She was being taken to her death. Alys knew it with calm instinct. The endless days of bouncing over the horrible roads made execution seem almost a delightful alternative. Almost.
She had no intention of going quietly, however. She had refused to confess to witchcraft and the unholy murder of Lady Hedwiga, despite Richard’s pleasant assertion that her confession was not needed and would only make things easier for her. There were enough witnesses, her husband included. And Alys didn’t know who to believe, who to trust. Or whether, in the long run, she even cared.
Would they burn her? She hoped not. She had never seen anyone burned, but she suspected it would be the most unpleasant of deaths. Having her head lopped off would be a marked improvement She had seen the severed heads of criminals and found them extremely unsettling, but if it were her own head then she would no longer have eyes to see it.
Perhaps they’d toss her into the sea. She couldn’t swim, of course, but she’d heard that drowning was not an unpleasant way to die.
Or would they choose the crudest, kindest death of all? Would they have Simon of Navarre administer the same poison that he’d used to kill Lady Hedwiga before laying the blame on her?
Would he be merciful? Would he make certain her death was swift and sure? She no longer cared.
She lay back amidst the fur throws, closing her eyes. Why had he done it? Why had he denounced her as a murderess? For that matter, why had he killed a querulous old woman who was essentially harmless?
The answer was simple. He had done it for gain. He had done it for his lord and master. Richard had bade him do it, and it was done.
Perhaps they would hang her. Would Claire come and hang on her body, to speed the process? Or was she safely away, with Thomas du Rhaymer to protect her? Alys tried to summon anxiety but found she couldn’t. For once in her life her own situation took precedence. Claire could fend for herself.
They had stopped for the night. Alys pushed the curtains aside to watch the soldiers dismount, and Simon of Navarre moved into view. He was muffled in black, his long streaked hair flowing in the wind, and he looked cold and merciless. She could hear her brother, the new-made widower, laughing somewhere out of sight, and she half expected Simon to join him.
She willed Simon to look in her direction, fiercely determined that he should see what he had done. He was strong enough to resist the lure of her gaze, but he turned anyway, his expression as bleak as the harsh wind that swept down over them.
Richard came up behind him, slapping an arm around his shoulders. “We need some warm ale and warm women,” he said. “Damn this blasted weather!”
Simon turned to look at him, and Alys waited, hopelessly, for him to denounce him. To demand her freedom, to threaten him, kill him, if he didn’t release her.
“I’ll settle for the warm ale,” he said evenly.
Alys flung herself back against the cushions. Another night in her luxurious cage, huddled beneath the thick fur throws. In truth, she was probably more comfortable than the creature who was her husband, but she felt trapped, crazed by the bars that surrounded her. She had never had a fondness for dark, enclosed places, and day after day of imprisonment was wearing at her soul.
They were going to see the King—she’d been told that much and little more by the men who guarded her, and by the pale, frightened Madlen who’d been brought along to attend to her needs. She would be brought before the child king and he would pass judgment on her crimes.
If Claire was safe she no longer cared what happened to her. She would endure, as long as she must, and if she died she would come back and haunt Simon of Navarre like Grendel’s mother—a vengeful hag to drive him mad.
She despised him. She despised herself, for her weakness, for her futile attempts at discerning a reason for Simon’s betrayal. There could be no reason, no justification.
And the worst part of all were her dreams. She would dream she lay in his arms, his face pressed against hers, his scarred hand cradling her. She would dream that he loved her, when he never had. And when she woke she would weep silently in her elegant cage.
Thomas might have lost his head and betrayed everything he held dear if Claire hadn’t cried out in sudden pain. Her mouth was full and sweet beneath his, her damp, bedraggled body warm and irresistible, and she kissed him back with such desperate fervor, and he wanted her so urgently, that he might have forgotten everything and taken her there among the moss and fallen leaves, and she would have welcomed him.
Her reluctant cry of pain was followed by a strangled protest as he pulled away from her, but sanity had returned, whether he welcomed it or not. She sat amidst the lichen and the leaves, her gown tattered and mud-stained, looking up at him with such soulful longing that he almost reached for her again. And then he saw the swollen wrist she was trying to hide from him.
“Is it broken then?” he asked, his voice unnaturally harsh.
She didn’t flinch. “I don’t know. I fell on it when Arabia threw me.”
“Your horse threw you?” he echoed in astonishment.
“She’s afraid of lightning.” Claire straightened her back, immediately defensive.
“I thought you were a better horsewoman.” He said it deliberately, to push her away, when he was so afraid he’d reach for her again.
“I thought you were a better protector,” she shot back. Her eyes filled with fresh tears.
“I failed you,” he said evenly, taking her swollen hand in his with infinite gentleness. She bit her
