“My point,” he grumbled, “is that there is nobody important in my family.”

“I know what your point is,” she spoke over him. “You presume that if you had a deep cousin who married one of Richard’s deep cousins, you wouldn’t have been deposed today. You think that would have protected you from the Chancellor?”

There was a question behind her question. He hadn’t let her actually read the message. She was prying, trying to find out who was pulling this particular string. He grunted a half affirmation, letting her think the Chancellor had issued the order. It didn’t matter. He had expected this exact letter from the Chancellor, but Prince John had sent one first. They both had the authority. He collapsed the paper again onto the table and placed the wine bottle on top of it.

“Look at you, Roger, whining about your lot. It’s true, your family is unimportant, but that was the hand you were dealt. You’ve had sixty years to come to terms with it. Sixty years to overcome it, and you failed. The blame is on you.”

Somewhere, there was a perfect combination of words to counter Margery’s insult. It was there in his mind but the pieces wouldn’t fit together.

“You and my husband, you’re two sides of the same coin, as they say. He shakes his fist at the world, believing blood and family should dictate who has power, hating any man who finds another way to achieve it. Here you are, a man who rose to be sheriff through talent alone, hating a world that prefers blood and family. Do you play chess?”

Roger assented with a grumble.

“Do you ever curse the gods of chess that your bishops only move diagonally? No? You and Waleran both, whenever you lose at politics, you blame the rules of the game.” She stood, lazily, but there was a sharpness to her teeth. “Perhaps you should simply play it better.”

She meant to exit, and dramatically, but he wouldn’t let her. He locked his eyes upon her as she retreated, and she couldn’t break the gaze.

“If I were a younger man,” he ground his throat, “I would clear this table and do the most wonderful things to you.”

“Oh, Roger.” She rolled her eyes. “You forget that I knew you when you were a younger man. And you never did.”

A breeze whispered in, cooling the sweat on the back of Roger’s neck. “I suppose the rules were unfair then as well.” He thought of Marie, but she was so far away, and there was no point in being good anymore. “But my body still works.”

Whatever Margery d’Oily’s reaction was, she didn’t leave. “I suppose this is the part where I remind you that we’re both married.”