Richenda looked across at him for a long time, her blue eyes never wavering from his, then shifted her glance to her lap. Her betrothal ring gleamed dully in the candlelight.

“Pray, forgive me. I should not have taken out my frustration on you. Nor is the king to blame for my apprehensions.” Her voice was rock-steady.

“As for Bran, I cannot say whether you are correct or not. I pray that his betrayal was not planned, yet I know that he was—is—ambitious. Even our marriage was largely brought about to consolidate vague claims he had for several manors adjoining Marley, that he knew would be part of my dowry.

“But he was a good father, if not a model husband. He loves Brendan dearly, even if our relationship is largely one of state.” She paused, then shook her head. “No, that is hardly fair. I think that Bran did come to love me after a time, in his own fashion. After what has happened today, though, I hardly think that makes much difference.”

“Then, you think he is beyond your reach?” Morgan said quietly, not wishing to touch further on her personal relationship with Bran.

Richenda shrugged. “I have no way of knowing, my lord. If he would agree to what happened today, then anything I might say will probably make little difference to him. Perhaps he would listen for Brendan’s sake. I am still willing to make the effort, if the king will permit it.”

“It is a needless risk, my lady.”

“Perhaps. But we must, each of us, play out our parts as they have been written for us. Mine, it seems, is to play the traitor’s wife and beg for my husband’s life. And yet, I cannot expect the king to sacrifice whole armies for my sake. When all is said and done, Brendan and I can expect to be left with nothing but a traitor’s name, regardless of the outcome of the battle. It is not a pleasant state to contemplate, is it?”

“No, it is not,” Morgan agreed gently.

Sighing, Richenda rose to lean against the center pole of the tent, then turned to gaze across at Morgan.

“And you, Your Grace—what is it you hope to gain from all of this? You have great powers and much wealth, the king favors you, and yet you gamble everything on a single throw of the dice. If Gwynedd loses this war, you cannot possibly survive. It is well known that Wencit will not tolerate conquered Deryni in his dominions. Such men would always be a threat to his power.”

Morgan lowered his eyes and studied the toes of his dusty boots.

“I am not certain I can answer that, my lady. As you doubtless know, I have been something of a rebel all my life. I have never made any secret of my Deryni heritage. I first used my powers openly to help King Brion keep his throne—more than fifteen years ago. Since then, I suppose my aim, in an indirect way, has been to continue using my powers openly, in the hope that one day all Deryni could be as free as I. Yet, even in that, there is irony—for when have I, as a Deryni, ever been entirely free?”