There are forty from his guild, marching in order as part of the king’s triumphant procession into the city, home from Scotland. Not much to be triumphant about, Ned crowed on the way there. The king’s power is a limited thing in the north now, after the costly failures of the Scottish wars, and ...
The bowl is red with it. He tries not to cry as the cloth presses against the scratches. I want to cry for him, but I bite my lip to hold it in. They sit close to the fire, warming themselves, blankets thrown over bare skin. I want to move among them, my sons, and press my...