not by me.’
What difference did that make? ‘You are French.’
‘And so, he claims, is your king. Your king who insisted on taking France from its rightful ruler!’ He shouted now, having caught her fury. ‘If you want to know who killed your father, look to him! To his greed! To his lust for power!’
‘I will not listen to such slander. You know nothing of the king.’
He must have heard himself shout, recognised his anger. He clenched his fists and his jaw and took a breath. But lost none of the intensity. ‘I do not need to know him. It is thus with all men. Kings, peasants. Even those who boast of chivalry. They are brutal and cruel and seek only for themselves.’
‘And are you the same?’
A stricken look on his face, and then the edge of yearning, as if he had glimpsed something he wanted and lost it. ‘Do not ever doubt it, Lady Cecily.’
She did not.
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