Page 43

“Nay, Aiken. Stop.”

Her face, still streaked with tears, is as lovely as ever.

“You must still have . . . urges. Even though you’ve pledged yourself to God.”

Urges. If only Hilla knew the urges I’ve had nearly every night of this journey. It was easier when I thought her a traitor.

“Aye,” I agree feebly.

“How could I fault you for such a thing as you stand before me, pardoning me for the joy I feel at Whitley’s death?”

“You need not be pardoned, Hilla.”

“Then certainly you do not either. Please, stay. Tell me of your meeting with the king. Of what you learned today.”

Marveling at how close I came to kissing her, I take a deep breath, attempting to regain control. “I learned of Whitley, of course.” And silently rejoiced then, and now, at the news. “And of the king’s troubles, which are many.”

“Lord Hinton’s name has reached even my ears.”

“Tis but a matter of time before he attempts to wrest control of the crown. The king meets with Father Silvester on the morrow.”

“Silvester will support Hinton,” she says, wise to the situation having lived most of her life at court.

“Indeed, most expect so.”

“Which means Meria will be openly at odds with the church?”

“Aye.”

“What will happen then?”

All of what I’ve told her is common knowledge here in d’Almerita. Facts she could learn by speaking to most anyone. Her maid, for instance. Beyond that, I cannot share additional information.

“We shall see,” I say, evading the question. “Do you still wish to take supper in the hall?”

Hilla waits for me to say more, realizes I will not, and moves to the basin of water by her bed. Splashing her face with it, careful not to wet her gown, she dries it with the cloth I gave her and places it next to the basin.

With an exchanged glance, of regret and something more, we leave the chamber and make our way through the corridors to the great hall, where supper is well underway.

Of all the great halls on the Isle, from Hilla’s home in Edingham to those few castles in Murwood End, none compare to the splendor of this one. Tapestry after tapestry, each one more colorful than the last, lining every bit of space on the stone walls, telling the story of Meria . . . ladies’ gowns made of silk . . . gold embellishments everywhere . . . nowhere on the Isle is the gilded history more evident than the court of Castle d’Almerita.

“Tis lovely,” Hilla whispers beside me. “Even more so than I remembered.”

As we enter, all eyes are on my companion. Many out of curiosity. Hosting a princess of Edingham is not a regular occurrence for those who make the capital their home. No less than fifty people grace the hall, the king not in attendance, it seems, as a servant approaches us.

“This way, my lady. Father.”

We’re escorted to a long trestle table positioned just beneath the raised dais, which sits empty this eve.

Not surprisingly, the men with whom I’ve spent the majority of my time here at court are already seated at the same table. I introduce each to Hilla as we sit.

“You’ll recognize members of the king’s Curia already. Lord Roger Orazio.”

Roger inclines his head.

“And next to him, Lord Vanni d’Abella and his wife, Lady Aedre.”

I continue introducing the others at our table. As I do, I notice Lady Aedre watching Hilla rather intently.