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after their twelfth birthdays, but I believe that in Magdalen’s case it will be more than a twelvemonth before her terms come. Her body is still unformed.”
    “There will be no hurry for consummation,” the lord said. “Once the alliance is formalized, the rest may take its time. The duke is besides concerned that her breeding ability be not overtaxed, as so often happens ifmaids are bedded too young. But I am glad to have your opinion, my lady. You will remain with her for a few months at Hampton, I trust, and will be able to pass on your knowledge of the child to my wife, the Lady Gwendoline.”
    “I will be happy to be of what service I can to your lady. But my brother will have need of me before the spring forays, and I would return by Easter.”
    Lord de Gervais recognized that the brother and sister felt their duty to be done, and he understood this. For eleven years they had fulfilled a responsibility, knowing always that the duty would end within twelve years. They had affection for the girl, but the affection would have been tempered with the knowledge of the impermanence of the relationship—a knowledge that the child had not had to aid her through her confused sense that in essence she did not belong in this place with these people. But then childhood was a time of confusion, was it not? If it were not, then grown men would be ill prepared to deal with their world.
    “Indeed, madame, whatever time you feel able to spare will be most welcome.”
    Lady Elinor curtsied in acknowledgment. “When will you wish to go in to dinner, brother?”
    “Whenever we are summoned,” Robert said heartily. “I believe my Lord de Gervais and I are concluded with our business. There is but the betrothal. Father Clement will officiate, and it should take place in the chapel after vespers. Magdalen understands that Lord de Gervais will stand proxy for his nephew?”
    “I have explained it to her,” de Gervais said. “Would you permit her to sit beside me at dinner, Lord Bellair? I would further our acquaintance. It may make matters run more smoothly.”
    Robert Bellair offered a small smile, tapping the document now handed to him by his secretary. “By the words here written, Lord de Gervais, you make whatdisposition you see fit for the person of one Magdalen, daughter of his grace, the Duke of Lancaster, and Isolde de Beauregard.”
    “But I would not have her aware of that,” the other said sharply. “She must believe, until his grace decrees otherwise, that you still hold a father’s authority over her.”
    “We will proceed in that fashion,” the Lord Marcher acceded. “Let us repair to the hall.”
    T HAT EVENING , M AGDALEN stood beside Lord de Gervais before the altar in the castle chapel, feeling both important and excited. “What am I to do?” she asked, blinking her eyes, which stung from the censer smoke.
    “I will put a ring upon your finger and plight you my troth in Edmund’s name, then you are to say, ‘I, Magdalen, plight thee, Guy, proxy for Edmund de Bresse, my troth, as God is my witness.’ Then you will give me a ring.”
    Lord Bellair was standing beside her and now handed her a plain gold band, advising in accustomed fashion, “Do not drop it.”
    “Of course I will not, sir,” she responded, injured.
    It was as simple as she had been told. Questions were asked; Lord de Gervais and Lord Bellair answered them all. Guy de Gervais slipped a thin gold ring on her middle finger, and she spoke as she had been bidden, giving her own ring to de Gervais, who slipped it into his pocket.
    At dawn the following morning, Magdalen hastened downstairs in search of Lord de Gervais. She did not bother to examine why she wished to see him, but since he was her betrothed, even if only as proxy, she considered she had a right to his company. She was most disconcerted to be told that he and his knights had gone stag hunting with their host.
    Reflecting that it showed a fine want of feeling toabandon the