Joan swore silently. The last thing she needed was to have Sir Henry cast his lecherous gaze in her direction and draw her cousin’s ire. At times, Alice’s jealousy worked in Joan’s favor. Indeed, they might not have left Carlisle Castle to travel with Sir Henry and his men to answer the king’s muster at Berwick Castle were it not for her cousin wanting to keep a close eye on her husband. Alice suspected her husband had engaged in a liaison with one of Queen Isabella’s ladies-in-waiting the last time he’d traveled to London (which he had), so when she heard the queen was marching north with the king, Alice had insisted they would go to Berwick as well.

Unlike the previous queen who had traveled with the first King Edward into battle all the way to Stirling Castle, Queen Isabella and the rest of the ladies would remain in relative safety at Berwick Castle when the king and his army marched on.

Despite the bad memories evoked by the castle that had been the place of her mother’s imprisonment, Joan knew it was a great opportunity to be in the center of all the activity where she might discover information, and she’d been grateful for her cousin’s possessiveness of her husband. But at other times—like now—it could be dashed inconvenient. The last thing Joan needed was to have a jealous Alice watching her.

“Thank you, cousin,” Joan said, pretending obliviousness to Alice’s concern. “Lady Isabella had it made for me before I left. It needed a few adjustments, but I was pleased that it still fit.”

Her cousin’s gaze dropped to the low cut of her bodice and her mouth pursed as if she might disagree about the fit.

But someone else spoke before she could. “I must thank my mother the next time I see her,” a voice on the other side of Sir Henry said. Recognizing it, Joan felt a wave of satisfaction that only deepened when she turned and met Sir Hugh’s appreciative gaze. “Her taste is as exquisite as the beauty of the woman wearing it.”

Joan blushed prettily and gave him a nod to acknowledge the compliment. She could still feel the heat of his eyes on her as she turned away and started a quiet conversation with Margaret—who was nothing like her sister—about their activities for tomorrow.

Joan didn’t need to attract any more attention. The first spark had been lit. The question was whether it would catch fire.

It was a conflagration.