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map to her. At that moment, she had realized her dishevelment —her wrinkled tunic, her hair en negligée , her lids heavy from a restless sleep.
    He had straightened to stare down at her. She loathed him so. She found it difficult to sustain his sardonic gaze. "No, I am not a man of peace but one of the sword. And your name Dominique, it little befits your station now, does it?”
    If only he did not speak the language in such a caressing voice. “For the present.”
    She could not bear to be in his presence and had turned to leave the room. "Not so quickly,” he had ordered.
    She had half-turned, and he warned, "By your leave. Say it. ‘By your leave, my Lord Lieutenant.’ ”
    Her teeth had gritted against each other. “ By your leave, my Lord Lieutenant." The profound dislike in her voice had been unmistakable.
    But it had mattered not one whit to him. He had already turned back to study the spread map.
    Disgusted with her preoccupation with the man, she banished her recollections and re-turned her attention to the stewed mutton spread like paste on the thick trencher of bread. Aware of the sidewise glances spared her from the others at the low table, her fingers could only pluck at a soggy morsel. Jeanne had obviously gone lax in her culinary efforts.
    This was the first appearance Dominique had made in the great hall at mealtimes since the arrival of the foreigners. Her presence had been ordered by the Eng lishman's wish or, at least, that was how the phrasing was delivered by a surprisingly respectful Captain Bedford.
    While she had not actually been ordered to sit at the low table, she had so chosen. To break bread with Montlimoux ’s enemy would have been to surrender, if only a part of herself.
    Was this how one lost one's soul?
    A traveling jester in checkered yellow-and-orange silks, soiled and frayed by the years, danced for the guests. The bells of his long-pointed shoes tinkled with his foolish capers. A silent groan welled inside her. Paxton of Wychchester! The English dolt's company lacked the animated conversation, a spirited mixture of wit and wisdom, that was to be found at Francis's board: poets, theologians, physicians all sharing their intriguing knowledge.
    Now that Francis had taken up residence in Avignon, she sorely missed his rapier-swift sallies and intriguing stories. But then all the intellects and diplomats of the civilized world were making pilgrimages there now that it was the new seat of the papacy instead of profligate Rome.
    As a child she had looked forward to Francis ’s visits to the chateau. A full ten years older, he had never bored her and never looked upon her as merely an engaging child, but as a child wise for her years and gender.
    Out of sorts, she rose abruptly from the lower table. To do so before the lord of the chateau rose, signifying the end of the repast, was a slight to formality and could bring unpleasant consequences. But then he had made it plain she was of no consequenc e, and she seriously doubted her presence would be missed.
    Paxton of Wychchester ’s officers were growing steadily drunker on Iolande’s vintage red wine, and the burgher and his wife fared little better. The lieutenant—Grand Seneschal, she mentally corrected—paid not the slightest heed to the jester's antics nor the scantily clad professional dancing girls who next performed. She recognized that the rage in his energies burned even fiercer, though he appeared to content himself in conversing with his captain. Their wine flagons were virtually untouched.
    Within her privy chamber, a fire burned warmly against the chill spring night. Like fireflies, sparks took flight from the cedar logs. Her falcon, perched on its tasseled pommel, flared its wings in recognitio n of her entry. "It's high time you were exercised, Reinette.”
    Reinette pleased her greatly. Not only was the female falcon the fastest animal alive, but she was larger and more aggressive than the male tiercel.
    Beatrix