Kelson nodded to himself in approval. Duncan was right. The farther along in the ceremony they got, the better were Kelson’s legal claims to the throne, and the better were his chances of discovering a way out of his quandary.

Archbishop Corrigan took the jeweled crown of Gwynedd from its velvet pillow and raised it above Kelson’s head. The footsteps were much closer now, and Kelson saw Corrigan’s eyes flick over his head to the aisle beyond, saw him wet his lips nervously before beginning the invocation for coronation. To the right, Jehana’s face went pale as the footsteps came to an ominous halt at the transept.

“Bless, we beseech Thee, O Lord—” Corrigan began.

“Stop!” commanded a low, female voice.

Corrigan froze, the crown poised over Kelson’s head, then quickly lowered the crown and looked at Kelson apologetically. His glance flicked over Kelson’s head again, and then he stepped back. There was the clatter of steel on the sanctuary steps, then silence. Carefully, Kelson rose from his knees and turned to face the intruders.

The significance of the mailed gauntlet on the steps before him was unmistakable, as were the armed men lined up in the aisle behind the woman. Looking down the aisle, Kelson could see at least three dozen warriors, some in the black flowing robes of Charissa’s Moorish emirs, the others in more conventional mail and battle attire. Two of the Moors flanked their mistress, arms folded impassively across their chests, their faces dark and grim within the shadowed hoods of black velvet jubbas.

But it was the woman herself to whom Kelson’s attention quickly returned, for she was totally unlike what he had envisioned. He had never considered the possibility before, but Charissa was beautiful!

From her reaction, it was obvious that Charissa had anticipated this reaction and capitalized on it, quite evident that she had chosen her attire accordingly, for maximum effect.

A gown of blued-gray silk flowed from a high, jeweled collar around the ivory neck, and the whole was covered against the cold by a cloak of deep gray velvet and fox. The long, pale hair was coiled and braided in a high coronet across the top of her head, encircled by a sapphire diadem. The entire shining mass was lightly covered with a veil of palest gossamer blue that spilled down her back and softened the determined expression on her face.

That expression was what finally brought Kelson to his senses, made him reevaluate his first impression. For the coiled hair resembled nothing so much as a heavy golden crown—symbolic in her mind, no doubt, of the other crown she hoped to wear before the day was over.