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through Beresford’s arm.
    “Indeed,” Gwyneth said, looking at Lady Chester, who did not immediately release her hold on Beresford. She moved her eyes on to Senlis then to Beresford. “Plain speaking is a virtue, for then one cannot complain that one has misunderstood you.”
    Senlis found it difficult to know whether this remark was naive or extremely clever. Either way, he felt it was safe to say, “Well, well, Simon, you are most fortunate, I think, for you are sure to find your lady’s speeches as delightful as her silences.”
    This time a true silence fell, for Gwyneth’s eyes had locked with Beresford’s. She wished she could breathe better. She wished she could look away from the chips of slate that were his eyes, but she could not, and she saw something unwavering in their depths that caused her to blink first. She hated herself for her weakness at such an important moment and felt her color rise again.
    Senlis and Rosalyn were heard to murmur politely, “I have just seen a friend with whom I must speak,” and “I promised Warenne that I would meet him soon.”
    Beresford flicked a glance at their retreating figures much as he would regard disloyal troops abandoning the fray. He was silent a moment longer before ordering gruffly, “We shall walk!”
    Gwyneth wondered if he would command a dog to heel in just such a voice or if he would use a gentler tone.
    It had been her habit and, in fact, her perverse pleasure never to obey immediately one of Canute’s dictates. She had always enjoyed that fraction of a moment when she made her husband think that she was considering his order, as if it were in her power to disobey him, as if the choice to follow his command was a generous act on her part. That moment of artful hesitation had always infuriated the bully-beast Canute, and his powerless fury had always satisfied her. But she did not think that a similar hesitation would serve her purposes now.
    She put her fingertips lightly on Beresford’s outstretched wrist and nodded agreement. They moved forward, and she looked up at him. She did not know that she was half expecting an apology from him for his initial insult to her intelligence until he foiled that expectation by saying abruptly, “Tell me about the battle.”
    “About the battle, sire?”
    “The one that took your husband’s life.”
    Gwyneth blinked. The man was a brute. She cleared her throat. “A siege was laid to Castle Norham during a fortnight or more.” Her voice was low and dispassionate. “I believe that Canute and his men made some tactical blunders. They misjudged the number of the enemy—begging your pardon,” she said with a deferential nod, “and did not properly defend the part of a curtain wall damaged by a large petrary. Neither did they adequately prepare to counter the Greek fire.” Her free hand fluttered once in a futile gesture. “When the castle was stormed, the capture was successful.”
    “Given your inexperience with the Norman tongue,” he observed, “you have a remarkably accurate military vocabulary.”
    Gwyneth smiled faintly. “I had much time, during the long journey to London, to hear repeated descriptions of the Norman success, which were recounted, of course, in Norman.”
    “Tell me about that journey.”
    Her trip to London had been nothing less than terrifying. “Lady Chester has already described the journey to you,” she offered evasively.
    He shook his head slightly. “Lady Chester was not there. Tell me in your own words.”
    “I was treated with utmost respect,” she said diplomatically, “and a concern for my comfort was at all times evident.”
    He let this polite lie pass. “Did you grieve on the journey? You must have lost friends during the storming of the castle.”
    She fought against her fear of him, of the powerful size of his neck and shoulders and arms as he strolled next to her. “Of course, I lost many. I lived at Castle Norham for five years.”
    “Did you lose any