Anna was silent for a moment, then, with a little sigh, she turned and walked slowly over towards the window. A chair stood there, with her embroidery frame beside it. She pushed the work aside, and sat down to stare, chin on hand, out of the window. One of her white doves, seeing her there, flew up to strut, cooing softly, on the stone sill, hopeful of grain.

She neither saw nor heard it. She was back in that midnight room in March’s castle, with all the memories she had striven to keep alive, and at the same time forget. She turned sharply away from the window, straightening in her chair. At the movement the dove, startled, rose with a clap of wings and flew away.

“Alexander –”

“What is it, Mother? You look pale. Are you not well? If I’ve distressed you, I’m sorry, but why should you speak of danger? You said yourself there could be no trouble about the man I killed, and it’s true –”

“No, no. It’s not that. This is a different matter, and a heavy one. There’s something I must tell you. I planned to tell you when you were turned eighteen, and ready to go to the High King to offer your service there. But this has happened, so I must tell you now. Here, take this.”

She put a hand to the bosom of her gown and withdrew a small silvery key which she handed to the boy.

“Go to that press in the corner and open it. Pull harder, the hinges will be stiff. That’s it. Now look, there on the floor, that leather box with the rope round it, bring it here, to the light … Yes. Now open it. No, don’t trouble with the knots; there’ll be no need to tie it up again. Cut them. Use your dagger. So.”

She turned in her chair to look out of the window again. “I don’t want to see what’s there, Alex. Just open the box, and tell me.”

Below the window the gardener was working still among the orchard trees. His children, a boy and a little girl, ran and shouted, playing with a half-grown puppy. But all that Anna heard, loud above those happy sounds, was the creak of leather hinges and then a rustle, a dry rattling sound, and Alexander’s voice, so like Baudouin’s, sounding puzzled.

“There’s nothing much here, Mother. Just some clothing … A shirt, an old shirt, and it’s – faugh – it’s filthy! Stains, blackish, and gone stiff …” A sudden sharp silence. Then in a different voice: “That’s blood, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She was still resolutely turned away.

“But – whose? What is this, Mother? What is it?” Then, before she could speak, on a sharply drawn breath: “No, I don’t need to ask. My father’s? Why else would you keep such a thing? It was his?”

She nodded without speaking. He had been kneeling over the box, fingering the stained cloth fastidiously. Now he took the shirt in both hands, holding it fast against his breast. He got to his feet.