Page 241 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Margret looked at Ead across the table.

“Yes, Mama,” she said. “Of course I will.”

Lady Annes prided herself as a host. This meant that Ead and Margret found themselves still at the dinner table some two hours later.

An inglenook fireplace dried their clothes. Bone-warming food continued to pour from the kitchens. Conversation turned to the impending nuptials, and Lady Annes soon began to counsel her daughter about her wedding night (“You mustexpectto be disappointed, darling, for the act often falls woefully short of the promise”). Throughout, Margret wore the pained smile Ead had seen her wear many a time at court.

“Mama,” she said, when she could finally get a word in, “I was telling Ead the family legend. That the Saint visited Serinhall.”

Lady Annes washed down her mouthful. “A historian, are you, Dame Eadaz?”

“I have an interest, my lady.”

“Well,” the countess said, “according to records, Serinhall hosted the Saint for three days shortly after Queen Cleolind died in childbed. Our family were long-standing friends and allies to King Galian. Some say for a time he trusted only them, even above his Holy Retinue.”

While curd tart, baked apples and sweetmilk were seamlessly delivered, Ead exchanged a look with Margret.

When the meal was finally over, Lady Annes released them from her presence. Margret led Ead up the stairs, a candle in her hand.

“Saint,” she said. “I’m sorry, Ead. She’s been waiting for one of us to get married for years so she can plan it all, and Loth has rather disappointed her on that front.”

“No matter. She cares about you very much.”

When they reached the elaborately carved doors to the north wing, Margret stopped. “What if—” She twisted a ring on her middle finger. “What if Papa does not remember me?”

Ead placed a hand on her back. “He asked for you.”

At this, Margret took a deep breath. She handed Ead the candle and opened the doors.

The room beyond was stifling. Lord Clarent Beck was dozing in a wing chair, a coverlet around his shoulders. Only the white of his hair and a line or two set him apart from Loth, such was his likeness to his son. His legs had withered since Ead had last seen him.

“Who is that?” He stirred. “Annes?”

Margret went to him and took his face in her hands. “Papa,” she said. “Papa, it’s Margret.”

His eyes peeled open.

“Meg.” His hand came to her arm. “Margret. Is that really you?”

“Yes.” A thick laugh escaped her. “Yes, Papa, I’m here. I’m sorry to have left you for so long.” She kissed his hand. “Forgive me.”

He lifted her chin with one finger.

“Margret,” he said, “you are my child. I forgave you all your sins on the first day of your life.”

Margret wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face to the crook of his neck. Lord Clarent stroked her hair with a steady hand, his expression one of the utmost serenity. Ead had never known who her birthfather was, but suddenly she wished she had.

“Papa,” Margret said, drawing back, “do you remember Ead?”

Dark, heavy-lidded eyes took Ead in. They were just as kind as she remembered them.

“Ead,” he said a little hoarsely. “My word. Ead Duryan.” He held out a hand, and Ead kissed his signet ring. “How good to see you, child. Have you married my son yet?”

She wondered if he knew Loth had been exiled. “No, my lord,” she said gently. “Loth and I do not love each other that way.”

“I knew it was too good to be true.” Lord Clarent chuckled. “I hoped to see him wed, but I fear I never will.”

At this, his brow crimpled, and his face went slack. Margret framed it, keeping his attention fixed on her.

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