Marcus took the hint. “She is truly very beautiful, Father,” he said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible.

And he had to give his mother credit. The Lady Izabelle was lovely. She was sweet, gentle, and graceful, and if she wasn’t madly in love with him now, she was prepared to be. He had taken her on a walk around the balustrades and they had viewed the famous cannons. There had been dinner—a grand affair, served in the great hall. There was music and dancing, with the lady as his partner.

After that, his mother had suggested that he and the lady play a game of chess, which neither proved to be very good at, perhaps because neither was paying much attention. Gunderson and Sir Troeven and some of the other knights had drifted off to one part of the hall. Marcus spent much of his time watching them and wondering what they were saying. He kept having to force himself to make polite conversation and to move his chess pieces when he was supposed to.

Lady Izabelle was likewise preoccupied. When it occurred to him that a long time had passed between them in silence, he found her staring into the fire, her expression grave. When the Queen rose to her feet and summoned her ladies to her, freeing Marcus to go to his father, the lady made him a graceful bow, gave him an enigmatic smile, and glided off to join Her Majesty without a backward look.

Edward rode closer to Marcus to have a private conversation, their words covered by the rattle and clank of harness and bridle and the crackle of thunder.

“What do you truly think of her?” Edward asked.

“She is quite nice, Father,” Marcus answered, thinking, even as he said it, that this was hardly the rapturous praise of an ardent lover.

Edward must have remembered his own courtship, which had lasted a quarter of an hour, for he and Ermintrude had been introduced, wedded, then bedded all in the same day.

“No tambours and lutes playing when you speak her name, as the poets say?” Edward asked wryly.

“Everything is so uncertain now,” Marcus said in apology. “I can’t really think about marriage.”

“Bad timing—despite what your mother and the holy book say.” Edward paused, then added, “Love will come, Marcus. It may not be the love the poets sing about, but it’s much more comfortable.” Another pause, then he added quietly, “Your mother had a talk with Mistress Evelina yesterday evening.”

Marcus’s skin burned so that the rainwater running down his cheeks seemed to sizzle.

“Your mother explained to her that marriage was out of the question and promised her that she and her child—if she is truly pregnant—will be provided for.”

“How did Evelina . . . what did . . . did she say anything—”