5 June, 1370. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten.
My lady, are you very sure you want to do this?" the older man asked as he looked at her, worry etched into his face. "Please give it more thought if you need to."
"I don't need to give it more thought. My husband told me I should be the one to do something about the risk of famine." Celia replied calmly. "So this is me doing something about it. Will you help me or not, Lord Foster?"
The Islian ambassador gave a pained sounding sigh. "My lady, of course I'll help you. For your own sake and also because of my loyalty to His Majesty your father. And I don't doubt the goodness in your heart driving you to do this, but…"
They both looked down at the pile of jewellery on the table between them. It was substantial.
Hideous gaudy gold pieces, Celia thought grumpily. I won't be sorry to wave them all goodbye, famine or not. "But what, my lord?"
