As they chattered among themselves, these knights and ladies of his household, Ranulf turned away from them to stare out the window where a tree obscured the view of the sea. It was a fine autumn day, as clear and fresh as the morning he had cut Alice’s body down from the other tree that had once stood here. He had eased her to the ground and wrapped her in his cloak, all the while he planned how Aymer would die. Even now he could feel the red rise of hatred in his chest, how it leapt up to grip his throat, the cold that had swallowed his heart whole, for years, until one day he looked up into wide gray eyes.

But now there was no vengeful act to plan, no hatred to compel him. She had left him. He knew she would not soon return. Haps she would never return. He could not think of how to say it aloud, to these people, without shouting and raging and acting the monster. He could think of no way to tell them to stop their concern, to go about their business, as he must.

“Leave me,” he said at last.

They did not hear, so low had he spoken. The Lady Adela, who was Sir Gerald’s sister, was protesting to the knight that it was not her place to question Lady Gwenllian’s movements. Gerald called his sister a fool to never notice that the lady rode out without servants by her side. Their voices raised in a heated debate on the subject even while Ranulf said louder, “Leave me.”

Still they did not hear him, and he watched as Adela grew more animated, spots of color rising in her cheeks. She looked like Alice. Her hair, her delicate frame, the gentleness of her demeanor – to see her float about the castle had been almost like seeing a ghost. But now the girl surprised him, so full of spirit was she as she protested against her overbearing brother. Alice had never looked like that. Would that she had ever protested, that any of them had.

“Leave!” he burst out, and at last he was heard.

Wide and startled eyes turned to him. One of the ladies gave a little start of fear, and more than one put a hand over her mouth. He wondered if it was only their old fear of him, or if it was the jagged force of his voice. He could hear it himself, that in just one syllable he sounded like a man at the edge of madness. But they recovered and obeyed him with alacrity, quietly and swiftly moving out the door.

Only Davydd was slow to move. He lingered when he reached the door, as though he knew he would be wanted. Ranulf said nothing to the boy, could not even look directly at him. He stood frozen when Davydd spoke.

“My lord?” he asked hesitantly.