His Grace the Duke of Cornwall made no advances on me—I was Prince Bertilak’s potential bride; it would’ve been political suicide—but as the duke described in vain, exacting detail his houses and his horses and the times he’d hosted the royal family, I felt like a fish on a hook, wriggling desperately, wanting nothing more than to be free of his loathsome proximity. I kept my elbows at right angles as we waltzed, to maintain maximum distance between us, searching desperately for my friends behind the duke’s back and catching seconds-long glimpses of them inside the banquet hall.

One-two-three, one-two-three—Yu and Captain Lang swirling glasses of wine by themselves, eyes on the crowd, mouths terse and disappointed.

One-two-three, one-two-three—Skop and Perrault nowhere to be seen.

One-two-three, one-two-three—Bear in a corner with three boys—Cornwall’s nephew, Tristan; the muscular one from the melee with the scarred lip; and another, freckled and awkward-limbed, with a mouth shaped for whining.

Over Cornwall’s shoulder, I saw the boy with the scarred lip pour drinks from an amber bottle. Bear and Tristan and their other two friends clinked their tumblers together, looking wry and secretive. When Bear caught me watching, I quickly looked away.

“You’ve heard, no doubt, of my own marriage plans,” said the duke, moving finally from the subject of his wealth.

“What?” I asked, startled out of my reverie. “No, I haven’t.”

“Oh, of course you have. Tristan goes to fetch her within the twelvemonth; no one’s been able to talk of anything else tonight. And with the bride-price I paid for that girl?” He shook his head, drawing breath in through a snarl. “She’d better be worth it.”

Unease crawled up the walls of my stomach.

As the musicians played the last strains of our tune, I curtsied, poised to escape when I rose. But when I stood, two boys towered over us like pillars.

“Bear.” The word was a sigh of relief in my mouth.

But there was no warmth in the guard’s face. “Your Grace,” he greeted the duke, blue eyes hard.

I expected the duke to respond in kind, but Cornwall stiffened for a moment before his facade dropped again, smooth as oil. “Bear. Lord Bedivere.” He coughed. “I was just claiming my dance as the melee’s victor. Informing Her Grace of my recent engagement.”

“That, and nothing else, I’m sure.” The boy with the scarred lip—Veery—rolled his neck and stretched one sinewy arm. “Heard you had to send all the way to Éire for a wife. No one within smelling distance would have you?”

Cornwall tipped his head to one side. “Don’t look for trouble, Veery.”