“Oriane, I-”

“You are pathetic,” she screamed at him. She could taste blood in her mouth. “I told you to go. So go. Get out of my sight!”

For a moment, Oriane thought he was going to try to apologize. But when he raised his eyes, she saw hate, not shame, in them. She breathed a sigh of relief. Things would play out as she had planned.

“You disgust me,” he was shouting, backing away from the bed. “You’re no better than an animal. No, worse than a beast, for you know what you are doing.” He snatched up her blue cloak, which was lying wantonly on the floor, and threw it at her face. “And cover yourself up. I don’t want to find you like this when I get back, flaunting yourself like a whore.”

When she was sure he had gone, Oriane lay back on the bed and pulled her cloak up over her, a little shaken but exhilarated. For the first time in four years of marriage, the stupid, feeble, weak old man her father had forced her to take as a husband had actually succeeded in surprising her. She had intended to provoke him, certainly, but she’d not expected him to strike her. And so hard. She ran her fingers over her skin, which was still smarting from the blow. He had meant to hurt her. Perhaps there would be a mark? That might be worth something. Then she could show her father what his decision had brought her to.

Oriane brought herself up short with a bitter laugh. She wasn’t Alais. Only Alais mattered to their father, for all his attempts to conceal it. Oriane was too like their mother, in looks and character, for his liking. As if he would care in the slightest if Jehan beat her half to death. He’d assume she deserved it.

For a moment, she allowed the jealousy she kept hidden, from all but Alais, to leak out from behind the perfect mask of her beautiful, unreadable face. Her resentment at her lack of power, her lack of influence, her disappointment. What value had her youth and beauty when she was tied to a man with no ambition and no prospects, a man who had never even lifted a sword? It wasn’t fair that Alais, the younger sister, should have all the things that she wanted and yet was denied. Things that should be hers by right.

Oriane twisted the material between her fingers, as if it was Alais’ pale skinny arm she was pinching. Plain, spoiled, indulged Alais. She squeezed tighter, seeing in her mind’s eye a purple bruise spreading across her skin.

“You shouldn’t taunt him.”

Her lover’s voice cut through the silence. She had almost forgotten that he was there.

“Why not?” she said. “It’s the only enjoyment I have from him.”

He slipped through the curtain and touched her cheek with his fingers. “Did he hurt you? He’s left a mark.”

She smiled at the concern in his voice. How little he really knew her. He saw only what he wanted to see, an image of the woman he thought she was.

“It’s nothing,” she replied.

The silver chain at his neck brushed her skin as he bent down to kiss her. She could smell his need to possess her. Oriane shifted position, allowing the blue material to fall away from her like water. She ran her hands over his thighs, the skin pale and soft compared to the golden brown of his back and arms and chest, then raised her eyes higher. She smiled. He had waited long enough.

Oriane leaned forward to take him in her mouth, but he pushed her back on the bed and knelt down beside her.

“So what enjoyment do you wish for from me, my lady?” he said, gently parting her legs. “This?”

She murmured as he bent forward and kissed her. “Or this?”

His mouth crept lower, to her hidden, private space. Oriane held her breath as his tongue played across her skin, biting, licking, teasing.

“Or this, maybe?” She felt his hands, strong and tight around her waist as he pulled her to him. Oriane wrapped her legs around his back.

“Or maybe this is what you really want?” he said, his voice straining with desire as he plunged deep inside her. She groaned with satisfaction, scratching her nails down his back, claiming him.

“So your husband thinks you’re a whore, does he,” he said. “Let us see if we can prove him right.”

Pelletier paced the floor of his chamber, waiting for Alai’s.

It was cooler now, but there was sweat on his broad forehead and his face was flushed. He should be down in the kitchens supervising the servants, making sure everything was in hand. But he was overwhelmed by the significance of the moment. He felt he was standing at a crossroads, paths stretching out in every direction, leading to an uncertain future. Everything that had gone before in his life, and everything that was yet to come, depended on what he decided to do now.

What was taking her so long?

Pelletier tightened his fist around the letter. Already he knew the words off by heart.

He turned away from the window and his eye was caught by something bright, glinting in the dust and shadows behind the door frame. Pelletier bent down and picked it up. It was a heavy silver buckle with copper detail, large enough to be the fastening for a cloak or a robe.

He frowned. It wasn’t his.

He held it to a candle to get a better look. There was nothing distinctive about it. He’d seen a hundred just like it for sale in the market. He turned it over in his hands. It was of good enough quality, suggesting someone of comfortable rather than wealthy circumstances.

It couldn’t have been here long. Francois tidied the room each morning and would have noticed if it had been there then. No other servants were allowed in and the room had been locked all day.

Pelletier glanced around, looking for other signs of an intruder. He felt uneasy. Was it his imagination or were the objects on his desk slightly out of place? Had his bed coverings been disarranged? Everything alarmed him tonight.

“Paire?”

Alai’s spoke softly, but she startled him all the same. Hastily, he pushed the buckle into his pouch. “Father,” she repeated. “You sent for me?”

Pelletier collected himself. “Yes, yes, I did. Come.”

“Will there be anything else, Messire?” asked Francois from the doorway.

“No. But wait outside in case I have need of you.”

He waited until the door was shut, then beckoned Alais to take a seat at the table. He poured her a cup of wine and refilled his own, but did not settle.

“You look tired.”

“I am a little.”

“What are people saying of the Council, Alais?”

“No one knows what to think, Messire. There are so many stories. Everyone prays that things are not as bad as they seem. Everyone knows that the viscount rides for Montpelhier tomorrow, accompanied by a small entourage, to seek audience with his uncle, the count of Toulouse.” She raised her head. “Is it true?”

He nodded.

“Yet it is also claimed that the tournament will go ahead.”

“Also true. It is the viscount’s intention to complete his mission and return home within two weeks. Before the end of July certainly.”

“Is the viscount’s mission likely to succeed?”

Pelletier did not answer but just continued to pace up and down. His anxiety was spreading to her.

She took a gulp of wine for courage. “Is Guilhem one of the party?”

“Has he not informed you himself?” he said sharply.

“I’ve not seen him since the Council adjourned,” she admitted.

“Where in the name of Sant-Foy is he?” Pelletier demanded.

“Please just tell me yes or no.”

“Guilhem du Mas has been chosen, although I have to say that it is against my wishes. The viscount favors him.”

“With reason, Paire,” she said quietly. “He is a skilled chevalier.”

Pelletier leaned across and poured more wine into her goblet. “Tell me, Alais, do you trust him?”

The question caught her off guard, but she answered without hesitation. “Should not all wives trust their husbands?”