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reckless decision.
    "Tell me more of this Lord Bannor," she demanded. "You've told me all about his bravery in battle and his devotion to king and country, but I still don't know what manner of man would beseech another to choose his bride."
      Sir Hollis gave the mutton leg a thoughtful nibble. "A prudent one."
      A chill shot down her spine. Perhaps it was not she who was lacking, but her husband.
      "Is he ..." she leaned forward on the bench, hardly daring to speak her suspicions aloud, "... ill-favored?"
      Sir Hollis nearly choked on his mouthful of mutton. "I wouldn't exactly say that."
      Willow found his reaction less than comforting. "Was he disfigured in the war? Did he lose a limb? An eye?" She suppressed a shudder. "A nose?"
      The knight's mustache twitched as if he was fighting back a sneeze. "I can assure you, my lady, that Lord Bannor returned from France with all of his significant parts intact."
      Willow frowned, wondering just which parts a man might consider significant. "What of his temperament, then? Is he a kind man? A fair man? Or is he given to brooding and violent fits of temper?"
    Sir Hollis blinked at her. "My lord would be the first to assure you that he is not a man given to strong drink, uncontrollable rages, or blasphemy."
      Willow settled back on the bench, folding her hands in her lap. "I suppose a woman can ask no more than that of her husband."
    Yet once she had wanted more. Much more. A fleeting vision of her prince drifted before her eyes, evoking a bittersweet pang of yearning. She would never again hear the rich echo of his laughter. Never again taste the honeyed sweetness of his imaginary kiss. The time had come for her to exchange her girlish dreams for a man wrought of flesh and blood, sinew and bone. She closed her eyes, bidding her prince farewell with a wistful sigh.
      She was determined to make this Lord Bannor a good wife. It mattered not if he was old and infirm, harelip, or disfigured in service to king and country. If he was willing to pledge his devotion to her and only her, she could certainly do no less for him.
    Fortified by her resolve, Willow opened her eyes. Or at least she thought she did. But the vision framed by the chariot window persuaded her that she must have drifted into a dream.
      A castle seemed to float upon the cliff that overlooked the sparkling waters of the River Tyne. It bore no resemblance to her papa's crumbling keep. Graceful round towers jutted toward the clouds, crowned by conical roofs of gray slate. A crenellated wall enfolded the massive palace in a sweeping curtain of sandstone.
      Willow blinked. She must surely be dreaming, for who but a prince could live in such a majestic abode?
      She didn't realize she had spoken the question aloud until Sir Hollis replied, "Why, you, of course."
    She shifted her wide-eyed gaze to the knight.
    His tense smile sent a shiver of foreboding down her spine. "For that majestic abode is Elsinore, and you, my dear, are its new lady."
     
    ******
    "The chariot approaches! The chariot approaches!"
      As the lookout's cry echoed from the watchtower, followed by a braying blast from a hunting horn, Ban-nor yawned and stretched his long legs, refusing to budge from his chair. Twice in the past week, Desmond had lured him from the tower with a similar ruse. He'd emerged the first time only to go skidding across the buttered planking and down the stairs. If the wall hadn't broken the force of his headlong tumble, he might have snapped his neck. He'd taken more care the second time the horn had sounded, tiptoeing gingerly down the stairs and peeping around corners until the greased pig Mary Margaret had lured into the great hall with a handful of acorns went sprinting between his legs, knocking him flat.
    He'd endured many sieges while defending his king's holdings in Guienne and Poitou, but never one so prolonged or so relentless. Since Hollis had departed to seek a mother for his children, Bannor had