cloying affection, but she would hear no other criticize Llanelli. Pasgen touched her arm.
"If Rhoslyn and I missed an heir to the throne, it was not by intention," Pasgen said with seeming calm. "For certain there is no red-haired infant—not even a distant cousin."
"A son." Vidal Dhu sat down again, now his expression as he looked down at the twins would have been suitable if they were excrement left by one of his creatures on the carpet. "A son," he repeated. "And you missed him. Henry FitzRoy—"
"We did not miss him," Rhoslyn said, flatly. "The son is nothing. I went with Mary's servant to bring him a little gift and I examined him." She shrugged. "He is six years old, and no infant. He is a bastard, and thus, not in the line of succession. And furthermore, he has none of the power that was hidden in the red-haired babe. He isn't specially clever. He isn't even specially pretty. He lives in obscurity—luxurious, well provided for, but with no hint of favor or special interest by his father."
"True enough," Pasgen agreed. "I