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raised an eyebrow in an amused expression of silent approbation.
    â€œMust we keep harping on that same tired theme?” he said a little sharply, taking an arrow from Morgan and pretending to sight along it critically. “How was your patrol, Duncan? Are your men fit?”
    Duncan’s smile vanished immediately, his blue eyes gone coolly serious as he put on his cap again, once more the restrained and efficient soldier-priest.
    â€œAye, fit enough, my prince. However, I fear we did come upon something I think will not please you overmuch. The queen’s party is less than an hour from the city gates.”
    â€œOh, no!”
    â€œThey must have made better time from Saint Giles’ than we expected. I left eight of my men for escort.”
    â€œDamn!”
    The expletive was barely whispered, but suddenly Kelson snapped his arrow across one knee and dashed the broken halves to the ground in a brief fit of temper.
    â€œBut, you knew she was coming,” Dhugal ventured, clearly taken aback.
    â€œAye. But not today. She could have waited another day or two—at least until after tonight.”
    Morgan found himself wondering whether Jehana could possibly know what they planned, and said as much to the king, but Kelson only shook his head and sighed heavily, once more in control.
    â€œNo, I’m sure it’s just poor timing.” He sighed again. “I suppose there’s nothing to do but greet her and hope she’s changed—though I doubt that. Alaric, you’d better make yourself scarce until I find out whether she still wants your blood. She wouldn’t dare do anything, but there’s no sense asking for trouble.”
    â€œI shall become invisible, my prince,” Morgan said quietly.
    â€œAlso, we may need to start later tonight than we’d planned,” Kelson went on, gaining confidence as he took charge again. “Duncan, could you please inform Bishop Arilan?”
    â€œOf course, Sire.”
    Kelson sighed yet again.
    â€œVery well, then. I suppose I’d better go and tell Uncle Nigel she’s on her way. I am not looking forward to this.”

C HAPTER T WO
    Shall I give my firstborn for my transgressions, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?
    â€”Micah 6:7
    The enclosed horse-chair carrying the mother of the King of Gwynedd swayed and lurched as the lead horse minced around a muddy pothole. Inside, behind thick woolen curtains that filtered the spring sunshine to a safe, anonymous twilight, Jehana of Gwynedd clung to the wooden frame on either side and prayed for a better road.
    She loathed travelling by horse-chair; it made her stomach queasy. But three years without so much as setting toe to stirrup, combined with the austerities she had practiced as a part of her religious discipline, had left her quite unfit to make the journey from Saint Giles’ to Rhemuth in any other way. The pale, well-kept hands clinging to the chair’s polished wood were painfully thin; the golden marriage ring given her by her dead husband would have slid from her finger with the slightest movement, were it not for the white silk cord securing it to her fragile wrist.
    Her high-necked gown was also white, like the cord: the color of a postulant’s habit, though the fabric was nubby silk rather than the simple homespun wool the sisters wore, and her mantle was lined with miniver. The rich auburn hair that had been her pride and Brion’s joy was concealed beneath a wimple of white silk that also hid the grey beginning to thread the auburn at temples and crown. Her face thus kindly framed, the hollows of cheeks and brow gave an impression of ascetic beauty rather than gauntness, though a pinched look about the eyes betrayed the beauty’s source as internal torment, not contentment.
    Only the color of her eyes remained as it had been: the smoky green of shaded summer forests, rich as the darkling emeralds Brion had loved to see her wear.