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gossips to ruin her. Her own long starved needs had done it for her.
    She moaned and buried her head in her hands, her pride shattered and all hope of protecting her estate from Michel de Martigny gone. How could she stop him if all he need do to destroy her was lean close to her?
    As if she could stop him. She was trapped in the king's confinement while the knight could come and go as he pleased.
    She opened her eyes as two grunting men made their way into the king’s apartment, carrying a heavy cauldron on poles between them: boiling water to warm the cold already in the tub. A few short minutes later they reappeared, moving more easily now that their cauldron was empty. They were the last to leave and they didn't notice her.
    Their lack of notice was an omen of Ami's new future. Once de Martigny had made what was hers his, she'd end out her life in beggary. John would release her from his custody, having no further need to keep her. Not only would there be no hope of remarriage, there'd be no maid, no fine gowns. She touched the golden circlet that held her headcloth in place. Nor baubles. Impoverished, she would die a death of a thousand horrible cuts, having lost what few comforts she treasured in a life already stripped of all joy and love.
    Throwing herself to her feet, Ami almost raced down the balcony's length for the stairs that led to the hall below. As if speed could save her or offer some escape from what was inescapable? Instead, all racing would do was bring her more quickly back to her prison. Yes, but once she was there at least she could roll out her pallet, bury her head beneath her blankets and do her best to deny any of this had happened.
    She stopped as she reached the final step above the hall floor. In her previous life she could have crossed her hall without an escort or called out to the men she needed. Not here, and not only because such behavior would cause the other women to call her hoyden. The king's court was filled with ambitious men to whom Ami, or rather her properties were an inviting morsel. It was against the possibility of being kidnapped and held until her womb filled that made the king's guard cautious with her person.
    It was fortunate the two soldiers dressed in the red and blue of John's court were watching for her, for they'd not have heard her today even if she'd bellowed for them. A huge fire on the hall's central hearthstone snarled and roared as it consumed the stack of wood upon it to drive back an unusually cold and wet November. Servants shouted one to the other as they raised tables for the night's feast in honor of St. Martin. The hall's pack of small rat-eating dogs yipped and chased the ends of white tablecloths as maids snapped them into place, their raucous activity stirring the piney scent of the rosemary strewn into the reeds covering the floor. The king’s table, dressed in cloth of gold, already stood upon its dais. All along the hall’s length hung garlands, the fruit of Ami’s and the other wards’ labors; For the past week they’d spent their days turning stalks of wheat, late autumn flowers and rosemary into long fragrant ropes.
    Once Ami was again protected by her escorts, she wended her way through the crowd, past the wooden screen that guarded the door, the only entrance and exit from the hall, then out onto the landing that stood a full storey above the courtyard floor. As befitted a king's residence this, the first of Winchester's two halls, was built of stone, its walls pierced with only narrow arrow loops. Slate tiles covered its roof, making the building almost impervious to fire.
    Ami pulled her mantle more tightly around her to protect her precious garments from the drizzle and descended with her escorts into the bustle in the yard below. There were laundresses with their baskets on their backs, clerks with ink-stained fingers and sheaves of parchment tucked beneath their arms, men with parcels hanging from their yokes, as well as liveried and