She chuckled scornfully. “Many folk say they are doing right and believe it. The Enemy blinds them.”

“They blind themselves.”

“Who is to say that the wicked don’t flourish and the innocent fall by the wayside? Where is God’s justice when it is needed?”

He peered at her, but it was difficult to make out her face with the cloud cover cast again over the heavens. “It is in our hands, Mistress Dhuoda. We have the liberty to choose our own actions.”

“What if we choose wrong?”

He sighed, thinking of Adica. The wind sighed, echoing his breathing. Reeds rustled out in the marsh. A man rolled over, making a scraping noise against the ground as he turned in his sleep. Blanche snorted, seemed about to rouse, and settled back into slumber.

“Why didn’t God fashion us so we could do only what is right, and never what is sinful?” she continued.

“Then we would be no different than the tools we ourselves carry. If we did what is right, we would receive no merit from it, not if we had no choice. We would be slaves, not human beings.”

“It might be better so,” she murmured.

“Do you think so?”

“Sometimes I do,” she said, and after that nothing more.

At length he fell asleep.

2

THEY came to Lavas Holding on St. Abraames’ Day. From a distance, the settlement looked little different than the place he had first seen seven years ago—or was it eight? It was difficult to keep track.

The high timber palisade surrounded the count’s fortress with its wooden hall and stone bailey. Beyond the wall the village spilled down a leisurely slope to the banks of the river. Now, however, a fosse and earthen embankment circled the village and the innermost fields, orchards, and pasturage, cut in two spots by the course of the river. Many of the locals looked familiar to Alain, but all of the men at arms were new and by the sound of their words not Lavas born and bred but from farther east.

“Where is Sergeant Fell?” Alain asked the chatelaine as folk pressed close to stare.

“He was given leave to retire back to his home village, with no more than ten sceattas for all his years of service. And likewise, the others, with little enough or nothing, turned off because Lord Geoffrey feels safer with milites brought from his wife’s kin’s lands to protect him. It’s brought grumbling, and rightly so.”

“Who is this, Mistress Dhuoda?” demanded one of the soldiers, coming out of the hall with a spear in one hand and a mug of ale in the other.

“Captain, I pray you, where is Lord Geoffrey?”

“He’s ridden out with the lady’s brother, to take a look at a bull.”

“The one belonging to Master Smith of Ferhold? He’s already said he won’t part with that one for any amount of sceattas.”

“He’ll part with it,” said the captain with a sneer, “if Lord Geoffrey wants to add it to his herd. Who’s this?” He squinted as if against bright sun and pointed toward Alain with his spear.