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swear. “I choose you,” Eleanor said without hesitation.
    “You can’t,” said a little mousy creature. “I’m Margery de Lacy. She’s only my maid, Brenda.”
    Eleanor took a threatening step toward Margery. “I am the Countess of Pembroke. I believe I outrank you, even though the de Lacys are noted for their arrogance.” She turned a shoulder upon Margery and said to the maid, “Swear.”
    The girl, who looked at least twelve, said, “Fuck!”
    Eleanor gasped with shock, then she turned back to Margery de Lacy. “I suppose I shall have to pick
you
in order to get
her.”
She made her selection swiftly then. “I’ll also take Sybil and Eve,” she said, not really thinking much of any of them save the precocious copper-haired maid.
    Matilda Bigod looked relieved that she had not been chosen to serve the tyrant. When the doors to the reception room were opened to admit a gaggle of chaperons and nuns, she decided to put the ladies wise as to what kind of wickedness seethed in the breast of the youngest Plantagenet.
    Lady Isabella did not return for over an hour, but the fresh air must have been most beneficial because when she came to gather up Eleanor’s rejects her color was high and her eyes sparkled like stars.
    Will Marshal had dined sumptuously at Portumna Castle, the main stronghold of the de Burghs of Connaught. They ruled everything west of the River Shannon while William owned most of Leinster and was justiciar of the whole country. Conditions were relatively peaceful now in Ireland. Of course there would always be clan wars and large pockets of resistance to be put down, but at least the whole country was not in flaming rebellion. That was amazing, considering the untamed nature of the Irish.
    Will Marshal gazed across the table at Jasmine, mesmerized as always by her delicate features, lavender eyes, and hair the color of moonbeams. She looked not one day older than the first time he had glimpsed her and lost his heart. Perhaps it was because she was a witch and had the power; now that her grandmother, Dame Estelle Winwood, had passed on to the next world, her power was probably even stronger.
    The glow from the candles made a nimbus about her, enhancing her ethereal beauty. Will remembered how irrationally angry he had felt when he learned she had given birth to twin sons, thinking the fragile flower could never survive such an ordeal, but now all he felt for those splendid young men was envy that they were not his sons. They were made in the mold of Falcon de Burgh, dark and strong-limbed, yet their laughing faces were handsomer, not having the darkly forbidding features of their father. It was almost impossible to tell them apart, save that Michael had lavender eyes, while Rickard’s blazed with the same green fire as his father’s.
    They had an insatiable thirst for knowledge of England and had plied William with questions of the king, court, barons, politics, and even its women all through the meal. Finally Jasmine’s voice raised in protest. “Enough! You’ve behaved like louts, monopolizing Will all evening. You act as if you’re straight out of the bog … uncivilized pair.”
    Rickard grinned wickedly. “That’s because we haven’t been polished at court, Mother.”
    The twins excused themselves, knowing William Marshal would be generous enough to spend the next week answering their questions.
    “You walked right into that remark, Jassy,” Falcon de Burgh said with amusement. They rose from the table and Jasmine took Will’s arm as the three of them repaired to the solar that overlooked the whole length of the lake, or lough, as it was called in Ireland.
    “I know I can’t keep them any longer. They will grow to resent me,” Jasmine acknowledged.
    “If only they realized what they have here,” Will said, throwing out his arm to indicate the unparalleled vista. “It’s like a Palatinate. They live like young princes, with total freedomand without the corruption of the