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The gods alone knew what Queen Armenal believed would be a fitting tribute to their union, Aimee thought queasily. Perhaps, her sat forlorn as Konrad presented the garland to Lady de Crecy? She pushed away her trencher as her stomach roiled at the thought. Gods. Would that not just be the crowning indignity!

Pushing all such disquieting thoughts from her head, she turned to Freda and set about lifting her spirits. She soon had the other woman smiling again, then her sister-in-law started holding forth on what stitch she would have used instead when representing oak leaves.

“’Tis a pity,” Magnatrude concluded, “that we did not see the Marchioness of Martindale in the queen’s tent. She has a fine way with a needle, and I was quite shocked she had not been recruited for the task.”

“Perhaps because she has such a small baby,” Freda ventured timidly.

Her cousin sent her a scathing look. “I’m sure the child has a nurse,” she retorted, clearly of the opinion that a queen’s demands were of higher importance than those of a mere infant.

“I think the queen finds herself less able to rely on ladies who have family lives outside of serving her,” Aimee commented, remembering Queen Armenal’s pointed remarks on the subject.

Magnatrude looked much struck by this and was quiet for a full minute, frowning into her goblet of wine. “I think you should offer your services, Aimee, in completing the queen’s task,” she said at last. Aimee almost choked on her mouthful of sweet cheese tart. “She has shown you great favor,” her sister-in-law persisted. “And it is only right and fitting that you should do so.”

“I am afraid,” Aimee wheezed once her eyes had stopped watering, “that I am not at all proficient in the art.”

Magnatrude looked shocked. “Surely you know how to embroider and weave?”

“Not well,” Aimee answered with perfect truth.

When her sister-in-law opened her mouth as though to respond, Freda interrupted breathlessly. “I myself wield very little skill, despite instruction from an early age. You are by far the most talented needlewoman I know, Trude. You should volunteer your needle to the service of the southern queen! I am sure she would consider herself fortunate to number you among her ranks.”

Magnatrude’s color deepened. “I?”

Aimee had just steeled herself to argue the point when they were interrupted by her husband.

“Aimee cannot volunteer for the queen’s task right now,” he said pointedly. “I am taking her to Beres Caple with me in two days’ time.”

Aimee’s head came up sharply. “Beres Caple?” she repeated. He was taking her with him? Her heart lurched. “What, pray, is at Beres Caple?”

He frowned. “It is a rural tournament, a half a day’s ride from here.”

“Some obscure tournament hardly sounds a pressing obligation for your wife,” Magnatrude said coldly. “Certainly not as pressing as waiting on a queen.” She levelled a look at him and paused a moment. “This queen has taken a liking to Aimee,” she said stiffly. “She could even make her a lady-in-waiting.”

Lord Kentigern shrugged his massive shoulders. “If I had wanted a courtier for a wife, I’d have married one,” he replied dismissively.

Aimee’s breath caught in her throat. He had not married a courtier; he had married her. Then she noticed it, the signet ring on his finger. He was wearing it. She felt herself turn quite pink with pleasure before caution reasserted itself. She was not the naïve bride of a week ago. Since then, she had learned some harsh lessons indeed. It would not do to let her reckless heart run away with her.

Instead of letting her head crowd full of wishful dreams, she turned resolutely to her father. “How is Ursula faring in her new house, Father? You must tell me what street it lies in so that I may visit with her.”

Her father cleared his throat. “I do not think she will have much time for visits at present, daughter,” he said. “I was just telling Kentigern. Your sister is nursing her husband, for he broke a limb at the royal tournament.”

“No!” burst forth Aimee. “That is a good deal too bad!” She cast her mind back to her brief glimpse of her brother-in-law. “Was it during the melee that his injury occurred?”

“It is of no use asking me,” her father shrugged. “It was in some skirmish, is all that I know. He got stamped on by a horse which broke his arm.”

“It was the melee apparently,” her husband clarified.

“Poor Sir Renlow!” Aimee’s sympathies were firmly engaged.

“How wretched for the unfortunate young man!” Freda concurred.

“Certainly, a most unlucky start to wedded life,” her father agreed heavily.

Aimee only hoped it would prove a bonding experience for the new husband and wife and that Hilda had not been permitted to take over the nursing in Ursa’s stead. “What a pity that they will not be able to attend the tourney at Beres Caple.”

She, Trude, and Freda withdrew to the oak parlor after supper, while the menfolk had remained in the large chamber below stairs. Magnatrude talked a good deal about their visit that day, and if Aimee had not known better, she would almost have thought she was bragging about her visit to the southern court.

After an hour or so, Aimee made her excuses and retreated to her bedchamber. She had requested a bath be taken up to her room after supper, and she found it had been set up for her with a canopy suspended from a hook in the ceiling. Herbs were strewn into the water, giving it a fresh and pleasant smell. Aimee lowered herself into the warm water with a delighted sigh.