Edmund tripped carefully down the spiral staircase, smirking to himself. Lord Dunstan had a girl in his chamber, of that he was certain. Not in the castle above two moments and already he was dallying with one of the maids. Good luck to him! It was none of his business what Lord Dunstan did; only unfortunate that the Queen had spotted him doing very little in the great hall, and had asked him to escort the new visitor to the evening meal. He grimaced, his mouth curling down to a sharp little pout. Queen Margaret treated him like a servant, when she knew full that his father was a knight, albeit not a very rich one.

Once he received the money from his uncle, things would change—the Queen would have to treat him with more respect; why, he’d probably be richer than her! Poor Alice had no idea to what she had agreed; naturally, she trusted him, believed in him. He had all those years of friendship to thank for that; he hoped it would be enough to persuade her to elope with him. Only yesterday another message had arrived from his uncle; the man was growing impatient for his prize and would not wait for ever. Now Lady Beatrice was aware of the plan, it would make things easier; he had taken a chance by telling her, but she had agreed readily, believing her daughter, over time, would see the sense of it.

Edmund held his sleeve away from the gritty stone wall as he descended; a snagged thread on his tunic was the last thing he wanted. Soon, soon he would be able to buy all the fine new clothes he could possibly wish for, but for now, he liked to take care of the few garments in his possession. Rounding the bottom of the stairs, he scanned the corridor, ensuring it was empty. He smoothed back his floppy chestnut hair, a secret joy bubbling in his chest; with Lord Dunstan having no need of him, there was time to meet Beatrice. Now Alice had returned, they needed to discuss what they were going to do with her.

At the head of the stairs, Bastien waited for Alice to fetch her stockings and slippers before they went down for the evening meal. The tempting sight of her bare toes, her delicate pink toenails, as she sat amidst his bed furs, had sent a fresh surge of desire through his muscular frame. He wished he hadn’t mentioned Katherine; surprisingly, he’d completely forgotten the ring that swung around his neck until Alice commented upon it. Yet his words had done nothing to diminish the power of that unnerving kiss with Alice. He had thought her naïve, innocent, which she was, but, Mother of God, the passion that burned under her diminutive exterior had almost made him lose his self-control. He had hoped it would be a disappointment, serving only to wipe out any further sensual thoughts towards her, but, in truth, it had left him wanting more. His brawny frame hummed, throbbed with the memory.

Through the dim haze of arrested passion, Bastien had been taken aback by the sight of Alice’s betrothed, peering up at him through the crack in the door. Brown, obsequious eyes, weak chin, a slight lisping voice—God in Heaven, he chuckled to himself, Alice would walk all over him. Especially as her sense of loyalty, of duty towards her parents, had driven her to accept this man’s offer of marriage. It was not an uncommon event—most noble marriages happened from convenience rather than love—it was only now that he baulked at the injustice of it all. Bastien’s fingers curled into the stone ledge as he recalled the peculiar, lop-sided tilt of Edmund’s lips, an acrid taste in his mouth. Something was not quite right about Alice’s betrothed.

Through the open window, the setting sun warmed his back, highlighting the endless small stitches holding the pleats in place on the back of his tunic. The fading sounds of the day drifted up to him: a cartwheel squeaking on a distant path, the shouts of the grooms in the stables, a faint yapping of a dog. And, much closer, two voices. Two distinct, recognisable voices lifting towards him, hanging in the still air; the thin, reed-like tones of Alice’s fiancé, and the higher-pitched wheedling tones of her mother. He heard Alice’s name and the promise of coin; his heart grew cold.

The young Queen Margaret smoothed the white linen tablecloth beneath her palm, rubbing with her middle finger at the puckered crease set into the material. Frowning, she swept her eyes along the length of the high table, checking that everything else was properly set; she always insisted on the highest standards and it vexed her to see details out of place.

‘I don’t like it, Beatrice.’ She turned to her lady-in-waiting, who sat beside her.

‘It’s the new laundress,’ Beatrice explained, trying to interpret Margaret’s stony expression. ‘She hasn’t quite—’

‘Nay, not that!’ Margaret stopped her speech, impatient. ‘I mean your daughter. It sounds as if she landed herself in a proper tangle. Why did she not come and see me, the moment she came back? Surely she knew I would be anxious for details about our knights? I have heard nothing from the Duke of York, but I presumes he holds them.’

The young Queen leaned back in her high-backed chair, ornately carved with an intricate pattern of trailing ivy leaves, as a servant placed a steaming platter of roast chicken before the ladies. The hanging diamonds on her heart-shaped head-dress bobbed as she hitched forwards again, resting her elbows on the table.

‘Alice was exhausted when she returned, in no fit state to see anybody.’ Beatrice screwed her lips together. How many times had she had to excuse her daughter’s behaviour? At least now, with Edmund’s help, she had a solution for Alice.

Margaret lifted her silver goblet to her lips, drinking deep. She was exhausted as well, exhausted with dealing with the affairs of state whilst her husband languished in an upstairs chamber with only a single servant for company. A strange madness had overtaken him: he didn’t speak, he hardly ate or drank, just stared blankly at the wall, unmoving. It had been months now, and Margaret knew her excuses for her husband’s absence were wearing thin. The situation was tenuous, for if Henry were unable to rule, then the throne would be taken from him, and from the child she would bear very soon. Her hand rounded protectively over her stomach, her eyes narrowing. She knew just who would steal it from under their noses: her bitterest enemy—the Duke of York! She would do everything in her power to prevent that happening!

Beatrice nudged Margaret’s shoulder. ‘My lady, look, here’s Alice now…and she looks much refreshed. She’ll be able to tell you everything.’

‘Who is that with her?’ Margaret’s eyes rested on the tall, commanding man behind Alice’s diminutive figure in the doorway.

‘Oh, er…’ Beatrice searched her memory. Had the man told her his name? She had been so incensed by Alice’s behaviour that she had failed to take anything else in. ‘His name escapes me, my lady. But it was he who rescued Alice, and brought her back.’

‘I see,’ Margaret replied drily. Really, her lady-in-waiting could be remarkably dense at times. Names were important in these troubled times—why, you could scarce trust your own neighbour, let alone some complete stranger!

On the threshold of the great hall, Alice paused. Shame continued to rush through her, a deep red humiliation at her reckless, wanton behaviour. He had told her the kiss was nothing, yet her body told her otherwise: even now, as he stood behind her in the doorway, as the warmth of his breath fanned the vulnerable skin at the back of her neck, a flicker of excitement licked along her veins! She clenched her fists, willing herself to concentrate on the matter in hand.

The great hall was packed, thronging with the King’s retainers; his knights and servants jostled for space on the trestle tables, while the nobles sat up on the high dais with the Queen. Servants brought out platter after platter of hot, steaming food; a delicious aroma filled the hall, mingled with the distinctive smell of wood smoke. Alice’s heart failed as Margaret beckoned to her, unsmiling, indicating that she should join her on the dais. This was it; this was the moment she would hide the truth from her Queen about Bastien’s identity. Against her stomach, her fingers knotted together, palms sweating.

‘Keep going,’ Bastien rapped in her ear, putting his hand to the small of her back to give her a gentle push.

Despite the raised noise levels, the chattering and clink of goblets, Alice felt every eye in the hall upon her, judging her. ‘I can’t do this,’ she whispered. Her stomach twisted with nerves, panic radiating from every pore.

‘Remember your father,’ Bastien reminded her gruffly. To his surprise, he found himself hating this situation, forcing the girl to do something against her will, especially after the conversation he had unwittingly overheard.

‘Come on,’ he continued more gently. He wanted to comfort her, not push her on. ‘Tarrying will not help.’

‘But what if someone recognises you?’ She turned to look up at him, eyes huge orbs of sapphire.

‘It would be unlucky if anyone did; I’ve been out of the country for so long.’ He put a hand on her shoulder, propelled her forwards. ‘Remember what we agreed upon, and all should be well.’ On the way down they had cobbled together a simple story of her rescue. Now, as Alice climbed the wooden steps to the dais, she rehearsed the scenario over and over in her head, the details churning in her mind.

‘Come, sit with us, please,’ Margaret swept out her arm, indicating that Beatrice should move down so that Bastien could sit on one side of her, and Alice in the empty seat to her left. Beatrice sucked her cheeks in with displeasure at the inconvenience of having to move her plate, her goblet, performing the task with an ostentatious clatter.

Bastien swept a low, formal bow. ‘Your Majesty, Lord Dunstan, at your service. It is an honour to make your acquaintance.’

Margaret’s liquid brown eyes travelled the length of the man before her. ‘Have we not met before?’ she asked, curiously. ‘Please, sit down,’ she added, indicating the seat at her side.

‘I doubt it, your Majesty. I have been away for many years, fighting in France.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. At least now all is resolved over there.’ Margaret attempted to keep her tone neutral, a deliberate monotone. As the wife of the English King, she had to support all things English, but secretly she had celebrated when the English had returned in defeat. Her countrymen had won!

‘And where are your lands, your family?’ During the King’s illness, Margaret had made some effort to try to learn all the names of the powerful families in England, all those dukes and earls who would support the King in battle. The list had been endless, full of unpronounceable English names that had made her head ache. Now, determined not to show her ignorance, she wished she had paid more attention.

‘I have lands up in the north, my lady.’

Margaret shuddered; she had never, in her few years of marriage, ventured to the north, and neither had King Henry. It was a part of the country to be feared, full of desperate men living hand to mouth, proud and warlike, accustomed to a harsh life.

‘How agreeable,’ she commented lamely. No doubt he wanted money, some sort of reward for his pains in rescuing Alice—those sort of people always did. ‘And what brought you to our part of the country?’

‘I was travelling home from France, your Majesty, when I heard the Lady Alice’s screams.’ Bastien’s tone was confident, measured. ‘It was lucky that she lagged behind, guarded only by two soldiers. I was able to snatch her from the back, and ride away.’

Lagged behind! How dare he? Alice listened to his account with annoyance, nibbling on a bread roll. The crumbs stuck in her gullet, and she took a deep gulp of wine to wash it down. The fiery liquid spread down her throat, through her veins, steadying her slightly.

Beatrice leaned forwards, her face a white mask. ‘And my husband was definitely taken prisoner?’

Bastien nodded. ‘According to Lady Alice, he was captured as he went out into the battlefield to help the wounded.’

‘Stupid, stupid numbskull!’ Beatrice jabbed her knife into a slice of meat. ‘Why must he persist in this foolish game…and involve you?’ She bent forwards, staring past Bastien, past Margaret, to fix Alice with a baleful eye.

‘If he hadn’t been there, Mother, those soldiers would have died where they fell. That’s why he does it…and it’s why I go; two of us are more helpful than just one.’

‘Calm yourself, Beatrice,’ Margaret said sternly. She checked that two guards still flanked the side door to the dais, to reassure herself, although she felt no threat from this man beside her. ‘And now you are returned to England, I hope you support your King?’ she ventured, wondering if he were aware of the grumblings amongst the nobles about the King’s continual absence.

‘I have six hundred paid soldiers at my command,’ Bastien replied, his tone neutral.

Margaret laughed. ‘Why, that is a small army in itself!’ She managed to restrain herself from visibly rubbing her hands. So many powerful families had turned against the King in the past few weeks, and she had been too wary of this huge Northerner; by his admission of strength, he was obviously prepared to support the King.

Lean fingers curling around the stem of his goblet, Bastien fixed Margaret with his piercing gaze. ‘I am naturally keen to meet the King, to discuss his future plans.’

Alice took another gulp of wine. The red liquid warmed her innards, relaxed her trembling hands. She chewed at the inside of her cheek, praying for the end of this conversation, praying for the end of the meal, when she could fly back to her chamber and hide her head in shame. How could such a man make her feel in such a way? He was a barbarian, the enemy, someone she should push away, yet every time he came near her, her limbs melted in treachery.

Margaret was shaking her head at Bastien. ‘I’m sorry, my lord. He has been taken ill, suddenly, tonight, a bad headache, unfortunately,’ she said smoothly, studying a speck of wine on the tablecloth that spread, blotting the white linen. ‘But be assured that we will count on your support, and will call on you when you are needed. We pay those who support us well.’ Her smile was wide, but foundered before it reached her eyes.

The wine trailed like liquid fire down Alice’s throat as she stared out across the bobbing sea of heads below, not wanting to catch Bastien’s eye, not wanting any part of this deception. Her neck felt rigid with the effort of keeping her head turned away. To her dismay, she spotted Edmund waving at her frantically from a trestle on the far side of the hall, his white hand flashing plumply in contrast with the richer tones of the tapestry draped down the wall behind him. He would want to talk to her, to be seen with her in his official capacity as her betrothed. Her heart thumped dully; she should go down to him.

At her elbow, the serving girl filled her silver goblet to the brim once more. Bastien’s easy, affable manner had easily won over the young Queen, easing her suspicious mind, and now the pair of them chatted amicably, like old friends. The urge to yell out, to scream to all that he was a Yorkist, an enemy in their midst, surged strongly in her veins, only to be curbed by the image of her father as she said goodbye to him in Ludlow.

‘So, what do you think?’ Margaret turned her smiling face towards Alice. Her creamy skin glowed in the candlelight, sheened, like pale-coloured velvet.

‘I beg your pardon, my lady.’ Alice blushed. ‘I didn’t hear what you said.’

‘Head in the clouds again?’ Margaret teased. The strain slipped from her face as she smiled, making her appear much younger, her true age. This royal marriage was taking its toll on the young Queen’s nerves. ‘I was just saying that Lord Dunstan here should stay for the wedding celebrations of Lord Halston. The marriage is the day after tomorrow, with jousting in the afternoon.’

Alice’s world began to unravel; the stone wall at the side of the high dais seemed to dip and lurch. ‘Stay?’ she managed to croak out. ‘Here?’ Her stomach flipped, then looped violently.

‘Of course, here!’ Margaret laughed. ‘Where else would you have him stay?’

As far away as possible, thought Alice. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

Margaret wrinkled her petite nose, puzzled. ‘Why ever not? Surely Lord Dunstan must be rewarded for bringing you back to us, for rescuing you?’

Alice’s eyes moved past Margaret’s questioning features, trapping Bastien’s bright eyes. He frowned, almost imperceptibly: a warning. ‘Don’t you need to be somewhere else?’ she asked him directly, her fingers pulling nervously at a bread roll. The muscles tightened in her face, making her speech inflexible, forced.

‘Not particularly.’ His wide smile caused small, crinkled lines to fan out from the sides of his eyes. ‘I can spare a few days.’

‘Excellent,’ Margaret chimed in, clapping her hands. Maybe when she told the King about this new ally, the impressive Lord Dunstan, it might rouse him out of his stupor. She could only hope, and pray.

Alice placed her hands flat on the table, then levered herself into a standing position. What was the matter with her? Everything seemed to moving around, dancing before her eyes. Bastien was changing the original plan; she had agreed to show him the location of King Henry’s chambers, later that evening when the castle slept, when the King’s valet would be asleep. After he had seen the King, he would then return to Ludlow, without delay, to release her father. Now, he was proposing to stay!

Bastien, half-listening to Margaret chatter on about some court matter, watched Alice sway upright. Her fingertips touched the table, enabling her to balance, and he smiled to himself. The stupid girl had drunk too much, or too much for her slight frame anyhow. Alice edged backwards, carefully avoiding bumping into the back of her chair, or Margaret’s. She resolved to go and speak to Edmund, for, despite the unwanted betrothal, he was still her friend, she must not forget that. Talking through matters with him always helped.

‘Oh, would you like to dance?’ Bastien asked innocently, twisting around in his seat as she came level with the back of it. He tipped his head towards the main part of the hall, where some of the tables had been pushed back to create an area for dancing. Already a few couples had paired up while the musicians in the corner practised a few tentative notes on their instruments.

‘Not with you!’ Alice hissed nastily, low enough so that neither Margaret nor her mother heard it. As she walked unsteadily to the steps, she caught his light chuckle. Damn him! The cool, well-worn wood of the rail alongside the steps slid under her fingers, and she gripped it hard to stop herself falling.

All at once, the great hall seemed too hot, claustrophobic. With its high rafters and cavernous roof space, it was usually too cold for comfort. People bumped and jostled companionably against her as she made her way carefully through the throng, away from that man. Just wait until she told Edmund about him!

‘Alice!’ Edmund had managed to lever himself through the bouncing press of people towards her. His hair was pushed back from his wide, pale forehead; small pinpricks of sweat stood out on his clammy skin, and he wiped them away, smoothing his hair at the same time. ‘We were so worried about you! What happened to you?’

It’s still happening, she wanted to blurt out. But instead she shook her head dully, trying to ignore the ever-increasing swirling sensations in her head. ‘I can’t tell you here.’ She raised her voice above the clamour of the music. ‘Let’s go somewhere quieter.’ Alice clasped at his forearm, surprised at his resistance when he didn’t move.

‘We should dance together first.’ Edmund looked down at her with warm brown eyes. ‘Especially now that we’re betrothed.’

You don’t need to do this, Alice wanted to scream at him. You don’t need to be loving, or overly attentive, or romantic in any way. Our marriage is to be a business contract, nothing more. Surely he knew that? For some inexplicable reason, nausea began to rise in her gullet.

‘Edmund, I want to talk to you!’ she whispered urgently. ‘It’s important!’

‘One dance,’ he cajoled. ‘For appearances’ sake, and then we’ll go.’

Alice closed her eyes, then opened them quickly, finding the sensations in her head worse. ‘One dance,’ she agreed, finally, reluctantly.

He smiled lopsidedly, pulling at her affectionately to join the throng of dancers holding hands in a long line, before they twisted in and out of each other. Then they split back into couples again, Edmund raising his arm to spin her around.

‘Oh!’ Alice staggered sideways, clutching desperately at her fiancé’s sleeve.

Face set with concentration, Edmund twisted her the other way. The room wobbled crazily, spun in a whirling myriad of bright colours, of flickering candlelight; she began to fall, her head light and loose…

A pair of thick, brawny arms hooked around her waist, stopped her falling, wedged her firmly against a long, muscled body.

‘Alice—are you all right, Alice?’ Edmund’s voice sounded from a long distance away, muffled, concerned.

‘She’s had too much wine,’ another, familiar male voice growled. Oh God, not him! Not now!

Alice lifted her heavy head. ‘I have not!’ she protested loudly. A wave of sickness swept through her, and she touched her hand to her clammy forehead.

‘She looks ill to me,’ Edmund ventured. ‘I thank you, my lord…for preventing her fall. I’ll take her back to sit down.’

‘I think I need to go to my chamber,’ Alice mumbled. ‘Edmund, can you take me?’ Bastien’s arm was firmly wrapped around her waist; if he removed it, she knew she would fall.

‘Aye, of course,’ Edmund agreed readily. Maybe this would give him the chance to talk to Alice about the wedding, persuade her to marry him sooner. In her present state, she might well agree to any of his suggestions. He nodded significantly at Lord Dunstan, trying to dismiss the high-ranking noble by expression alone, indicating that he should release Alice into his care.

‘I’ll take her,’ Bastien announced firmly, locking his grip more tightly around Alice, now sagging alarmingly in his arms.

Edmund’s mouth curled downwards. ‘But I’m her fiancé,’ he mumbled back, his face assuming the expression of a spoiled youth. ‘I should take her.’ Why did Alice not protest, instead of hanging in the man’s arms like a limp and useless doll?

‘I was thinking of retiring myself,’ Bastien replied, trampling over his ineffectual protest. ‘It’s no trouble; she’ll be safe with me.’

Puny wrists clamped to his side, Edmund glanced round with irritation as someone jogged into his shoulder. He was no match against the palpable strength of this man, and both of them knew it. Aware they were drawing curious glances, he coloured faintly, in adequacy washing through him. He knew when to back down. ‘Then I thank you, my lord, for taking the trouble,’ he agreed after a small hesitation.

‘It’s no trouble.’ Bastien was already half-dragging, half-carrying Alice across the great hall, through the merry crowds, their laughing faces shining with sweat from the exertion of the dance. His muscled chest was warm against her back as he leaned around her to pull open the thick oak door that led out into the darkened passageway, pushing her through. She tottered unsteadily, before reeling against the cool stone wall, resting her head back, closing her eyes.

‘I’ll be all right now, thank you.’ Her voice echoed faintly in the empty corridor. Away from the press of people, she found it easier to breathe.

‘Did you tell him anything?’

‘Nay, of course not!’ she croaked, her mouth dry, a husk. ‘Is that why you insisted on taking me to my chamber? Why would I do such a thing when my father’s life is at stake?’

In the half-light of the corridor, her skin gleamed like polished marble; at her neck, her pulse throbbed, fast. Sweet Jesu, she was beautiful. Bastien rounded her shoulders with his hands, the quicksilver green of his eyes washing over her. ‘I could see it in your face as you left the top table. Don’t lie to me, Alice.’

‘Then stop changing the plan,’ she hissed back at him without admitting the truth. ‘You agreed you would see the King tonight, and be gone on the morrow to release my father. I can’t bear to think of him suffering at the Duke’s castle…’

‘He will be treated well.’ His voice was low, liquid honey in the shadows. How could he tell her of the conversation he had overheard, of her mother and Edmund plotting together? She would never believe him. Alice was alone in this castle, with nobody, he suspected, on her side. He needed more time here, time to fathom what devilment young Edmund was about.

Another wave of nausea hit Alice; she lurched forwards, doubled over. The muscles in her legs turned to wet rope. ‘I must go to my chamber,’ she mumbled. At the precise moment she didn’t care what Bastien did. ‘I don’t feel very well.’

‘You’ve had too much wine,’ Bastien replied, his tone matter of fact, studying her white, pallid face.

‘I don’t even like wine!’ Walking forwards, Alice stretched her fingers out to hold the wall as she turned back to look at him, miserably. His shadowy bulk loomed behind her. ‘Oh dear,’ she giggled, as her toes became entangled in the hem of her gown, ‘this really is difficult.’

‘God’s teeth,’ Bastien muttered. He swept one arm around the back of her shoulders, and the other under the crook in her knees, hoisting her high against his chest in a swirl of skirts.

‘Nay! I can walk.’ Alice wiggled her slippered feet. Her cheek grazed the soft velvet of his tunic; the distinctive, heady scent of his skin rose to her nostrils, sumptuous, tantatalising. Her heart floundered.

‘Aye, you can…’ his voice was low, husky ‘…but it would take all night!’ He strode off, bearing her light weight effortlessly. Her head lolled near his shoulder; and from her hair, confined in a pearl-studded gold mesh, sprung the glorious scent of lavender, reminding him of long, hot summers in France. Ducking beneath the oak lintel, he hoisted her more securely into his arms, in order to negotiate the narrow spiral staircase to the upper floors. He tried to ignore the tantalising firmness of her hip beneath his palm, the way the tips of his fingers brushed close to the rounded curve of her breast, as his arm supported her back.

Kicking open her chamber door with the toe of his leather boot, he manoeuvred her inside. Alice had gone to sleep; her breathing had deepened, her body lying softly against him. Her room was lit by a single torch, hanging in an iron bracket by the door, its flickering light casting huge, undulating shadows against the gleaming wood panelling of the walls. In one corner, a charcoal brazier smouldered, a delicious heat spreading around the chamber from its glowing coals.

Bastien lay Alice gently down on the bed furs, the silk fabric of her skirts rustling delicately as the fabric settled around her limbs. Her eyelids fluttered open, lucid, searching, a hand reaching up to his cheek, a butterfly touch.

‘What was she like?’ Her voice, a muted whisper, lured him with its softness.

He knew of whom she spoke, but strangely, it mattered not. His mind sought the details, details long since buried but recalled with ease: Katherine, tall, willowy, her dark hair pinned to her head in elaborate braids, her composed, serious features.

‘She was…nothing like you.’

A wide smile curved Alice’s lips. ‘That tells me nothing.’

His hand covered hers upon his cheek, her pulse beat, rapid, vital beneath his fingers. A lightness frothed around his heart, fetters loosening.

‘You’re still hurting.’ Her eyelids fluttered with the effort of trying to hold them open.

He stared at her for a long while, watching her eyelids drift down, her hand falling from his face to rest by her side. Her breathing slackened.

‘Not any more,’ he whispered.

She smiled in her sleep, her dark lashes fanning down over her flushed cheeks as she nestled her head more securely into the linen pillow. Desire stabbed through him; hastily, he pulled off her embroidered slippers and dropped them to the floor, before stepping back, folding his arms tightly across his chest, to prevent himself from touching her again.

At what point had their relationship changed? A few days ago, she had been nothing but a minor irritation, a troublesome maid who he couldn’t wait to be rid of. A wayward creature who flouted custom and convention at every turn, with an unerring ability to land herself in trouble. He should walk away, right now, yet oddly, every bone in his body yearned to taste those rosebud lips once more, yearned to protect her from danger. And after that conversation he had overheard from her so-called fiancé, he was in no doubt that danger was what she faced.