He turned his head, still with his back to me, and addressed me over one shoulder. 'Well, Mariana. This is a pretty welcome. And what have you to say for yourself?'

I said nothing in reply. From somewhere in my stunned and reeling mind, I noted that my uncle had removed his belt and gloves, though he yet wore his sword. My flailing gaze lit upon the belt where he had thrown it across a chair, and dimly I registered that his dagger yet rested in its scabbard. It was a lethal enough weapon for my purpose.

Jabez Howard followed my gaze, his brows lowering ominously, and I moved. My lunge was quick, but not quick enough. I had but crossed the floor and closed my fingers round the dagger's handle when he was upon me, grabbing the blade from my hand and sending it clattering to the floor, his eyes contemptuous.

'Would you play me for a fool?' he demanded, his hand closing painfully round my wrist. 'Did you think I would not learn of your sins? You are the devil's harlot, Mariana Farr, deny it not.'

I set my jaw and met his eyes. 'I am no harlot,' I denied the charge. 'And Richard de Mornay is no devil. He is to be my husband.'

Again I saw that evil, twisted smile, and hated it.

'You cannot marry a corpse, I think,' my uncle said.

'He is not dead!'

'What matter? If he is not now, he soon will be.' The smile faded beneath those mad and piercing eyes. 'And you may wish yourself so, when I have finished with you. You are a wanton sinner, Mariana, like your mother before you, and the Lord will shower vengeance upon your head.'

I saw the blow coming and flinched from it, but his hand against my jaw had none of its original force. Instead I felt him shudder, felt the convulsive tightening of his hand around the fragile bones of my wrist, and even as I cried out from the pain his fingers loosened and fell away. He reeled sideways, his eyes rolling backward in their sockets, and fell without a sound.

I stared a moment at the creeping stain between his shoulder blades, where the handle of the dagger still protruded, then raised my eyes to look at Caroline. She stood close by the body of my uncle, her hands held stiffly in front of her body, fingers half-clenched. Her features yet showed no trace of expression, but in her eyes there gleamed a faint glimmer of triumph.

I heard the running footsteps approaching, and turned in a daze to face the returning steward.

'The stable lad thought he saw a man enter by the scullery door,' he warned us breathlessly, then halted at the sight of the tableau before him.

I cleared my throat. 'My uncle has met with an accident, sir.'

The steward's eyes met mine above Caroline's shoulder, and a flash of understanding passed between us. He nodded tactfully. 'It shall be attended to, mistress.' Then, almost as an afterthought: 'His lordship has returned.'

I swallowed painfully. 'Is he ... is he ... ?'

'We carried him into the church, not knowing whether the house was safe, you understand.' His eyes were guarded. 'I am sent to ride to Marlborough, to fetch the surgeon there.'

'Then he is ... ?'

'He is alive, and asks for you.'

It was all that I needed to hear. I forgot about the body slumped at my feet, about Caroline, about everything. I thought only of Richard, and his need for me, and my feet scarce touched the ground as I raced over lawn and garden toward the church, its tower looming tall and black against the dawning sky.

Thirty-two

‘You are not to grieve.’

He was awake, and watching me. I lifted my chin and met his eyes squarely. 'I've no intention of grieving,' I said, with a calmness I did not feel. 'You're going to get well. The surgeon will be here presently.'

'Mariana.' It was a gentle admonition, rumbling low in his shattered chest. His eyes slid away from mine and focused on a dimly lit corner of the church, where the torchlight could not reach.

He had heard the talk, of course, as well as I—the vaguely conspiratorial whispers of the servants who had carried him here, and who now stood watch outside the door. It was a mortal wound, they had told me, if ever they had seen one, and they had seen some wounds in their time ... not safe to move him, best let him lie in peace ... and they had shaken their heads sadly, their faces lined with the grief of old men who must watch a young man die.

I found I could not take my eyes from his face. Each nuance of expression, each flutter of an eyelid, seemed more precious to me now than life itself. There had been several long moments when he had scarce seemed to breathe at all, but I fancied he looked stronger now. It had been a terrible shock to see him stretched long and gray upon his cloak, on the cold stone floor of the narrow alcove beneath the tower, his head resting against the base of the ancient baptismal font, his chin lolling awkwardly against his shoulder. I hadn't seen the blood at first—it did not show upon the black cloth of his coat—but his shirt was stiff with it, and the smell of it clung sickly to my nostrils.

His were brave wounds, and bravely won. The king, I'd heard, had been warned in time, and with Richard had faced and scattered the traitors in my uncle's charge. Four men lay dead upon the downs, the king was safely on his way to Oxford, and Richard ... I dared not finish the thought. Some might have called it a fair exchange, for a king's life. I did not.

Above our heads, glass saints gazed down impassively upon us from the arched stone tracery of the window. The church felt somehow different in the dead of night, and it was not the cold alone that made me shiver. Richard felt it, too, and smiled faintly in the flickering light.