Monday: Marguerite broke off, dismayed by a ferocity she had never seen in Robert’s eyes before.
Tuesday: (all day New Year’s Eve headache :-( )
Wednesday: “Oath?” Could Robert feel her guilty flush warming her face beneath his touch?
Thursday: That rent in his strength that had never so much as wavered before benumbed her with alarm and held her in silent confusion as Robert placed her hand in Sir Warin’s.
Saturday: The darkness had felt stygian at first while Robert had lain on the meager pallet they had given him, absorbing the pulsing burn left by the lash, and hating and hating Kit Beckford.
Friday: Robert's mind vaulted into an unexpected tumble as he rose, for the man before him should have been far away in York, safe from Strode’s trap and dusting his hands of all association with the minstrel who had betrayed his trust along with the king.