Page 239 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

After hours of riding that left their faces windburned, Margret slowed her horse at the brow of a hill. Ead gazed across a white stretch of parkland. Serinhall towered before them, bleak and magnificent, boasting grand bay windows and high domed rooftops.

“Well, here we are,” Margret announced. “Do you want to go straight to Goldenbirch?”

“Not yet,” Ead said. “If Galian did hide Ascalon in this province, I think he would have told its keepers. It was his most valuable possession. The symbol of the House of Berethnet.”

“And you think my family has kept it secret from their queens all these centuries?”

“Possibly.”

Frowning, Margret said, “The Saint did come to Serinhall once, in the year Princess Sabran was born. If there was any evidence that hedidleave the sword, then Papa would know it. He has made it his life’s work to know all there is to know about this estate.”

Lord Clarent Beck had been unwell for some time. Once a hale rider, he had taken a fall from his horse, and the injury to his head had left him with what the Inysh calledmind fog.

“Come, then. No time to lose,” Margret said. A wicked glint came into her eye. “Care for a race, Lady Nurtha?”

Ead snapped the reins in answer. As her steed galloped down the hill and across the park, scattering a herd of red deer, Margret shouted something patently discourteous after her. Ead laughed as the wind blew down her hood.

She just beat Margret to the gatehouse. Servants wearing the badge of the Beck family were shoveling the snow.

“Lady Margret!” A reed of a man with a pointed beard bowed to her. “Welcome home, my lady.”

“Good day to you, Master Brooke.” Margret dismounted. “This is Eadaz uq-Nara, Viscountess Nurtha. Would you kindly take us to the Countess?”

“Of course, of course.” Seeing Ead, the fellow bowed again. “Lady Nurtha. Welcome to Serinhall.”

Ead forced herself to nod, but this title would never sit easily on her.

She handed the reins of her horse to another servant. Margret walked with her through the open doors of the house.

In the entrance hall was a wall-length portrait. A man with ebon skin and grave eyes, wearing the tight doublet and hose that had been fashionable in Inys several centuries ago.

“Lord Rothurt Beck,” Margret said as they passed. “A figure in one of the tragedies of Inys. Carnelian the Third fell in love with Lord Rothurt, but he was already wed. And this”—Margret motioned to another portrait—“is Margret Ironside, my namesake. She led our forces during the Gorse Hill Rebellion.”

Ead raised her eyebrows. “Lord Morwe is marrying into a noble lineage indeed.”

“Aye. Pity the man,” Margret said wearily. “Mama will never let him forget it.”

Master Brooke led them through a veritable labyrinth of wood-paneled corridors and grand oak doors. All this space for two people and their servants.

Lady Annes Beck was reading in the great chamber when they entered. Already a tall woman, she wore an attifet that added several inches to her stature. Her brown skin was unlined, but threads of gray rippled through the spirals of her hair.

“What is it, Master Brooke?” She looked up and removed her eyeglasses. “Saint! Margret!”

Margret curtsied. “Not a saint just yet, Mama, but give me time.”

“Oh, my child.”

Lady Annes rushed open-armed to her daughter. Unlike her children, she had a southern accent. “I heard only this morning of your betrothal to Lord Morwe,” she said, embracing Margret. “I should shake you for accepting without asking our permission, but since Queen Sabran gave hers—” She beamed. “Oh, he has found a rare splendor in you, my darling.”

“Thank you, Mama—”

“Now, I’ve already ordered the finest satin for your gown. A nice rich blue would become you very well. My favorite mercer in Greensward is having the cloth shipped from Kantmarkt. You will wear an attifet, of course, with white pearls and sapphires, and youmustmarry in the Sanctuary of Caliburn-on-Sea, as I did. There is no place lovelier.”

“Well, Mama, it seems you have my wedding very much under control.” Margret kissed her on the cheek. “Mama, you remember Mistress Duryan. Now she is Dame Eadaz uq-Nara, Viscountess Nurtha. And my dearest friend. Ead, may I present my mother, the Countess of Goldenbirch.”

Ead curtsied. She had met Lady Annes once or twice at court when the countess had come to see her children, but not for long enough for either of them to have left an impression.

“Dame Eadaz,” Lady Annes said a little stiffly. “Not four days ago, the heralds said you were wanted for heresy.”

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