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Weaver swallowed some of the wine – a better vintage than the rough stuff served at the lower tables. “I’m in no mood for your prating tonight, freemerchant.”

Marten shrugged one shoulder. “I can understand that. It was an ill turn you served the lady this afternoon, was it not?”

Weaver glared at Marten, who met gaze for gaze, unblinking. His eyes were the same green as Alwenna’s. Was it true all freemerchants had some measure of the sight?

“That cannot be easy to live with, Weaver.”

Weaver downed the rest of the wine. “I swore loyalty to the king. You brought me the contract, remember? Or are you too far gone for that?”

Marten smiled. There was no trace of a slur as he spoke in a low voice. “I never forget a business agreement. And until now I’ve never broken one.”

“Nor have I. I told you, I’m in no mood for your games.”

“Then take another drink with me instead.”

“I’ve had enough.” Weaver pushed to his feet and left the freemerchant there. He strode to the main door, which stood wide open to ventilate the stuffy hall. In the cloistered yard the air was cooler. He was getting too old for this. He should have gone to Ellisquay and got work on the dock like Curtis suggested. All that time he’d thought Curtis had been helping him, and instead he’d been helping himself to the honour of King’s Man. Weaver deserved the freemerchant’s mockery. Here he was professing loyalty to the king who was busy right now with that colourless priestess, while his true wife was held under guard in her own palace. Worst of all, he was the one who’d brought her here.

As for Tresilian – had it all been some conjuring trick? Some elaborate gambit to flush out the traitors in his court? Or had he indeed died and been reborn? Stronger and wiser than before, he’d claimed. A wise man wouldn’t keep his queen prisoner in her own palace for long – not here in The Marches. Once word got out, there’d be trouble. Whatever the truth behind Tresilian’s condition, Alwenna carried his legitimate heir. Reason told Weaver she’d be safe until the child had been brought into the world. Except there was that business of the blood-letting. Instinct whispered she might not last that long.

Whether Tresilian had meant to test Weaver’s loyalty or to punish them both, he couldn’t have chosen better. Alwenna would never forgive Weaver for that piece of work – he’d seen the hurt in her eyes at his betrayal, even while his own gut roiled with distaste. He couldn’t face doing that again.

He could go over the wall, desert his post. Turn his back on the whole sorry mess. But that would mean leaving the Lady Alwenna without a single friend at the summer palace. He suspected Marten had an inclination in that direction, but of late Marten, too, had fallen from royal favour. And that decision was as unlike Tresilian as anything Weaver could recall.

Weaver halted at the edge of the cloistered yard. Marten was far from pleased by the king’s actions. Now was not the time to sulk like some adolescent. He should be mining the freemerchant for information before he sobered up and recovered his usual caution.

Weaver turned and strode back along the cloister.

CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

Alwenna slammed the door shut, waking the servant girl, who was dozing in a chair. “Erin, bring me water – as much as you can. A bathtub full would be best.”

Erin blinked and rubbed her eyes. “But my lady, you bathed this morning.”

“I don’t need this for washing.”

“It’ll take time to heat it. The fires will be damped down for the night.”

“Cold water will be better. Freshly drawn best of all.” She couldn’t say how she knew, but there again was the rock-solid certainty.

Erin stared at her. “Very well, my lady.” She hurried to do as she had been bidden.

Alwenna stripped off her clothing and stepped into the water: fresh water, untainted by any trace of herbs or essences, untarnished by smoke or fire. The cold bit into her flesh, first one foot then the other. Her skin prickled and the chill snatched her breath as she lowered herself into it. She lay back and closed her eyes, waiting until the water stilled, waiting until only the rise and fall of her breathing disturbed it. Her mind cleared, darkness and confusion falling away, dissipating until all that remained was cold, calm certainty.

Tresilian lay alongside his priestess in a tangle of sheets. The girl sat upright in alarm, pulling up the sheet to cover her breasts. She stared into the night, eyes darting around as she tried to find Alwenna. “You mustn’t do this,” the girl mouthed. “You mustn’t.”

Alwenna moved on.

Weaver and Marten, heads together over a table, wine cups in hands, a half-empty flagon before them. Doubt, mistrust, recrimination. “All well and good to be wise after the event,” Marten was saying. “She’s in danger.”

Weaver looked up with a start as her gaze passed over him, then set down his wine cup and pushed it away.

She moved on.

Curtis, snoring in a bunk. He stirred uneasily. This was not what she sought.

She moved on, faster now. Past horses in the stable. They shifted, stamping their hooves. A kitchen-boy crouched against the courtyard wall, crying, too immersed in his own misery to sense her scrutiny. Tresilian’s steward, hunched over a parchment, working by the light of a single candle. He turned his head worriedly towards the door.

Not what she sought, none of them. She was wasting time.

On.

Towards a huddle of buildings to the east of the summer palace. Girls slept in dormitories, rows of spartan beds down either side of a long room, each one identical to the next. Then she came to a door and hesitated. The handle was fashioned in the shape of three snakes, each devouring the tail of the snake before it, identical to the handles at Highkell. She’d hated those snakes as a child and she hated them still. But she couldn’t turn back now.

She pushed on.

Inside the chamber monks chanted, marking the passing of the night. Row upon row of candles burned on an altar. There was enough light to make out the drab colour of their habits – a brown homespun. Half a dozen monks sat apart, on raised pews. Their habits were grey. One raised his head as she approached. A livid scar ran down one side of his gaunt face, cutting through the socket where his left eye should have been. His remaining eye stared straight at her and she stopped with a jolt of recognition: Tresilian’s father.

The shock jerked her back to bitter cold, a shout dying in her throat.

Erin snatched up a towel and hurried to her side. “My lady, you were gone so long I thought you wouldn’t return.” Gulping for air and shivering, Alwenna climbed out of the bath, wrapping the towel about her shoulders. She climbed onto the bed, heedless of her wet skin, and curled up there, pulling the blankets about herself in a bid to stop the tremors running through her body.

“My lady, what’s wrong? What has shocked you so?” Erin stirred the embers in the hearth to life and added another log to the fire.

How to explain? The girl seemed accepting of the sight – at least she didn’t try to pretend Alwenna had fallen asleep. “I saw Tresilian’s father. He’s here.”

Erin looked blank.

“Erin, he’s been dead these past three years. He fell in battle near Brigholm.”

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

Erin chopped at the last tress of Alwenna’s hair with the newly sharpened eating knife. “It’s done, my lady.”

“Will I do?” Alwenna tugged doubtfully at what remained of her hair.

“Aye, my lady, you look nothing like a highborn lady now. Just mind you leave the talking to me.” Erin gathered up the shorn hair and they tossed it on the fire, offering up a prayer to the Goddess to watch over them. As an afterthought Alwenna repeated the freemerchant blessing invoking the Hunter, too. The hair contorted, twisted and sizzled away in the flames, leaving only a faint odour of singeing in the room to show it had ever existed.

Alwenna threw on a plain travelling cloak and covered what little remained of her hair by wrapping a scarf over her head.

The first light of the sun was showing in the sky, setting the undersides of the clouds on fire.

“It’s time, my lady, if we’re to do this.” Erin eased open the bolt on the door.

Alwenna set one hand on the girl’s arm; she was all skinny sinew beneath the homespun. “Are you sure?” The words were little more than a whisper.

Erin nodded, her expression determined. “Aye, my lady.” She slipped out through the door. Alwenna pushed the door almost shut and set her foot behind it, peering out through the crack. Only one voice. Only one guard. Thank the Goddess. The other must have sneaked off with his lover again, as Erin had said he would.

“What, more bath water?” The man stepped forward, occluding Alwenna’s view of the anteroom outside.

“Nah, just me this time. She’s asleep.” Erin’s voice was bright and flirtatious. “I thought maybe you an’ me, y’know…” The guard shifted and Alwenna could see Erin backing away, a mischievous grin on her face. “Not here! We might wake her. There’s an empty garderobe round the corner.” She turned away, glancing back over her shoulder, and the guard followed after her. As soon as they were out of sight Alwenna slipped from the doorway, empty bucket in hand, and began to make her way towards the well courtyard, moving slowly so she wouldn’t put too much pressure on her injured ankle. She’d not gone far before hurried footsteps and the rustling of skirts announced Erin’s approach.

Alwenna could smell blood, although it didn’t show on the girl’s clothing.

“Did it go as planned?”

“Aye, it did.” The girl nodded tightly, rolling up her hooded cloak into a tight bundle. She’d been wearing it when she left the room.

“Are you all right?”

“Aye. That one got what he deserved.” There was steel in her eyes, and a certain determination about the girl’s movements that reminded Alwenna of her final encounter with Hames.

The guard at the entrance to the well courtyard let them pass without a second glance. There was more activity out here as stable boys were busy filling buckets to water the horses. The washing green lay beyond this yard, through a gate at the far side. Alwenna had a sudden premonition they wouldn’t reach it.

She caught hold of Erin’s arm. “There are too many people here.”

“Nonsense. We are washer women going about our business. Just keep your head down. You carry this while I fill the bucket.” Erin thrust the blood-soiled cloak into Alwenna’s arms and took the bucket from her, then strode out to the well. Alwenna shuffled after her, doing her best to hide the weakness in her ankle. She kept her head low, wishing she could pull the hood of her cloak over her head, but they’d decided that would have looked out of place here within the palace walls.

Alwenna was halfway across the cobbled yard when a vision began pricking at her consciousness. She willed it away. She couldn’t lose concentration now. But the sight was determined. Sparks danced before her eyes, veiling the courtyard. She fanned the flames, watching them climb higher and hotter. Then a gust dashed the sparks into her face and she was breathing wood smoke and ashes. The air wasn’t filling her lungs, but searing them, making her cough and retch. Breathing was impossible. She was choking. She dropped to her hands and knees to crawl beneath the smoke and heat, lost her balance and her head smacked sharply against the cobbles.

“Keep back. The sight of your ugly mug won’t help her none.” Erin’s voice penetrated the darkness. Alwenna blinked, and discovered it was daylight. Her forehead throbbed. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. Her right elbow stung where she’d grazed it.

“Is she ill?” Broad hands, presumably belonging to the owner of the deep voice that had just spoken, tugged her to her feet. Alwenna rubbed her hands down the front of her cloak and drew it shut to hide her clothing, keeping her head down.

“Let her be. She doesn’t want your paws all over.” Erin shoved Alwenna’s would-be helpers back and bent beside her, gathering up the cloak that had fallen to the ground.

“’Ere,” a deep voice asked. “Ain’t that blood?”

“Well, what of it?” Erin snorted. “You think we’d be bothering to wash clean clothes?”

One or two of the onlookers laughed. Erin shoved the bundle into Alwenna’s arms and steered her towards the well.

“That’s a deal of blood.” Deep Voice disliked being laughed at. “Fresh, too.”

Goddess curse him for his damaged pride. Alwenna’s head pounded so hard she couldn’t think.

“Of course it is – how else do you think we’re to wash it out? No chance once it’s dried in. Did the midwife drop you on your head when you were born? My mistress is just back from a bad birthing. She’s been up all night an’ if we don’t get this clean for her I’ll catch it in the ear.” Erin prodded the big man in the chest and he stepped back warily, an expression of distaste on his face. “Are you done poking your nose in? Some of us have work to do.” She took hold of Alwenna’s arm and guided her to where the bucket waited, full of water.

“Midwife, you say? Thank the Goddess.” An educated voice broke in. A familiar voice with only a hint of the freemerchant lilt. “My wife is in need of her assistance. Take me to her at once, and I’ll buy her a hundred new cloaks to replace that one.”

Alwenna raised her eyes to find Marten studying her. Any hope he might not recognise her faded and died. He took a firm hold of her arm and led her away to another door leading to the guest lodgings. “Quickly now, bring that with you. There’s no time to be lost.”

Erin hesitated, apparently ready to argue – or even to run – but at a nod from Alwenna she hurried to join them.

CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

Marten kept tight hold of Alwenna’s arm as he escorted her to his lodgings, giving her no chance to break away from him. Erin walked alongside, wary as a young horse. She still carried the bucket, the water in it sloshing with every step.

The guest lodgings were situated along the opposite side of the cloistered yard to where Alwenna had been housed, backing onto the well courtyard. The room contained a bed, a chest and a wooden bench.

“Ladies, pray be seated.” Marten smiled. “I cannot offer you lavish hospitality here, but I can at least protect you from the eyes of the overly inquisitive.”