Alys shook her head. “No, your majesty.”
Edward’s eyes narrowed.
“I swear it to you,” Alys insisted.
Edward tapped the base of his chalice against the carved marble armrest for a moment. “I know things about your family, Lady Alys. About your mother, in particular. Things that perhaps you yourself have no idea about. Sybilla would deny me further investigation.”
“I can assure you that what little I know is of no consequence, my lord,” Alys said, without a trace of mockery.
“I agree, else you would not be risking your life by appearing in my court.”
Alys’s eyes widened and Edward nodded. “Oh, yes—‘tis indeed that serious.” He took another drink. “You said you were Lord Piers’s wife, and yet I cannot fathom how that is possible.”
Now it was Piers’s turn to speak for her. “We met at the Foxe Ring, my liege. ‘Tis a stone ring at the old—”
“I know the legend, Piers,” Edward interrupted mildly. “You both acknowledge the tradition?”
Piers looked to Alys, and she only stared at him.
“I do,” he said, never breaking eye contact with her.
“I do,” she replied faintly. “Of course, I do.”
“And you also know,” Edward said musingly, a touch of humor in his voice, “that Lady Sybilla will likely be much put-out at the thought of you, a Foxe, marrying a humble farmer, no matter that he is now titled.”
Alys chuckled sweetly. “Oh, my liege, I indeed am aware of how displeased she would be. She had arranged a betrothal between myself and Lord Clement Cobb of Blodshire.”
Edward winced. “That so? His mother is a beastly woman.” Then the king shrugged, drained his chalice, and then set it aside, rising leisurely. “Regardless of your sister’s notions, it is still I who rules this kingdom, and it is I who decides if a marriage shall be constituted binding or otherwise. You may tell your sister to pay the Cobbs your dowry for her arrogance.”
Piers’s heart dropped into his stomach.
Edward waved his hand at them nonchalantly. “Alys Foxe, Lady Mallory.” He pointed to his agent. “Witnessed.” And to the scribe behind him. “Witnessed. So be it, and my blessing on you both. It is my most sincere wish that your sister suffers a fit of apoplexy.”
Piers heard Alys gasp and then she sank into a deep curtsey. Piers followed her lead with a bow of his own.
Behind the king, the scribe continued to scratch frantically at his parchments.
The king gestured to the court agent again, spoke low to him and then began to turn away, adding to the pair still below the dais, “Stay on for a fortnight if you wish, as my guests. But Lady Mallory,” Edward said interjecting a heavy pause, and oh, but Piers thought that title was the sweetest pair of words he’d ever heard.
“Yes, my lord?” Alys said, sounding breathless.
“I am coming for Fallstowe. I am coming, and I will not be denied.”
“I will give Sybilla the message, your majesty.”
Edward nodded. “You are dismissed.” He turned away and disappeared through a nondescript panel, his scribe scrambling to gather up the sheafs and sheafs of parchment scattered over the small table. On the floor before the dais, servants were already at work erasing the blood of Bevan Mallory.
The king’s agent approached them and handed Piers the key belonging to Julian Griffin. “His majesty has granted you use of Lord Griffin’s rooms. He shan’t be needing them.”
Piers smiled at the dour faced man, and wondered if his job was always so harsh that his face was permanently scowling. “Spending time with his new son, I’d wager.”
The agent paused, looked up at Piers. “‘Twas a daughter. Lady Griffin did not survive.”
Alys gasped and whispered, “Oh, no!”
Piers felt an odd, heavy sense of loss for this man, Julian Griffin, who was little more than a kind stranger to him.
“I am most saddened by that news. Please give him my—”
