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time wresting her husband from her with her fine skills. How did he manage to die on her?”
    “She is not a widow, father. Her husband wished to become a monk and she followed him to Tyndal.”
    “Nor would I have thought her so compliant! I have heard tales at court about the rough treatment she deals out to any patient who fails to follow her direction.” His lips twitched into his usual humorless smile, but she saw no mockery in his eyes. “Does she long for the world?”
    “She is content.” Eleanor bit her tongue from saying more. Sister Anne’s past was her confessor’s concern, not her father’s. As a rule it was none of hers either, for whatever grief and secrets Anne kept close within her soul, the nun had proven to be a loyal friend as well as a talented healer. Like her father, Eleanor cared much for loyalty and honored the private places in the hearts of others, unless her instincts sensed a festering therein that must be lanced before contagion was spread to the innocent.
    She glanced up. Her father had been silent while she reflected on Sister Anne’s past. He was studying her.
    “Well and good,” he said at last, “but there are more important things than your nun’s history. I have something to discuss with you, daughter.”
    Eleanor raised a questioning eyebrow. “I hope I may be of service to you, my lord.” Her trembling returned and, again, she hid her hands in the sleeves of her robe.
    “Well said,” he replied, eyes sparkling with brief amusement before his eyebrows bent once more into their usual stern expression. “Since your arrival, you have been so busy caring for your nephew that I have not had the chance to tell you of my plans. I am arranging a marriage between your brother and the daughter of a friend and former comrade-in-arms.”
    “Hugh will not come back from the Holy Land for any marriage, father. I hope this happy alliance can wait.”
    “Robert, it is, not Hugh. I’ll settle my eldest when he comes back, unless Prince Edward wants to marry him off to one of his close relatives.” He grunted. “That was a jest, mind you. The prince knows too well that our loyalty is secure. He would never waste such a marriage on Hugh.”
    “Perhaps our good king would instead grant the hand of one of his queen’s Savoyard relatives to Hugh?” Eleanor suggested, attempting to match humor with humor. Despite her father’s eagerness to arrange advantageous matches for his children, he had adamantly refused his liege lord’s offer of a similar match for himself. Not many men of his age would have rejected such a profitable alliance that brought with it the comforts of a warmer bed. Nor had she heard any rumors about any longtime leman, whether hidden in the nearby village or in the servant quarters. Not that she would have begrudged him that, but she was touched nonetheless by such fidelity to her dead mother.
    Adam’s brief smile faded rapidly. “Our good king is getting old, as are we all, my child, and has lost interest in his queen’s relatives. Now his waking hours are spent dreaming about a shrine to his beloved St. Edward the Confessor.” He lowered his voice. “I admit that I wish our king’s son was not off fighting the Saracens. The Lord Edward should be here to ease his father’s burdens and give comfort to his people.”
    King Henry III was suffering from more than just a few inconvenient infirmities related to age and her father knew it well, Eleanor thought. What she had heard from her Amesbury aunt, a woman of extraordinarily good sources, was that the frail monarch was now showing signs of senility and was so ill that a letter had been sent to the Lord Edward begging his immediate return. Many at court were worried about the still unsettled peace in England. Should the king die, civil war could well break out again unless the heir was home to take firm control of the throne. The land could ill afford another such rebellion. It was still bleeding from the