It was three days after the slaughter outside Rouen. Snowmelt trickled through the gutters, carrying with it thin rivulets of mud and darker stains.
Within the keep, Robert held court beneath high arched beams, the banners of Normandy draped fresh and bright above his chair.
Around him clustered knights and nobles, many still bearing the rents and bandages of the battle.
Some had been Robert's from the start. Others now stood with bowed heads, swords laid at his feet, having bent knee rather than perish with Richard.
Richard himself knelt there too; a gaunt, hollow figure, wrists still bruised from bonds. His fine clothes were muddied and torn.
Yet his chin remained high, blue eyes snapping with that same dangerous pride. Robert regarded him for a long while. Then he spoke, his voice measured, almost gentle.
