"Why is he dying?" Elf demanded of her companion. "What is the matter with him, good sir? Surely a physician was sent for and a diagnosis made."

"There has been no physician at Ashlin," Saer de Bude replied. "We would have had to send to Worcester for one. At first your brother’s illness was not thought to be serious."

"I assist the infirmarian at the convent," Elf told him. "I will want to examine my brother, although I am certainly no expert. Still, Sister Winifred says I am the best assistant she has ever had. I am certain there is something I can do to help my brother."

"The lady Isleen will be most grateful," Saer de Bude replied.

"How came you to Ashlin?" Elf asked him.

"My mother was a de Warenne" was the reply. "The lady Isleen is my cousin. Her family thought I could be of help to your brother."

"I am certain Richard is grateful," Elf answered him primly. Then she grew silent again. She had, of course, only met her sister-in-law once, and perhaps she had judged her through the eyes of a small child, ripped from her home, and put in a strange place. This was the person who had taken her beloved Dickon from her. That Isleen was extravagantly beautiful had not helped. Her hair had been like golden thistledown touched by the moonlight. Her eyes were a deep blue, and her skin was as pure as cream, her cheeks touched with just the faintest hint of rose. She had smelled of roses, too. A delicious, heady scent that bespoke elegance. It was difficult for a little girl just five and a half years of age, in a dull gray gown, to like such a woman. And Isleen had made no effort herself to draw her bridegroom’s little sister to her heart. That one visit had been brief, with Isleen staring out the window of the visitor’s chamber while Dickon spoke briefly, his eyes always going to his bride until he could seemingly not bear it any longer, and they had taken their leave of Elf.