EIGHTEEN
Contrary to his usual custom, Siward left his horse to his groom's care instead of caring for the animal himself. It had been eight weeks...nay, fifty-eight days since he had last seen Rosamond, and he longed for her the same way the first spring flowers sought the sun. He needed her.
Draga greeted him in the great hall, asking inane questions about what he wanted prepared for dinner. Siward waved away her concerns, for he had only one thought in his head.
"How is she? Where is she?" he asked eagerly.
Draga's brow creased. "The sick girl you brought?"
Siward prayed with all his might that she was not still ill. "Rosamond."
"She's in the garden. She's always in the garden," Draga said.
Exactly where she should be, Siward thought as he bolted for the door. It was the heig
