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What exactly Calder saw, Alistair couldn't begin to guess. And he found he didn't really care. After the quiet of the past year the crowded hall was almost more than he could bear; there were too many emotions swirling about the room, too many faces, too much noise. Instead he watched Jemmy, wondering if he could possibly make it all the way across the hall and why he didn't simply ask for help. Even Ian would have admitted the need of Alistair's arm by now.

"I'll see ye after," he said to Calder and the knight dropped him a broad wink before turning away to speak to several other men. They all listened, huddled in a group, their eyes following Alistair and Jemmy as they went on. A year ago I would have been among them, Alistair thought. Now all their plots and plans seemed very small and sordid.

He and Jemmy reached the stairway without further interruption and started up. When they reached the first turn, Jemmy motioned him ahead. "I'll be along."

"Christ, Jemmy, what's the matter with ye?" Alistair demanded. "Let me help."

"I do not need help," Jemmy said distinctly. "I am a little tired, that's all, and the wound is troubling me a bit. It's nothing—"

"Right," Alistair said, putting one arm beneath Jemmy's shoulder and half carrying him up the stairway. "It's nothing. You are fine and need no help. I ken ye well enough, all right?"

By the time they reached the chamber, Jemmy had fallen into white-lipped silence. Alistair flung open the door and helped him to a chair. There was a small sound behind him and he whirled to see Jemmy's wife rise from her seat by the window.

Alyson, Lady Kirallen, was dressed in a blue gown, cut far more simply than those she used to wear when she had first come among them, pretending to be someone that she wasn't. The style suited her much better than the finery had done. Her hair was uncovered and the sun's rays fell upon it, lighting the golden strands within its auburn depths. She looked older, Alistair thought, worn with care and worry. Though it had been not quite a year since they had met, he saw it hadn't been an easy year for her.

He stood awkwardly, words deserting him. He should have known she would be here, but he wasn't thinking very clearly today. The truth was that during the past year he had done his best not to think of her at all.

The last time he had talked to Jemmy's lady, it was to bring her a sentence of death and an offer so shameful that he could hardly bear the memory.

"There's no help for you," he remembered his own voice saying. "You are a traitor and a spy...but for all that you're a pretty doxy and seem to know your business well enough...name your price."

Later he had realized his mistake. She was not the scheming harlot he had thought her; was not for sale at any price. But by then the damage had been done. Now he wanted to turn and flee, go back to the solitude of the forest and find the peace he had so briefly glimpsed before Deirdre dragged him back into the world with all its shameful memories.

What would Deirdre think if she knew how he had threatened Jemmy's lady? She would despise him. But no more than in that moment he despised himself. Why hadn't Jemmy simply killed him when he had the chance? he wondered wearily. If anyone had said such things to Deirdre, Alistair would have run him through without a second thought.

Alyson looked at him, surprise and fear and wariness passing quickly across her mobile features. But she wasted no words on him before turning to her husband. And all at once Alistair knew the answer to his question. Jemmy hadn't killed him because he didn't know. She hadn't told him. From some protective instinct, Alyson had kept the details of that last terrible interview to herself.

"'Tis all right," Jemmy mumbled. "I'm fine."

"I'm sure you are," she said briskly, though Alistair saw her hands were shaking as she unfastened his cloak and pulled it back. "But if it's all the same to you, I'll have a look at this."

The gambeson beneath was soaked with blood. Jemmy laid his head back against the seat as she unlaced it and pulled the edges of the fabric from the wound.

"I'll have to cut it. 'Tis ruined anyway," she added with a brave attempt to sound annoyed.

At last Alistair could see the extent of the damage, and he whistled softly between his teeth. Alyson bit her lip, then blinked several times and drew a deep breath.

"Well, you've gone and torn the stitches," she scolded, patting gently at the shoulder with a dampened cloth. "And such a pretty job I made of them! This time you'll have to rest, Jemmy."

"We'll see," he said between clenched teeth.

"Oh, no we won't," she answered tartly. "Besides, you found them, didn't you? Conal and Donal told me all about it." She cast Alistair a swift glance over her shoulder. "The lady and her bairn are resting."

She went to the hearth and stirred the small pot hanging over the coals. After a moment she pulled out a strip of fabric and let it drip into the bowl as it cooled.

"Can you get to the bed?" she asked.

"Aye."

Jemmy's knuckles whitened on the arms of the chair as he tried to lever himself upright. Alyson twisted the rag between her hands, but she bit her lips and did not speak a word. She knows him well, Alistair thought. He would only snap at her if she offered help.

Alistair gripped Jemmy's good wrist and pulled him up, ignoring his kinsman's furious protest. "You can shout at me later if you like. For now why don't you stop being such a selfish, stiff-necked bastard? Do you think your lady likes to watch you suffer?"

That shut him up, just as Alistair had intended that it should. He got him to the bed and eased him down. "That looks terrible," he said, peering closely at the wound. "Stop making light of it. Let someone else tend to your affairs and rest."

"There isn't—" Alyson began, but Jemmy cut her off.

"I'll think about it," he said. "Now go and see Father. Tell him I will be there soon."