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“Oh, er, good morning, dear,” Freda replied. Clearly, she was just as distracted by Magnatrude’s appearance as Aimee was. The two of them exchanged startled glances. Aimee wondered if her sister-in-law was making some sort of point about attending only under sufferance. She shrugged at Freda, and they both looked up as Matthews entered the room. He coughed and stood with his back to the wall, letting them know he was available to escort them when they were ready. They waited only while Magnatrude ate a plate of baked fish and then left for the palace.

*

“Aimee!” Aimee turned her head and smiled politely as Freda introduced her to yet another pair of nobles, when she would much rather be concentrating on what was happening in the field. She looked up at the towering male and the diminutive female stood beaming at his side as she rose to her feet and performed an obligatory curtsey.

“This is the Marquis and Marchioness Martindale,” Freda twittered excitedly. “Their estate in the north is not far from where the Bartree lands always stood.”

There was an awkward silence as everyone was reminded of all that Lord Kentigern had once lost. It trembled on Aimee’s lips to point out that the lands had now been restored to him, by dint of their marriage, but an inner voice pointed out this might appear rather crass.

“And this is our son and heir, Viscount March,” the exquisite little marchioness announced, filling the gap with proud words. She gestured toward an elder woman following in her wake who wore an enormous white wimple and carried an infant who could surely not be more than a year old.

Aimee froze, unsure what the form would be in this case. To be on the safe side, she performed another curtsey in the direction of the baby.

“This is the Lady Kentigern,” Freda continued in her thin, high voice. “Who has lately married my cousin.”

The marquis cleared his throat. “I was glad to hear,” he said gruffly, “that Kentigern’s fortunes have picked up.” He looked as though he wanted to say more but seemed uncertain how to proceed. “It never sat easily with his neighbors that he should lose everything,” he added in a low growl, and his wife placed a hand on his forearm. At that, he looked down at his marchioness who sent him a reassuring smile. He visibly relaxed.

“You must forgive Guy,” the marchioness said, leaning forward conspiratorially. Aimee’s eyes widened at this lapse in formality. “He is always somewhat ill at ease here in the southern capital. He attends court for my sake alone,” she added. “He is the very best of husbands.”

“You are southern,” Aimee blurted with surprise, and the marchioness burst out laughing.

“Oh yes, but he stopped holding that against me a long time ago!”

“Mathilde!” the marquis rumbled, a slight flush mounting his cheeks.

“I am only teasing,” his wife hastened to assure him, but she rolled her eyes speakingly in Aimee’s direction. “We must visit with one another when you are in residence at Bartree Castle,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I look forward to having a neighbor with whom I have so much in common.”

“That was kind of her,” Aimee murmured to Freda as the Martindales moved away. For she must surely know that as a merchant’s daughter, Aimee did not have so very much in common with her after all. Unless, of course, she did not know. Somehow, though, considering the amount of curious stares being shot in her direction, Aimee fancied that the marchioness must surely know.

“Such a pretty little thing, is she not?” Freda said aloud, echoing Aimee’s own thoughts. “The marquis clearly dotes on her which, you know, was a great surprise to everyone. For you see, Martindale had a great many sanctions imposed on him after the north fell. His marriage was one of the conditions he was forced to meet before he was freed.” Freda dropped her voice. “Remind me to tell you about the feast where I first clapped eyes on his marchioness. It was a very great scandal in our part of the world and a nine days’ wonder, I assure you.”

Aimee opened her eyes wide. Now what did that mean? she wondered, glancing after the Martindales. As she watched, the marchioness turned her laughing face up toward her husband, and as though unable to do otherwise, he stooped at once to kiss her mouth. “They seem a most devoted couple,” she observed wonderingly.

“Oh, they are,” Freda enthused. “It quite gives one hope that one day all of Karadok will be healed and unified.”

Freda’s comment startled Aimee a little. She had almost taken it for granted that the country was no longer torn asunder. Of course, her whole life, she had scarcely strayed from the southern capital. As a southerner, on the winning side as it were, it was easy enough to believe that all was now as it should be. Aimee shifted uncomfortably in her seat. For the first time, it occurred to her that she might not receive the warmest welcome in the north.

“Ah, here comes Magnatrude,” Freda observed, and they stood to give her wide skirts room enough to move into their box. “You have just missed the Martindales, cousin.”

Magnatrude’s face fell. “Freda,” she tutted, berating her cousin as she dropped onto the bench. “You must know how particularly I wished to see our neighbors! Did you not tell them I would return directly?”

“No,” Freda answered forthrightly, a hectic flush entering her sallow cheeks. “For their purpose in approaching was to request an introduction to Aimee, not to ask after you!” Magnatrude was clearly astonished by this tart response from the usually meek Freda. Her mouth fell open, and she made a faint spluttering noise, though words seemed to fail her.

Freda turned determinedly toward Aimee. “Are you enjoying the spectacle, cousin?” she asked with an exaggerated civility, clearly demonstrating the attention she felt Aimee was due from her sister-in-law. Magnatrude’s color deepened as Aimee made some polite rejoinder.

“I wonder when we will see my lord take to the field,” Aimee murmured, glancing once more to where the milling knights were taking position for the second stage of the melee.

“As to that, I am not certain,” Freda responded. “But we are sure to spot him. Really, you cannot miss him.”

Which was true enough, Aimee reflected, considering his size. A good many of the knights were tall and even broad, but few possessed her husband’s impressive build. “Oh!” she uttered, sitting up in her seat. “Is that not Sir Renlow d’Avenant? My brother-in-law,” she elaborated, leaning forward as she tried to make out his device.

Though really, she reflected, she was still not at all aware what the crest of the d’Avenants even was. Unlike her, Ursula had not seen fit to embellish all of her bridal trousseau with her new husband’s emblem. She felt a pang of unease when she thought of Ursa. Not seeing her since made her worry that something must be amiss. Was it possible that she had been wrong to persuade her sister into marriage?

It was a new and uncomfortable notion that had assailed Aimee in the early hours of a sleepless night. If only she could snatch a moment’s conversation with her sister, she thought, biting her thumb nail, she could be easier on that score. But though she had cast about most diligently on arriving at the teeming palace grounds, she had searched in vain. She could spot neither hide nor hair of her sister in the crowds and had long since concluded she could not be present.

“I believe it is Sir Renlow,” Freda said consideringly. “For I can see some hair curling underneath his helm, and it is that precise shade of hair that he possesses. He wears it rather long, does he not?”

“He does,” Aimee agreed automatically. “Let us support him in this round,” she said impulsively, turning to Freda and touching her forearm. “It adds a certain enjoyment to being a spectator, or so Ursula and I thought at Kellingford.”