A decoction of meadowsweet, she thought, with white willow bark, to ease the ache. That’s what the girl should be clever enough to give them. She wished for willow tonic now, to pour on his lacerated hand. There was a jar of it in the herb-house. But she did not want to leave him. It frightened her, how strong was the pull to be with him, how it tore at her when she knew he suffered. How soft and womanly she had become, only by being near him. But she could not bear to leave him in his distress.

She looked up to find his eyes trained on her.

“You struck with intent to kill them?” she asked. He frowned slightly, but did not answer. “What offense did they give?”

“None.” His voice was dismissive, distracted. “Was meant to be training only.”

She reached up to touch the scar that marked him, running her thumb over the white line that cut across his eyebrow. He did not pull away, but she felt the flinch in him. No longer would she pretend she did not see what was so plain.

“You were maddened.” His eyes came back to her face. “You would have killed them, in hoping they might kill you.”

He did not deny it. “I should not have taken up my sword,” he said only.

He turned his face from her to look at the stone walls, his gaze roaming over them as if he could see evil there. A bleakness was on his face. “I have thought Morency accursed, and that it curses me. In this place I can never be anything but wicked. Nor yet with Edward can I be uncorrupt.” A hoarse sound escaped him, of humor or despair. “Is my fate to displease God.”

She felt the warmth of his flesh under her hands, watched the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. “And so you wish my blade in your heart?”

His fingers played with the edge of her white veil, like a child seeking comfort.

“Already you are like unto a blade in my heart, Gwenllian. Happily would I die of it.”

She shook her head, a confused and sorrowful denial. As he had done earlier, she raised his hand to her lips, kissing the bruised and beaten flesh. She pressed it to her cheek.

“I do not wish you to die. I do not wish that you are hurt.” She reached up again, and traced the scar above his eye. “I would have you tell me why you think yourself accursed beyond redemption.”

He pushed her gently away, pulling his hand from her grasp, rising from the bench. She rose too, and watched him go to the inner door which led to the bedchamber beyond. Too late, she remembered that it was in this tower where he had killed Aymer, likely in these very rooms.