"We're fortunate to have a place at all tonight to lay our heads," Edmee remarked. "My poor wee princeling being robbed of his rightful place and his heritage. Well, if those Yorkist pretenders believe they can hold on to their stolen goods, they're wrong. You mark my words, the queen will see to it, and we'll be back in London before you know it." She popped a piece of meat pie into her mouth. Edmee was an old woman now, at least sixty. No one knew for certain. A hot meal had restored her spirits.

"I do not think that we will be back in London quite so soon," Alexander Givet said quietly. "I know for a fact that the queen means to send to Queen Marie of Scotland and ask for refuge once the storm has stopped. She means for us to shelter in Scotland. Queen Marie must give her refuge, for their shared blood demands it, but she will be able to do little more than that. Her own child has only recently become king, and he is near our prince in age. It will take time to rebuild our king's forces. She might even send her son to Anjou for his own safety. He and his father will now be hunted down with an eye towards killing them both."

"Mary, Jesu, have mercy!" Edmee cried, and she crossed herself. "They would not kill a child, would they?"

"Every moment Henry and Edward Plantagenet live, they present a danger to King Edward of York," the physician answered. "The father they will kill outright when he is caught. The boy will suffer a tragic accident. It is the way of our world, old woman."

Edmee and Fayme crossed themselves again.

"Papa, do not frighten us," Alix said.

"I do not mean to frighten you," Alexander Givet answered her. "It is the truth."

"What will happen to us?" Edmee quavered.

The physician shrugged. "Who knows," he said. "The queen has been leaving many of our retainers behind as we moved north. They were fortunate to be put with other noble families who will weather this storm. We are the last. Who knows what will happen to us, but I suspect nothing. We will take refuge in Scotland, and probably in the end return to Anjou. We three came with the queen when she was brought to England. It will not be so bad to go home again, eh?"

The two women smiled tremulously and nodded.

"She will not cast you two aside," he assured them.

"But maybe the king will be restored," Alix said hopefully.

Her father shook his head. "Perhaps" was all he said. Alexander Givet was a realist. Henry Plantagenet had, since his son's birth, been subject to fits of madness. Some lasted as long as a year. Others but a few days or weeks. But he had never been a successful ruler, and now his condition made it impossible for him to rule at all. The rivalries at court had contributed to his downfall. That and his queen. The nobility did not like having a strong queen who was England's actual ruler. It had been inevitable that the king would be dethroned eventually, but the Duke of York's high-handed methods had rubbed Margaret of Anjou and her allies the wrong way. The past few years had been chaotic, and the chaos had but contributed to the king's fragile mental state. Alexander Givet would not say it aloud, but he very much doubted if Henry VI would ever again sit upon his throne. A madman could not rule England, or any other land.

Sir Udolf had taken the physician's suggestion. While he and his guests sat eating, his servants were cleaning up two small rooms to house the little prince, his nursemaid, and Alix. The young boy was so exhausted by the day he had lived, he fell asleep at the high board. One of the baron's servants carried the lad to his bed, old Edmee following in their wake. After thanking their host, the queen and Fayme departed. Alix remained behind to see her father settled for the night.

"Nay, mignon, I am quite capable of putting myself to bed," Alexander Givet assured his daughter. "The baron and I plan to drink a bit more wine and play some chess," he chuckled, patting her small hand. "Go and rest yourself."

The king's body servant, John, came into the hall on his way to the kitchens for his meal. He had been watching over the king while the others had eaten. "Mistress Alix," he called to her. "The queen needs you to sing to the king."

"Go," the physician said. "I am fine."

Placing a kiss upon his cheek Alix hurried from the hall.

"She sings to the king?" Sir Udolf looked quizzically at Alexander Givet.

"When the king is restless and the dolor comes upon him, my daughter sings to the king the songs that his mother used to sing to him. It calms him."

"She is a pretty girl," the baron said, "and both faithful and true not just to her parent but to her lord and lady, as well I can see. You are truly blessed in your daughter."

"Your son," the physician said. "He was not in the hall tonight."

"Hayle had many things to do for me, and he is devoted to Wulfborn," the baron answered. "Ah, here is the chessboard all set up for us now. Will you play black or white, my good doctor?"

"White," Alexander Givet said. "Wulfborn?"

"The name of our estate. This is Wulfborn Hall. Our distant ancestors were Vikings, or so the legend goes. Hayle looks very much like I would imagine a Viking warrior would look," the baron said. "He is tall and blond."

The two men sat down to play at chess, talking, sipping at their cups. The hour grew late, and after each man had won, the baron suggested they retire for the night. A servant helped the physician to his bedspace, which was made up with a feather bed and a goose-down coverlet. It was, as the baron had promised, the bedspace nearest the hearth, and the walls were warm. Alexander Givet settled himself comfortably, relieved. He was truly warm for the first time in days, and he prayed they would not have to move on too quickly. These past weeks had been hard on them all.

The king had slipped away into himself by morning, and was unresponsive to all, and everything about him. The queen put on a brave front, but she was frightened more for her husband and son than for herself. Sir Udolf, however, reassured her that the royal fugitives were more than welcome to stay at Wulfborn Hall. He reminded her that his home was isolated, and near enough to the Scots border for a quick escape should one be necessary. Margaret of Anjou was grateful.

"I wish," the queen said, "that there were some way in which we might repay you, Sir Udolf." They had been sheltering in his home for two weeks now, and it was mid-April. The snows had vanished, and the longer days were almost mild. "But as you know, we are little better than beggars now."

"Madame, I am honored to have you as my guests," the baron replied gallantly.

She nodded graciously, but then she said, "My lord, you have a son, do you not?"

"I do," he acknowledged.

"But he is not wed," Margaret of Anjou continued. "Why is that?"

The baron sighed deeply. "He is a good lad, madame, but to be most candid with you, Hayle is a bit odd. We have few neighbors, but those with daughters will not agree to any match with my son."

"What makes him odd?" the queen asked.

Again the baron sighed. "He was a sweet-natured little boy, but when he was four he almost drowned in my mill pond. After his recovery he changed, becoming impatient, determined to have his own way, and subject to terrible tempers when he did not get it. He has a mistress. The miller's daughter. He says he wants no other woman but Maida. I have told him he must have an heir. But there is no suitable bride for my son. I do not know what I will do. I cannot accept the child of a miller's daughter as my son's heir. But if I die before he weds, Hayle will have his way, I fear."

The queen's beautiful face was devoid of expression, and then she said, "Perhaps I may be of help to you, my lord."

He looked at her questioningly. "Madame?"

"As fugitives who will soon have a price upon our heads, we must travel quickly. The fewer in our party the less difficult it will be to find sanctuary. We have not traveled in some months with the royal dignity due us. At the homes of various nobility I have had to leave our servants and beg for their safety." The queen paused briefly, and then she continued. "Alexander Givet and his wife came with me from Anjou when I married the king. Blanche grew up with me. I am their daughter's godmother. Alix is fifteen going on sixteen. Her parents come from noble families in Anjou. Minor nobility to be sure, but then you too, Sir Udolf, are counted among the lesser nobility here in England. The physician is a younger son. His wife was put in my father's care when she was six. Their daughter was born in England. She would make a very suitable wife for your son, and I would know my godchild was safe."

"Would her father accept such an arrangement?" Sir Udolf asked the queen.

"Ah, my lord, there is the small difficulty. If you would have my goddaughter for your son, you must give her father a home too. My doctor is not well, and hasn't been in some time. He can travel no longer, I fear. The cough he had when we arrived has barely subsided in these few weeks despite Alix's vigorous nursing. He misses his wife greatly, and has lived for their daughter. Once he sees her safe and settled at Wulfborn Hall, I suspect he will die at peace."

"I will be happy to have him here," the baron said generously. "I am enjoying his company in the evenings. Very well, madame. If Alexander Givet will let his daughter wed my son, we have a bargain."

"How will you coerce your son into obeying you?" the queen wanted to know.

"He will obey me after much argument," the baron said in a hard voice.

"I do not want my godchild abused," Margaret of Anjou replied. "You must give me your word, my lord, that Alix will be treated with the respect due to the lady of this house. As much as I seek her safety, my conscience will not allow her to be put in jeopardy, my lord. Will you give me your guarantee?"