hastang stood there looking toward them. Eluned was sure he had the musicians play the song only for Isabella, who had become much better at hiding her feelings over the last weeks. Indeed, had Eluned not seen her blush weeks ago, she would never guess that there was anything between these two.

"The entire party will return tomorrow, then?" she asked Isabella, who nodded.

That would leave four days and nights until the Epiphany. She wondered if Robert would return to their bed or stay away from their rooms altogether. Whatever he might choose, she would contrive to avoid him. The court gossips had little interest in their doings, she had found, being far more entertained by the many Twelvetide diversions. So long as she and Robert gave no other reason for tongues to wag, they need not share their nights together. He plainly wanted the distance between them now. Now and forever , she reminded herself.

She steered the conversation with Isabella in such a way that she could confirm Kit Manton's son was undoubtedly released and on course to be home within days. Then she excused herself to seek the serving girl at whom Roger Mortimer had leered for weeks. The girl had done her best to stay in the kitchens, but ventured out more in these last few days because she knew he was gone on the hunt. Eluned had first approached her as she drew water from the well two days ago. The girl had nearly jumped out of her skin when Eluned had come near, only to relax in clear relief when she saw it was not Roger Mortimer sneaking up on her.

Now Eluned found her in the buttery with a few other kitchen servants.

"The men return from the hunt tomorrow and I will have them served a certain mead from my own stores, to congratulate their success," she said with a calculated brusqueness. "I would put it direct into your hand so you may be sure to serve it. Do you understand, girl?"

She was called Nan, and her large blue eyes turned up to look directly into Eluned's for a single swift moment of understanding before she cast down her look and said, "Yes, lady. Will you bring the bottle here?"

Eluned wondered what the young girl's life must have been like already, to be so skilled in necessary deception. No one observing her would guess she had ever spoken to Eluned without fear, or that she had expected this request. Her timid deference made it easy for Eluned to play the great lady.

To that end, she gave a little scoffing sound and smoothed the fur trim of her cuffs with an idle air. "You will come to my rooms after this evening's meal. And if you leave the hour so late as to wake me, I will find another who will be happy to have the task."

Nan bobbed her head and was still murmuring her promise to be there when Eluned swept out and made her way to her rooms. Once there, she arranged the small table and chair near the fire to keep her fingers warm as she wrote. The letter was already half-written, but she had put aside the task until she could be sure Joan would see her at it. She wrote slowly, saying a silent word of thanks to her uncle for ensuring she had been taught to write as well as read. He was the one who had told her not to disdain the work, for if she learned it then she need not trust a scribe or cleric with her words.

But for Mortimer, our Prince would yet live , she wrote. I vow on my life I will not let him be rewarded with half of Wales. She had spent days choosing the words. They must implicate her without being an outright declaration of guilt. They must put others beyond reach of suspicion. My son is loyal as a hound to Edward, she was careful to include. My husband even more so .

Joan entered in the hour before the evening meal, as she always did, to ask if Eluned would eat in the hall or remain in her rooms.

"In the hall, I think, but I will not stay long. I grow weary of these courtiers." She paused in her writing to look up at Joan. "You will be married to Sir Heward when you are returned to Ruardean in the spring. I have spoken of it to my son and, do your parents give their consent, there is naught to prevent it."

Joan blushed and smiled. "My father has raised no objection, my lady."

Good. That was one more thing done. "Let us hope he likes the marriage contract equally well. I have looked over it and think I could do no better for my own daughter."

She waved off Joan's thanks and reached for the ivory box that she had set on the table. It was a pretty thing, one of her few possessions that came from a mother she had barely known. Inside was a lock of her mother's hair and a little blue flower, pressed and dried, and other small keepsakes that meant nothing to anyone but Eluned. Yet anyone near her for all her life knew that she always kept it close, and it was always locked. She took the key to it, opened it and dropped the letter inside, glad to note that Joan's eyes followed her actions.

"After the Epiphany, there will be many who will leave court. I would send word to my brother's son who is at Holywell, if you find a party who will journey that way. But I would not have it known commonly."

"I will be discreet, lady."

"It is no secret, I only want no tiresome questions. On the king's mercy my nephew is allowed to live with the brothers there, and he is stripped of all title and lands. But he is my brother's son and my family, for all that he fought Edward's rule, and I have been remiss not to send news to him." She locked the ivory box and made a show of putting the key, on its long string, around her neck and tucked away beneath her gown. "My lord husband returns from the hunt tomorrow. See that his bed linen is fresh ere he lays in it."

After that, there was little to do but sup in the hall, where speculation ran high as to how many wolves had been killed. Eluned found herself speculating more about the snow that had begun to fall. It seemed light enough, but came in hard, mean little flakes that rode on bitterly cold winds. She would trade the cutting wind for more snow, if she could. There were many in Wales now who had been displaced by the fighting, and without good shelter the wind was cruel.

She returned to her room early, telling Joan she wished to be left alone. She had pulled the bundle of herbs from her trunk and was just finishing their preparation when Nan arrived.

"Take this," she said, holding the envelope out to the girl. "I have mixed it with spices so that you may easily put it in his wine without suspicion. A fat pinch of this and he will want sleep far more than he will want you."

"There is much here," observed the girl. "You said...I thought I was to give it to him once, and then find you."

"Aye, but you will find me only on the Epiphany, or after. There will be four nights until then, and he may reach for you each one of those nights. What else but this can be your defense against him?"

"Haps he will choose a willing woman instead."

"Nan," she said kindly. "If you thought he might, you would not be here."

Still, the girl plainly had misgivings. Eluned had said only that she would help her to escape his advances if Nan would drug Mortimer and then help Eluned to slip into his room unseen. Probably she worried over what Eluned might do with him while he lay senseless, but Eluned had no intention of telling her.

"Here," she said, putting the bottle of mead and some coins into Nan's hand. At the hesitation on the girl's face, Eluned took one of the rings from her own hand and gave it to her too. Clearly this generosity roused her suspicions, though, and Eluned watched the big blue eyes look back and forth between the coins and the pouch of herbs. Smart girl. Cynical girl. Had she ever been an innocent?

"It is not poison," Eluned said. When Nan did not seem reassured, Eluned took the herbs from her, cast a healthy pinch of them into her own wine, and gave the cup a brief swirl. "There, I will do well to sleep soundly tonight."

She drank it down and watched the girl's expression lighten.

"No sooner than the Epiphany," Nan said with a firm nod. "I will watch him drink it, and find you in the chapel."

"And after," said Eluned, and paused. "If ever you are questioned about it afterwards?"

"I will tell no one, I swear it."

Eluned looked at her. She was a determined little thing, and it was not hard to imagine her refusing to speak. "You will, if they would hurt you. Promise me that. I will not have you on my conscience. Lie at first, however you will, but give the truth if you are threatened. Remember that. The truth is more apt to be believed when it is hidden behind a lie."

Then, whether Nan gave her name or suspicion fell on her for other reasons, they would take Eluned. They would question her ladies, search and find the letter, and all blame would be hers alone. She could only pray she had thought of everything.

The girl ran a finger over the tiny chips of sapphire embedded in the silver ring Eluned have given her, and looked at her with hundred questions in her eyes. She asked none. Smart girl. When she nodded, Eluned yawned and said, "You see, already I want nothing more than my bed. Go now."

Eluned slept, and woke, and watched from afar the next day as the hunting party returned. She spent the following days avoiding Robert, treating him with a mutual cold courtesy whenever they must speak or be near one another. It was easier now that he did not try to reach her. There were no charming smiles, no sidelong glances, no warmth directed at her at all. At night, they slept apart as they had before, with no comment. He moved past her in their rooms like she was not there, and she did the same.

Sometimes during the night, she would hear his breathing in the next room and feel the threat of tears rising up. Not sadness, but the terrible panicked sobs that threatened to take her. Then she would retreat to the chapel, lamp in hand, and stare hard at the statue of the Madonna until it was under control. It made her laugh a little, knowing that the trick to keeping her head was not to think too much.

On the night of the Epiphany feast she watched Mortimer in the hall, growing steadily more inebriated, reaching ever more determinedly for Nan as she filled his cup. Finally, just as the revelers had reached new heights of merriment, he caught her around the hips. He carried her and her jug of wine out of the hall, laughing. Eluned excused herself from the boisterous hall, pleading a headache, and waited in the empty chapel. Nan came to her within the hour, a quick wave from the door of the chapel.

Eluned followed her at a little distance, down the corridor and up a short stair. Nan gestured at the door left slightly ajar, saying, "He is there, in the chair by the fire, almost asleep when I left him."

"You are well?" Eluned asked in a whisper. "Did he harm you?"

Nan shook her head, but Eluned saw the start of a very large bruise on her wrist. She fought the urge to embrace the girl, and instead dismissed her quickly. "Back to the hall and serve until the celebrations are ended," she instructed Nan.

Then she was alone, staring at the door. She reached beneath her cloak and pulled out Madog's dagger, running her thumb across the crude etching in the otherwise plain square pommel. It was meant to be an eagle, but she only knew that because she had watched him as he had practiced drawing it with a stick in the dirt, trying to perfect it before scratching it into the handle. He must have been about twelve years old. He had been so proud of it.

She looked at the dagger a long time. In her other hand she held the small phial of nightshade. Now that she had come to the moment, she thought it might be poison instead of the blade. But when she set eyes on him, she would know which to use. She put the dagger in her right hand and held it behind her back, in case his eyes were still open when she entered. There was a draft of cold air that flowed from behind a loosely hung tapestry next to her. There must be a window there, behind it. She could hear Robert's voice asking , do you still look into the sky?

It was still possible to walk away. The stair was behind her, the door before her, the dagger resting lightly in her palm. But when she imagined walking away, leaving the universe undisturbed, everything in her rebelled. She could only see the bruise that even now spread on Nan's thin arm. She could only remember the laughter on Madog's lips as he died, and she knew she could not bear to be in a world where Roger Mortimer lived and laughed and prospered. The memory of Llewellyn's head swaying above London sent a spike of purest hatred through her heart, shot down her arm to tighten her fingers around the weapon as she stepped forward.

With her arm outstretched to push open the door, she felt a sudden grip on her wrist behind her, one strong hand wrenching the weapon away easily, another coming over her mouth. Her heart hammered. He was tall, looming over her as he dragged her back from the door, down the stair. She had only just gathered her wits enough to draw breath and begin to struggle when he set her down, put her back to the wall, and reached above her to pull a torch from its bracket. He looked down at the dagger and raised his brows in recognition of it before turning his gaze to her.

She did not even try to hide her shock as she looked back at her daughter's husband, Ranulf of Morency.