‘Adam, what’s the matter, why are you—?’

Behind them a sword cleared its scabbard. ‘Sweyn, put up,’ said Adam without taking his eyes off the men who were moving through the trees and surrounding them. The sword grated back into its sheath, but the old warrior moved closer to Adam, as did the squire.

Rhodri ap Tewdr drew rein and contemplated the small group before him, while at his back, his men shifted restlessly.

‘Welcome to the tryst.’ Adam performed a mocking bow. ‘May I enquire what you are doing so far from home?’

‘A matter of unfinished business.’ Rhodri levelled the spear he was carrying and directed it at Adam’s breast.

Heulwen stiffened, her thoughts flying to Thornford’s tilt yard and the moment when the Welsh prince had almost ridden Adam down. She took an involuntary step forwards, but Adam gestured her back. ‘Such as?’ he said and, as before, stood his ground, matching Rhodri look for look.

The latter held the moment for a long time before tossing the spear to the soldier beside him. Adam breathed out, cold sweat slicking his palms. Rhodri smiled as he saw the tell-tale trail of vapour coil the air. Dismounting, he tied his horse to a sturdy beech sapling.

‘I want a truce,’ he announced. ‘There has been too much blood spilled already and I don’t want to see this summer’s harvest go up in flames — mine or yours.’

‘I’m in full agreement with that,’ Adam said, steadying the euphoria of relief into a careful neutrality. He reached for the costrel lying on the stone and handed it to Rhodri. ‘If you cease raiding over the dyke and making a nuisance of yourself among my father-in-law’s tenants, I’ll try to persuade him and the rest of the funeral guests that exterminating you is not the next best thing to going on crusade.’

‘I am sorry about Lord Miles.’ Rhodri drank from the skin and returned it. ‘I learned respect and fondness for him during the time that I was your prisoner. If I could undo the manner of his dying I would. Davydd went too far.’

‘And paid for it,’ Adam said with grim satisfaction.

Dull colour suffused Rhodri’s skin. His cloak brooch flashed as he took a deep breath. ‘Yes, he paid for it,’ he said, his voice over-controlled. ‘But our raiding began as revenge — we were provoked. Our grazing lands are being ruined by Ravenstow’s tenants, and yours too on the southern side. Only last autumn one of your villages cleared an assart on our side of the border, and on le Chevalier’s former lands the boundary stones have been moved. I know they have. I came down that way to be here. We are only taking back what is ours!’ His dark eyes burned as he looked from Adam to Heulwen, half accusing, half defensive.

Adam inclined his head, acknowledging Rhodri’s argument. ‘I will talk to my bailiffs and stewards, and I’ll ride out and see for myself what liberties have been taken. Send a witness to attend on me if you want. Peace never flourishes on half-measures.’ He frowned and folded his arms. ‘As to your complaint with the Earl of Ravenstow, you’ll need to talk to him yourself. I cannot vouchsafe for him or his tenants.’

‘That is the reason I am here,’ Rhodri said sombrely. ‘I knew he would be here…and also I want to pay my respects to Lord Miles. I need you to give me safe escort to the keep.’

Adam sucked in his cheeks and looked dubiously at his wife. ‘Did you say that de Gernons was leaving?’

She nodded. ‘He should have gone by now.’

‘Yes,’ he confirmed, ‘I can give you safe escort.’ And then he looked at him curiously. ‘How did you know I would be here?’

Rhodri smiled slyly and stroked his stallion’s shaggy neck. ‘I knew that sooner or later you would be out from the castle to exercise your horse or hunt. It was only a matter of keeping my eyes open and myself out of sight. I’ve been watching you for the past hour.’ The smile deepened into an open grin.

Heulwen blushed. Colour darkened Adam’s face.

‘How much did you hear?’ he asked quietly.

Rhodri deliberately misunderstood the question. ‘Enough to know how much you were enjoying yourselves, ’ he said, his gaze running over Heulwen with appreciation.

‘You know what I mean.’

Rhodri opened his palms. ‘Not a great deal. The roar of the falls unfortunately concealed most of what you and that other Norman were saying. Still, I suppose from the look on your face that if I were to bellow the news abroad, you’d cancel my safe escort.’

‘You know the strength of my sword-arm.’

Rhodri’s face was unreadable. The smirk, however, had gone. ‘You Normans,’ he said contemptuously, ‘always conspiring in corners against each other.’ He looked round at his war band. ‘Fe fynn y gwir ei le eh?’

Adam’s colour remained high. The truth will out: he knew enough Welsh to understand that simple saying. He was aware of Heulwen watching him and that he could not deny Rhodri’s words. ‘That’s rich coming from a Welshman,’ he retorted, and added shortly over his shoulder, ‘Austin, stop gawping like a turnip-wit and get our horses. We’re returning to Milnham.’


Heulwen picked up her sewing, grimaced at it with extreme disfavour, and uttering a sigh started to push the needle through the fabric. It was a shirt for Adam, a basic, simple garment within her scope, but a genuine and literal labour of love since needlework of any kind was to her a form of purgatory, and it was a mark of her desperation that she was tackling it beyond her daily allotted stint.

There was nothing else to do. Father Thomas, Adam’s chaplain, had said he would give her a copy of Tristan to read, but the howling storm outside had kept him the night at the monastery five miles away. A visiting itinerant lute-player had left them at dawn before the weather took a turn for the worse, hoping to make Ledworth by nightfall. The carrier was not due for at least another week with his budget of news and gossip, and Adam’s mood was fouler than the weather that kept them huddled so close to the hearth. She darted a glance to the trestle near the fire where he sat, flagon and goblet close to hand. The last three days he had scarcely been sober, drinking as if to exorcise some demon. He was not drunk now, but the evening was still young, only just past dusk and the flagon full. By the time they retired it would be down to the lees.

She jabbed the needle angrily into the linen, pricked her finger and swore. He looked up at her exclamation and half raised one eyebrow. Heulwen sucked her finger and regarded him gravely. ‘Why are you brooding like a moulting hen?’ she demanded.

He did not deny it, but lifted the flagon and, pouring the wine, took three long swallows. Then, carefully, he set the cup back down at arm’s length and sighed. ‘I’ve a decision to make. I’ve been trying to drown my conscience in my cup, but it keeps surfacing to preach at me, or else it mocks me from the dregs and I have to fill up and start again.’

‘What sort of decision?’ Without regret she put her sewing aside. ‘Certainly you cannot think straight sitting in a fog of wine fumes.’

He tilted his head slightly to avoid the scorching heat that came from sitting so close to the fire. ‘I’ve been trying not to think,’ he said wryly.

‘Is it about Rhodri? The Welsh?’

‘Hardly.’ He rubbed his forehead and winced. ‘Since we all agreed a truce at Milnham and I’ve seen to my part of the bargain, there’s been no trouble from that quarter and I don’t expect any. Rhodri’s got enough ado keeping his own people together without bothering mine and your father’s — for the nonce at least…Christ Jesu, Heulwen, do you have a remedy for a megrim? My head feels as though it’s going to explode.’

‘Your own fault,’ she said without sympathy. ‘What do you expect when you drink for three days solid?’

He gave her a sour glance. ‘I asked for the remedy, not the cause.’

‘Remedy? Leave the wine alone.’ She stood up and brushed some cut ends of thread from her gown.

‘If my head is aching, it is for reasons far more complex than the downing of too much Anjou,’ he snapped.

Heulwen gave him a single look more eloquent than words, and stalked away down the hall. He followed her with brooding eyes as she went, then swore and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, feeling as though a lead weight were crushing him from existence. Ralf might have thrived upon intrigue, but Adam found the conflict of loyalties almost more than he could bear. What was he supposed to do? Follow Henry’s desires and have the barons all call him traitor, or tell his peers and face banishment, perhaps even death? The King had clandestine ways of dealing with men against whom he could not openly move.

Adam groaned. His responsibility was not only to himself. He had Heulwen to consider and her family — his too by foster-bond and marriage. Tell Guyon and risk being condemned by the King; or not tell him and be slighted. Somewhere, amid the wine fumes, the shadow of his long-dead father mocked his honour with brimstone laughter.

‘Here.’ Heulwen bent over to hand him a cup of some cloudy substance that smelt revolting and tasted on the first, tentative sip even worse.

‘Faugh!’ He pulled such a face that she laughed.

‘Drink it,’ she commanded, and added in a barbed tone, ‘pretend it’s wine.’

Adam glared at her, but held his peace and gulped the concoction down. Shuddering, he plonked the cup upon the trestle. ‘Torturer,’ he complained, and struggled not to retch.

From behind her back, Heulwen brought forth a small comfit dish. ‘Honeyed plums,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘Do you remember? It was the way Mama used to bribe us to swallow her potions when we were little.’