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the
castle.”
    “I rather think his mother has had something
to do with Robin’s manners.” Hugh indicated one of the lower
tables, where Robin had joined a woman of graceful bearing, who
wore a plain, brown woolen dress. From under the woman’s neat
wimple a few curls escaped that were identical to Robin’s in color
and curly texture. “She looks to be a gentlewoman and the folk near
her treat her with respect. Her son is a credit to her.”
    “I believe our host is coming now,” Giles
said. “And the ladies with him.”
    A man and two women were just entering the
hall. Lady Alda came first, her well-buffed fingertips resting
lightly on the wrist of a dark-haired man of impressive build.
Alda’s golden hair was bound into a net of gold threads no brighter
than the strands they enclosed. A wide gold circlet topped the net.
The deep green of her gown was calculated to show the glory of her
hair to best advantage and the low-cut neckline revealed most of
her white bosom. Contrary to custom she wore no underdress.
    Behind this pair a second woman walked, and
the dark- haired man’s head was turned toward her as he said
something. The woman was listening to him and was not concerned as
yet with the guests awaiting them on the dais where the high table
was set. Thus, Giles saw Mirielle with his eyes unclouded by the
illusion she had cast at their first meeting.
    “Now there,” said Hugh in a reverent whisper,
“is a woman worthy of young Robin’s devotion.”
    “And of any grown man’s admiration,” Giles
added.
    She was gowned in unadorned blue wool,
high-necked and long-sleeved over a cream colored under-dress. The
loose robe ought to have concealed her figure but in fact it
offered hints of delicious curves with every graceful step Mirielle
took. Her hair was a gleaming blue-black, bound into two braids
that fell almost to her knees. The circlet on her brow was of thin
gold, set with a single, glowing garnet. The smooth, rounded
surface of the red stone caught and seemed to hold within itself
every flicker of light from each torch in the hall and every candle
on the high table. The light thus collected surrounded Mirielle’s
face and form with a rosy aura.
    Mirielle saw Giles and Hugh and lifted one
slender hand as if to trace the former veil of illusion over
herself once more. Then her hand dropped to her side again and a
faint smile curved her lips as she realized there was no point in
trying to hide her true appearance from anyone who had already
glimpsed it.
    “Welcome to Wroxley Castle.” The dark man
bowed courteously to the guests. “I am Sir Brice, seneschal here
and in charge of the castle in the absence of the late baron’s
heir.”
    “We thank you for your generous hospitality.”
Giles studied Brice, detecting in the man’s manner a strong sense
of his own importance, as if Brice thought of himself as more than
a mere seneschal who had been temporarily appointed by King
Henry.
    “My lady,” Brice said to Alda, “may I present
our visitors? You have already heard their names from
Mirielle.”
    Alda inclined her head when Giles and Hugh
bowed to her. Not the least sign of interest showed on her lovely
face, a fact for which both men could be grateful. In a world in
which any interruption to daily routine was regarded as an excuse
for celebration and, in the case of visitors, a chance to hear
entertaining news of life outside the castle confines, Alda
appeared to be singularly unconcerned with her guests.
    “It is cold in the hall,” Alda said, taking
her seat in a high-backed chair. “I want my green shawl.”
    “Is this it, my lady?” Hugh reached behind
Alda to take up the shawl that was laid over the chair arm. He
draped the wool around Alda’s shoulders. As if he were one of the
least of her servants, she did not trouble herself to thank
him.
    Giles watched the scene with a growing chill
at his heart. This was the lady of Wroxley, wife to the absent
Gavin, mother of the young