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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 saying—which 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.”
    “Very well!” he said, his voice loud in the chamber. He glared at her for a moment and then tried again. “But see here, it is folly to quarrel. Consider that I am overtired from a long journey—it is that making me sharp, nothing more. Therefore, let us be done with this foolishness.” He coaxed her with a smile. “Now tell me, my dear, what is in your mind?”
    “Since you ask,” she said, “it occurs to me that if the campaign is as gravely important as you contend, then I would not entrust such an undertaking to a mere equerry.”
    “Why not? Ormand is entirely trustworthy.”
    “That is as may be,” she allowed primly, “but if you really need the troops, then why place so much weight on a mere letter in the hand of an insignificant