“Mathilda is all I have.”

Antonia found this shift disconcerting, although she admired a woman who had already thought through the practicalities of her situation. “You are yet young, Your Majesty. You may make another marriage.”

“With what man? There is no one I can trust, and none whose rank is worthy of me.”

“That may be, but you will have to marry again.”

“I must. Or Mathilda must be betrothed, to make an advantageous alliance.”

“Mathilda!”

“Hush, I pray you, Holy Mother. I do not want her to wake.”

“If no suitable alliance exists for you, how should it exist for her, Your Majesty?”

She did not answer. From the other chamber they heard the ring of a soldier’s footsteps. A woman came running in.

“Captain Falco has urgent news, Your Majesty.”

“I’ll come.” Adelheid handed the dead child to the nurse, who accepted the burden gravely but without any of the tears that afflicted the rest of them. Her eyes were hollow with exhaustion, that was all.

Adelheid rose and shook out her gown. Strange to think of her dressed when she ought to have been sleeping, but she often watched over the child at night these latter days since everyone knew that the angel of God came most often in the hour before dawn to carry away the souls of the innocent.

Captain Falco waited in the outer chamber. He was alert, his broad face remarkably lively. “You will not believe it, Your Majesty! Come quickly, I pray you.”

Only one fountain in Novomo’s palace still played, with a splash of water running through its cunning mechanism. In this courtyard, where there was also a shaded arbor and a fine expanse of lavender and a once splendid garden of sage and chrysanthemums, Lady Lavinia hovered under the arcade and wrung her hands, looking flustered as she stared at a man washing face and hands in the pool.

Antonia caught up short, stricken and breathless, but Adelheid did not falter. She strode out to him as eager as a lover, and as he rose and turned, obviously surprised to see her, she slapped him right across the cheek. Half her retinue gasped. The rest choked down exclamations. She did not notice. Fury burned in her. She looked ready to spit.

“You killed Henry!”

He touched his cheek. He did not bow to her nor make any homage, yet neither did he scorn her. “We were allies once, Your Majesty.”

“No! You seduced me with your poisonous arguments. It’s your fault that Henry is dead!”

“Surely it is the fault of his son, who killed him. And, if we must, the fault of Anne, who would have killed Henry had you and I not saved him by our intervention.” He spoke in a calm voice, not shouting, yet clearly enough that everyone crowding about the courtyard heard his reasoned words and his harmonious voice. “I beg you, Your Majesty! I pray you! Do not forget that we wept and sorrowed over what had to be done. But we agreed it together. We saved him. It was his son who killed him.”