“Nay, my friend, no one is going to mistake you for a cleric.”

A shout of grief from outside broke the even murmur of prayers. Soon other cries and lamentations could be heard. A man burst into the chapel. “Lord Zwentibold is dead!”

Sanglant moved to the Lady’s Hearth and knelt there, offering a prayer for Bayan before he got up and went outside. These crowded spaces chafed him. He needed room to move. In the dark courtyard he caught sight of a familiar figure sauntering toward the gates with an unwilling woman in tow.

“Wichman! Cousin!”

Wichman had wasted little time in getting hold of Zwentibold’s concubine. No doubt he intended to drag her down to a safe house in the city where Sanglant would never find her among so many refugees.

With a grunt of disgust, Wichman stopped, turning to face him. The concubine twisted her wrist free of his grasp. She looked ready to bolt, but she hesitated as she saw Sanglant walking up to them. She straightened, smoothing her gown down over her stomach. The weave of the cloth was silky enough that it clung to her, revealing the shape of her breasts, suggesting the length of one thigh and the hidden treasure that a man might gain access to, should he win her favor or simply take possession of her. Pretty enough, ripe and willing: no wonder Zwentibold had taken her.

“I thank you,” said Sanglant to Wichman, staring him down, “for bringing her to me. I have been at the chapel, praying for the dead.”

Sanglant knew men well enough to see Wichman consider fighting him, but the notion, briefly held, ebbed quickly. Wichman didn’t dare challenge him. They both knew that. At last, Wichman spun and stalked away.

“My lord.” She dipped in an awkward obeisance, half bow, half bend that displayed an arousing expanse of breast. He could actually see the tips of her nipples where her neckline cut low. Her voice shook, as though she suppressed tears. “You have my thanks, my lord prince. I am ever so feared of Lord Wichman, after what he did do to my sister.”

Nay, truly, no one was ever going to mistake him for a cleric. “What is your name?”

She had a strong accent. “I am called Marcovefa.”

“Are you from Salia? How came you here to Osterburg?”

Her gaze was more shy than her body, which she shifted ever more closely toward him, close enough that he kept expecting to feel the cloth of her gown slipping over his hands, inviting him to touch what lay beneath it. “My sister and I came as attendants to a noble lady out of Salia. Her parents married her to Lord Zwentibold to get her out of the way of the war.”

“Which war is that?”

“Well, truly, my lord prince, the king’s brothers and cousins and his eldest son are all fighting over the crown of Salia. Men do fight over what they most desire.” Her shy gaze, the way she looked up through her eyelashes at him, provoked him to take a step away. It was a desperately warm night even for early autumn. When had it gotten so hot? “My sister Merofled came to Lord Zwentibold’s attention after our lady was taken ill. But Lord Wichman raped her one day, and she couldn’t stand the shame of it. I fear me, she hanged herself.” With the back of a pretty hand unweathered by work, she wiped a tear away. “I have no family left to me. My parents are dead. I suppose I may have a brother left alive in Salia, but I don’t know how I’d ever go back there. My sister was my family. Now she’s dead, and I’ll never meet her again, not even in the Chamber of Light, for she took her own life. I hate that Lord Wichman. I beg you, Your Highness, do not let him take me, for why should I not join my sister in a criminal’s death if I’m forced to endure his cruelty?”

Now she did lean against him, clutching for support at his shoulders while pressing all that soft and voluptuous flesh against his body. With an effort, he pushed her gently away.

“Where is Lord Zwentibold’s wife now?”

“In St. Ursula’s Convent, my lord prince. She’s ever so ill, and she prays to God to heal her.”

“What will she do now that Lord Zwentibold is dead?”

She wept, with evident sincerity. “I know not, Your Highness. He was a decent man, the best of that sorry lot!” Flushing, she ducked her head. “Begging your pardon, my lord.”

“Would your lady take you back, if you went to St. Ursula’s?”

“Live a nun’s life? That wouldn’t suit me, praying all day!” She sidled closer, pushing her hips up against his, letting her hands wander. “But you would. I could please you, my lord.”

And why not? Liath had abandoned him and might never return, just as Alia had abandoned Henry. Alia had never cared about Henry at all.