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Nicolette’s erudite perspective on things, and they shared an interest in literature and philosophy—disciplines of which Alex was largely ignorant, having a smattering of military history and little else. Perhaps Milo appreciated his wife’s mind as much now as he did back in Périgeaux. Or perhaps he’d grown weary of her epic verses, and longed for a simple woman with a fertile belly.
    “Speaking of Milo,” Berte said silkily, “I must say I find it odd that he allowed you to travel from St. Clair all by yourself.” Eliciting no response from that, she said, “You did come here alone, did you not?”
    “Nay, my lady,” Nicolette responded with a placid smile, and offered no further elaboration, to Berte’s evident frustration. The fates conspired to her advantage, for at that moment a laverer came up behind her and offered his basin. She turned toward him, rolling back the trailing sleeves of her tunic, then stilled, her gaze on something beyond their canopied enclosure—two men walking toward them from the direction of the palace.
    Berte craned her neck; her jaw dropped. “Is that—?” She squinted hard. “Blessed Mary. It is.”
    Alex focused on the two men as they advanced slowly—excruciatingly slowly—across the cropped lawn. The dark-haired fellow was tall and burly, with a massive chest and limbs like tree trunks. He supported his gray-haired companion, almost as tall, but gaunt and stooped over a cane, his legs quavering as he walked. Alex recognized the first man, but couldn’t place the older fellow until he looked up.
    “Sweet Jesus,” Alex whispered when he saw the familiar face.

Chapter 2
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    ALEX GLANCED AT Luke, who returned his stunned expression. At six-and-thirty, their cousin Milo looked as frail and sickly as an old man.
    Nicolette watched her husband’s unsteady gait with anxious eyes. Alex suspected that she would go to him, did she not have a sleeping child on her lap. Rising, he said, “Perhaps I can be of some—”
    “Nay.” Nicolette waved him back down without wresting her gaze from Milo. “He wouldn’t want your help—’twould shame him. Gaspar and I are the only ones he’ll let touch him.”
    Ignored by her, the laverer moved on.
    “He told me he was going to stay inside, where it’s cool,” she murmured.
    “Forgive me, my lady,” Berte said, “but ‘twas my impression that your husband...well, that he’s...not fit for travel.”
    “Nay,” Nicolette said distractedly, gazing at Milo, who raised a hand when he spied her. “He’s not. But he insisted on coming here. I couldn’t talk him out of it. He wouldn’t even listen to Gaspar.”
    Alyce reached over to touch Nicolette’s hand. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I’d known how ill he is.”
    Nicolette shook her head wearily. “‘Twould have made no difference. He was determined to come even before we received your invitation. I don’t know why—he’s never cared much for court functions.”
    “Curious,” Berte muttered.
    When the two men were under the canopy, Milo shook Gaspar off and made a show of walking up to the table with only his cane for assistance. The closer he got, the clearer it became that something was dreadfully wrong with him. His emaciation was evident not only from the way his tunic hung on his skeletal frame, but from his face. Milo had always been handsome, but in a singular, even odd, sort of way, his prominent eyes and nose and mouth all vying for attention. Now those oversize features looked almost grotesque, cloaked as they were in shrunken, yellowish skin that sprouted patches of broken veins. His overgrown hair was lank and on its way to going completely gray.
    Milo grinned when he saw Alex, and came directly to him, his free arm held wide, while Gaspar hovered solicitously. “I heard you’d be here,” he said, his voice as deep as always, but indistinct, as if he’d just awakened, or was in his cups. “Welcome to Normandy, cousin.”
    Rising, Alex