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had been, taking care to drink from the same place. "I drink to the fairest lady in Christendom—nay, the fairest in the world," he amended extravagantly.
    Walter de Clare shared a trencher with Robert of Belesme, an unhappy distinction caused by his lateness in seeking the table. From where they sat, they had an excellent view of Eleanor and Prince Henry. Walter could even see Henry cut Eleanor's meat up into dainty pieces for her, and his spirits soared. Surely a betrothal would come of the attention and the de Clares would share in William's favor. Without thinking, he poked Belesme.
    "My young cousin seems to have caught Prince Henry's fancy."
    "Aye," Robert of Belesme agreed amiably enough.
    "A pity it is not Rufus, though, for she grows beautiful enough to be a queen."
    Robert gave a derisive snort. "Art a fool, de Clare. William Rufus will never wed, I promise you. Holy Church does not sanction the liaisons he prefers." Robert dipped his greasy fingers in the water bowl and rinsed them. "And do not be pinning much hope on Henry, either. A twelve-year-old he cannot bed will not hold him in thrall for long. He'll be panting after a new wench at the next town."
    Walter didn't like the tone Belesme used. "My cousin is no wench to be tumbled and Henry knows it."
    "Ah, de Clare, they are all alike enough under their clothes." Robert speared a sugared date with his knife before fixing Walter with those strange green eyes. And for all her airs and tempers, the time will come when your fair cousin lies beneath me, moaning and panting for my seed."
    Walter's hand went to the dagger he carried in his sleeve. "You forget you are speaking of my kinswoman," he warned.
    "Nay, I forget nothing—ever." Robert's hand snaked out and grasped Walter's wrist, carrying it to the table. "I would not draw a blade on me, de Clare, else I wanted my lights carved out." His fingers were like a vise as they pressed Walter's palm open. The small poniard fell to the floor as Belesme abruptly released his grip.
    "Roger will stand against you."
    "The bastard?" Robert's lips curved scornfully as he considered Eleanor's half-brother. "Nay. You and the Demoiselle put too much faith in him. He will have too much honor to do what must be done. I, on the other hand, let nothing stand in my way."
    Suddenly there was a commotion at the high table as Lady Mary rose clutching her stomach and screaming at her husband, "You foul beast—you've poisoned me!" Her face had gone white even as she cried, "A curse on you and all of your house!"
    "You daft woman!" Gilbert half knocked over the table as he tried to reach her. " 'Tis your own issue you would condemn."
    She pitched forward, striking the already disturbed table and falling under it. Moans and screams intermingled as she writhed in the rushes as though possessed. Gilbert stood over her with both fists clenched "I warned you, Mary—I said I'd put you aside, and for God, I shall!"
    Gasps of horror spread through the crowd. Roger pushed his way to the front of the hall even as Prince Henry moved between Gilbert and his fallen wife. Many around them crossed themselves and craned for a better look. William stayed his host with a firm hand on the shoulder.
    "Stand back that she may be ministered to. Henry look to Lady Mary." William caught sight of Roger and motioned him forward. "Can you lift her?"
    "Aye."
    Henry knelt before the moaning woman and pried her mouth open, forcing some wine between her teeth. She gagged and then vomited. He nodded to Roger "Let us lift her to a bench so that we may better see—and someone fetch the leech."
    Gilbert mastered his anger as he came to the realization that his wife was indeed extremely ill. "Mary… Mary… what ails you?"
    Roger pushed him back. "Let others tend her. As it is, all present saw you eat of the same food and drink of the same cup. If she dies, it is most likely that something has burst within her. Give no truth to her accusations."
    "But… Mary…"