While others in the room wrung their hands and beseeched their sovereign for calm, Vincent Kenby stood in the shadows, studying his lord's face. The mottled skin, the bulging eyes, the flaring nostrils, all declared the Earl of Ardleswyck's fury so emphatically that a deaf man could interpret the lord's shouts.

Vincent carefully memorized all the facial distortions betraying his lord's temper, to ensure he would never let them mar his own features.

Vincent knew nobody could call him a vain man, but he also knew it would take more than anger to twist his features into ugliness. He held no real concern for his appearance, and yet took great pains to guard his expression. He had learned it was prudent to shutter his feelings.

His lord never paid any mind to Vincent's expressions. Each woman who warmed his bed believed she would be the first to breach his defenses. When she left, as each one invariably did, his ears would ring for days with accusations of heartlessness, coldness, indifference. Never selfishness, for he spent freely on his women. Never meanness, since he practiced courtesy and respect to a knightlike degree. "You never smile at me," they would whimper. "I can never tell how you feel inside."

Everybody knew emotions ruled a woman's heart and mind. Everybody expected men to be above such silliness. Vincent knew little difference separated the sexes in that regard.

Some of the bitter glances directed his way told him that his competitors for the earl's ear mistook his impassiveness for calm. It suited him to let them think so, for it would keep them worried and fretting over his perceived confidence. It would gain him no advantage to betray the dread coursing through him, dread that deepened with the earl's every shout and pounding of fist into palm.

The earl's level of agitation always matched the degree of trouble Vincent would be expected to sort out--and Vincent had never seen the earl in a rage so intense. A horrid mess awaited him, of that he had no doubt.

The earl pounded his fist into a wall. Blood trickled from his knuckles along his fingers to mingle with the fine grit of cracked plaster. "Vincent!" he roared.

With his name echoing through the suddenly quiet chamber, Vincent moved out of the shadows. The earl's counselors and advisors stepped aside in the grudging manner of those who had made way for him many times before. They left a clear path between the earl and his most trusted counselor. Vincent knew that if resentment and jealousy could strike a man down, he would never survive his passage among his colleagues.

"Aye, my lord?"

"The goddamned son of a whore and a pig cursed me with his dying breath."

Vincent inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. There had been dozens of witnesses to the curse wheezed out so laboriously by the dying Earl of Hedgeford. No sense in denying it ever occurred.

Around him, those who did not agree with Vincent's methods of dealing with the earl, cried out words they thought might placate the furious man. "Deserved to die!" shouted one unwise soul. "Nothing wrong with what you did!" exclaimed another. "Let him rot in hell!" added yet another fool.

Vincent watched his lord flinch with each supposed encouragement sent his way.

He tried, for just a moment, to put himself in the place of a man such as Ardleswyck. He'd achieved his current position by doing just that--imagining himself as someone he had not been born to be. Most times he succeeded. But in this case, he found it impossible to judge how one might feel after coming to blows with his lifelong friend over a minor matter involving insignificant tenants.

He supposed one's soul would writhe with regret when that friend took an apoplectic fit and died squirming in agony on the ground, while lips that once always welcomed you with a smile and a friendly greeting formed hateful words, while the last precious breaths were expended to heap curses upon your head.

No, he could not imagine what the lord must be feeling, partly because Vincent had never known a friend so dear. Nor would he ever, ever allow himself to fall victim to a passion so intense that it would blind a man to the ramifications of his actions. Passion clouded a man's mind, robbed him of intelligence and strength.

If Vincent had been there when the earl lost his head, he would have hung onto his lord's fists or let him pummel himself rather than allow him to strike the other man. The satisfaction of downing an opponent soon faded, while the acrimony always lingered. The victor might find his grain stores fired, his livestock run off, his dogs poisoned. There had even been cases where the defeated one petitioned the king for financial retribution.

Vincent understood his lord well enough to know that much of the earl's violent rage, much of his incoherence, stemmed from devastation as well as anger. From guilt as well as righteousness.

The other advisors and counselors pressed close, eager to placate the earl with assurances that he had been right to escalate the minor dispute into a full-fledged fight.

"Vincent," the earl practically whispered, and in that moment Vincent felt full force the anguish of a man who had failed to extend the comfort of his hand while his best--and perhaps only--friend, died.

Only God could ease the earl's conscience. Only time would dim the memory of a friendship so dear. Only the earl's most trusted lawyer could cope with the political aftermath of that brief, violent incident.

"There will be repercussions," Vincent said.

The earl nodded. Just once. An abrupt, reluctant acknowledgment of the mess he had created.

Once again, the others in the room fell into silence. In the welcome quiet, Vincent's mind settled on a hope so bright he dared let it lighten his heart a little.

"Hedgeford's heir has ever been like a son to you," he reminded his lord--unnecessarily, he hoped. "Now that he assumes the title, he will take your daughter to wife. The joining will let you both set aside the pain."

He thought for a moment that he had succeeded. The earl's jaw worked, his eyes moistened a bit, and then Vincent's most ardent competitor ruined it all.

"Hedgeford will use your daughter and your own money to wreak his vengeance. He is a hot-tempered lout." The man narrowed his eyes at Vincent, all but daring him to interrupt. When Vincent did not, he smirked, and turned his full attention upon the earl. "I would caution you against turning over a rich dowry to the devil spawn son of a man who cursed you with his dying breath. Set aside the betrothal, my lord."

All semblance of order vanished as men burst into argument. Vincent, unable to believe such a stupid suggestion had been articulated, made certain his amusement did not show.

The earl's eldest daughter, Catherine, had been betrothed to Michael, now Earl of Hedgeford, well before Vincent had come into his lord's service. The marriage had been arranged so long ago that nobody ever spoke of Catherine, save to link her name with Michael of Hedgeford. Truth to tell, nobody spoke of Catherine at all, not even her mother. The girl had been sent to a convent in Italy years ago to prepare her for the role of wife, and when she returned it would be straight into Hedgeford's bed. She'd been rooted from the family as thoroughly as a rose torn from a hedge.

Vincent, who had lived among monks, had never understood how immersion in a house of religion could prepare a woman for marriage, a man's bed, for bearing his children. But the nobility seemed fond of the concept, and he had never found the matter of sufficient interest to press for an answer.

The suggestion to set aside the betrothal was a ludicrous idea tossed out by a man so eager to curry the earl's favor that he had forgotten what he knew of the law. It was bad enough that Vincent had to be ever on his guard against ingratiating fools, who all too often found the earl willing to hear what they had to say, willing to grant them as much credence as he accorded the opinions of those more learned. It was worse to think a man of his own standing might allow his jealousy of Vincent's position as the favorite to lead him into making suggestions that could directly hurt the earl's interests.

But even as he assured himself that the earl could not treat the idea seriously, he saw his lord's attention swing to the man who'd made the ridiculous suggestion. The others saw, too, and opportunistic as always, lent their words of encouragement to the babble.

"My lord, the betrothal must be honored," Vincent said, attempting to quell the stirrings of foreboding.

"Nonsense," spouted the fool who had started it all. "King Richard himself never honored his betrothal to the princess of France."

This roused a chorus of agreement. Nobody bothered to remark that kings had more leeway in such matters than their minions, and nobody mentioned that Richard's refusal to wed the French girl had caused a serious breech in relations with France.

"Catherine has been specially prepared for this match. It seemed such a good idea at the time." The earl appeared to be speaking to himself, so soft and odd were his words.

In the vehement arguments circling about, no one but Vincent seemed to note the earl's cryptic comment. Specially prepared in what way? Vincent wondered, but only for the fleeting space of a heartbeat. The situation threatened to go beyond control, leaving no time to spare on wondering how an exiled female had fared over the past few years.

"Hedgeford said he will see you rot in hell," remarked another advisor. He shot a glance at Vincent, and then sidled a step farther away, as if to place himself closer to the man who seemed to have gained the earl's favor.

"By God, so he did!" the earl bellowed, bringing silence to the room. He nodded his head decisively. "No man, dead or alive, will know the benefits of my friendship once someone in his family has cursed me. There will be no wedding."

The buzz of conversation resumed, turning the small chamber as raucous as a dining hall. The earl seemed to stand taller now that he'd declared his decision, and a half smile hovered over the face so recently ravaged by guilt and grief.

Michael of Hedgeford would not meekly accept the earl's decision. The earl's daughter possessed an enormous dowry, one arranged when Ardleswyck and Hedgeford were secure in their friendship. Recently, when King Richard had made an appeal for financial aid for his Crusade, the earl had made only the tiniest contribution, citing the dowry as the reason for his parsimony. He'd chortled with Hedgeford over the small sum handed over. They'd congratulated each other over keeping the fortune out of Richard's greedy grasp. "It stays in the family, Vincent," the earl had crowed.

Old King Henry, so recently dead, had been the first Plantagenet to sanction the betrothal. Richard had been fobbed off with his own reluctant acknowledgment that the betrothal was valid and would stand. Richard's fury would know no bounds once he learned that the money he had asked for, and been denied, had been placed beyond his reach, into the hands of the Church.

"My lord." Vincent was relieved to note his voice conveyed its normal, emotionless timbre. "Hedgeford will not meekly accept your decision."

"You shall deal with him."

"I cannot 'deal' with the king--"

"The king is in Sicily, mounting his Crusade. He thinks of nothing but fighting the infidels. By the time he takes an interest, 'twill be done."

The earl turned away. Now outwardly cheerful, he slapped a friendly hand upon the shoulder of the man who had suggested abandoning the betrothal. The counselor sneered at Vincent.

Vincent granted the counselor his moment of triumph. To his eye, the earl's smile seemed a little forced, his laughter a little false. Both nonetheless sounded in his head as clear as nails pounded into a coffin. The earl had declared his decision in public. He would not change his mind.

Vincent had fought unsuccessfully against this type of stubbornness before. No doubt he would face it again--providing he survived this task. When the punishments and penalties came due--and they would--the man responsible for carrying out the earl's order would be held to blame. Everything Vincent had attained could be negated.

Vincent bowed slightly from the waist. "A word alone, if it pleases your lordship," he said.

Ardleswyck humored him. With a regal jut of his chin and flip of his hand, the earl sent the others scurrying from the chamber. A servant was the last to step through the door, and he bowed low as he pulled it closed, sealing Vincent and the earl alone in the now-silent room.

The earl turned his back on Vincent. That meant, always, that the earl had something to hide, something that would have to be pried from him with tact and persistence.

"The dowry will not seriously deplete your coffers," Vincent said.

"No."

"The girl has lived apart from your household for years. She has never been home to visit, not even for Christmas. Her mother never speaks of her. She has not been missed to any great degree by her sisters--or by you, my lord."

"I think of her, sometimes."

Hardly a resounding declaration of fatherly devotion. Still, it represented progress since often the earl could spend hours reacting to Vincent's probing comments with little more than a grunt.

To Vincent's surprise, the earl whirled about. His arms were crossed over his chest. Although he glowered, his fierce expression contrasted with a hint of red cresting his cheeks, with something like chagrin stamping his features.

The earl--embarrassed?

"She has been ... specially prepared," he said in an odd tone of voice.

"So you have said." The mild curiosity Vincent had dismissed when the earl mentioned this earlier now reasserted itself into a full-fledged need to know. His instincts settled on this as the key to breaching the earl's secrecy. "Your other daughters are betrothed, yet continue to reside here. I have noted no special preparations for them. Yet you sent this one--" He paused, groping for the name.

"Catherine."

"Catherine. You sent her away." Vincent wished now that he could remember the girl, but could conjure in his mind's eye little more than a wealth of light hair atop a slim supple frame common to most young females of gentle birth.

He tried to recall if she had been scarred by the pox, or perhaps born with a cleft lip, or maybe walked with a hitch in her gait. If she did possess a deformity, then it might explain why Ardleswyck had sequestered her in a foreign land, where she might bide unnoticed until the wedding took place. Most men were reluctant to admit they'd sired a grotesque, so he would broach the matter first.

"My lord, if she is flawed, then marrying her to your enemy would be a great revenge."

"Flawed?" The earl's mouth gaped; his eyes boggled. "Catherine is the most beautiful, the most perfect of all I've sired. No, Vincent, she is a beauty, and is now a treasure beyond compare. She has been in Italy. She has been specially prepared."

The earl stared at Vincent, seeming to silently beg for understanding while his flush deepened with true embarrassment. Try as he might, Vincent could not fathom what special preparations could be made in Italy that would turn an English heiress into a treasure beyond compare, or why the earl would grow so flustered simply by mentioning it.

He tried to recall what he knew of Italy. His knowledge came secondhand, from books and accounts of those who had traveled there. Religion. Artifacts. Sunshine. Good wine and fish.

"Let the marriage take place, my lord."

"Never."

The earl had hinted at some slight fatherly affection; perhaps, with the girl at his side, the earl would soften in his stance against her marriage. "Then bring Catherine home. We can negotiate with Hedgeford until you are appeased."

"Good God!" The earl's outburst took Vincent by surprise. "No. Never. Under no circumstances can Catherine be brought home. Not ever."

Exasperated, and yet intrigued, Vincent abandoned tact for bluntness. "If you are so set against Hedgeford taking her to wife, you must bring her home and keep her under guard. She is already his by law. The nuns in Italy cannot deny him if he simply goes to the convent where she resides and takes her."

"I ... I had not thought of that."

Vincent's tact had not abandoned him totally. He managed to think, rather than say aloud, that the earl had not thought of anything at all before declaring the betrothal would not be honored.

"You must do something, Vincent."

"I am giving you my best advice, my lord. Let the marriage take place."

"Never."

"Then bring her home--or tell me why you refuse to do so. I cannot devise a plan to solve your problem if I lack the necessary information."

The earl raised his hands and clamped them over his head, rubbing as if to ease a raging headache. "Catherine does indeed live in seclusion, but not with nuns. Her mother would not have let her go to Italy if I had told her the truth."

Vincent felt like clutching his own head to ease the thumping caused by the earl's convoluted evasions. "Where is she, my lord?"

"With Serena."

"Serena? You sent your daughter to live with your mistress?" Vincent did not even attempt to disguise his disbelief. The earl's long infatuation with the tempestuous Serena had disrupted the entire household. Nobody really knew the story behind the end of the affair, only that Ardleswyck had finally banished the dark-haired beauty and returned to his lady wife's bed. He had never seemed the same since, as if a heavy sorrow continually weighed him down. With his typical stubborn adherence to decisions once made, he had never called back the woman who'd infatuated him so. Nor, to Vincent's knowledge, had he ever taken up with another woman despite his unhappiness with his wife.

There was no denying the truth of what the earl had said. If she had known, the Countess of Ardleswyck would never have let her daughter leave her care.

"Why, my lord?"

Ardleswyck shook his head. His body hunched in misery. When finally he spoke, it was in low tones, as if talking to himself, reminiscing about the past. "It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Hedgeford"--the earl's voice broke over his dead friend's name--"Hedgeford was like a brother to me. He was the only one who could understand how I felt after Serena left. We spent many an hour simply talking about a man's heart. You cannot speak of such things to just anyone, you know."

Deep sorrow etched the earl's face. He scrubbed furiously at his eyes, as if they itched, but Vincent fancied he'd caught the glimpse of a tear.

"Hedgeford was no happier in his marriage than I am in mine." The earl stated the fact simply, with no indication that he expected a contradiction from Vincent. Vincent would not have offered one in any event. He knew, more than most, that the earl and his countess barely tolerated each other's presence. "Like me, Hedgeford had known brief happiness with his mistress. It is the way of the world to arrange marriages for one's children. We yearned, above all else, for our children to find the happiness in marriage that ever eluded us."

"I do not understand, my lord." And indeed he did not. The lord's rambling did naught but confuse Vincent even more.

The earl cast him a glance. Vincent would have sworn he noted a flash of pity in the sorrowful man's eyes. "I do not expect you to understand. You care so little for pleasures of the flesh that you once sought to embrace the celibate life of a monk, as I recall."

Vincent did not know what shocked him more: that his lord remembered this about Vincent, or that he would choose this moment to fling his past in Vincent's face.

"I was not suited to a monk's life," Vincent answered in the same flat, emotionless voice he'd used to present his case to the bishop who had granted him release from his studies. "It had naught to do with my appetite for pleasures of the flesh. And frankly, my lord, I do not see what my past has to do with the matter at hand."

"Exactly." The earl's lip curled in the semblance of a smile, a smile of satisfaction, as if he'd expected Vincent to respond as he had done. "And so you will never be able to understand how two old men, maudlin and flown with wine, might think it the most sensible thing in this world to send an innocent young girl off to a courtesan to be trained to enjoy her own body, so that she and her husband might know joy in their marriage bed."

"My lord!"

"That's the problem, you know, with our wives. They detest their own bodies so much that they cannot take pleasure in them, and so deny their husbands."

"This conversation is taking an entirely too personal tone, my lord."

Ardleswyck continued on, ignoring Vincent's objections. "Hedgeford's favorite was a French girl. My Serena, an Italian. Oh, those lucky foreign men, to live among women who appreciate the joys their bodies can offer."

"My lord--the matter at hand." Vincent hated the desperation he heard in his own voice, but the subject they discussed was so troubling, so distasteful, and the earl so seemingly bent upon exploring it, that he could not see an immediate end to it.

"This is the matter at hand, Vincent. Catherine. Serena writes that my daughter must be kept under literal lock and key. She claims there are soldiers, knights, and ordinary men swarming all over Italy to join Richard's Crusade, making it unsafe to allow Catherine to so much as venture outside--but I believe Serena is not telling the full truth. My daughter must have displayed a startling aptitude for her studies, so that Serena cannot trust her. She keeps her locked in so that Catherine has had no opportunity to, shall we say, practice her lessons."

"My lord, I fear you are calling your daughter a..." Vincent could not say the word.

"Serena has been discreet. She calls Catherine enthusiastic. Impulsive and loving. She has begged me to hurry and see her married before something unfortunate happens to my daughter's virginity. So you see, I cannot bring her home, Vincent. I cannot have a nubile, lustful female prowling my hall. I cannot allow her mother to know the truth about what I've done or my life will become even more miserable than it is now. So, here is what you need to know: I will not let Michael of Hedgeford have her. She cannot come home. What can be done?"

Vincent let his mind have its way. Let it do its quick probing of the possibilities, let it filter back to him a handful of options to sort through. "I see no way to bring this to a satisfactory conclusion, in a strictly legal manner," he said eventually.

"I shall hear the illegal manners," said his lord.

"Marrying her quickly to another will not prevent the king's ruling later on Hedgeford's behalf, should Hedgeford lodge a royal appeal. If Hedgeford hates you as much as he claims, he could insist that any other marriage is illegal since his betrothal takes precedence. It would not matter to him that she comes lacking a maidenhead, if he gets his way and succeeds in tormenting you."

The earl nodded. "Nor do I know any man of sufficient influence to sway the king away from Hedgeford, who might also be free to take a wife so quickly. We must think of another way."

"If she died, there could be no marriage, and no way for Hedgeford to use her for revenge against you."

The earl's face creased with grief. "I must confess, arranging her death was my first thought. What manner of man am I, to contemplate the murder of my own child? I cannot do it, Vincent. I do love the girl, in my own way, and I regret the years we have spent apart. It is not her fault that she has become what I wanted her to be. I cannot have her killed."

Relief coursed through Vincent. The suggestion had been distasteful to make, but he'd had no choice, not if he meant to serve his lord to the best of his abilities.

"Then perhaps this would be best for all concerned: you could, in truth this time, place the girl in a convent. Someplace well fortified, capable of repelling a siege. Promise the Church her dowry when her final vows are taken. I say to you, my lord, that you will find no stauncher guardian of her person or virtue. I know a place that would suit our needs perfectly."

Ardleswyck nodded.