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private audience chamber.
    The lady’s part-English, part-Flemish
ancestry was immediately apparent to Royce. She was almost as tall
as he, with a sturdy frame, an agreeably rounded figure, and creamy
skin that was free of any obvious blemishes. Her head was meekly
bowed and her lids were lowered, so he could not see the color of
her eyes.
    She wore black in mourning for her late
husband, and her white linen wimple covered all of her hair, though
from her thick brown lashes and brows he guessed it was dark blonde
or light brown, in keeping with the coloring of many folk from the
Low Countries. He judged her age at somewhere near thirty.
    From Royce’s point of view Julianna’s age was
her only advantage. He had feared he was being made to wed an
impulsive, hot-headed girl in her mid-teens, who would regard him
as a repressive father or, worse, as an aged grandfather.
    Royce had to wonder if it was possible for
any noblewoman to be as meek as Julianna appeared to be. Did she
lack all spirit, or was she pretending? He had known a few -
thankfully, only a few - clever female spies who looked sweet and
mild, but who were vicious killers. How in the name of all the
saints did King Henry expect him to take such a woman to bed so
their marriage would be legal and her lands would become his? It
was asking too much of any mortal man.
    He wished Julianna would raise her eyes and
look directly at him, so he’d have some hint of what she was
thinking and feeling. He could not imagine that she was indifferent
to her own fate.
    “My lady,” he said, making his voice as cold
and hard as possible, “I trust that you intend to put off your
mourning clothes before we are wed.”
    That did it. Julianna looked up at him. Her
eyes were grey, and they appeared as bleak as the winter sea. No
glimmer of warmth shone in those eyes. Their expression was blank
and completely uninterested in him. Or was that a shaft of fear
that sparkled in the grey depths for an instant, only to fade and
be replaced by the peculiar deadness of indifference?
    “I shall wear whatever you wish, my lord,”
Julianna said, so softly that Royce had to lean toward her to hear
the words. Her voice was low and pleasing to the ear, her Norman
French slightly accented. Were he not so suspicious of her, he’d
have been charmed by her voice.
    He caught a faint whiff of scent. Lavender?
Rosemary? Those herbs and something more, something astringent, an
ingredient that he could not immediately identify. The fragrance
hinted at the sharp edges of disloyalty that the woman was possibly
concealing. No, she was not all meekness and soft voice. She was
hiding mysterious depths, dangerous undercurrents. She
was...intriguing. That he found her so annoyed him beyond
reason.
    “I have no wish to marry a woman who is still
mourning her previous husband,” he said, testing her by
deliberately sounding rough.
    “My clothing is but a convention,” Julianna
murmured. “I mourn no one.”
    “I am glad to hear it.”
    “We are agreed, then,” said King Henry with a
joviality that Royce knew was false. He had been watching the
meeting from across the room, and now he smiled upon the pair. “I
have arranged for the banns to be eliminated. The bishop agrees
with me that with so large a dowry involved, there is a real
possibility of abduction and forced marriage. You have been a widow
for too long, my dear.”
    Judging by Julianna’s expression, Royce
decided she believed she hadn’t been widowed at all long
enough.
    “Therefore,” the king continued, smiling upon
the couple, “you will be wed tomorrow morning, just before High
Mass. I shall host the wedding banquet at midday.”
    Royce wondered what would happen if either he
or his proposed bride should refuse to consent to the marriage. He
most certainly did not want a wife who might be a traitor, and he
had an uneasy feeling that Lady Julianna did not want a new husband
under any circumstances.
    “If you would like to speak to