Allegra didn’t play chess; she found it too daunting to keep in mind all of the pieces and they way they marched across the board—let alone planning one’s moves several steps in advance. But based on the number of pieces collected on each side of the table, their daughter was giving the handsome knight a bit of a challenge in the game.

Just settling back in her chair, Allegra was startled by a quiet voice in her ear. “My lady Allegra.” Turning, she found Maris’s maidservant, Verna.

“Aye, Verna?”

“You are needed in the kitchen,” Verna whispered, tugging at her mistress’s sleeve.

“I am needed in the kitchen?” she repeated.

As they walked away from Merle, Verna spoke in a humble voice, “Aye, my lady, there is someone that has asked to speak with you. He did not wish Lord Merle to know of it.”

Fear gripped Allegra’s chest and she felt her heart thumping uncontrollably behind her ribs. She had hoped and prayed that Bon had forgotten his threat, or had given up when she had not responded.

In sooth, she had not had the courage to broach Merle on the subject of Maris’s betrothed, for she could not fathom a solution to the problem. If Maris married as her husband wished, Bon would make good on his threat to expose her true parentage. But Allegra could not allow her daughter to wed with her own half uncle—most especially to a man such as Bon de Savrille.

Nor, did it seem, that she would be able to sway her husband in a decision he had already made. Only this evening had Merle commented that the man he awaited should arrive on the morrow, and the contracts would shortly be signed.

In despair, Allegra recalled the day of her own wedding and the private vow she’d made that her daughter should never marry against her will. In all these years, Allegra had not forgotten Michael, nor had her love for the man she remembered dimmed.

Someday, she vowed, she would be with him again, or may God strike her dead. She had never grown to love Merle as she should. Although she’d been a good wife to him, and served him well, she did not feel the passion and blind love that she still harbored for Lord Michael.

The maid stopped just near the kitchen door, gesturing to the entrance to the bailey. “My lady, the man awaits near the stables. I did not wish to alarm you in Lord Merle’s presence.”

The wind was cold and Allegra had not pulled a cloak around her. Her dread grew, causing her stomach to churn, and she forced herself to walk across the courtyard, head bent. She shivered and stumbled to the stables, aware that Verna was no longer in her wake.

Stepping hesitantly inside, she breathed a sigh at the inherent warmth from the building filled with whuffling horses. The stable was dark, but a shadowy figure stood near the rear.

“What do you wish?” she asked in a quivery voice.

“My Lady Allegra,” a slight man stepped forward so that she could make out the barest of his features. “I bring you a token from my master.” He reached out, and she stepped back in alarm. He was, however, too quick for her reaction, and his fingers closed around her hand. Something heavy was pressed into her palm, then he closed her fingers tightly around it. Metal pressed into her tender palm and Allegra cried out at the pain.

The man laughed and leaned forward. “My master insists that if you do not heed his warning, you will be in much more pain. Good eve, my lady.” He pushed roughly past her and suddenly she was alone.

Allegra stumbled out of the dim stable moments later, still clutching the heavy metal object. The light of the moon led her through ankle deep snow to the chapel. Leaning on the heavy door, she nearly fell into the haven.

Candles flickered along the altar and at each corner of the chapel. Allegra slowly unfurled her clenched fingers. Even in the varying light, she was able to make out the markings on the heavy metal brooch. De Savrille.

If she’d had any doubt that Bon still intended to marry her daughter, that doubt was now gone.

The next day was unusually fair for January. The sun glared high in the sky, and the serfs and men-at-arms disdained cloaks and gloves alike as they went about their business.

Merle was in the bailey watching his men practice their swordplay when the visitors arrived. Dirick, who had just put his own sword down, looked up curiously as Gustave approached.

“My lord,” announced the seneschal, “the Lords d’Arcy have identified themselves at the portcullis. I shall show them to the great hall, and have them take their ease, but you wished to be informed upon their arrival.”

“Thank you, Gustave. Dirick, do you come with?”

“I’m certain you have much to discuss that does not concern me. Surely I can occupy myself until the evening meal so that I don’t interrupt your business.” Dirick wiped an arm across the sweat that trickled down his forehead, brushing his hair back in one slick motion.

“Nay, nay,” Merle said heartily—and so firmly that Dirick did not argue, “Come with me and meet my dear friend and his son. At the least, they shall have news, for they come from south of London, and will bring the latest from there.”

Merle led the way to the huge entrance of the keep, beckoning for Dirick to follow. Resigned, he pulled on his tunic and followed, wondering why Merle was so insistent that he meet his guests.

Inside the hall, Dirick sheathed his sword and rested it on one of the heavy oaken benches that lined a trestle table. Merle had already greeted the two men that were settled on stools in front of a blazing fire. Dirick approached, scrutinizing the Lords d’Arcy.

The elder—presumably the father—was comfortably sprawled on a three legged stool on which he sat tilted so far that his back rested against a nearby table. Pale, wheat colored hair hung in a cap just to his ears, cut straight across his forehead, and looking like a silvered helm. Pale blue eyes darted quickly to Dirick as he approached, then to Merle, then back to Dirick.

The younger visitor was definitely related to the elder: he had the same pale blue eyes that were colorless as ice, and thin wheat colored hair hung raggedly to his shoulders. He was a fairly large man—easily as tall as Dirick—with a tanned, square face and full lips.

As Dirick extended his hand to the father, he felt the gaze of the younger d’Arcy boring into him. An unaccountable sense of mislike swept over him and in a bald moment of self-recognition, Dirick understood why.

This man was to have Maris.

“Sir Dirick de Arlande, meet Lord Michael d’Arcy of Gladwythe and his son, Sir Victor.”

Dirick clasped the proffered wrist of Michael d’Arcy, feeling a renewed trickle of unease at the strange light in his pale eyes. Had the man a fever, or was he merely tired from travel?

Then he turned to greet the son, hiding his reluctance and sudden dislike. “Sir Victor,” he said, taking his time to observe the other man while he tried to place the familiar name.

“Sir Dirick de Arlande,” mused Lord Michael, running a finger slowly over his full lower lip. “I do not believe I have heard mention of you at court.”

“Nay,” Dirick’s lips thinned in a cool smile, “’tis not likely, as I am lately come from Paris, and have not spent time in the court of your Plantagenet.” His words carried the authentic French accent he’d become accustomed to while serving the queen in Aquitaine. He was determined not to divulge his true relationship with the king and queen.

Merle stepped in. “Sir Dirick has pleaded succor during his journey through England. I have kept him quite busy at Langumont for the past fortnight.”

Michael drank from a warmed goblet of wine, then, daintily wiping his lips and the tips of his fingers, glanced around the hall. “And where might the fair Lady Maris be? I am keen to meet her. As, I am certain, is Victor.”

Dirick accepted, and acknowledged, the little tic of annoyance at the reminder of the impending betrothal—then ruthlessly dismissed it. Why should he waste any thought or concern that the man was to wed Maris of Langumont?

The lady was not hard on the eyes—and quite delicious on the lips—but Dirick had no further interest in her, even if he wished to wed. Aye, she was a fair chess player and quick of wit, but it was of no difference to Dirick. He had a task to complete, for both his king and his father—and he’d wasted more than enough time here at Langumont.

Just then, Merle called across the room, “Allegra, wife, come attend our guests!”

The frail woman had just entered the hall, likely having been drawn from her solar at the arrival of the honored guests. She glided across the rush strewn floor.

Merle reached out for her hand and drew her into the circle of men around the fire as she looked up. “Wife, do you meet Sir Victor d’Arcy and his father, Lord Michael of Gladwythe.”

Dirick’s attention was on Allegra as she curtsied and nodded to her future son by law. She turned to Michael, and Dirick saw her eyes go wide, her mouth open in a silent gasp, and he watched as she crumpled slowly to the floor.

Instantly, the room was astir. Merle leapt to his feet, bellowing, staring down helplessly at the small heap at his feet. Michael’s face had registered no shock, and, in fact, Dirick noticed that he was the calmest of the bunch, leaning forward to ease Allegra by loosening the ties of her bliaut.

By the time Dirick had taken in these jumbled facts, Widow Maggie and Maella had scurried to their mistress’s side. The healer waved a small bouquet of herbs in front of Allegra’s nose, and Dirick was gratified to see her stir.

Allegra’s eyes fluttered open and her gaze rested upon the face that was nearest hers, one that was bent over her in concern.

Her lips moved and although he couldn’t hear the syllables, Dirick read the word on her lips. Michael.

Michael D’Arcy’s name. Dirick felt a prickle of interest and foreboding, and glanced at Merle. But the elder man’s face showed only concern as he assisted Lady Allegra to her feet.

“Allegra, are you ill? Is there aught can be done?” he was saying solicitously.

“Nay,” she replied. “Nay, my lord, I—’twas just a spell of dizziness.” She drew a shuddering breath and pulled herself to her full height, stiltedly keeping her eyes from Lord Michael.