Remey held his head to one side as his master read. It was a letter to the baron's father in Beauvais requesting a transfer of men and equipment to aid in the conquest of new territories in Britain.

"… the resulting acquisitions will enlarge our holdings at least threefold," Bernard read, "with good land, much of which is valley lowlands possessing tillable soil suitable for a variety of crops, while the rest is mature forest which, besides timber, will provide excellent hunting…" Here the baron broke off. "What do you think, Remey? Is it enough?"

"I should think so. Lord Geoffrey was out here two years ago and is well aware of the desirability of the Welsh lands. I have no doubt he will send the required aid."

"I concur," decided Bernard. Bending once more to the parchment, he finished the letter and signed his name. Then, rolling the parchment quickly, he tied the bundle and sealed it, pressing his heavy gold ring into the soft puddle of brown wax dripped from the stick in Remey's hands. "There," he said, setting the bundle aside, "now bring me that tray and fill my cup. When you've done that, go find Ormand."

"Of course, sire," replied the chamberlain, gesturing for the two kitchen servants to place the trays of food before the baron while he refilled the silver cup from a flagon. "I believe I saw young Ormand in the hall only a short while ago."

"Good," said Bernard, spearing one of the hard-crusted pies from the tray with his knife. "Tell him to prepare to ride out at first light. This letter must reach Beauvais before the month is out."

The baron bit into the cold pie and chewed thoughtfully. He ate a little more and then took another long draught of wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, "Now then, go find my wife and tell her I have returned."

"I have already spoken to my lady's maidservant, sire," replied Remey, starting for the door. "I will inform Ormand that you wish to see him."

Baron Neufmarche was left alone to eat his meal in peace. As the food and wine soothed his agitated soul, he began to look more favourably on the conquest to come. Perhaps, he thought, I have been overhasty. Perhaps, in the heat of temper, he had allowed his anger to cloud his perception. He might have lost Elfael, true enough, but Buellt was the real prize, and it would be his; and beyond Buellt lay the ripe, fertile heartland of Dyfed and Ceredigion. It was all good land-wild, for the most part, and undeveloped-just waiting for a man with the boldness of vision, determination, and ambition to make it prosper and produce. Bernard de Neufinarche, Baron of the Shires of Gloucester and Hereford, imagined himself just that man.

Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he was certain he was right; despite the king's outrageous behaviour, things were working out for the best after all. Under the proper circumstances, Elfael, that small and undistinguished commot in the centre of the Welsh hill country, could ensnare the rash invaders in difficulties for years to come. In fact, with the timely application of a few simple principles of subterfuge, the baron could ensure that little Elfael would become the grasping de Braose family's downfall.

The baron was basking in the warmth of this self-congratulatory humour when he heard the latch on his door rattle. The soft cough with which his visitor announced herself indicated that his wife had joined him. His momentary feeling of pleasure dimmed and faded.

"You have returned earlier than expected, my lord," she said, her voice falling soft and low in the quiet of the room.

Bernard took his time answering. Setting aside his cup, he turned his head and looked at her. Pale and wan, she appeared even more wraithlike than when he had last seen her, only a few days ago. Her eyes were large, dark-rimmed circles in the ashen skin of her thin face, and her long lank hair hung straight, making her seem all the more frail and delicate.

"You are looking well, my lady," he lied, smiling. He rose stiffly and offered her his chair.

"Thank you, my lord," she replied. "But sit; you are at meat. I will not disturb you. I only wished to acknowledge your return." She bowed slightly from the waist and turned to leave.

"Agnes, stay," he said and noticed the tremor that coursed through her body.

"I have had my dinner and was just about to go to prayers," she informed her husband. "But very well, I will sit with you awhile. If that is what you wish."

Bernard removed his chair and placed it at the side of the table. "Only if it is no trouble," he said.

"Far from it," she insisted. "It is a very pleasure in itself."

He seated her and then pulled another chair to his place. "Wine?" he asked, lifting the flagon.

"I think not, thank you." Head erect, shoulders level, slender back straight as a lance shaft, she perched lightly on the edge of her chair-as if she feared it might suddenly take wing beneath her negligible weight.

"If you change your mind…" The baron refilled his cup and resumed his seat. His wife was suffering, to be sure, and that was real enough. Even so, he could not help feeling that she brought it on herself with her perverse unwillingness to adapt in the slightest measure to the demands of her new home and its all-too-often inhospitable climate. She refused to dress more warmly or eat more heartily-as conditions warranted. Thus, she lurched from one vague illness to another, enduring febrile distempers, agues, fluxes, and other mysterious maladies, all with the resigned patience of an expiring saint.

"Remey said you summoned Ormand."

"Yes, I am sending him to Beauvais with a letter for the duke," he replied, swirling the wine in his cup. "The conquest of Wales has begun, and I will not be left out of it. I am requesting troopsmen-at- arms and as many knights as he can spare."

"A letter? For your father?" she asked, the light leaping up in her eyes for the first time since she had entered the room. "Do not bother Ormand with such a task-I will take the letter for you."

"No," replied Bernard. "The journey is too arduous for you. It is out of the question."

"Nonsense," she countered. "The journey would do me a world of good-the sea air and warmer weather would be just the elixir to restore me.

"I need you here," said the baron. "There is going to be a campaign in the spring, and there is much to make ready." He raised the silver cup to his lips, repeating, "It is out of the question. I am sorry."

Lady Agnes sat in silence for a moment, studying her hands in her lap. "This campaign is important to you, I suppose?" she wondered.

"Important? What a question, woman! Of course, it is of the highest importance. A successful outcome will extend our holdings into the very heart of Wales," the baron said, growing excited at the thought. "Our estates will increase threefold… fivefold-and our revenues likewise! I'd call that important, wouldn't you?" he sneered.

"Then," Agnes suggested lightly, "I would think it equally important to ensure that success by securing the necessary troops."

"Of course," answered Bernard irritably. "It goes without sayingwhich is why I wrote the letter."

His wife lifted her thin shoulders in a shrug of studied indifference. "As you say."

He let the matter rest there for a moment, but something in her tone suggested she knew more than she had said.

"Why?" he asked, his suspicion getting the better of him at last.

"Oh," she said, turning her eyes to the fire once more, "no reason."

"Come now, my dear. Let us have it out. You have a thought in this matter, I can tell, and I will hear it."

"You flatter me, I'm sure, husband," she replied. "I am content."

"But I am not!" he said, anger edging into his tone. "What is in your mind?"

"Do not raise your voice to me, sire!" she snapped. "I assure you it is not seemly."