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— possibly even blasphemous — for such a woman to live outside her father’s house and expect to be left in peace. Certainly there would be gossip in the Markt and many questions asked, questions they would be glad to answer.
    Anne hardly touched the wine that was poured first for her, beyond courteously lifting her green waldeglas beaker in salute to Ivan. A healthy and robust girl normally, tonight she had a headache that tightened across her forehead like a hot iron band. Sounds from the hall came to her as if she were underwater and she saw, from a distance, that her hands were still shaking when she put the beaker down.
    Catching Deborah’s glance she rose and held up one hand for silence. ‘My friends, tonight I think I shall sleep well because I know I am safe. Please stay and drink to Ivan’s health, and my own. With my thanks to you all.’
    Deborah hurried after her foster-daughter as Anne left the hall, rushing to carry the tail of her blue dress as it swept over the tiles, holding her words until she was certain they would not be overheard.
    ‘Anne, Maxim says tomorrow will be a foul day. Perhaps you should not go to mass. Sleep in for just this once.’
    Anne shook her head ‘No. Tomorrow of all days I must be seen. I want them all to know I’m untouched.’
    And when sleep came it was deep enough, but once in the night Anne woke and was surprised to find tears on her cheeks. Then she remembered. She’d been dreaming of his face again, dreaming that he and she, Edward and Anne, were together again and happy, and that he loved his son.
    They
had
loved each other. He would not seek to have her raped and murdered, would he?

Chapter Three
    I t was very late as another long, glittering and tedious feast in the great hall of Westminster wound towards its close. A gathering of great elegance — the court in full dress splendour — it was silent, completely silent, by order of the Chamberlain.
    Earlier in the evening, the royal couple, Edward the King and Elisabeth Wydeville, his wife and queen, had processed to the dais placed across the head of the hall in silence. Silently they had been seated under their personal clothes of Estate, and now, silently, they finished eating after fifteen courses, avidly watched by the entire court: relatives, courtiers, friends and servants, ravenous to observe each fleeting expression, each formal courtesy which passed between the young king and his queen.
    And it
was
a young court, Westminster, for most of the courtiers, friends and supporters of the king were in their mid- to late twenties, so it chafed to eat without permission to speak, even to one’s neighbour.
    Things had changed in the last year and it was much commented on. Once, early in the king’s reign, Westminster had been famous the length of Europe as a brilliant, joyous place to be, and to be seen at. A place of music, and entertainment and jousts — and courtly, and not-so-courtly, love. And the king had always led the dance with or without his queen: the dance that was complex, tantalising and erotic.
    Tall, a fearsome jouster, sighed over by half the women in England, Edward seemed a king from out of the legends of Arthur; a king well- matched, moreover, with his glittering queen, Elisabeth Wydeville. The people were happy, for she looked just as a queen should look: a distant gossamer figure, as perfect as the Empress of Heaven and yet, now, there were rumours swirling around the royal couple which disturbed the careful picture. Tonight, the queen’s over-brilliant smile, and her husband’s politely detached expression, added fat to the sulky fire.
    ‘She’s lost his favour; you can see it.’
    ‘There’s not anyone else, is there?’
    ‘Just because we don’t know his fancy, doesn’t mean he hasn’t got some plump doxy tucked away.’
    The courtiers might be silent during the evening, but the scullions were gossiping in the kitchens and laughing as the detritus, the slops from the feast,