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Ral glanced toward the big empty bed and the pain in his heart stabbed fiercely. It never left him now, not since the night he had argued with Odo. In truth, it had worsened each day since the doubt had crept in.

He ached for Caryn, thought of her moment by moment as he had from the beginning, only now the ache was dulled neither by an outpouring of spirits nor the blinding haze of his rage.

Sometimes he hated Odo for what he had done, stirring up his anguish, rousing his uncertainties.

From dawn of one day to dusk of the next, the doubts never left him, springing up at the oddest times, memories of little things his wife had done or said, things that spoke of her care of him… things Odo would say spoke of love.

He remembered every detail of the time they had spent together, the way in the beginning she had run to escape their marriage then faced his wrath with such courage; the way afterward he had held her and she had cried against his chest. He remembered the way she had stood beside him, risking her life as she faced the wolves, determined not to leave him.

She had braved his anger for Leo, protecting the boy at no small risk to herself.

In doing so she had won his admiration, and his respect.

His mouth curved up as he remembered her care of the hall—then her flagrant disregard of it.

What courage it had taken to defy him, but in the end she had won the servants’ loyalty and no small amount of his own.

He thought of Lynette and how much his taking of the woman had hurt her.

Why had she felt such pain if she did not care?

Or mayhap it was the pain he had inflicted that had driven her away from him.

Ral sat down in his chair, his elbows propped on the table, his head bent forward, his fingers laced in his hair. How many times would he think of her, remember the feel of her soft woman’s body? How many times would he dream of her smile, imagine her laughter, or simply the sound of her voice?

How could he feel such despair over the loss of a woman who would betray him?

He sighed into the darkness of the room, lit only by a single, guttering candle.

He thought of Eliana, tried to remember the hurt he had felt when he had discovered her evil liaison with her brother.

There had been pain then, too. The pain of being duped, of feeling used, of losing something destined to be yours.

But there was none of the anguish he had felt since he had lost Caryn.

And because his feelings were so very different this time, the doubts continued to plague him.

He asked himself, would he feel so much grief for a woman capable of such pretense, a woman of so few morals she would take a lover behind his back, dupe him, deceive him, and use him to gain her own ends?

Would he hurt so for a woman such as that? Were his instincts so dulled by his passions that she had led him that far astray?

He heard a slight shuffling sound and lifted his head to see Marta standing in front of the stout wooden table .

“You have suffered much, my lord, but so has she. Are you ready yet to hear the truth?”

His heart skipped at her words then began thudding softly, yet there was wariness in him, too. “What truth?”

“The truth of what happened the night your Caryn betrayed you.”

“She is no longer my—”

“Is she not? Then why is it you grieve so?”

“If you’ve something to say, old woman, then say it or leave me in peace.”

Marta pulled an empty goblet from the folds of her gray linen tunic and set it upon the table. “’Tis the same one your lady wife drank from the eve of your search for the Ferret.”

“If you are saying she was drunk, it matters not. If she cannot be trusted—”

“She was not drunk. She had only but this one goblet. I am saying that she was drugged.”

“Drugged?” He tried to bury the small surge of hope, the indefinable pulse that had not beat in so long, but it would not be still. “You are saying that Geoffrey put something in her wine?”

“’Tis called verosa. Far more than just something. The juice of the plant is dried into small brown cakes and used to deaden pain. When the dose is too strong, it can make a person see things… do things he would not do.”

“You expect me to believe such a tale? What proof have you—and why did you not speak out sooner?”

“Is there a time you would have listened?”

Nay, he knew that there was not. His rage had been too great, the pain too strong.

“Tell me your tale, then I would see your proof. If there is none, our conversation is ended.” Yet his insides fairly quaked with the hope the old woman had unleashed.

He found himself praying she would not turn to leave.

She did not disappoint him. Instead she began her story, starting with the odd pallor of Caryn’s skin that she had noticed that night on the stairs.

Because of her worry, she had returned to the hall and there discovered the goblet, which still smelled of traces of the drug.

She had gone from the hall to the medicinal, had found that Hassan’s jar of the dried narcotic had been disturbed, seen bits of the powdery substance still left in the bottom of the mortar.

Though she hoped it meant naught, she had secretly questioned the servants.

When Ral remained unconvinced, Marta paused and shuffled to the door. She pulled it open and one of the serving women walked in, her eyes darting nervously in his direction.

“Do not be afraid,” Marta said. “You must tell Lord Ral what you saw that night as you passed by the medicinal.”

Her name was Elda, he remembered, a young girl not much older than Caryn.

“’Twas Geoffrey, milord. I wondered what he might be doing in there so late, but ’twas not my concern and so I did not ask.”

“What did he in there?” Marta asked.

“He ground something in the mortar. He was in a hurry, to be sure, for he left a few moments later.”

“How would Geoffrey know of such a potion?” Ral asked, but the beating of his heart had grown stronger, the hope expanding, growing into something that swelled and urged the heaviness to lift from his chest.

“You forget he spent a good deal of time in there. Lady Caryn used a tiny bit of the drug to ease his pain. Make no mistake, my lord. Geoffrey de Clare knew exactly what he was about.”

“There is still the chance that you are wrong. I know the feelings you carry for your mistress. It is possible you only wish—”

“Think you back to that night, my lord. Do you not remember how it was that your lady wife slept? Not even did she waken to wish you godspeed on your journey. She was much overwrought when she awoke to discover you had gone.”

He recalled carrying her up to their room. Even his heavy movements could not rouse her. She slept as if she had been… drugged.

His hands clenched into fists atop the table. “If this happened as you say, why did she not try to explain? Why did she say naught in her defense?”

“Your Caryn believes herself guilty. Your men are dead and the fault is her own. You bestowed a trust in her and she failed you. She will punish herself for it all the days of her life.”

“Sweet Christ, I cannot believe this.” But suddenly he did. Every sweet, life-breathing word of it. He wanted to shout from the rooftops, he wanted to pound his fists and grind his teeth for not being able to see it before.

Something is wrong, Odo had said, but in his pain, in his anguish he could not see.

“I must go to her.”

“’Tis too late to begin such a journey. ’Tis dark outside with only a sliver of moon to guide you.”

He smiled, joy rushing through him, his blood pumping, his spirit coming alive. “’Tis more light than has lit my way in weeks.” Long strides carried him toward the door. He shouted for Odo, roused half the servants, and began to call out instructions.

Behind him, Marta smiled softly and brushed a tear from her cheek.

***

Ral took ten men and set off for the Convent of the Holy Cross. He rode hard that night, slept only a few hours, then set off again before dawn. As tired as he was, he felt alive as he hadn’t in days, as he had feared he never would again.

His purpose was set, yet as he drew near, his unease began to grow.

What would he say to her? What would she say to him?

In a different way he was just as guilty of betrayal as Caryn believed herself to be.

If he’d had more faith in her, if he had but listened to his instincts instead of his anger, he would have discovered the truth.

Even Odo had been able to see it. But not the man who was her husband. Not the man who was entrusted with her care.

His stomach twisted to think of the brutal way he had struck her.

In his anguish he had lashed out, though the pain she had suffered had ripped through him as viciously as it had her.

He wondered if she would forgive him. Mostly he wondered if she was happy there in the convent.

She had wanted to be free of him, to live a life unfettered by duty and responsibility.

He worried if, after all that had happened, his Caryn would come home.

***

“Lord Raolfe!” The abbess stepped back to allow him in. “I am sorry… we received no word of your arrival.”

He barely paused to greet her. “I have come to see my wife. Where is she?”

The abbess smiled a bit stiffly. “Outside, as she prefers. ’Twould do her far more good should she spend the hours on her knees, praying for her soul.

” The tall thin woman walked to an inner door and pulled it open.

“If you will follow me to the end of the hall, Sister Beatrice can show you the way.”

While his men-at-arms waited out in front, Ral followed the woman down the barren, dimly lit corridor.

It was dank and dark and dreary. His jaw clamped to imagine Caryn living in such a place, and guilt washed over him like a wave.

At the end of the corridor, the abbess handed him over to a slender young nun he remembered was Caryn’s friend.