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laughed uproariously at this. With some measure of discomfort, Alex noticed Nicolette quickly drop her gaze.
    “Is it children, then?” the queen persisted. “Do you not care to sire offspring?”
    “‘Tis a task I can’t say I’m eager to face.”
    “Task!” King William exclaimed, to much laughter from the men. “The production of children is, indeed, a task for women—the curse of Eve, you know. But for men it’s, well...” He cast a careful glance toward his wife. “Not a task.”
    “Until the children are born,” Alex said, aware of Milo studying him purposefully as he drained yet another goblet of wine.
    “You don’t care for children?” Matilda asked.
    Alex shrugged. “I don’t despise them, but nor do I seek out their company. I find them...an irritation.”
    Faithe laughed. “Then why, pray, do you come laden with gifts for your nieces and nephew whenever you come to call at Hauekleah?”
    Alex grimaced. “‘Tis but a sop so they’ll leave me in peace.”
    “If that be so,” Luke said, “how come you to spend all that time teaching Robert to hunt small game?”
    “He’s good with the dogs,” Alex grumbled.
    “You told me I’m too easy with them!” the boy protested. “You always handle them yourself.”
    Alex glared at his nephew with mock ferocity, his ears filling with yet more laughter at his expense.
    “Are you truly a lone wolf, Sir Alex?” Queen Matilda asked quietly. “Do you never ache for home and hearth, as the rest of us do? Do you never hunger for a pair of warm, familiar arms? Never long to have a son of your own to take hunting?”
    In the silence that followed this soft challenge, Alex fancied that he could hear his own blood coursing through his head. Everyone was staring at him, including Nicolette. Why hadn’t he stayed in England?
    “I swore an oath of fealty, my lady queen,” he replied soberly—not a complete answer, but the only one he was willing to offer. “An oath to God and your husband, on this very sword.” He clasped the hilt of the broadsword sheathed at his side, which contained a lock of hair of St. Augustine of Canterbury—a proper holy artifact for a man with such a fondness for England. “I swore to serve my sovereign until the day I pass from this world.”
    “Or until I choose to dismiss you,” William said.
    “That wasn’t part of my oath.”
    The king smiled. “That damned soldier’s honor of yours means everything to you, doesn’t it?”
    “An oath is an oath.”
    “You vowed to obey me. I could order you to leave my service, and you’d be obliged to do it.”
    “‘Twould fill me with melancholy, Your Highness.” Alex was proud to be part of the retinue of battle-tested, fiercely loyal men whom the king considered not just his finest knights, but his closest friends.
    “I know it,” William replied thoughtfully. “‘Tis why I can’t bring myself to do it. That,” he added, grinning, “and your skill with the steel. There will always be room for a swordsman of your caliber in my corps. You may continue in my service.”
    “I’m relieved to hear it, sire.”
    “After Christmastide.”
    Blood thudded in Alex’s brain again. Someone snickered. “After Christmastide?”
    “You hardly ever take leave,” William said, “and when you do, ‘tis for but a week, a fortnight at most. I hereby order you—and by that precious oath of yours, you must obey—to withdraw from my service until...” He waved a hand absently as he pondered the precise parameter’s of Alex’s furlough. His queen whispered in his ear and he perked up. “Until the first day of the year of our Lord, one thousand seventy four.”
    “But that’s...” Alex calculated swiftly on his fingers. “That’s six months, sire! You’re granting me six months’ leave?”
    “Why, yes.” King William looked inordinantly pleased with himself. “I suppose I am. Mind you put the time to good use.”
    “How the devil am I—” Alex shook his head