Richenda smiled and tucked the sleeping furs more closely around her slumbering son, then signed for Morgan to withdraw with her to the outer chamber. As Morgan followed, he could not help noticing another sleeping-pallet in the inner chamber, this one canopied with blue and cream silk. Resolutely he put it from his mind as Richenda turned to face him again.

“I thank you for coming, Your Grace,” Richenda said, sitting in one of the chairs and motioning him to the other. “I must confess, I have felt the lack of human company these past days since Dhassa. Sister Luke is a dear, but she says little beyond what is required. The others prefer not to associate with a traitor’s wife.”

“Even when the traitor’s wife has offered to aid the Crown, and is a young and helpless woman?” Morgan asked softly.

“Even then.”

Morgan lowered his head, wondering what he dared say to this exquisite creature to whom he was so strongly drawn.

“Your homeland—is it like Corwyn?” he asked abruptly, rising to begin pacing the confines of the outer chamber.

Richenda’s eyes followed him as he paced, her face expressionless. “Somewhat. Not so hilly, though. It is said that Corwyn has a monopoly on the most beautiful mountains in this region. Bran says that—” Her voice faltered, and she began again.

“My husband says that our Marley has rich farmland, though—some of the richest in all the Eleven Kingdoms. Did you know that there has never been a serious famine in Marley, going back more than four hundred years? Even when there is drought and pestilence in other lands, Marley at least survives. I used to think it was a sign of divine favor.”

“And now?”

Richenda studied her hands clasped in her lap and shrugged. “Oh, it changes nothing of the past, I suppose, but now that Bran—oh, what’s the use? I keep coming back to the same subject, don’t I? And I know that the last thing you wish to talk about on the eve of battle is a traitor earl. Why did the king send you, Your Grace?”

“Partly because of what we found today, my lady,” he replied, after only the briefest of pauses. “You indicated that you had heard the reason for our delay. Are you aware of the extent—”

“Headless corpses impaled on wooden stakes,” she interrupted in a clipped voice. “Cassani uniforms on hacked bodies whose wounds do not match their clothing.” She looked him full in the eyes.

“Did the king send you to ask whether I thought my husband did these things? Do you wish me to say that, yes, Bran is at least capable of such acts? You must know that I have been in the king’s custody for many days now, and hence cannot say whether my husband actually participated in the day’s work!”

Morgan found himself momentarily speechless, taken aback both by her candor and by the tenor of her outburst.

“Forgive me, my lady, but you misjudge both the king and myself. No one ever meant to imply that you had knowledge of what your husband planned. Indeed, all signs point to his defection being strictly a matter of opportunity. A man who planned to betray his king would hardly leave his wife and heir in jeopardy. If you have received the impression that your loyalty is in question, I do apologize. It was not intended.”