You meet Robena’s eyes, my dear Constance, and see there the same strength that underlies Britain entire. The deep flint. Yes, here is a woman for the hour. Can you match her? Can you do the same? “Who else? Who makes the law? Who commands the knights? Who holds tournaments they do not come back from? Who has lost his heir and clings to his throne like the ivy clings to the branches? Who is the land?” The name hangs unspoken. It is a magic spell of its own; you need Robena to say it. You are afraid of how you will change if you say his name, and afraid that Robena will fail, and afraid that Roebena will succeed. But perhaps this last is nothing more than the fear of stepping out into the unseen dark. After all, in the first days, when Adam’s children inherited Britain from your forefathers, there were ways to deal with a king like this. Your fingers rest lightly on the hilt of your flint knife. At Midsummer, at the height, or on the longest day of winter, when the dark seemed inescapable. Can you call yourself a daughter of giants if you flinch away from the oldest laws? “Uther,” you say, “presently King of Britain.” And now there is no turning back.