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eat, I felt so sick after I sent them each, for fear of what he would think when he read them.”
    Her godmother stroked one bejeweled finger across another. “And what did he reply?”
    Elayne stared down into the dark hollow of her wine. “Nothing,” she mumbled. “He did not answer. The banns were published for his marriage to another in church last Sunday.”
    She hung her head, awaiting her godmother’s censure, mortified to admit she had drawn such humiliation upon herself.
    “
Avoi
—who is this amorous fellow?”
    “He is not a great man, my lady, only a knight.” She hesitated, feeling a renewed wave of shame that she had chosen a man so inconstant. “More than that, it is not meet for me to say.”
    Lady Melanthe sat back, resting the goblet on the wide arm of her chair. Even with her hair down and the informal mantle about her shoulders, she seemed to glitter with a dangerous grace. “Yes, I think not.” She smiled. “I might not resist the temptation.”
    Elayne glanced up. “Ma‘ am?”
    Her godmother made a quick riffle with her fingers. “It occurs to me to have him arrested for some petty theft and subjected to the trial by boiling water,” her godmother murmured.
    “I should not mind to see him boiled,” Elayne said darkly.
    But Lady Melanthe merely said, “Do not tell me his name, Elena. I am not to be trusted, you know.”
    Elayne drew a breath, not taking her eyes from the moon-shaped reflection in the surface of her wine. It was true—she had not thought of it before, but one word from Lady Melanthe would ruin Raymond forever. Elayne had revenge at her fingertips, like a tigress on a light leash.
    For an instant, she allowed herself to imagine it. He had said she was arrogant and offensive to him, after all. She pictured him and his new wife reduced to penury, proud Raymond the boot-kicked messenger boy of some ill-tempered noblewoman—Lady Beatrice, by hap—skulking in kitchens and longing for the days when Elayne had been a sparkling diamond at his feet. While she herself, recognized as a extraordinary woman by far nobler men than Raymond de Clare, could hardly choose among the proposals of marriage from dukes and princes as far away as France and Italy.
    “We might arrange a prince for you,” Lady Melanthe said idly, startling Elayne so that she nearly tipped her wine. Her godmother looked at her with amusement, as if she knew she had read Elayne’s mind.
    In the midst of a small, choked laugh at this absurdity, the tears flowed anew. Elayne covered her face again and shook her head. “I don’t want to marry a prince.” She took a shuddering breath. “I want
him
to love me again.”
    “Hmm!” Lady Melanthe said. “I think it is time and past that you ventured beyond Savernake, Elena. The experience of a worldly court will do you much good.” She made a dismissive gesture toward the bannered walls visible over the treetops outside, as if Windsor Castle were a cottage. “You will accompany the Countess of Ludford, who has just been beseeching me to write introductions for her pilgrimage to Rome. She goes by way of Bruxelles, and Prague. You will not wish to go to Rome yourself; it is naught but a heap of ruins and rubbish, but you may await Lady Beatrice in Prague, at the imperial court, and then return in six or eight months with a great deal more polish than you have now. There is no place more worthy to refine your education and enlighten you in all ways. It is a brilliant city. Your Latin is yet commendable?”
    Elayne blinked, taken aback. She nodded.
    “We shall practice a little, between us. The Countess does not journey until Midsummer’s Eve—we have the whole of springtime to prepare you. I will see that you have an introduction to Queen Anne. She is just come of Prague, and shows an admirable degree of style and understanding for her age.” Lady Melanthe made a little grimace. “Doubtless London must appear a tawdry place to her, but she seems satisfied enough with the King, may God keep him, and he is