Marcus pushed it open and stepped into absolute silence. No glow came through the windows to indicate that hearths or candles burned.

It was possible that Stratford had called them all to Westminster, to prepare for the wedding there. Marcus doubted it, however, and his blood began a dangerous boil.

He strode to the house. More silence. No servants responded to his call. Head splitting with a furious certainty of what he would find, he climbed the stairs and barged into the bedchamber where his future bride should be.

Empty. Of course it was. No Genith, no trunks, no servants, and, it went without saying, no Nesta.

Returning to the stair landing, he began making plans. Stratford would have to be informed. Then he would rouse the men he had brought from Anglesmore and they would go after the bitch.

Only he didn’t have any idea of where she had gone.

A sound broke into his heated calculations. A muffled groan came from somewhere behind him. He followed the sound through a tiny chamber containing two mussed beds, and into a garderobe at the corner of the house.

There, in the dark, he made out the shapes of two men seated on privies, doubled over in misery.

“What in hell is going on?” he demanded.

“My lord, tell the lady that we will be needing more of the potion. This malady has us purging our guts out,” one of them muttered.

“When did this malady come on?”

“Late today. The potion, my lord. The lady said it was sure to help.”

He could imagine how the potion “helped,” and had no doubt who the lady was. “I’ll have the archbishop send a physician to you. Take no more potions, or any food or drink from this house. I doubt that this malady will kill you, although I might once you are well again.”

He left them to their pain, and examined the dark chamber. A little leather flask stood on the floor between the two beds. He smelled its contents. It was redolent with the scent of herbs and mead, but also something else, something oily like tallow or grease.

Nesta had made this. She had probably fed the guards a purgative in their midday food, then provided more in this potion to keep them incapacitated. While the two men moaned on these beds and sat on those privies, she had packed up Genith and the Welsh servants and ridden out the gate.

The scent from the flask wafted to him. Something in it plucked at his memory. A familiar, strong odor seemed to ride atop the others.

He smelled a dried stalk hanging from a vendor’s stall, and saw himself reaching up to cut it down.

Hell’s teeth. He had helped her procure the ingredients. He had even paid for one of them.

He threw the flask against the far wall. The skin split and the remnants dripped in dark streaks on the plaster.