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Anselm. The name was whispered in his ear. The sweet breath caressed his neck. Anselm turned to see his love. But Nicholas was not with him on the moors. It was the wind teasing him. Anselm pulled his icy, rain-heavy cloak up tighter around his neck. Anselm. Anselm. A plaintive cry. Why aie you not here} Can you have left me when I most needed you!

Nicholas was dying. That must be the meaning of the phantom cry. He was dying, with Anselm far away on the road to Durham. Anselm had deserted his love. He had left him alone and terrified of what was to come. Fearful of Hell. Nicholas was afraid that God would not understand what he'd done, what he'd had to do, that God would not forgive him the murders that Amelie D'Arby had made necessary. Darling, gentle Nicholas was afraid because that witch had shattered his peace of mind with sweet words, downcast eyes. Bewitched him and led him into sin. It was not Nicholas's fault. God would know that.

But Anselm must be there to remind him. Nicholas must not die in fear. In terror.

Brandon paused suddenly and signalled Anselm to stop. The whites of the clod's eyes shone in the moonlight. 'Horsemen behind us — '

Anselm listened, but he heard only the wind. 'Nonsense. You — '

Brandon hissed at him to be quiet.

Anselm closed his eyes and listened beyond the wind. And there, more a feeling from the earth than a sound, were hoofbeats. It must be a messenger from York. Riding after them to tell them that Nicholas was dying and had asked for Anselm, could not die without Anselm at his side, would accept absolution only from him.

'Come. We must gallop’ Brandon cried.

'No. It is a messenger sent to call us back.'

'It's no messenger. Not with so many horses. Surely it's Highlanders. Our only hope is to run before they've seen us. Come on.' Brandon took off.

Anselm shook his head. Young fool. But as the sound of Brandon's horse faded, Anselm heard that the lad was right. It was more than one horse. And the Archbishop would consider Anselm's mission far more important than his old friend's absolution. This was no messenger after them. Anselm spurred his horse after Brandon. But Nicholas was dying, he was certain of that. The farther Anselm travelled, the more impossible it was to be at his dear Nicholas's deathbed.

And then the Highlanders were upon him. Their hoofbeats shook the ground beneath Anselm. Their weapons gleamed in the shimmering darkness. Their inhuman cries terrified his horse. It screamed and reared, throwing Anselm, then bringing a shod hoof down on his forehead. All was dark.

Nicholas pressed on Anselm's head. Wake. Wake, Anselm, Anselm tried to brush away his friend's hand. The pain. Nicholas must not realise his strength. Anselm fought to open his eyes, but Nicholas pressed on the lids. 'Why?' Anselm moaned. 'What have I done that you should torture me like this?'

‘ was frightened. The Creator came for me, and I was frightened. I could not wake you.

Anselm fought harder to open his eyes. It was night. Wind moaned in his ears, rain cooled his throbbing forehead. He remembered.

He touched his right hand to his forehead. He thought he did. But the fingers had no feeling, although the hand throbbed. With the other hand he felt the forehead. Torn, abraded, and swollen. He tried the right hand again. The fingers did not respond as they should. He felt nothing in them. He pulled himself up to a sitting position, ignoring a hot pain in his stomach, and let the wet darkness spin around him. When it stopped, he stood up, wobbly on his legs, but they seemed uninjured. He walked a few feet, stumbled over some yielding lump, and fell. It was his horse, sticky with blood, dead. Anselm knelt and retched violently.

Anselm.

Anselm had forgotten. Nicholas was dying. He must get to him. But without his horse, what could he do? He began to walk.

Lucie sat in front of the kitchen hearth, the cat Melisende on her lap. Owen sat across from her, but said nothing. She appreciated his silence.

She was trying to understand Nicholas. He swore that he loved her. Phillippa believed that. Believed that all he had done, he had done for Lucie. To ensure her future. To ensure that she would not live with the fear that had plagued her mother, that had eventually killed Amelie. Dame Phillippa understood all that. She had lived with that same fear. Of displacement. Of being nobody. Having no home.

It was that fear that had driven her mother to take her own life. If Sir Robert had discovered she was to have another man's child, he would have cast her out.

Would he? Lucie did not know. She hardly knew her father. It felt strange to think of Sir Robert without hatred.

So if Nicholas was not to blame, and her mother was not to blame, who was? Someone had to be. God would not plan such an end for her mother. Someone had transgressed. Disturbed the balance of nature. That person was to blame.

How different Lucie's life might have been, had her mother lived.

How different her life would have been without Nicholas. He had been good to her. He had taught her to be useful. She was respected in York for her skill, not for her marriage. But all that would be taken away now.

Lucie looked up at Owen. 'When you tell all this to the Archbishop, what will he do?'

Melisende jerked awake with a fretful growl, pricked up her ears, dug in her hind claws, and pounced at something skittering across the floor.

Owen rubbed the scar on his cheek. 'I don't know, Lucie. I'm sitting here trying to think of a way not to tell him.'

'You must not compound the guilt, Owen. You must tell him. Your loyalty must be to him.' Lucie went upstairs to Nicholas.

Owen watched Melisende toying with the mouse she'd cornered. He felt as helpless as the mouse. How could he avoid telling Thoresby what he'd learned?

Anselm stumbled along the pale ribbon of road, assuring Nicholas that he was on his way. The pain in his forehead dulled as he walked. It was the hand that brought the most agony. He tore a strip of cloth from his tattered cloak and wrapped the hand as best he could, then tucked it in his left sleeve. That helped. He did not consider the possibility that he would not make it back to York.

Lucie found Nicholas in a pitiful state, moaning and whimpering. She knelt beside him, praying that God might ease the pain, release Nicholas from his suffering. She imagined he dreamed of judgement, the dread moment when God would call him to account for her mother, Montaigne, and Fitzwilliam.

Once, Nicholas cried out and clutched her hand tight. Lucie kissed him and whispered words of comfort, hoping that he could hear. Later his eyelids fluttered, then opened.

'I forgive you, Nicholas,' Lucie said. 'Rest in peace.'

He looked at her and whispered her name. Then, with a violent shudder, he died.

Dead. Lucie's heart stopped, her mind went blank. A numbing cold began in her fingertips and crept up her arms. She hugged her arms to her body. Nicholas was dead. She stood up, walked to the window. The garden window. She imagined him out there, his tattered hat, smudges on his face. In the summer, freckles sprinkled his nose and cheeks. 'No. No more,' she whispered. 'He is gone.'

Now she wept. Gentle Nicholas. She knelt back down beside him. She had loved him, he had been good to her, a gentle husband, always concerned for her welfare, her happiness. His pale blue eyes, which had followed her about lovingly, stared now at nothing.

She hesitated to close them, knowing that she saw them for the last time, those strange, beautiful eyes. Memories held her there, drew her down into the blue depths, her mother and she in his garden, his first visit to the convent, his hesitant, humble proposal of marriage, his patient training, how he had beamed at the birth of their son, how he had wept at Martin's death. All that they had shared she would remember alone now. Alone. She searched the familiar eyes, but his soul had departed, the flicker of life was gone. She closed them.