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Aimee found that, despite her greatest efforts, she could only bring herself to join in fits and starts, and she wasn’t sure she contributed much. Her growing awareness of being overdressed made her feel awkward and out of place. She fidgeted in her seat, wondering if the rest of the hall was whispering behind their hands about Lord Kentigern’s low-born bride.

Sir Armand gamely assisted his wife and their hostess, but conversation frequently fell flat, and to Aimee at least, it felt painfully obvious how mismatched the company was. She found herself heartily envying the less favored guests, though once upon a time she, too, would have gazed with envy at the dais. How times had changed!

By the time the final course was brought to table, Aimee had fretted herself into the beginnings of a headache.

“My dear Lady Kentigern,” Lady Howard said, lowering her goblet. “I meant to say earlier that there is a spare bedchamber for you in the house if you should prefer it to sleeping out of doors. I know Lady de Bussell positively revels in the experience.” She pulled a face, and the de Bussells both laughed. Aimee noticed the way Sir Armand reached for his wife’s hand. “But not all of us relish such things,” Lady Howard continued smoothly.

Aimee thought their hostess inclined her head slightly toward Sabina de Crecy as she spoke, and she wondered if that lady had accepted a room in the manor. “That is very generous of you, Lady Howard,” she replied hesitating and shot a look at her husband. He paused in his conversation with Chaucey Howard to throw a glance her way.

“As I said earlier,” he remarked coolly. “If you would prefer it, I am agreeable.”

Aimee swallowed hard and turned back to her hostess. “In that case, Lady Howard, I would be very glad to accept your kind offer.”

“Of course,” Lady Howard cried, clapping her hands for silence in the hall. “But as a forfeit, my dear Lady Kentigern, and as the highest ranking of our lady guests, I must demand a song from you as payment of your board.”

So sunk in misery was Aimee by this point that this did not even register as the source of terror to her that it would usually. She smiled rather wanly and rose to her feet before the enormity of the request could catch up with her.

Aimee thought her husband made a movement as though to speak, but the noise of her dragging back her chair drowned out whatever he had started to say, and she followed Lady Howard to the front of the dais as a hush fell over the hall and all faces turned her way.

A short man with very red hair stepped forward offering Aimee his lute, but she waved this away. She had no intention of trying to pluck any tune with her own untutored fingers. “Do you know The Tree, the Moon, and the Lover’s Promise?” she asked him abruptly.

According to the Wycliffes, it was unsuited for decent company, but Aimee no longer cared. She knew the song suited her voice, and she could sing it in her sleep. She could sing it now, even though her head felt heavy and clouded and her heart ached as though it bore a fresh wound.

The little man scratched his head. “I think ’tis a tune we call The False Lover in these parts, milady,” he ventured. “At least the refrain to that one mentions a tree, the moon, and a broken promise.” He strummed a few chords to illustrate, and Aimee nodded.

“That is the very one,” she said. “I think my version may differ, but doubtless the tune is the same.”

“Aye, milady,” he said and started to play the lilting, haunting melody. Aimee lifted her head, drew in her breath, and let the song flow through and out of her. She sang the tale of sweetness, longing, and love as though the tale was in truth her own.

Her words rang out with the piercing conviction of one who had once believed in a love so strong that it swept away all other considerations, only to have her hopes and dreams dashed by a seemingly broken promise. Never before had Aimee’s voice swelled with such haunting sweetness, even with her sister at her side, marrying her voice to hers.

Indeed, Aimee could almost believe that she could hear Ursula singing beside her now. Nay, not Ursula, she realized, but instead three Aimees singing side by side, as the words were echoed and bounced off the high vaulted ceiling, reverberating back to sound almost as though they were being chanted in a round. At the end of each verse, her own words were repeated back to her in a mournful echo before dying away so she could start the next.

Aimee had always enjoyed the bittersweet tale, but previously, when she had sung the words, she had not known what heartbreak truly felt like. She had sung the words as a maiden happy and secure with her lot. Now her voice throbbed with the emotion of a woman who knew both sorrow and disappointment.

When she sang of the tree bursting into blossom and the fullness of the moon and the babe she carried beneath her heart for her true love’s sake, a single tear spilled down her cheek. It was only when she reached the final verse that her voice lacked conviction. Usually at this point, Aimee lifted her voice joyfully to tell of the lover’s triumphant arrival to claim his bride.

This time, she sang it softly and sadly, her words taking on a dreamlike quality as though the happy ending was mere wish fulfilment on behalf of a broken woman who had lost everything including her grip on reality. She sang of the lover’s return as though he were a ghost or a wraith who had come back too late to keep his word.

By the time her last word died away, a deathly hush had fallen over the hall. Aimee let her head drop and stared down at the scented rushes strewn underfoot. Someone sniffed. The musician turned toward her and bowed low. The applause started as one sole pair of hands and then raised to a thunderous clamor.

“My dear!” Lady Howard said, appearing at her side and clasping her hand. “I had no idea!” She pressed Aimee’s fingers, and to her surprise, Aimee saw her hostess’s face was wet with tears. “Sublime!”

The musician cleared his throat. “If you permit it, milady,” he said humbly. “I would be honored to commit those words to parchment. I have ne’er heard that version before. It is far superior to the one I know.”

Aimee cleared her throat. “Of course,” she said huskily. “Though if I could confer with you on the morrow … for now I am a little tired.” The pressure behind her eyes had not actually bloomed into pain but remained a lingering heaviness, weighing her thoughts and reactions down as though a heavy blanket had been dropped over her head.

“Of course,” Lady Howard was quick to agree. “I will show you to your room myself –”

Here she was interrupted by the appearance of Lord Kentigern. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said abruptly. “My wife is coming back to the tent with me.”

Aimee nodded; in truth, she felt too exhausted to do anything else. She stumbled as she moved to his side, and once again, Aimee found herself swung up into his arms. As he carried her past the table, she heard Una de Bussell declining to perform next for the company.

“In truth, I do not think you will find anyone willing to follow that,” she said apologetically to Lady Howard. “Lady Kentigern’s turn is not one easily followed.”

24

Konrad bore Aimee back to the tent in silence. Her head rested against his shoulder, and for once, she did not seem to have anything to say. Likely that performance had taken it out of her, he thought glancing down at her dark head. That performance …