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in face of Perceval’s anger. “None, my lord, but in the unusual cases. For instance, Wido, a plowman in the village, must pay tribute of one lamb. But his ewe has died, and he will need time to come up with a suitable substitute.”
    “And what is a suitable substitute?”
    “I do not know, my lord. Perhaps you can tell me.”
    “What does the man have to offer?”
    Hector shrugged. “Chickens. A small garden plot. His wife, who weaves.” He smiled. “His wife’s best talent is producing children. A healthy baby every year, to serve you, my lord.”
    Endeline’s temper flared. “Perceval!”
    Perceval turned toward his wife in bewilderment. “What are you doing, woman?”
    Hector bowed and left the room. Endeline rolled onto her stomach and kicked her bare legs playfully. “I want another baby, my lord,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Give me another child.”
    Perceval shook his head. “For this you interrupt a meeting with my steward? I have given you three children, and I am not to be blamed for your barren womb.”
    Perceval turned to leave, but Endeline ran to him, her bare feet skimming the floor. She flung her arms around his waist. “I gave two cows to the priest. I sent for charms from the witch at the carnival. I’ve done all I can, Perceval. But you must give me a child!”
    Perceval scowled in impatience, but she would not let him go. For seven years she had longed for another child, but lately the feverish longing would not be denied. She clung steadfastly to his belt, perspiration dripping from her forehead, her hands trembling. She desperately hoped her body would convince her husband; her words had evidently failed.
    Perceval lay his hand on her head. “Come, my dear,” he said, helping her to her feet. He walked her to the bed, and her eyes alighted in hope. But Perceval shook his head. “No, Endeline, I cannot stay with you now. But you should not carry on this way. If God wills another child, it will be. Didn’t your brother assure you of this?”
    “I am barren because the first animal I saw after Lienor’s birth was a mule,” Endeline moaned softly. “A sterile mule. My handmaid said it was so, and I believe her.”
    “You must not believe her.” Perceval sat on the bed and draped his arm around her thin shoulders. “You have three worthy children, lady, what others could you want?”
    Endeline shook her head. “Would you be happy with only three horses? Only three fields? Only three manors?”
    “That’s a different matter.”
    “No, it is not.” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “I am married to a great man. I should raise great and noble children, as many as I can bear in a lifetime.”
    “Then raise noble children.”
    “How?” Her voice was flat.
    Perceval stood and smoothed his surcoat. “Wido the plowman has a wife who has a baby every year. He also owes me tribute. Go to him with my blessing and take what you desire.”

Three
     
     
    E ndeline wasn’t sure what she would find at Wido’s house. The mud cottage with its freshly thatched roof looked neat enough for the house of a lowly villein, but out of it emanated odors and sounds she couldn’t identify.
    She nervously jiggled the reins in her hand and nodded to Sir Gawain, the burly knight who had accompanied her to the village. He dismounted from his horse and called into the dusty courtyard of Wido’s house: “Lady Endeline is at your door, villein! She asks to see Wido the plowman or Corba, his wife.”
    A woman’s dust-streaked face appeared at the window, then she hesitantly stepped through the doorway. “I am Corba,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
    Endeline’s gaze froze on the woman’s belly, where the rough tunic stretched tautly over the round shape of her unborn child. “My husband Lord Perceval tells me that your sheep has died,” Endeline said icily, forcing herself to look into the woman’s faded blue eyes. Her horse stamped a hoof impatiently, and