He looked down at her. Her wet hair was spread out beneath her, her face was pale and dreamy. She looked well-loved, and that was the unbearable truth. He had loved her. He did love her. And that would be his downfall.
He should move away, kiss her lightly and dismiss her. He’d entered into this marriage knowing it would only last as long as it suited him, as long as this life suited him. When things became tricky he would disappear, abandoning his young wife and whatever he had earned, and take only Godfrey and what wealth was easily transportable.
And Alys of Summersedge, Alys of Navarre, was not easily transportable. She was afraid of horses, she couldn’t ride, and as fate would have it, speed would be an important part of his escape. She would hold him back and destroy him, and the sooner he pulled away from her, the better.
Her hands were light against his, insistent. He could break free with no trouble at all. “I won’t leave you.” he said. And he lay down on the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms.
When Alys awoke the tower room was deserted. She lay naked in the bed, alone, the fur throw pulled tight around her. The gown she’d worn lay in a sodden heap on the floor, the fire had burned low, and cool sunlight pierced the windows, sending bright shadows across the floor. The storm had passed, and she should have been relieved.
“I won’t leave you,” he’d said, and he’d come to bed with her, and the night had been endless and shatteringly beautiful. He had done things she couldn’t imagine, coaxed her into touching him, tasting him, taking him until she was weeping and shaking, lost in some strange world where only the two of them existed.
But he was gone, and she was alone.
She sat up, trying to still the sense of uneasiness that washed over her. Something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong. She scrambled out of bed, searching for something to cover herself with. None of her clothes were there, and she settled for one of Simon’s plain black tunics. It was so long it trailed on the floor, and the sleeves draped halfway to her knees, but at least she was decently covered when the soldiers burst through the door.
“You’ll come with me, my lady.” She didn’t recognize the knight in charge of them, nor would it have done her any good. Her questions were ignored, her protests stifled, and she was dragged from the tower room with uncaring force.
She screamed for Simon, but someone clapped a hand over her mouth, silencing her. She kicked, but it was useless against the heavy leather boots of the soldiers. She bit, and an arm caught her along the side of her head, and everything went black.
She awoke in blackness, in a darkness so thick it was like death. She was freezing cold, lying on something hard and unforgiving, and she could hear the soft, scuffling noises that could only be rodents’ feet.
She didn’t scream. Much as she wanted to, she clamped her teeth shut, stilling the panic that threatened to break forth. She was afraid that if she started screaming she would never stop, and the stone walls would echo with her madness.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, deeply, summoning calm in the midst of her panic. She knew where she was. Even though she’d never seen them in her life, the knowledge was immutable. She was locked in the dungeons of Summersedge Keep.
Who had put her there? Only Richard had the power to command such a titling, but why in God’s name would he do so? She had done him no harm, except to protect her sister from his twisted urges.
There was another, far more sinister possibility, one she shied away from even as it sprang into her mind. Had he locked her away at the request of his favored advisor? Had his wizard told him to dispose of an unwanted wife? With the marriage and the bedding her political worth had been exhausted. Perhaps she had no more value and was simply being put away, to be forgotten until decades from now when someone came across her bones?
She sat up, shivering in the damp chill, and peered into the darkness surrounding her. A faint light emanated from the far wall, and she rose, moving toward it, toward the iron grille that kept her prisoner. Beyond lay another room, dimly lit, though this one looked more like a crypt man a dungeon. A woman lay stretched on the stone slab floor, but Alys had little hope she was alive. The form was too stocky to be Claire, and for that she breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
One bar of the grille obscured her vision, and she rose on tiptoes to get a closer look, peering at the face of the dead woman. She fell back with a cry of horror.
Lady Hedwiga would give no more misguided lectures on comportment in the marriage bed. She was well and truly dead.
“It’s quite simple,” Richard said smoothly. He was dressed in full mourning, and he’d wept, openly and fulsomely, as he’d accepted the condolences of his people. His eyes were still red-rimmed as he closeted himself with his wizard, but his mask of mourning had transformed into smug glee.
“Simple, my lord?” Simon echoed. He knew when to be wary, when life had taken a particularly dangerous turn. As it had this morning, when he’d come down to the news that Richard the Fair’s lady had died in her sleep.
“You shouldn’t underestimate me, Grendel,” Richard said, smoothing his beer-dewed mustache with a stubby finger. “I can be just as clever as you can, in my own way. Hedwiga has always been burdensome. The sleeping draught needed to be tested. Unfortunately my lady wife proved frailer than I expected.”
“You murdered her,” Simon said, keeping his voice calm. It
