“You’ve met many, my lady.”

“I have?”

“Among your husband’s troops.”

Again that bright laughter. “I assure you, lord,” she said, “my husband’s men are all good Christians.”

“And in battle,” I said, “many men who wear the cross take care to die with a sword in their hand.”

She opened her eyes wide with surprise. “I don’t understand.”

“To make certain they go to Valhalla.”

She laughed yet again, and even patted my arm. It was such an unnatural reaction that, for a moment, I wondered if she was as drunk as her husband and his son, yet though she smiled and laughed so unnaturally, her voice was sober. She kept her hand on my arm as she asked her next question. “How many men have you killed, Lord Uhtred?”

“Too many,” I said sharply, and she twitched back at the vehemence of my tone.

She forced the smile back, then the scrape of benches on a stone floor made her look down into the hall, and, for an instant, I saw a look of pure venom on her pretty face. I turned too, and saw that Æthelhelm was leaving, striding toward the door followed by six of his men. Custom dictated that no man should leave a feast hall before the king rose from the table, but I suppose neither Æthelhelm nor Edward cared about that courtesy this evening. “Do you know Lord Æthelhelm?” Eadgifu asked, and now she was not smiling.

“Not well. I knew his father better.”

“And your son married Lord Æthelhelm’s sister?” She still watched Æthelhelm and his followers.

“He did.”

“So you are bound to the family by treaty?” she asked, looking back into my eyes.

“You know we’re not, my lady. We’re bound by bonds of mutual hatred.”

She laughed, and this time the laugh was genuine, and loud enough to attract glances from the hall. She lay her hand on my arm again. She wore a glove of fine kidskin, and over the pale leather were rings of gold, decorated with jet and rubies. “I am so glad we had this talk,” she said.

“As am I, my lady,” I replied politely and, understanding that I was being dismissed, stood and bowed to her. I walked to the steps, watched by the men at the long tables, and, as I went down to the hall floor, I saw Father Lucus standing by the wall where the guards slouched. I beckoned him. “Tell me,” I said, “did the king summon me?”

“So I was told, lord,” he answered nervously.

“Told by whom?”

“By the queen, lord.”

“And the king was already asleep?”

“He was tired, lord,” the priest answered carefully.

I left him. Finan and Berg joined me. “So what,” Finan asked, “was that about?”

“That black-haired bitch,” I said as we walked down the hall’s length, “has just given Æthelhelm another reason to kill me.”

“Why?” Berg asked.

“Because she has a son called Edmund.”

“A son called—”

“I’ll explain later. We need our swords first.”