But because of Eleanor’s fury and her public reaction, Judith didn’t know what to expect from her friends and peers. She wanted not to care, but care she did. These were her friends. This was her life, though not one of her choosing. And she had not sought any of this attention.

Nevertheless, Judith held her head high and tried to ignore the incessant throbbing of her cheek as she nibbled on as much of her food as she could choke down. She already knew she’d be attending Henry this night. He had no reason for secrecy any longer.

Why could he not find someone else on which to turn his attention?

Judith saw Maris and Ludingdon sitting with Ursula, and she wished she could join them. Hugh de Rigonier was there as well, along with Alynne, the bitter-faced Lady Amice, Castendown…and Malcolm. Nay, Warwick. He is Warwick to you.

And what must he think of you now?

She saw him rise from his place before the first course was even finished, maneuvering his way between the rows of benches and out of the hall. She wished she could do the same.

She wished she could go with him.

She wished she could go to him.

Later that night, Henry sent for her. This time, she was brought not to the small, secret chamber, but to his larger, royal apartments. They were more sumptuous and well-furnished, guarded by three men-at-arms at the outside of the door instead of a single one.

“I am sorry for this,” he said, gently touching her swollen cheek. “The queen vented her spleen upon me as well—but not nearly so violently. I did duck when she threw the goblet, though.” He chuckled, but Judith found no humor in his words.

“I would not have hurt her,” she said, scraping up her last bit of pride in order to speak her mind. “She has been good to me. I considered her a friend as well as my liege lady.”

“Eleanor is wise in the ways of the world, and of a marriage such as ours,” Henry replied dismissively. “Ask her of her relationship with her uncle, and in whose beds she has played. She is not one to point fingers. Aye, she is angry now, but she will come to terms with it.”

Judith wasn’t inclined to agree, but she remained silent, closing her eyes and blocking away the feel of his hands on her bare skin. How much longer?

“And she will not lay a finger on you again,” he added, sliding his hand over a most intimate place. His breathing changed, roughened, and he probed and stroked…and then he rose over her.

Judith closed her eyes and thought of flying free, like Hecate.

The morrow after the events in the queen’s solar, Judith was alone in her chamber. The kitten—who was very nearly a cat now—sat on her lap, purring loudly. Judith wasn’t certain who was receiving more benefit from the quiet moment—she or the furry beast. Petting the soft fur was comforting, and being with a living being that required naught from her was a relief.

When a knock came at the door, she stiffened…then relaxed. The king had released her from his attentions some hours ago, and she knew he was attending to some court business. He wouldn’t be sending for her again so soon.

“Enter,” Judith called from her favorite place by the fire.

The door opened and a page stood on the threshold. “The queen requests you attend her.”

Judith stood slowly, putting the cat down without looking where her paws landed. The queen?

She glanced at herself in the polished silver mirror. The bruising had begun to subside overnight, and the cut no longer appeared as vivid and angry, thanks to Lady Maris’s paste. But Judith had no desire to have her other cheek laid open with an emerald ring.

Yet, what choice had she?

Heart pounding, she drew herself up and left the chamber. The walk to the queen’s apartments seemed to take forever, but they finally arrived.

Drawing in a deep breath, Judith entered upon command and sank into a curtsy in front of Eleanor. She had yet to look directly at the queen and so did not know what her mood was.

“Rise,” commanded Eleanor.

Judith did so, looking about quickly. The chamber, the queen’s private courtroom, was empty. No one was present but the two of them. Her attention came to the queen, who stood in front of her only a few paces away.

“And so you have just come from my husband’s bed. Yet again.”

“My lady…I would not ever hurt you. But he is my king and there is no denyin—” She stopped, drew in a breath and fell to her knees. The queen would hear no excuses, regardless of how true they might be. But mayhap there was another way. “Your majesty, will you allow me to return to Lilyfare? I beg you—send me away. Send me home.”

When she raised her eyes, Judith found Eleanor looking down at her with a cold, remote expression. “Send you away? Never. Why should I give you what you so badly desire when you have betrayed me so…and when I am in need of you. You may service my husband whilst you service me. He will tire of your body long before I have finished with you. Thus your greedy rise to power and influence shall be short-lived…but you shall pay obeisance to me for far longer than you suck Henry’s cock. Rise.”

The queen’s cruel words struck deeply. For a moment, Judith was so cold and weary she could hardly move. Yet she pulled to her feet. She would retain what little dignity she still possessed; the queen had taught her that, at least.

“Yonder are contracts,” Eleanor said, pointing to a table in the corner of the chamber. “Five of them. Make ten copies each.”

“Aye, my lady,” Judith replied, walking over to the table. It took her only a moment to see each contract was three pages long of crimped script. It would take her most of the day, mayhap into the evening, to finish the task. Work such as this was normally assigned to scribes, for it wasn’t a personal or private correspondence and required no particular skill or confidence. And never had Judith known of ten copies to be made. Mayhap four, or even five—but never ten.

She straightened her shoulders. So this was to be her punishment. Judith settled at the table and began the tedious work.

It took far longer than she expected, for when she was nearly finished with the ninth copy of the first contract, Eleanor decided there must be a change. And so Judith must begin again.

By the time she had completed the work, night had fallen and the evening meal was long past. Judith’s belly was empty and her head felt light. She’d been allowed watered-down wine and half an apple to eat, but nothing more.

The queen returned from dinner and dismissed her, looking upon her as if a stranger. “Return on the morrow.”

When Judith reached her chamber, exhausted and famished, her fingers cramped and her shoulders tight, Tabby was there, frantic with worry. Judith barely had time to explain when one of the king’s guards arrived, bringing a summons from Henry.

She had no choice but to go.

The next day, the queen again kept her at work on the most tedious of tasks. Malicious and cold, Eleanor had a never-ending list of work for her. The king did not call for Judith when she was in the queen’s chambers. Either he did not know her whereabouts, or he did not dare anger his wife further.

When she was released from her majesty well past the evening meal and returned to her own chamber, a guard waited for her outside. Judith had hardly the opportunity to enter before being whisked off to the pleasure of the king.

And after the three days of the full moon, Judith’s flux had not come.

Nevril spent far too much time in the smithy this day, setting the man to task to finish a new shoe for his mount. When he at last came out of the glowing, oven-like place into full sunlight, he was in a foul mood.

One couldn’t solely blame the mood on the rock-headed blacksmith, who could not see how the shoe he’d made was in the wrong damned shape, regardless of how many times Nevril sketched it out on the dirt floor—although that was more than a part of it. Nay, Nevril was full of spleen because by now he’d missed the midday meal—and also the breaking of the fast because his master Lord Malcolm had set him off on some mundane task that took much too long and was wholly unnecessary.

And then there was the fact that the maid Tabatha had hardly been about in the hall the last days. The only time Nevril had seen her, with her honey-bright hair and heart-shaped face, was when she mooned over the slow-witted marshal Bruin. While she cooed at Bruin, she gave Nevril only a cold, accusatory look every time she saw him.

All of those aspects contributed to his foul mood. His master himself had been no better than Nevril this morrow—and had been that way since their return from chasing the brigands. Lord Malcolm might be a fair lord and master, but one would not know it from the last five days. If the man did not find himself a woman to wed—or at the least, bed—in the next se’ennight, Nevril, Gambert and the rest of those from Warwick were either going to kidnap a bride for him themselves, or send him a tribe of whores.

Or beg Ludingdon to take them on.

The only person onto whom Lord Malcolm did not seem to vent his spleen was the gawky squire Rike, with whom he seemed to have infinite patience.

In this black frame of mind, Nevril stalked through the bailey, wondering if he might go by the kitchen and beg a bit of cheese or ham from the cooks there. He was walking too quickly and came around the corner of the mews at such a rapid pace that he nearly bowled over a slight figure.

To his shock, and then cautious delight, he realized the woman he’d nearly trampled was none other than the impudent Tabatha. He was just about to make a pointed comment about rabbit stew, designed to infuriate her in an effort to prolong their meeting, when he noted her expression. Rather than defiant or irritated—as she was whenever she laid eyes on him—she was clearly in distress.

“What has befallen you, maid Tabatha?” he asked, taking her arm when she would have slipped past him. “What is it?”

She pulled from his grip, but at the least she did not run off. “’Tis naught of your concern. I was trying to find Sir Holbert, in hopes that he could find Lord Ludingdon and mayhap Lady Maris.”

Nevril might have said aught about rabbit stew at that point, but then he noticed the red rims of her eyes and the weariness in her face. “I will help you. Warwick will surely know where Ludingdon is about.”