“If you are not gone from Novomo by nightfall, I will have you executed for treason.”

She swept her skirts away so the cloth would not brush against him, and walked off. In a flood, her retainers followed her, leaving Antonia with a stricken Lady Lavinia and a dozen serving folk who by their muttering and shifting did not know what to do or where to go.

“Is your daughter well, Lady Lavinia?” Hugh asked her kindly.

She stifled a sob, and said, only, “Yes, Lord Hugh. She survived the storm, which is more than I can say for many.”

“God has favored you, then. I am gladdened to hear it.”

She sobbed, and forced it back, and wavered, not knowing what to do. Perhaps she loved him better than she loved Adelheid. It would be easy to do so.

“Lady Lavinia,” said Antonia. “If you will. I shall set matters right. The queen is distraught, as you know, because of her grief.”

“Yes! Poor mite. Yes, indeed.”

“Then be at rest, and do what you must. Lord Hugh, come with me, if you please.”

He bowed his head most humbly and with that grace of manner that marked him, and with his boots still dusty from whatever road he had recently walked, he went with her to her chambers. There she sat him down on a bench and had the servants bring spiced wine. A cleric unpinned his brooch and set his cloak aside.

“What is this?” he asked, observing the room. “There hang the vestments belonging to the skopos.”

“I am now mother of the church, Lord Hugh. Be aware of that.”

The news startled him, but he absorbed it, sipping at the wine not greedily but thoughtfully. “Much has changed. I have heard in this hour fearful stories. The guards at Novomo’s gate told me that Darre is a wasteland.”

“So it is, as terrible as the pit. Stinking with sulfur and completely uninhabitable. Now. Listen. You have done me a favor in the past, and I shall return it, although I am not sure you are what I had at first hoped.”

He smiled, but she could not tell what he was thinking. He was beautiful, indeed, and weary, and she did not yet know where he had come from and what story he would tell her, but it did not hurt her eyes to watch him as she related all that had happened in the last six months and the plight confronting this remnant of Aosta’s royal court. He never once flinched or exclaimed or cried out in horror. Little surprised him, and that only when she revealed what prisoners they had in hand.

“Truly?” he asked her, and repeated himself. “The daughter of Sanglant and Liath? Truly?” He flushed.

“Be careful, Lord Hugh, else you reveal yourself too boldly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do not think I do not know.”

That caught him, because exhaustion made him vulnerable.

“I have an idea,” she added, “but it will take time, and plotting, and patience.”