Lady Of Lyonsbridge. Ana Seymour

had grown pale. Thomas took a step over to her chair and put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s a grim game you favor at Sherborne, Lady Alyce. Can’t you direct your woman to conjure up some pleasanter predictions?”

      Several of the crowd nodded in agreement. Still on his knee, Kenton prompted, “Can you tell us of good fortune, mistress? Of love and children and—”

      Maeve interrupted. “There can be no love for the lady Alyce until the blood moon claims its victim.”

      Kenton frowned and turned to Alyce. “Do you know what she means, milady? Is this a local legend—this blood moon?”

      “’Tis but an old woman’s ramblings,” Thomas said, his hand still on Alyce’s shoulder.

      Alyce had heard no such legend, and agreed with Thomas that the idea sounded fanciful. She would rather hear from Maeve about something more real to her and more imminent. “Maeve, what more did you see in my future? Can you tell me—will I soon be married against my will?”

      Maeve’s eyes had once again grown unfocused. “Aye. Within a twelvemonth you will be betrothed to the king’s choice.”

      Alyce stiffened. It was the fate she’d been anticipating for this past year, but hearing Maeve confirm it was painful.

      “Is it her husband, then?” Kenton asked. “Is he the one of the treachery and death?”

      But Maeve seemed to have gone into some kind of trance. “The wolves will howl,” she said slowly. “The wolves will howl as the blood moon claims its victim.”

      By now nearly everyone in the room had grown sober at the old woman’s eerie tone and grisly words. Maeve was rocking back and forth in her seat and had begun to mutter in some kind of language that no one could understand.

      Fredrick, Alfred’s grandson, made his way through the crowd. “She’s gone into one of her spells, milady,” he told Alyce, with a little bow of respect. “She’s like to be that way for several hours. I should take her back to the village.”