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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 Neufmarché 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 Neufmarché, 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,