“As long as you stay sober,” she said, and they parted with laughter.

It was late. The chamber where Anna and Baudouin slept was on the west side of the castle, in the corner tower. Though the sea was half a mile or so away, the sound of waves could be heard all night, as they washed and boomed among the hollows of the rocky coast. Through the narrow, unglazed windows the night wind eddied, gently at this time of year, and full of the scents of the cliff-top pastures and the salt of the sea.

In a corner of the room, out of the draught from the windows, the child Alexander lay fast asleep under the soft blankets woven by the princess’s women from the wool of the local sheep. His mother, sleepless in the great bed on the other side of the room, turned her head sharply on the pillow, and put a hand up to push her long hair out of the way. If only she could sleep! If only Baudouin would come to his bed, then they could laugh together at her fears, and perhaps make love, and be at peace. But lying here, wondering what that fox of a brother was saying, was planning, was doing … In spite of herself, her mind went back over the past, the times when March’s jealousy and genuine dislike of his younger brother had shown itself in petty, and sometimes not so petty, actions. And lately, how that bitterness had seemed to be directed also at the child. Little Alexander, who, for all his boldness and gay spirits, was only a baby still, and helpless against such power as March could wield. Might, in one of his sudden rages, see fit to use.

At last! Someone was coming rapidly up the tower’s curving stairway. Her long breath of relief checked in her throat, and she sat up, rigid against the pillows. Those were not Baudouin’s footsteps, and whoever was coming, was coming clumsily, heavy-footed and noisy, with no care for the sleepers upstairs. And he was armed. She could hear the chink and clang of a scabbarded sword against the curving sides of the tower stair.

He was almost at the door. Before the heavy steps halted, she was out of her bed and over beside her son’s, with a coverlet dragged from her bed to hold round her shoulders, and Baudouin’s sword naked in her hand.

When the knocking came at the door, it was, horrifyingly, not a knock, but a kick with a booted foot.

“Anna! Princess? Are you awake?”

The sword point wavered and sank, but the fierce tautness still locked her bones. She recognised Drustan’s voice, but the kick at the door, the breathless syllables and the faltering steps, could only be heralds of disaster. She flew to the door and opened it.

It was Drustan, his foot raised for another kick. He was very pale, and seemed, under his voluminously muffling cloak, to be only half dressed. His shirt gaped open at the throat, and his cuffs were undone. There was sweat on his skin, and his breathing laboured. As she swung the door open he staggered, and lurched against the jamb, and she saw that he was heavy with some burden carried under the cloak. “Anna –” he said, on a gasp, and, as he came forward into the candle-light, she could see what he carried.