The men looked exhausted, the horses were all flecked with white lather and stood trembling where the torchlight burned off the mist, waiting while groomsmen hastened forward to catch the reins. "Why, it looks like ..." Her eyes widened and she forgot all about her own indignities. "It looks like Lord Alaric!" "FitzAthelstan's father?" She nodded and the hand—which she had not been aware of placing on Griffyn's arm—dug so deep into the muscle, he turned again to look at her. Both their faces were dusted lightly by the glow from the distant torches, and he could see the sudden fear and concern pleating her brow. "What is it? What is wrong?" "Lord Alaric has been staying at Blois this past month to help my brother Eduard through his recovery. He would not have ridden all this way at night unless ... unless something was terribly wrong." She sprang to her feet and snatched up her cloak. "I have to go. I... should not have come in the first place, but I... I have to leave now." His hand reached out and closed around her upper arm, delaying her before she could rush past.
