Hugh had told her once about the battle of Sluys, one in which so many men had drowned. More than once, he’d said, he had thought he would not come out of it alive. What if the sea crossing turned into another Sluys, one where the battle went to the French this time? What if Hugh met his death in Gascony? He had wanted so little from her, really. A night with his wife to think back upon in the weeks to come. And she had not only spurned him but hurt him deeply with a comparison he had done nothing to merit. Just a few weeks ago, there had been a terrible storm raging at the time Bess had gone to bed. Even behind the thick walls of Hanley Castle, Bess was afraid of the thunder and lightning, but she had said nothing, ashamed that a girl of her age, and a twice-married one at that, should have such a fear. Yet Hugh had guessed her secret. “Shall I stay awhile? I haven’t in some time,” he had said. Then he had climbed into bed and held her, stroking her hair and squeezing her hand each time a clap of thunder or a bolt of lightning made her flinch.
