“I’m not yelling at you,” he yelled at her, and she shrieked. “Don’t scream!”

He ran to her and put his hand over her mouth. He couldn’t risk anyone coming until he was done. She squirmed under his palm, but then melted into him and he cradled her head into his chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Arable, I need you to be strong, I need you to help me here. I need to find the letter I brought with me, the letter from King Richard—”

She moved before he finished saying it, plucking it from one of the cluttered shelves sunk into the stone wall, where he never would have found it. “Why, what do you need it for? What’s going on?” she asked, but he was back at the table. Roger’s feet were there next to him.

“We’re not losing like this. Not to this.”

“What do you mean?”

“To this! To this … insanity! It’s not too late, it can’t be too late.”

“William slow down, you’re scaring me.”

“I need ink. And a quill. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to scare you.” Her eyes were huge, and wet, her mouth nothing but a tiny trembling dot. He wanted to comfort her, and he would. Later. “Ink.”

She found it, and he had to close his eyes to focus. He had to write calmly, confidently. It was tricky to find a place on the table that was free of blood. Arable seemed to back down from her fear. “What are you writing?”

“King Richard’s letters gave us royal authority on the matter of securing the supply line.”

He dictated as he wrote, slowly, it helped to calm him. “I, Roger de Lacy, in respect and loyalty to the crown, of my own wit and will, allow an extension of that authority, and hereby appoint the High Sheriffcy of Nottinghamshire to Lord William de Wendenal.”

He signed a name at the bottom, Baron Roger de Lacy.

“William.”

“Wax, and his seal.”

She shook her head no, only slightly.

“Arable.”

“You can’t do this. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s the same risk I asked him to take.”

“And look what happened!”

“I only need a week. We can still do it.” He folded the parchment and slammed his fists into the table. “His wax and seal!”

But she had them already, she was holding the wax over a candle.

Not in vain, Roger. He savored a long final look down at de Lacy’s body, his face obscured, his hands twisted. William wished he could have seen his face one more time. Above, the painting on the wall scowled downward, looking at something on the table.

Shit. Almost forgot.

He peeled the letter from Prince John off the table, the despicable command that had started everything this night. When they were finally safely away, he put it in Arable’s hands.

“Burn it.”