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A delicate brew shimmered as it was poured forth from a newly opened bottle into a gracefully made cup.

It was subsequently swirled about, admired, sniffed appreciatively by a nose that was consummately accustomed to sniffing those kinds of things to judge their quality and ingestability.

The mixture was sampled, hesitantly, on the off chance that it wouldn’t taste as good as it smelled.

That sampling was followed by a quick imbibing, then a refilling of the cup by a loyal handmaid who stood nearby.

It was a scene that no doubt could have been repeated at any number of keeps in France on a night such as this, a simple scene, a scene that no soul would have considered out of the ordinary.

Only the imbiber, Sybil of Maignelay-sur-mer, was not a drunkard, despite how frequently and fully her cup was refilled.

Her ladies were not exactly ladies, but serving wenches elevated in station to care for the last of Maignelay’s eight daughters on the night before she was to leave her home and ride off into the gloom to meet her betrothed.

And the soul leaning against the wall watching the proceedings was not a brave knight prepared to defend the lady Sybil against all enemies, but rather a girl hiding behind mail and hose for the express purpose of avoiding the matrimonial fate Sybil had neither the courage nor the wit to avoid herself.

Aliénore of Solonge leaned against that wall, fair to dropping with fatigue and worry, and wondered how it was she found herself trapped with creatures who seemed bent on stretching out the torture of the day as long as possible and thereby, wittingly or not, inflicting as much suffering upon her own sorry self as possible.

Why couldn’t these girls become fully and happily inebriated so she could escape and at least forget her own desperate straits by plunging herself into a few hours of peaceful sleep?

Her day already seemed endless, what with all the fetching of foodstuffs, the carrying of sewing, the delivery of sundry messages, and more fetching of foodstuffs that she’d been required to do.

But those were tasks that allowed her to keep herself mostly far from others in the castle, and for that she was grateful.

After all, keeping herself hidden was the way to keep herself alive, and she shunned no opportunity to continue to enjoy that condition.

For now, she supposed she should be content to lean against something sturdy, watch her charges consume what she’d just fetched for them, and hope that they wouldn’t require anything else from her that night.

Unfortunately, such leisurely loitering gave her ample time to consider not only Sybil’s future, but her own.

And given the fact that her own limited bit of freedom would vanish with Sybil’s when they both became the property of Sybil’s new husband, was it any wonder that she found herself suddenly tempted to flee screaming down the passageway and through the gates?

Her life, which for the past several years had been just a smidgen above unbearable, seemed destined to become perfectly intolerable.

And if that weren’t enough torment, a ferocious itch had just sprung up between her shoulder blades.

She angled her offending back so it pressed against the doorframe of the solar and rubbed vigorously.

Her mail set up a horrendous squeak, causing her to cease all movement abruptly lest she draw Sybil’s attention and find herself sent on some other ridiculous errand.

How was it men managed to attend to these sorts of itches?

She supposed a stick might have served her well enough, if she’d had one to hand.

Unfortunately, all she had at present was her sword, and she doubted she could pull it from its scabbard with any success, much less slide it down her back and scratch without cutting herself to ribbons.

She leaned back against the wood with a sigh and tried to ignore her discomfort.

There was certainly no use in complaining.

Her situation was of her own making and she was not ungrateful for it.

It was surely preferable to the alternative, which was marriage to the most abhorrent, terrifying man England had ever produced.

Aye, she could itch far into her old age to escape that.

“Sir Henri,” Sybil croaked, holding up her cup and staring blearily at Ali, “the bottle is empty.”

Ali blinked, then realized she was being spoken to.

By now her alias should have come more naturally to her, even though her choice hadn’t been a particularly thought-out one.

After her flight from her home, she’d been comforting herself by thinking on the bravery and cleverness of her namesake, Aliénore of Aquitaine.

To give the name of Aliénore’s rather ruthless English husband, Henry Plantagenet, to the first person who’d asked had seemed logical.

“Sir Henri?” Sybil prompted. “The bottle? And the cup is empty as well.” She held out her cup, her arm waving about unsteadily.

“Aye, my lady. I can see that.”

One of the serving wenches stomped her foot and gave Ali a glare. “Go fetch her more,” she demanded. “Can you not see that she is desperate?”

Ali could see many things, and one was that Sybil’s most vocal of attendants could have used a lesson in manners. A pity she could scarce wave her sword about with any success, else she might have taken on that task herself with pleasure.

“More wine,” Sybil whispered weakly. “And some of Cook’s tender pasties, if possible. I daresay I’m feeling rather faint.”

Ali nodded and escaped the solar before Sybil’s list could lengthen.

At the very least, being sent on an errand meant she would not have to listen to any more speculation about whom Sybil stood to wed, the horrors of marriage, or the possibility that Sybil’s new husband might not have a properly stocked larder.

The last, of course, being Sybil’s worst fear.

She walked down the passageway quickly, casting aside her usual caution, eager to have her errand over with so she might see Sybil put to bed and then perhaps have a bit of rest herself.

There was no telling where Sybil might come to roost, given the fact that Sybil’s sire had been completely silent about his choice of husbands for her.

It would be wise to have as much rest as she could, whilst she could.

The saints only knew how her life might change on the morrow.

She should have had a plan. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried to fashion one—for she’d certainly had ample time to do so during her two years at Maignelay-sur-mer. Unfortunately, concocting plans was not something she did well, nor gladly.

In her youth, she’d never had a need to.

Her circumstances had been those of dozens of other lords’ daughters, where her most pressing decisions had been limited to what color thread to embroider with, or whether to wear the gown with the longish sleeves or the one with the pointed, beruffled ones.

Her mother had died when she’d barely reached her tenth summer, causing her choices to suddenly become limited to merely one: to elude the woman her father had subsequently wed.

Then had followed nine hellish years of doing all in her power to avoid Marie of Solonge’s vicious tongue and even more vicious birch rod—all whilst her father buried himself inside himself and noticed not a thing that went on around him. Ali had assumed her life could not worsen.

She’d been quite wrong.

Marie had announced one eve two years earlier that Ali was about to enter into the pleasant state of matrimony with an Englishman.

The Butcher of Berkhamshire, to be exact.

Ali’s memories of what had transpired after that were still a bit unclear.

She was fairly certain she’d burst into tears.

She was almost sure her father had escaped the chamber and left Marie to the unpleasant task of convincing Ali that such a choice was the best one that could be made.

Ali was almost positive that Marie had gone about her convincing in her usual manner.

She’d had the welts across her back for a fortnight to show for it.

What she did remember with perfect clarity was the terror of the next several days.

Marie had lost no opportunity to remind her of every rumor that had ever been spewed forth regarding Colin of Berkhamshire, every tale of horror, every whisper of his limitless cruelty.

And after having heard them all, and having no reason to doubt anything she’d heard, Ali had taken the only path left to her.

She had fled.

She’d done it at night, when Marie had been well into her cups.

Her first happy bit of fortune had been finding one of her brothers senseless and naked in the stables, where he’d no doubt been about his usual occupation of tumbling a serving wench.

Ali had helped herself to his mail, his sword, and his horse.

That pleasure had been followed directly by the agony of having to bribe the gate guards with a necklace her mother had given her—the only thing of value she possessed.

The rest of that journey was likely better forgotten, for it had seemed endless. She’d had no choice but to set her brother’s horse loose after a pair of days, lest his mount be recognized—

She shook her head sharply to clear it of the memories of those very perilous few days.

They were better left in the past, where they belonged.

What was worthy of memory was how she’d been rescued by Sybil’s mother, who had been out on a hunt.

Ali had been invited to come back to Maignelay-sur-mer, where the lady Isabeau had given her the less-than-taxing assignment of being Sybil’s keeper.

Aye, there was aught to be grateful for in that.

But now that she wouldn’t be under Isabeau’s watchful eye, who knew what her future would hold? It hardly bore thinking on.