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but I think it is the other way round.”
    Thomas glanced back to watch the low-voiced argument continue. “Can you get your hands free? If there is a need.”
    “My king, what makes you think I need my hands free to deal with that witch?”
    “Don’t underestimate her.”
    “Who is the other woman? The girl who leaped to your defense?”
    Thomas turned his attention to dabbing at the cut on Godric’s face. “She is Philippe’s wife, the Princess Aliénor.”
    ***
    Aliénor tossed her head in exasperation as she dragged her husband away from the prisoners. “If you let the witch have her way, then you will have to kill King Thomas, for I’m sure he could never forgive such a breach of diplomacy.”
    She had not wished for the witch to follow, but of course that damned Mistress Helen had. The witch toyed with her dagger, watching the blade flash in the sun. “The King of Lyond is a great prize, my lord.”
    At the witch’s words, Aliénor’s skin went cold. “You cannot be serious.”
    The witch eased closer, trying to push Aliénor out of the way as they jostled for Philippe’s attention. “Think, my prince. Let me bleed King Thomas just a little every day and I—you can control his every action, every move. You can return home not just having reclaimed the colonies but having taken Lyond.”
    Aliénor’s heart hammered. “These Lyondi men saw her power, Philippe. They will know what is happening.”
    “So we kill them.” Helen shrugged. “We can make up any story we like after that. A daring rescue from barbarians. You saved King Thomas with your own sword. Anything.”
    Philippe caught his lower lip between his teeth. His eyes warmed a little at the witch’s suggestion. A desperate, tearing fear gripped Aliénor, and she grabbed her husband by both arms, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Philippe, if you follow Mistress Helen’s plan, all you will do is start another war with Lyond.”
    “Do you doubt my power, Princess?” the witch asked.
    “I doubt the Lyondi will let themselves be ruled by a man who’s clearly a puppet to foreign powers.”
    Philippe’s gaze flicked back and forth as he studied the ground, but she knew he was thinking, weighing his options.
    Aliénor pressed on. “We are in neutral territory, Philippe. I do not think the Prince of Anutitum will thank you for this offense. Your brother the king sent you down here to defend our territories. He did not send you to start a war with Lyond.”
    Philippe’s mouth pinched, but still he made no reply. The witch’s smile widened.
    Aliénor shook Philippe as hard as she could, and at last his gaze met hers in shocked offense. “Husband, you cannot murder these soldiers in cold blood. Is that the kind of prince you want to be? The kind of man? Why did you even go on this holy mission if this is what you would do? Will this be like that village all over again? I can still recall the smell of that burning temple even if you have forgotten.” Her voice broke at the end, and the remembered odor of charred buildings nearly made her gag.
    Philippe’s eyes swam with sudden tears, and he grasped her hand tight, mashing the bones together in his own remembered pain. “No, no, you’re right, my love. We must not become like the barbarians we were sent to fight.” He flicked a glare at Mistress Helen, and stepped away to approach the Lyondi prisoners.
    Mistress Helen accepted the snub with a small bow. As soon as Philippe’s back was turned, she glared at Aliénor. Aliénor shivered and looked away. With a grunt of disgust, Mistress Helen stomped away into the bustle of camp. No doubt looking for someone else to torment.
    King Thomas— how strange to think him a king —stood at Philippe’s approach, and how strange to think the two men were both royalty, for they could not have been more dissimilar to Aliénor’s eyes. Philippe was slim and slight where King Thomas was broad-shouldered and tall. The foreign king was older than