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and did his best version of a courtly bow.  He was clearly more at home in a tournament than the ladies bower.  He measured his length on the steps, his head only inches from her slippered feet.
    Berenice squeaked, her mother gasped, and Esme stifled a giggle.  The fear of his being hurt made Berenice conquer her fear of him, and she knelt on the step beside him.  The sickly smell of stale wine nearly made her gag.
    So he was a drunkard as well as a buffoon.  She looked down at his unconscious form with mingled loathing and disgust.
    “I will not marry him, mother,” she stated clearly, for all to hear, “I will never marry him.”
    Then, turning on her heel, she walked back into the tower.
     

CHAPTER FOUR
    She had married him, of course, in the village church on the day following the next Sabbath.
    Being a married woman had its advantages.  She was someone’s possession now, which kept the other wolves at bay.  Most of the time.  And in her husband’s absence, since her father’s death, she ran things, and put up with the wagging tongues and the whispers about the rightful place of women.
    She had Sir William for support, after all.
    Berenice looked at the dress, and wondered if it were a feast day she’d forgotten about.  She was sure it wasn’t.  It was just one more strange thing since he’d arrived.
    She wore the dress, seeing no harm in it, and went down to the hall.
    As usual, everyone stood and waited in silence until she reached her seat.  Sir William held out her chair for her.  Once she’d seated herself, they all sat again, and the murmur of conversation resumed.
    There were just four chairs at the table on the dais.  Berenice sat to one side of her husband’s vacant seat, Sir William on the other.  That empty chair served as a reminder to everyone in the hall of her status as wife, ruling while her husband was away.  Esme, more friend and companion than servant, was next to Berenice. 
    From the dais, she could hear the velvet timbre of the troubadour’s voice, even though he was too far away for her to understand the words.  She could tell there was a pool of silence around him as he spun his story.
    What spell did he cast on people, she wondered.  This morning she’d thought him an angel; now she thought he might be a warlock, come to lead her people astray.  It was a silly fantasy, she knew, as silly as this morning’s had been.  There could be no harm in his tales of battle and adventure.  There’s been no-one here to talk of such things since…
    Berenice sighed, and picked at the crumbs of her roll.
    Her husband and his friends had told sagas of the glories of war, and everyone had loved to listen.  The whole population of the castle had turned out to say goodbye to them.  The people from the villages had lined the road, all the way to the bridge.
    Huon de Freycinet et de Fortescue, and his seven brave comrades in arms, glorious in battle dress, plumes waving, pennons flying, bright armor gleaming in the spring sunshine.  Eight brave young men, off to fight the Saracen hoards, to deliver the Holy Land from unbelievers.
    How grand they’d seemed, how wonderful their dreams.
    Berenice had stood on the tower steps again, just as she had six weeks before, with her mother and Esme behind her, and waved goodbye.  Her mother and Esme had wept with the beauty of it all.  She’d felt nothing more than a profound sense of relief.
    She pushed herself away from the table, her broth untouched, the roll she’d baked that morning a crumbled mess next to her bowl.  Everyone stood again, and waited in respectful silence while she left the room.  As she closed the door behind her, she heard the conversations resume.
    Wearily she climbed the cold, stone steps to her chamber.  She felt a sudden tension, like an ache, a longing for something she couldn’t name.  She envied the people in the hall their easy companionship.  Even Esme and William had each other, despite their