His voice remained low and cold, drawing her to look back at him. “In time, you will come to see the advantage of my offer. I wed Maris, inherit Langumont and Cleonis, and you remain the healthy wife of Merle Lareux. If not…ach…I fear there will be a convent in your future. Or worse.”

“Never,” she repeated.

Bon’s eyes were sharp as they settled on her, raking over her with obvious disgust. “This is not the last you will hear from me.”

Without another word, Bon turned and strode from the hall.

Allegra eased herself slowly back onto the stool, her head light. The world was in a darkening spiral.

What could she do?

~*~

Bone-weary, dirty, and smelling of ripe horse, Dirick of Derkland hailed the guardsmen above the heavy portcullis of the Tower of London. At last.

Nick’s sure hooves clattered on the polished wood as they continued through the entrance into the bailey of King Henry the Plantagenet’s current residence. It had been a brutal two days’ ride in snow and sleet from the funeral of Dirick’s father at Derkland Keep, and he wished only to strip off his half-frozen, sweat-soaked sherte and chausses and slip into a steaming bath that smelled of some pleasing spice or other.

With one of the king’s maids attending him, of course.

Mayhap that, at least, would turn his mind from the grief and anger that had gnawed his middle this se’ennight past.

Fortunately, Dirick had visited Henry uncountable times and Nick knew the whereabouts of the stable without prompting. Dirick’s eyelids sagged, as did his shoulders, and when he slid to the ground, planting his boots in the snow, his knees buckled from weariness. One of the marshals took Nick’s reins, and Dirick stumbled gratefully toward the main keep where he would find food and warmth. The bath and the woman, he amended internally, could wait for the morrow.