Betrayal in the Tudor Court. Darcey Bonnette

my lord—the wrap?” the man asked in anxious tones.

      Hal offered a slow nod, his blue eyes stormy with bewilderment.

      “She must have been caught on a branch before the current carried her off,” hazarded the boatman.

      Hal clutched the wrap to his chest. He began to shiver uncontrollably as he sobbed. “Oh, Grace … oh, Grace …” At once he regarded the stunned assemblage, his face lit with an epiphany. “She may have survived,” he ventured at last. “We will alert the proper authorities. Any females of Grace’s description pulled from the Thames shall be examined.”

      “Of course, my lord,” Hal’s steward answered in gentle tones.

      Hal would be appeased. There would be a thorough search. But all knew no one survived the Thames. Brey was gone. Grace was gone. And all in three days. The amount of time it took for the Lord to die and rise from the dead.

      How would Hal ever survive this? Could he ever rise above it?

      After two weeks of Hal dashing off to examine the bloated corpses pulled from the Thames on a daily basis, Father Alec accompanied him to his apartments. He laid a hand on Hal’s shoulder.

      Father Alec’s lips quivered. He did not want to say it. “Hal, we must return to Sumerton. Brey needs to be interred properly. It does not mean we have to stop searching for my lady, but we must at least begin to face the prospect—”