“Enough of your lies!” the king’s roared.
“Aye,” her betrothed agreed with disgust. “The Duke of Renard warned us the Scot would try to accuse him of such treachery.”
“Ask your daughter,” Colyne rasped as he frantically looked from one man to the other, his fears of the English duke having reached the king’s ear before he’d arrived tragically true.
An ominous smile slanted across King Philip’s face. “I have. Thank God she remembers naught. But you—” His glare pierced Colyne like a dagger rammed into his chest. “You will regret the day you dared touch her.” The king stalked to the open door. At the entry, he glared at Colyne. “At dawn, behead him.”
Like enraged hornets swarming around their hive, the drone of the crowd cut through Marie’s slumber. Groggy, she glanced around.
Her blanket lay rumpled, as if she’d tossed and turned while she’d slept. Nearby, a jug of water sat half full, and her cup lay overturned, further evidence of her disturbed sleep.
A sound blared from the courtyard.
The crowd cheered.
“Papa?”
She remained alone.
With a frown, she rubbed sleep from her eyes, frustrated that she couldn’t rid herself of the sensation that something was wrong.
Another cheer from outside piled onto her disquiet.
Marie turned to the open window, the shutters pulled wide, exposing a pale, cloudless, blue morning sky.
As she’d slept through the night, on one of his visits after the storm had passed, her father must have opened the window.
Cheers rose again.
She shoved her remaining covers aside. Her head swam as she stood.
“Marie, what are you doing out of your bed?”
At her maid’s worried voice, she started. “Felyse.” She fought to conceal her weakened state as her maid entered her chamber, not wishing to worry her further. Over the years they’d become friends. And whenever she’d taken sick, Felyse fussed over her as if she were her own child.
“You should not be out of bed, my lady,” she gently chided. At another distant cheer, the slender woman with her graying hair neatly secured in a braid scowled at the window. Fury blazed in her eyes as she walked over and closed the shutters with a quick snap.
Somber light smothered the room.
“Is it the Scot being executed?” Marie asked.
Her maid stiffened.“Oui.”
Disturbed by the thought, Marie rubbed her arms against the sudden chill. Even with the window closed, she could hear that the increasing shouts had taken on a fevered pitch, the jeers and calls for death seeping into the protected silence. “How many men have they caught?”
“Only the one.”
Somehow, she had known. “I would like to see him when he walks through the crowd.” Mayhap his face would prod her memories.
The maid pursed her lips in displeasure. “It is unwise for you to be up and about, nor would I wish you to endure further distress.”
“For a moment. Please.”
“I should insist you return to bed.” The maid hesitated, as if mulling the wisdom of conceding, and then nodded. “For a short time.” She opened the window and grudgingly stepped aside.
Prickles of tension wove through Marie as she crossed the chamber, her feet sinking into the burgundy woolen rug spread on the cold floor. At the window, she clenched the stone, still cool from the rain.
Below, the crowd spread out before her like a macabre sea to witness a man’s execution.
