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Bellair’s page, who stood waiting outside the guest chamber. “Hurry along now, child. You must not weary our guests with your chatter.”
    Lord de Gervais smilingly watched the small figure trail off toward the circular stairs leading down to the family quarters on the second floor of the donjon. If Edmund could be persuaded to devote some part of his widely scattered attentions to his bride, they might deal in companionship extremely well. At all events, he was not concerned about this strangeness Lord Bellair sensed in her. The Lord Marcher was not accustomed to children, but Guy de Gervais was. Although his ownmarriage was childless, he had in his wardship, besides his nephew, two cousins and his young half brothers and sisters, the progeny of his mother’s third and final marriage. He believed he could detect in Isolde de Beauregard’s daughter no more than a nature ill-suited to restraint—and that, it was to be assumed, she had inherited from her dam, if not from her sire. It was, after all, a defining characteristic of the Plantagenets.
    Ten minutes later, attired in his green and gold tunic over emerald-green hose, his marten-trimmed surcote and similarly lined velvet mantle, he followed the lad Giles to a round chamber in the south turret. It was a businesslike room, furnished simply with an oak table and several chairs, the floor bare except for one skin before the hearth. Candles provided bright illumination over the stack of parchments lying on the table. It was Lord Bellair’s administrative office, and his secretary sat hunched over the papers on the table, his quill pen scratching busily.
    “How did your discussion with Magdalen fare?” Bellair set a chair for his guest and instructed Giles to pour wine.
    De Gervais waited until the page had been dismissed before replying. “Without difficulty. She was curious about many things, but in no wise reluctant.”
    “I trust her curiosity was tempered with courtesy,” said Lord Bellair dryly.
    De Gervais smiled. “You need have no fears on that score. Master Secretary is gathering together the necessary documents, I see.”
    “The original document, placing the babe in my charge until such time as the duke would claim her, is here. Master Cullum is drawing up the necessary release of that charge, naming you as my successor in the matter. It will be witnessed under seal.”
    De Gervais nodded. He could well understand Lord Bellair’s desire to have no loose ends. His responsibilitymust be officially declared completed. With such parentage and the destiny planned for her, Magdalen could well be the focus of some future plot, and a sensible man would want no past ties hanging loose to incriminate him.
    “When is the wedding to take place?”
    De Gervais pulled his chin. “Within six months. There is the matter of legitimacy to be dealt with first, but the duke is working closely with Rome. There are bargains to be struck.” He shrugged as if to say there always are. One could always buy what one needed from the papal court with some kind of currency if one was powerful enough, particularly in these days of the papal schism when competition between the papal courts at Avignon and Rome obscured all spiritual considerations. John of Gaunt would not be remotely interested in spiritual considerations, only in what his power and currency would buy him from one amenable pope—he only needed one, after all.
    “You will wish to discuss with Lady Elinor certain matters, I daresay,” Robert Bellair said directly. “She will know what stage the child has reached in her maturing.” Receiving a nod of agreement, he called for Giles and sent him for Lady Elinor.
    The lady had been expecting the summons and addressed the subject with the same directness as her brother. “There are as yet few indications of womanhood, Lord de Gervais. She is, I believe, somewhat behind in her developing. I have known other girls at eleven who could be bedded within a short time