Two armored men stood in the courtyard of the castle bailey, cloth-padded training staves in hand. The shorter of the two leaned heavily on his staff, pushing back his visor to reveal a gray beard below a red panting face.

“Striking into your parry is like practicing against an oak tree,” Sir Walter complained. “I’m not saying you need to yield against the blow—but I do not think I have crossed staves with anyone half as strong.”

“You have never crossed staves with Sir Malkin Guy, then,” the taller knight said, pulling off his dull battered practice helm to reveal a bright and shiny silver face. Duke Avery of York grinned down at his pledged vassal. “Lord Malkin Guy now, I suppose, as you are both ducal barons.”

“Well, I would not lead someone to think I am an imperial peer,” Sir Walter said demurely. “According to the book my daughter consulted, London etiquette titles a baronet merely a ‘sir.’ In truth, milord, you remind me that I should be going home soon,” Sir Walter said. “With Rose settled as a lady-in-waiting instead of a bride, I’ve little excuse for lingering to gawk at the wedding, and your bestowal of her new estate into my care leaves me with much to do. My wife would prefer I got her properly married instead, but out of the house and with an income of her own from the Leeds rents will surely satisfy her.”

“Will she not be concerned that you have not gotten Sir Walt engaged?” Avery inspected his staff. “Check for cracks. I’ve asked Sir Marcus to look into a better quality of supply, but for the last eight years or so, we’ve had a run of bad practice staves. The one I got when I was ten lasted two years. After that, I think Lucas stopped being able to tell good wood from bad. I’ve seen staves crack every other week.”

Sir Walter spared a glance at the length of ash wood in his hands, nearly two inches thick. It looked as if it had been polished smooth by the hands of dozens of men-at-arms. “Looks good,” he said, and changed the topic. “Little Walt doesn’t strike sparks with his mother as much, and I daresay there’s not an eligible lady in York whose mind will be wholly settled until your wedding. I could leave him here, though—he can take most of the trip home with Sir Gerald and Lady Constance. I wouldn’t normally travel alone, but one of your ladies said she could summon me a tireless steed.”

“One my ladies?” The duke paused, thinking for a moment. “The wizard Fiona?”

“Lady Sabine de Lancaster,” Sir Walter said. “She told me she keeps a token, but that it costs her little to use it to summon a phantom steed on my behalf, as she does not intend to return to Lancaster any time soon, much less in haste. With your permission, Your Grace, I would take leave of York today.”

For a moment, the duke paused, a blank look on his face. Then he spoke. “I suppose that would do. Will you take a packet along with you to the mail post at Leeds? I am minded to send a message to the Duke of Lancaster, and Leeds is halfway there. Sabine is his grandniece, and it would be fitting if I sent him a personal letter to give him direct word of my marriage to her before it happened.”

“It is no imposition at all, Your Grace,” Sir Walter said. “Just remember what I told you—attend, apprehend, and comprehend—but after our practice, I am reminded to add that you must take care to be gentle. Women are very delicate creatures, you are uncommonly strong, and in moments of passion or anger, it is easy to use one’s full strength.”

Duke Avery nodded. “I will keep your words in mind. Attend, apprehend, comprehend, and be gentle.”

Sir Walter nodded. “To husband is a verb. If your wife knows that you husband her to the best of your ability, she will know happiness even when she is unhappy with what else goes along. And it all begins with attending, for attention is at the root of apprehending and comprehending.”

----------------------------------------

Sabine was perched in a freshly reupholstered, formerly beige chair. The chair’s seat was a little too narrow to be perfectly comfortable for Sabine, and its legs were a little too tall to allow Elizabeth to sit while resting her feet fully on the ground. The new upholstery of the Maude-sized chair was a rich purple velvet, which perfectly matched the primary color of Sabine’s dress, though it lacked the expensive goldwork embroidery.

Elizabeth was seated on a couch, the only piece of furniture in the room quite the correct height to rest her heels firmly on the ground. It was bad enough that she felt outmatched by her counterpart’s jewelry, attire, and perfectly mage-sculpted beauty; sitting on a chair that left her feet swinging like a child would have made matters worse. She sipped her tea, frowning at an unfamiliar taste. She looked across the former sitting room at the blonde woman who had claimed the room for her own chamber. “What variety of tea is this?”

“Well, the—” Sabine’s eyes suddenly crossed, her tongue limply dropping from the roof of her mouth as her jaw hung slack. The taller woman’s arm froze in place, but the teacup that had been held delicately in place by thumb pinched against index finger continued its downward momentum, landing with a soft splashy thud on the rich carpet. Sabine’s maidservant let out a startled gasp.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Is something the matter?” She quickly set down her own teacup, her mind leaping with concern to the strange taste on her tongue. Was the tea poisoned, or was Sabine afflicted with some kind of epilepsia or hysteria? Elizabeth looked over at the tea tray, then back at Sabine.

Sabine’s eyes uncrossed. She looked down at the carpet, shaking her head briefly. “Nothing is the matter,” she said. “I was surprised.” For a moment, she rummaged about her person, coming up with a small disk of ebony wood carved with the image of a horse. “This shall be taken down to the bailey courtyard and given to Sir Walter posthaste.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The maidservant still had a concerned look on her face, but took the implied order at face value, taking the offered disk and fleeing from the room.

“Now that we are in perfect confidence… are you quite sure?” Elizabeth glanced down at her teacup, resting on the low table in front of the couch. “The tea tasted quite odd.”

“I am,” Sabine said, shaking her head. She stood, bending down to pick up her teacup before walking over to pour herself a new cup of tea. “Before I was interrupted, I was going to explain that the taste you are unaccustomed to is a the dried peel of a particularly fragrant and thick-skinned citrus fruit. We grow them on the castle grounds. Supposedly, it is a lunar variety, an imperial boon to one of Duke Robert’s ancestors, though I have had my doubts. To me, it is the taste of home. Unfortunately, I have a limited supply of the ingredient with me, and it may be difficult to obtain in the future.”

Elizabeth stared reluctantly down at her teacup, then picked it back up the table, taking another sip. “It is a pleasant flavor, now that I know what it is,” she said. “Why would it be scarce for you in the future?”

“Duke Robert is a very proud man,” Sabine said, turning away and walking over to her harpsichord, teacup held in both hands as “If he learns that the duke placed two other women before me, he may take insult from it, and that may have all kinds of complications.”

Elizabeth frowned, sipping her tea for a moment. “My father rules a county in his own right, and he has his own pride. Northumbria will not be slighted.” The petite blonde paused, silently congratulating herself on her forcefulness.

“I understand. High nobles are prideful creatures,” Sabine said. She turned back to Elizabeth. “Thus, I understand why you cannot allow me to be placed before you. However, if we are placed on truly equal footing, earl’s daughter with duke’s grandniece, neither can truly claim to be slighted.”

“Equal footing in what way?” Elizabeth kept her gaze fixed on her rival as the woman turned away, keenly aware that if she stood, the footing would look anything but equal.

Sabine turned away, silent for a long moment. She set her teacup on top of the harpsichord, staring down at the polished top of the case. Then she spoke, quietly. “That first night, we could go to bed with the duke together, in complete privacy, and draw the curtains for total darkness. Nobody but the two of us will know which the duke has first.”

Elizabeth stared at Sabine’s backside, taking in the hourglass silhouette poised in front of the hourglass. “I daresay that even in the darkness, the duke would know which of us he had hands on.”

“Perhaps, but I think the duke would keep the secret between the three of us.” Sabine turned, a precisely neutral expression on her face as she leaned on the harpsichord. “I don’t ask to go before you, I just ask that you let it become a public unknown which of us has gone first.”

“Even if I agreed—a grand supposition—wouldn’t your granduncle still be insulted by Johanna going before us?” Elizabeth cocked her head to the side.

“If she does,” Sabine said. “But perhaps we could change that, for the sake of the prides of Northumbria and Lancaster.”

----------------------------------------

The Matthew family—or de Mathieu family, as Charlotte preferred to style it—stood around in the small chamber temporarily granted to Baron Joseph Matthew.

Charlotte de Mathieu, sitting on a small cot, looked at her husband, her daughter, and her titled father-in-law. Then she gestured back at the dress laid out across the reading table. “Madame Percy has cut corners. This looks rather different than what we ordered from her. Did she not have any lavender fabric? Did you not pay enough for lace?”

“No,” the older Joseph Matthew said, infusing the assertion with authority. “The lace costs near nothing compared to the cloth of gold and the goldwork embroidery. I have spared no expense—we could not make a greater statement than exhausting her supply of cloth of gold and goldwork thread. There are twenty-five tower ounces of gold in that dress, and my agent confirmed as much with his enchanted loupe upon taking delivery of the dress.”

“The duke has scarcely paid attention to her all week,” Charlotte said. “His mind is on other matters, so I know he did not order such a change. Who did?”

Johanna stared at the floor and discreetly toed her father’s ankle.

“Ah. Um, Madame Percy herself thought the gown looked better without the lace. Better to let the cloth of gold shine,” the younger Joseph said.

Charlotte propped her hands on her hips. “I spent hours working on the sketches for that dress with your father! At the prices Madame Percy commands, I expect her to be a consummate professional who takes the orders of her clients as if they come from the lips of Ivar the Fleshless himself.”

“We told her that she could make minor changes to the design as was most suitable to make it come together,” the older Joseph interjected.

“This is not minorly changed!” Charlotte jabbed her finger at the dress. “Surely, some kind of refund must be in order at the least.”

Johanna stared at the floor as silence descended on the room.

Charlotte sighed. “It is not a bad dress, it is very lovely work, but it is just not the best color for her in full sunlight. And that is the occasion on which this dress is supposed to shine. And surely we cannot simply accept Madame Percy taking such creative liberties with an order of this magnitude.”

Johanna slowly dragged her head up and stood. “Mother.”

Charlotte turned. “What is it, dear?”

“I decided to have the dress in emerald-green. And without lace.” Johanna’s heart raced as she fought to meet her mother’s gaze. “It’s the right color for me. The lace—I know you love the look of it, but it distracts the eye. Lavender and lace never earned me a second look from the duke.”

“Neither did the emerald dress,” Charlotte retorted. “He didn’t even dance with you at the ball.”

“But he did dance with Fiona twice, and she wore sea-green.” Johanna shook her head. “And even if green weren’t the color he favored, emerald-green is the color I was wearing when I made my troth.”

“Dear, he noticed you that day because you stood up.” Charlotte paused. “As you are standing up to me now.”

“Yes,” Johanna said, then shrank back.

“No, no. Boldness is not for men alone.” Charlotte stepped forward, hugging her daughter. “My little girl is growing up. And just in time, too.”

Behind them, the younger Joseph Matthew stared wide-eyed, while the older Joseph Matthew breathed a heavy sigh.

Johanna felt as though she had run twenty miles at once, but paradoxically energized and nervous. “I think I will go for a ride,” she said. “After all this time cooped up in this tower, I will lose my seat.” She stood in place, holding her breath and waiting.

“Very well,” Charlotte said. “After you’ve backed and bathed, we’ll see how the dress fits you, then.”

Johanna let out her breath, leaving the room on unsteady legs. A ride would calm the tumult within her. It always did.