He’s what, late forties, early fifties. He’d have been younger than I am now at the Change, she thought clinically. Younger than Delia is now, in fact, though a man grown. He didn’t go mad back when like so many, but my guess is he’s never forgotten or completely adapted and he’s been perfectly content to rusticate here, keeping watch and doing the occasional session of questioning and watching the grass grow and the birdies fly. Norman did know how to find the right man for the right job. It’s not just politics now, though. There’s a . . . call it religious aspect. I don’t know how he’ll react to that.

They entered the high security wing of the prison. Tiphaine grimaced.

Fen House. Norman’s joke.

Everyone assumed that Fen House was a house, as in house arrest. It helped keep the families quiet.

Not least by soothing their consciences. Most of them don’t like the ones who end up here, if only because they put their kin at risk by lethally pissing off the Crown. They can think they’re in comfortable detention and forget about them. No, Norman was not stupid.

She stood in a broad room, three stories tall. The south wall behind her was mostly seven clerestory windows each stretching up two of the three. Directly in front of her was a large clear space. Two half-levels were above. Each contained three cells. Bare bars left them completely open to sight. The men walking a measured beat on the archers’ walkways around the empty space at the second- and third-story levels could see every detail of each cell, and reach them with their crossbows at need. The place smelled of damp and lye soap; the spring light came in, but it didn’t seem to really rest on the cheerless brick and concrete.

Here on the ground floor under the cells was a kitchen with a batteredlooking woodstove and bunk beds slung for the guards. Once again, the line of sight was completely open. There were toilets and a urinal, tucked under the stairs that climbed the east and west walls. A quiet woman sat in the middle cell; a large sheet of white over her lap. Tiphaine frowned; Mary looked so ordinary.

Well, not every mad evil bitch has mad evil bitch written on her face.

“Has she said anything of a religious nature?”

Stratson looked uneasy. “I’m not much for religion, never was . . .”

Which is probably one reason he likes to be alone out here, Tiphaine thought. I can sympathize to a certain extent. This High Medieval Holy Church thing always grated on me, not to mention Delia, even after I got to pay antiPope Leo a visit.

“Is it relevant?” he continued. Then he sighed. “This Church Universal and Triumphant thing, right?”