CHAPTER ELEVEN
Murielle turned slowly, stiffly, toward the sound of the voice. An older man wearing the uniform of a castle guard stood at another doorway in the courtyard. His gray hair hung long to his shoulders, in the bygone style of a knight of the Old King.
“Well, well, well,” said the old knight, stepping out into the daylight. “Time has done its work to my eyes and my faculties, but I would recognize the daughter of my good friend Richard de Conquil anywhere.”
Murielle stared quizzically at the old man. She took a cautious step toward him, squinting in the savage daylight.
“But I see that recognition cannot be reciprocated. By the gods’s ears! How can it be that an old man can have a sharper memory than a young woman in her—”
“Frédéric!” Murielle cried. She ran to the old knig
