“A strategic alliance,” observed Margery dryly. “Promised to one another since they were children. It will happen next summer, I think. It should have been sooner, but he went away instead. Richard did not like that.”

I watched Richard of Northwoods as he dismounted in one fluid movement, and tossed his reins to the waiting groom. He wore black, and moved with the same effortless elegance as his daughter. I saw him greet Red, gripping him by the arm, and then they moved out of sight.

I did not return to my own quarters that day. Instead, Margery took me to the part of the house where she and John lived, and showed me the wooden cradle carved with acorns and leaves on head and foot, now newly lined with soft linen and wool; and the tiny garments she had made. She kept me there awhile with one thing and another, and I watched her with some concern. She was overbusy, I thought, for one so great with child, and there was a puffiness about her face and her ankles that I had seen before on women close to their delivery; this was not a good sign. I wanted to talk to her about this, perhaps ask if I might touch her, to feel how the child lay; but I had not forgotten the woman’s words. Better not let her near your child, lest it be born dead or deformed. And she had lost one babe already.

She made it easy for me, eventually. “Jenny,” she said, coming to sit by me, and she had in her hands a box of salve and an implement new to me, which I learned later was used by women for plucking unsightly hairs from their brows, or their chins, or wherever they were not wanted. “I hope you won’t think this amiss,” she said rather shyly. “But we—I thought, your hands need not suffer quite so badly, with a little help. I wish you would stop this work you do, but I have been told you will not, and that there is no point in asking you. At least let me take out some of the barbs for you, and rub a little of this salve into the skin. That way, I think you will have a little more movement in the fingers, and the pain may be less.” She began to work on my hands, and I surrendered them to her ministrations, closing my eyes. And I saw Finbar, so many years ago, his tongue between his teeth, using two pointed sticks to pull out the thorns while I wept the loud, unrestrained tears of childhood, and Conor told his tale. Her name was Deirdre, Lady of the Forest…

“Am I hurting you too much?” asked Margery anxiously, and I started and blinked.

There were tears in my eyes. I shook my head, and managed a smile of sorts.

“It must be so hard for you,” she said, patiently pulling out the fine thorns one by one. “Not talking, I mean. You must be so lonely. And being so far from home. I suppose you have family of your own, brothers and sisters. You must miss them terribly.”