“Where is Grise?” Elizabeth demanded on Easter morning.
Amaury was dressing for mass. He shrugged as he donned his new surcoat, emblazoned with the insignia of Beaupoint. “You have done a fine piece of work,” he said to her, admiring yet again her efforts.
Elizabeth rose from the bed and brushed the surcoat, smoothing it over his hauberk. “You could not wear my father’s garb forever.” He let her fuss, waiting until she faced him, then caught her close for a kiss.
She smiled up at him, her eyes glowing. “I suppose you intend to walk the walls before we go to chapel.”
“You suppose correctly.”
“But where is Grise?” she asked again. “Where does she sleep? She has not come to the solar these three nights.”
“Perhaps she finds it warmer in the kitchens or the stables. You need not fear for
