Fifteen

TILL DEATH DO US PART

We expected the end of the war to be announced with fanfare and rejoicing. Yet I have always found that the most life-altering events pounce without warning. As a girl I woke from a feverish dream to find most of my family dead. Years later I began one day a spinster, only to find myself betrothed by supper to a man I barely knew. And it was not so long ago that I had fallen asleep imagining the feel of a tiny baby’s hand, then awakened to find my sheets awash in blood. So it was with the tidings that finally made their way to us from the north, mere hours after Flora had been laid to rest in the crypt of the royal chapel.

Later I learned that the confusion was the fault of the guards. Only the youngest and least skilled soldiers had remained to defend the castle, and those given the night watch had fallen asleep at their posts by dawn. The riders’ presence was not noted until they arrived at the front gates and shouted to be admitted. The men were so ragged and their horses so ill used that the ancient gatekeeper, half addled and suddenly torn from sleep, thought them brigands and denied them entrance. Then a voice rang out, and the gatekeeper knew it for the king’s.

Following the pattern set by years in service, it was my habit to rise early, and I had just finished dressing when I heard cries from beyond my window. I peered out and saw two grooms leading a pair of panting horses through the doors of the stables. It was an unusual time for visitors, but I gave it no further thought until I stepped into the front room and heard footsteps clattering through the hall outside.

I looked out the door and saw Anika racing toward me. She would have continued past had I not grabbed her by the elbow and demanded to know the cause of such commotion.

“The king has returned!” she cried, her eyes bright with panic. “I’ve been sent to the kitchens for hot water.”

I released her sleeve, speechless with shock. The bread I had planned to eat for breakfast dropped from my hand as I rushed to the stairs. By the time I reached the royal apartments, I was running. I staggered through the door of the queen’s sitting room only to stop so suddenly that I almost fell from the effort. There, before me, stood Queen Lenore, still in her sleeping gown, her hair falling in waves down her back. Before her, on his knees, was the king, clutching her body as a drowning man clings to a branch held out as salvation. Had it not been for his fur-trimmed tunic, embroidered with the royal seal, I would not have known him. His neat beard had grown out to a scraggly mass of tangles; his skin was red and weather-beaten, his eyes closed and sunken.

Queen Lenore stared at me, her own eyes wide with panic.

“I will fetch someone to tend to the king,” I said calmly, my voice belying my fear. The king’s attendants had ridden north with him; had any returned? And what of Dorian? I was about to ask for news of my husband, but Queen Lenore stopped me with a sharp glance, and rightly so. The king looked as if he could barely speak.

“I will tend to him.” Queen Lenore reached out carefully with one hand and pressed it gently against the king’s head. “Fetch clean clothes. He cannot be seen like this.”

“Of course.” I heard scuffling behind me, as servants and attendants gathered in the hall to await orders. “Shall I close the door?”

The queen nodded, her attention already returned to her husband. I slipped away and pushed back against the press of people outside. I caught sight of Lady Wintermale toward the rear, trying in vain to elbow her way through.

“What news?” she demanded. At her words the crowd around us hushed.

I shook my head. “I do not know.” From King Ranolf’s ravaged state, I feared there would be little cause for rejoicing. But I could tell no one what I had seen.

I reached out my arm and pulled Lady Wintermale forward. “The queen wishes to be alone with the king,” I whispered in her ear. “Please see she is not disturbed.”

When I returned with the king’s clothing, I opened the door a crack, just enough to slide the folded bundle through the opening and into Heva’s hands.

“The king wishes to address the court,” she whispered. “Everyone is to gather in the Great Hall. But first the queen has asked for Rose.”

I nodded. In all my imaginings of the king’s return, I had pictured scenes of celebration, not the parade of long faces and worried grimaces that passed me in the halls. People moved quietly, carefully. Waiting.

Rose was still asleep when I arrived at her room. Her maid, Besslin, had taken advantage of her mistress’s weariness to laze around herself, though she jumped quickly enough from her pallet when I came through the door.

“Fetch a gown,” I ordered, then went to sit on Rose’s bed. She was so beautiful as she slept, with her thick auburn hair swirled around her pillow and her skin flushed slightly pink. It was the most peaceful I had seen her in months.

I ran a finger along her cheek, and her eyes fluttered open. Seeing me, she jolted awake and sat up, alert with worry.

“Your father has returned,” I said, smiling to reassure her. “He is safe.”

“Lord be praised,” Rose breathed. She pushed the covers off and slid from the bed. “Where is he?”

“I have just left him, in your mother’s room.”

Rose was in such a state it was all Besslin and I could do to arrange her dress suitably before she slid on her silk slippers and rushed for the door. She dashed along the corridors and down the stairs, so quickly that I was some distance away when she threw open the door to her mother’s room. I heard her cry out as she entered, and then the door slammed shut, blocking the family’s reunion from the curious eyes outside.

“We are called to the Great Hall,” I urged the gathered courtiers. “Downstairs, everyone.”

As I climbed down the main staircase to the Entrance Hall, I saw Mrs. Tewkes waiting below. She swiftly maneuvered her way to my side.

“I saw Rengard, the footman who rode back with the king.” She spoke quickly, with the cadence of one desperate to pack in more words than time allows. “His shoulder was cut so deeply it was a wonder he was able to stay on his horse. He said our men were victorious, but there was no joy in his words. What can it mean?”

My stomach churned with dread. I told her I did not know, that we must wait for the king, as we joined the stream of people entering the Great Hall. By the time King Ranolf arrived, the room was full. The nobles and favored families took their usual places in the front, facing the dais; servants lined the walls in the back. Personal maids stood behind their mistresses, while the farthest corners were filled with groomsmen and chambermaids, cooks and laundresses. I have never seen so many people gather in such silence.

The hush did not lift with the arrival of the king and his family. The broken man I had glimpsed earlier had vanished, replaced by a noble leader who walked proudly, his chin jutting forward and his bright eyes staring confidently ahead. To the maids and pages in the back, he would have appeared little altered by the trials of battle. Yet those whom he passed by directly must have noted the changes: the hair more gray than auburn, the slight hesitation with each step, the stiffness of his arms. Over the months of his absence, he had aged years.

The king took Queen Lenore’s hand and bade her sit, then did the same for Rose. Both women were dressed in their formal finery, their somber expressions suitable to the occasion. Rose, her customary liveliness stifled, could have been a statue.

“I bring good tidings from the field of battle.” The king’s voice echoed against the stone walls. “The deRauleys are defeated. The kingdom is saved.”

For a moment the words floated around us, above our understanding. Then a cheer rang out among the pages and stableboys, followed by shouts from the older men in the back. The sound rose as it passed among the maids, swelling as voice after voice joined in. I alone did not cry out, for I saw no jubilation in the king’s eyes.

King Ranolf raised his hand, and a hush returned to the room.

“This is joyous news, and we will celebrate in good time. But our success has come at a great cost. Our adversaries fought hard and without mercy. We lost many fine men, among them, I am sorry to say, my daughter’s intended husband, Sir Hugill.”

I glanced at Rose, as did the whole court. True to her breeding, she maintained her poise, dropping her head in acknowledgment of his passing.

“Far too many others will return to us gravely injured,” said the king. “You will have questions on the fate of loved ones, and I will answer them as best I can. But we will not know the full extent of our losses until our soldiers return home. Their progress will be slow, and I beg your patience.”

A worried buzz began to spread through the knot of women surrounding me. They were the wives of knights, men who rode ahead of the foot soldiers, the first to engage the enemy. Men whose fine horses and expensive armor set them apart as especially worthy prizes. If there were heavy losses, our husbands would be among the victims. As the other women pushed their way toward the dais, addressing pleas to the king, I held back. If Dorian was dead, there would be no comfort in hearing the news first.

Most of the women received no answer to their questions. The king had been in the heat of battle himself, able to see only those who fell next to him, and had ridden from the battlefield with scarcely a moment to take in his victory. I watched one woman’s face crumple as the king leaned down to speak, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. She staggered away, moaning with grief, and two of her cousins rushed to comfort her. Her husband was a friend of Dorian’s, a hearty man whose voice carried a few lengths ahead of him. It was impossible to imagine him silenced forever.

As the crowd drifted apart and away from the room, Queen Lenore waved me over. I walked toward the dais, and she stepped before me.

“The king wishes to speak to you and Sir Walthur,” she said, her hand touching my arm lightly.

Such a summons could only mean that the king wished to give us a personal account of Dorian’s death. A peculiar calm settled over me, and I told myself I must honor my husband’s memory by comporting myself well. I must not forget to thank the king, no matter how devastating the tale he told. I followed the king and queen across the hall to the Council Chamber, where Sir Walthur and the other advisers stood huddled in the doorway, talking in hushed tones. The king nodded to Sir Walthur. The other men, understanding the gesture as a dismissal, bowed quickly and turned away.

With Queen Lenore at my side, I followed the king and Sir Walthur inside. Though far smaller than the Great Hall, it was no less grand in its appointments. The walls were inlaid with carved panels depicting the kingdom’s greatest wonders: the northern mountains, the cathedral of St. Elsip, the mighty river that coursed across the landscape. In the center of the room, an oval table made of dark wood had been polished until it gleamed. Gold candleholders taller than myself stood in the corners, their flickering light the only illumination in that tenebrous space.

“Dorian lives,” the king said simply, and the intensity of my relief caught me by such surprise that I clutched the back of a chair, afraid I might crumple. Sir Walthur sucked in his breath, but his impassive expression did not change.

“Your son acquitted himself with great bravery,” the king said, addressing Sir Walthur. “I intend to award him a title, for he saved my life.”

The king clasped Sir Walthur’s hand with his, and the gesture pierced my father-in-law’s reserve. His mouth curved upward in the semblance of a smile, and his eyes welled with tears.

“My boy.”

“Bowen would have killed me,” the king said. “I did not think . . .” His voice drifted off, and I saw the weight of memory fall heavily upon him at the mention of his brother’s name. He collected himself and continued.

“I never imagined he would come for me. I expected Marl and his thugs to relish the bloodshed, but I believed that Bowen would work his treachery out of sight. When I saw him riding toward me, I was so surprised I did not give a thought to defending myself. I sat and watched him come. His face . . . I did not know he hated me so.”

I could picture Prince Bowen, enraged, brandishing his sword, riding at full power. Who would not quail at such a sight?

“Dorian was next to me. He had lost his helmet, and his armor was damaged. I ordered him to ride back and take a helmet from one of the men who had fallen. I was turned toward him, shouting my commands, when I heard a terrible cry to my left. I turned and saw Bowen. By the time I thought to raise my sword, Dorian had urged his horse between us and engaged with Bowen himself. The fight was short but fierce. I saw Dorian falter and fall from his horse. As he fell, he delivered a final thrust of his sword, piercing Bowen’s stomach through a gap in his armor. He died there, before me.”

“A bad end, but one he brought upon himself,” Sir Walthur said bitterly.

“You said Dorian fell?” I asked anxiously. The men started at the sound of my voice, as if they had forgotten my presence, and I immediately regretted my forwardness.

“Yes”—the king nodded—“but he rose soon enough, and I rode off to share the news of Bowen’s death with my men. By then Marl and his cousins had been killed as well and the few rebels remaining were running off in defeat.”

The kingdom was saved, and my husband would return a hero. Humility was not among Dorian’s virtues; a noble title would puff up his pride even more. But I would tend to him without complaint, for I had been given another chance at creating the family I longed for. Had I not heard tales of straying husbands who find their love for a loyal wife renewed after a brush with death? My relief at the king’s news had proved vividly that my feelings for Dorian were more deeply rooted than I had allowed myself to believe.

I spent the following days preparing for my husband’s return. As the troops began straggling back, I had hot water brought to the room and washed myself thoroughly, rubbing a few precious drops of perfume through my hair. I pulled on my finest dress and climbed the castle walls, prepared to give Dorian a suitable welcome.

One day passed, then another. Soldiers made their way down the road from the north, first a few on horseback, then waves on foot, filthy and hungry. Dorian was not among them. By the third day, I had begun to fret, for only the wounded had taken this long to return. The soldiers spoke of those yet to come with shaking heads and downcast eyes, and I began to fear the sight of the husband I so longed for.

As I ran my eyes over the trickle of slow-moving men, a familiar figure caught my eye. It was Dorian’s manservant, Percel, one in a procession of hobbling men and carts strewn with those more gravely wounded. I rushed down the stairs from the top of the walls and ran to the castle gates, confronting Percel as soon as he walked inside. Much later I was grateful that this solemn young man had been the one tasked with such a heavy duty, for he did not waste time with flowery words or overblown sentiment. He simply told me my husband was dead.

“But how . . . ?” The words stumbled out, then caught in my throat. “The king told me he saw Dorian walk away from the battlefield.”

Percel nodded, his face haggard. “I saw him at our camp after the king declared victory. He appeared as well as any of us. Tired and carrying the stench of battle, but otherwise unharmed. It wasn’t until that evening, as we began making our way home, that he first spoke of the pain in his head. He said he had fallen from his horse, but he made it out to be no serious matter. As we traveled, he worsened. He began stumbling. His words slurred when he spoke. There were precious few horses left in good enough condition to ride, but given that my master was a favorite of the king, he was granted one. We tied him on and he drifted off to sleep. When we stopped for the night, he was dead.”

I could not cry. I had feared Dorian dead, then been told he lived. Now he had died again. Which was the truth?

“They say he’ll be taken to the chapel, with the other nobles,” Percel said, pointing to the wrapped shrouds that were even then being carried through the castle doors. He watched the grim parade without emotion. “I shall have to tell his father, unless you would prefer to speak to him.”

I could not face Sir Walthur. Could not bring him news I did not yet believe myself.

“He should hear the full story from you,” I said. “I will go to the chapel.”

I made my way through the Entrance Hall, down the corridors. The chapel had always been one of my favorite rooms in the castle, but now I dreaded entering. I paused in the passageway that led inside, my feet standing atop the stone that marked the royal family’s burial crypt. I glanced at the most recent carving and knelt down to run my fingers over the letters of Flora’s name. I missed her with a sudden, sharp ache. Not the feeble woman she had become in her last days but the Flora I had known years before, timid but kind, a force for good in a vicious world.

I walked inside, toward a group of weeping women, past motionless, bloodstained bodies laid on the floor. Most who had died on the battlefield would have been buried where they fell. Only these favored few were accorded the honor of returning home.

When two guards carried in Dorian’s body, I recognized him immediately, even from across the room. I walked over slowly, my feet seemingly moving of their own accord. Dorian rested as if asleep, his beautiful face unscathed, his golden hair soiled by mud but unbloodied. I crumpled to my knees, certain that a mistake had been made and he would awaken at my touch. But my hand flinched back as soon as it felt his frozen cheek. The flesh had lost all vitality, its human warmth replaced by a waxy chill. Strapped to his thigh was the dagger he had so prized, and I pulled it free, my hands seeking the handle where his own had rested. Hesitantly, I cut a lock of his hair and slid it into my bodice. I considered speaking a few words, sending him to eternal rest with my blessing, but his rigid body mocked such sentiments. Dorian’s soul had long since departed.

I stared at him long enough for my knees to grow numb against the stone floor. I did not stir until footsteps shuffled behind me. I turned to see Sir Walthur looking upon the body of his son, his face sunken with pain. He had never shown me affection. But the sight of this great man brought so low moved me to action. I stood and wrapped my arms around Sir Walthur’s shoulders, and his face pressed against my neck as he gave in to his grief. Even murmured words of sympathy would have been a cruel invasion of such sorrow, so I remained silent. When he had collected himself, he leaned down and ran his fingers slowly over Dorian’s face. He rose, avoiding my gaze, and walked away.

The men who brought my husband home were the final remains of what had once been a great army. After bidding my last farewell to Dorian, I left the castle and walked up the narrow stairs to the top of the walls. It was the place we had first kissed, on the day I’d agreed to marry him. Dorian had been gone from my side for months, yet I could still summon the press of his arms around me; I could feel his lips against mine. But when I tried to picture his face, all that came to mind was the grim death mask I had seen in the chapel. I sank against the wall, numb and lost. I did not know how to pass the rest of the day, or the following day. Or all the days to come. The life I had thought was mine, with a husband and children, was gone. My future had been slaughtered on a battlefield in the harsh northern mountains. Only I remained, unchanged. And yet changed completely.

Looking out, I watched a group of ragged camp followers along the road toward St. Elsip, the usual fallen women and peddlers who find war an opportunity for profit. They alone might regret the fighting’s end. After the shuffling parade made its way across the bridge, one person broke off and turned onto the path leading to the castle. As the figure drew closer, I saw it was a woman, an ancient one, her back bent almost double. A persistent rain the day before had layered the ground with mud, and her steps were uncertain on the slippery uphill slope. I could not imagine what business she might have here, other than to beg.

The sunlight was low against the horizon; soon the trumpets would sound for supper. The thought of food brought a wave of nausea, but duty propelled me downward. By now Queen Lenore would have heard the news. She would wish to console me on my loss, and I must prepare myself to face the castle’s sympathy. With a pang I remembered the obligations of a widow: the funeral that must be planned, the somber clothing I would have to order to declare my mourning. More than anything I longed to sink into my bed and burrow under the blankets, free to wallow in my misery unobserved.

I descended slowly, careful to lift my skirts so each footstep was unencumbered. As I walked past the gatehouse, I heard a commotion. The old woman was shouting at the gatekeeper, and something in her tone gave me pause. Her voice had the ring of authority, and her accent was that of an educated woman. I turned toward the gate and saw the woman pointing an accusing finger at the guards, promising that the queen would make them pay for their treatment of her.

It was Millicent.

I felt a rush of terror so unnerving I could not move. Her face, sunken and weathered, peered out at me from the hood of her cloak. She might have been a goblin from a fairy story, a crooked creature swathed in black who snatches children in the night. Her eyes fixed on me with malevolent glee. After so long a time, I would have thought myself impervious to her wiles. Yet I found myself drawn forward.

“Elise!” she crowed. “Come, take my hand.”

“I’ll take nothing.” The vehemence of my rejection made the guards start. I addressed myself to the men, speaking firmly. “She’s not to enter.”

The youngest of them would have been children when Millicent was banished, but I could see by the nervous expression of the head gatekeeper, a man of some forty years, that he knew exactly who she was.

“She claims to have been summoned,” he said to me uncertainly. “I’ve sent a page to inform the queen.”

“This woman is not permitted to see the queen—or anyone else,” I said in what I hoped was a firm voice.

“You’ve come up in the world, I see,” Millicent said. “Tossing out orders as if you were a duchess! Am I the only one who remembers when you were fit for nothing more than carrying chamber pots?”

I turned my back and started for the rear courtyard. I could not drive Millicent off by myself, but a few returned soldiers would add force to my commands.

“How does our darling Rose?”

It was the “our” that enraged me, the sound of her raspy crone’s voice laying claim to the person I most treasured. I whirled around in a fury. She must never see Rose. Ever.

“Begone!” I shrieked, my body aflame. The guards’ mouths gaped in shock. I was playing into Millicent’s hands, succumbing to the fear she thrived on, but I could not rein in my panic. “You are banished! Forever!”

“Forever?” Millicent said coolly. “Are you sure?”

Seen up close, she was no longer the proud woman who used to march through the castle with such authority. Her shoulders were curled in toward her body, and her lips sagged over empty gums. Yet my skin prickled and my throat tightened as if a cloud of evil swirled out from her, choking any who stood in her path.

Millicent lifted one twisted hand, and I flinched when I saw a flash of dark red. For a moment I thought she was reaching out with blood-spattered fingers, until I saw she wore crimson gloves. A piece of paper was crumpled in her fist, and as she pushed it toward me, the edge of her cloak fell back, revealing her forearm. The skin was a ravaged landscape of wrinkles and scars, pale and puckered with age. With a sickening lurch of recognition, I remembered the similar mark that still marred the queen’s wrist. How often had Millicent cut into her own flesh in that hidden cave, calling upon dark powers to do her bidding?

She brandished the page in my face, close enough that I could discern the writing at the bottom. It was Queen Lenore’s signature, one I had seen countless times on her letters. Taken aback, I paused, trying to sort through my tangled thoughts. Was the writing a clever simulation? It was not possible that the queen would summon the woman who had threatened her daughter with death.

Before I could work out the best course of action, the choice was taken from me. I heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Father Gabriel. He nodded humbly to the guards and said, “The queen gives her leave to enter. I will escort her to the Receiving Room.”

Shocked, I watched in horror as Millicent smiled at me, enjoying her triumph. Her feet faltered in the mud as she took a step forward, and Father Gabriel reached out to offer the crook of his arm for support. As her decrepit, hunched body lurched toward his, their eyes met in a passing glance. It was so quick, so fleeting, and yet I saw it: the silent acknowledgment of two people who had met before.

Had Father Gabriel been doing her bidding all this time? Had he praised the virtues of forgiveness for the sole purpose of enabling Millicent’s return?

“No!” I screamed. I stumbled forward, arms outstretched, frantic to halt their progress. I had just grabbed the back of Father Gabriel’s robe when two guards took hold of my shoulders and pulled me back. The coarse brown cloth slipped through my fingers, and Father Gabriel turned in irritation, regarding me with disdain as I writhed against my captors. Millicent’s face, slack with feigned bafflement, only enraged me more.

“I must speak to the king!” I begged the guards. “He will never permit her entrance!”

Others passing through the courtyard stopped to watch the commotion. In my panic I took in only flashes of my surroundings, but there were faces I recognized, servants and courtiers staring at me in amazement. In their eyes I was the madwoman, raving at a man of God and a seemingly harmless old woman.

The gatekeeper appeared at my side. He spoke in a low voice, his manner sympathetic. “You saw for yourself, she has a letter with the queen’s mark. We cannot detain her.”

“Please. I must warn the king.”

He looked toward Millicent’s hobbling figure, approaching the main entrance. Then he nodded to the guards, ordering my release.

“Godspeed,” he muttered.

I raced through the castle toward the king’s room, only to be told that he had been summoned by the queen a few minutes before. Panting, heart hammering, I arrived at her sitting room to find the door closed, though King Ranolf’s shouts came through clearly enough. A few ladies-in-waiting huddled together in the hallway, wide-eyed, their shock magnified when I cracked the door open and slid inside.

The king was pacing in front of the fireplace, face flushed red. He halted when he saw me, and for an instant I felt the terror of all those who had confronted him on a battlefield. Quivering with fury, he appeared capable of swatting me to the floor without a second thought. “Is it true?” he barked.

I nodded. “Millicent has been taken to the Receiving Room by Father Gabriel.”

“She must leave at once!” he bellowed.

Queen Lenore spoke with a peculiar calm. “When you hear the full story, you will understand why I acted as I did.”

“What story?”

“How Millicent helped us win the war.”

King Ranolf looked as appalled as I felt.

“I have been in correspondence with her for some time,” Queen Lenore explained. “I know it was wrong not to tell you, but I feared this very reaction.”

Some time? My stomach knotted, and I stared at the queen in horrified wonder. How could she keep such a secret from us? And why?

King Ranolf glared down at his wife, body tensed like that of a cat preparing to pounce. “All these years spent searching for traitors,” he murmured, his voice icy cold, “when the worst betrayal was here, before me, all along.” Tossing aside his self-control, he roared with rage and kicked the chair next to his wife’s, sending it careening across the room. Queen Lenore flinched as if the blow had been aimed her way, and I cowered against the wall.

“She begged my forgiveness,” the queen said hesitantly, bracing herself for another blow. “She was near death, in fear of meeting her Maker. Does the Bible not tell us that every sinner deserves a chance at salvation?”

“It was Father Gabriel’s doing,” I interjected, etiquette be damned. “I believe he was sent by Millicent to act on her behalf.”

Queen Lenore brushed off my suspicions with a quick shake of her head. “Of course not. He is driven only by his service to God.”

She would never believe in their collusion without proof, and I had none.

“What lies did Millicent tell you?” King Ranolf asked.

“She said she would prove her loyalty. She has spent time among the Brithnians, as you know, and she is the one who persuaded them to take our side.”

“Nonsense! We paid them well to fight with us. Sir Walthur was in contact with their ministers for weeks to make the arrangements.”

“Do you think the deRauleys did not offer payment as well? Millicent had the king of Brithnia’s ear, ever since she cured his son of a wasting illness some years ago. Without her entreaties the Brithnians would have continued to play us against the deRauleys, taking gold from both sides while keeping their soldiers safely at home.”

The king’s thunderous expression did not soften, but he considered his wife’s words without protest.

“I will never forget what Millicent has done to us or the threats she made to Rose,” Queen Lenore said. “But can you not see? Without forgiveness there is no peace.”

So this was the culmination of Father Gabriel’s teachings: Queen Lenore was to gain her redemption by forgiving Millicent her sins. Already I could see the difference in her manner. Serenity had replaced the agitation that had tormented her for so long, and she spoke with the confidence of true belief. Her hands were clasped demurely in her lap, but my eyes were caught by the subtle movement of a thumb rubbing absently back and forth along the skin of the opposite wrist. Feeling the spot where Millicent’s knife had dug into her flesh.

Seventeen years, nearly all of Rose’s lifetime, had passed since the king banished Millicent from the castle, yet her hold over the queen had not lifted. I had long since discounted the notion that black magic had brought about Rose’s birth. Yet what could explain Queen Lenore’s continued allegiance to a woman who had vowed to see her family dead? It was as if a malevolent force had entered the open wound when her skin was cut open, a spirit whose commands she could not defy.

“Millicent has one dying wish: to spend her last days here, in the only home she has ever known.”

The king came very close to refusing. But after so much loss, so much hurt, he no longer had the heart to battle his wife. Heva had told me, in confidence, that King Ranolf had slept in the queen’s bed every night since his return, often waking with shouts from bloody dreams. Perhaps that is why he surrendered to her wishes in the end, to retain the comfort of her presence during those long hours before dawn.

“She will be confined to her room, under guard,” the king said at last. “And Father Gabriel is to be sent on his way immediately.”

Queen Lenore tried to defend the man in whom she had placed such trust, but the king halted her words with a stamp of his foot.

“He’s had his clutches in you long enough! From now on you live by my counsel, and no one else’s. That is the price I demand for Millicent’s return.”

Queen Lenore bowed her head, a saint accepting the terms of her martyrdom.

“Mrs. Tewkes can see to Millicent’s care,” King Ranolf muttered. “She is never to cross my path. Ever.”

“As you wish. You will not know she is here.”

The queen believed that such a promise could be kept. But it was not long before Millicent’s presence would be felt throughout the castle. By opening the door to her, Queen Lenore had ushered in our doom.