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the night to hear a quiet tap on her door. Her pillow was damp beneath her cheek; she had been crying in her sleep. For a moment she wondered why she felt such a pain, as if she were heartbroken – and then she remembered the coffin in the chapel and the silent knights keeping watch. She crossed herself: ‘God bless him, and save his soul,’ she whispered. ‘God comfort me in this sorrow. I don’t know that I can bear it.’
    The little tap came again, and she put back the richly embroidered covers of her bed and went to the door, the key in her hand. ‘Who is it?’
    ‘It is Prince Roberto. I have to speak with you.’
    ‘I can’t open the door, I will speak with you tomorrow.’
    ‘I need to speak to you tonight. It is about the will, your father’s wishes.’
    She hesitated. ‘Tomorrow . . .’
    ‘I think I can see a way out for you. I understand how you feel, I think I can help.’
    ‘What way out?’
    ‘I can’t shout it through the door. Just open the door a crack so that I can whisper.’
    ‘Just a crack,’ she said, and turned the key, keeping her foot pressed against the bottom of the door to ensure that it opened only a little.
    As soon as he heard the key turn, the prince banged the door open with such force that it hit Isolde’s head and sent her reeling back into the room. He slammed the door behind him and turned the key, locking them in together.
    ‘You thought you would reject me?’ he demanded furiously, as she scrambled to her feet. ‘You thought you – practically penniless – would reject me? You thought I would beg to speak to you through a closed door?’
    ‘How dare you force your way in here?’ Isolde demanded, white-faced and furious. ‘My brother would kill you—’
    ‘Your brother allowed it,’ he laughed. ‘Your brother approves me as your husband. He himself suggested that I come to you. Now get on the bed.’
    ‘My brother?’ She could feel her shock turning into horror as she realised that she had been betrayed by her own brother, and that now this stranger was coming towards her, his fat face creased in a confident smile.
    ‘He said I might as well take you now as later,’ he said. ‘You can fight me if you like. It makes no difference to me. I like a fight. I like a woman of spirit, they are more obedient in the end.’
    ‘You are mad,’ she said with certainty.
    ‘Whatever you like. But I consider you my betrothed wife, and we are going to consummate our betrothal right now, so you don’t make any mistake tomorrow.’
    ‘You’re drunk,’ she said, smelling the sour stink of wine on his breath.
    ‘Yes, thank God, and you can get used to that too.’
    He came towards her, shrugging his jacket off his fleshy shoulders. She shrank back until she felt the tall wooden pole of the four-poster bed behind her, blocking her retreat. She put her hands behind her back so that he could not grab them, and felt the velvet of the counterpane, and beneath it the handle of the brass warming pan filled with hot embers that had been pushed between the cold sheets.
    ‘Please,’ she said. ‘This is ridiculous. It is an offence against hospitality. You are our guest, my father’s body lies in the chapel. I am without defence, and you are drunk on our wine. Please go to your room and I will speak kindly to you in the morning.’
    ‘No,’ he leered. ‘I don’t think so. I think I shall spend the night here in your bed and I am very sure you will speak kindly to me in the morning.’
    Behind her back, Isolde’s fingers closed on the handle of the warming pan. As Roberto paused to untie the laces on the front of his breeches, she got a sickening glimpse of grey linen poking out. He reached for her arm. ‘This need not hurt you,’ he said. ‘You might even enjoy it . . .’
    With a great swing she brought the warming pan round to clap him on the side of his head. Red-hot embers and ash dashed against his face and tumbled to the floor. He let out of a howl of pain as