“Right. Either she chose treason as a way to keep her family on what she thought was the winning side, or she actually converted. You have to understand people’s motives to predict what they’ll do.”

“England had considerable troubles that way, under the Tudors and Stuarts,” Stratson said, surprising her a little. “But, well, no. Nothing religious. She’s just a rather stupid woman . . . How old was she at the time of the Change?”

Tiphaine reflected. “Young. I think, maybe fourteen, not that much older than I was. I remember that the Regent was quite angry when Eddie Liu proposed. But the Protector insisted that it was a good match and a different time, so her age wasn’t so much an issue. It turned out to be a match made in heaven.”

Stratson surprised her again, this time by laughing. “Or in hell, if those two suited each other,” he said. At her look: “I met Eddie Liu . . . Eddie Scar-face . . . a few times, m’lady. He was here a fair bit in the Lord Protector’s day.”

Tiphaine nodded; even by the standards of the early years of the Protectorate Eddie had been ripe. And not as smart as he thought he was, though he’d had the elemental good sense not to presume on his close relationship with Norman to step on Sandra’s toes. Norman had always backed Sandra in the end, against anyone.

“Hopefully her children will turn out better,” Tiphaine said.

Stratson shook his head and sighed. “She’s never asked, never mentioned either of the younger ones, Yseult and Huon. Once in a while she’d say something about Odard, but it was just snippets. Nothing concrete.”

Tiphaine sighed; a disagreeable piece of work didn’t get any better for waiting herself. If things went quickly, she actually could do some hunting and get back to Portland in the evening, which would be good protective coloration.

“Open her door,” she said. “We need to have a chat.”

Mary looked up from her embroidery when the barred door opened and clanged to behind Tiphaine. She quickly looked down again.

“Good day, my lady.”

The Grand Constable studied the white-work; she’d lived with an expert needlewoman for fifteen years, and had an observant spectator’s grasp of it. She even appreciated it, though she’d rather eat toads than do it herself. There was no accounting for tastes; Delia actually liked being pregnant, for instance.

“That’s very neat work. Yseult mentioned it. Can I see it?”

Mary kept her gaze on the cloth for a few more seconds and then looked up.

“Yseult? How is she?”