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desire, Row.”
    Rowena Neville Grey was forced to smile. “You speak too quickly, and are too generous as always, Dickon, but I shall not take advantage of you, my lord. My request is simple. Though I loved my Henry, I was too young for marriage when my Lord of Warwick sent me off to Greyfaire. I lost two sons before Arabella was born, and miscarried of another daughter afterward. Make the match that Greyfaire may have a master again, but let there be no formal ceremony until my daughter is old enough to be a wife in the fullest sense.”
    Richard looked to his wife, and the queen nodded her agreement with her cousin. “Pick the man,” she told him, “but there should be no formal betrothal or marriage until little Arabella is older. Greyfaire will have its protector, its king’s man, but should my little cousin grow up to love another as I have always loved you, my lord, at least she will not be forced to the altar with other than her true love. If we formally betroth her, she will be formally bound. Should the day come that she desires a husband other than the one you have chosen, Greyfaire’s protector can be offered a suitable compensation for his loss, can he not?”
    “You have a tender heart, my love,” the king replied, “but it will be even as you have suggested. Will that suit you as well, Row?”
    “Aye, Dickon, it will!” Lady Grey said, smiling. She was very relieved that the king had taken a hand in this matter. It was unlikely that Arabella would marry any other but he whom the king chose, and there would once again be a master at Greyfaire. It had been so frightening these last months since her husband’s death. He had died in the late summer a year ago, and she truly believed that it was only through the personal intervention of the blessed Mother herself that the Scots had not raided in the vicinity since Sir Henry’s demise, but how much longer could she count upon divine protection? Greyfaire needed a new lord.
    She had not been entirely helpless, however. There was her husband’s faithful captain, FitzWalter, and he had remained in his position after Henry’s death, but FitzWalter was not Greyfaire’s lord. He had appeared at Greyfaire in Henry’s youth, offering his fealty and service. No one knew from whence he had come, and FitzWalter never bothered to divulge that information to any, even the wife he took after several years in residence. He had begun as a simple man-at-arms upon the walls, working his way through the ranks until one day he became Greyfaire’s captain. His wife served as the keep’s laundress, even as she produced a bevy of healthy daughters and one fine son for her husband. The boy, Rowan FitzWalter, was a year older than Arabella, and along with a younger sister, Lona, was the little heiress’s closest companion. FitzWalter would be as relieved as she was, Rowena thought, to have a master once more. He had done his duty, but she knew that the full responsibility had fretted him. He was not a man to overstep his position. The king had given her his word, and she would not discuss it with him again unless Dickon broached the subject first.
    Prince Edward and Arabella, their game of chess completed, wandered over to their parents. The boy’s color was high with his excitement, and the queen reached out to feel his forehead. Edward pulled away irritably, but Queen Anne drew him back into her embrace, saying, “Your father has promised to find a fine husband for your cousin Arabella, Neddie. Is that not nice?”
    “I wish to marry my cousin,” the boy said imperiously. “I like her. She makes me work to win at chess.”
    “You cannot marry me, Neddie,” Arabella said. “It would not be right.”
    “Why not?” the lad demanded.
    “Because, silly, you are a prince. Princes marry princesses. One day you will be king,” Arabella said, sounding just a trifle annoyed that he should not have known this himself.
    “If I am to be king,” the boy replied with