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there would be more.”
    “Indeed, Sire, yes,” replied Marshal Orval, “there are as many more as you see here. I thought best to send the others on ahead to make certain the way is clear. We should encounter no trouble on the way.”
    “Very good, Marshal,” agreed Neufmarché, satisfied at last. “Then you may give the signal and move out. We have a wedding to attend.” With this last, he reached over and gave his daughter’s hand a squeeze.
    For her part, the young lady was suitably demure beneath a cap of pale blue silk with a veil that rested lightly over her long dark hair. In her lap she carried a posy of tiny white flowers bound in a bit of green cloth. She smiled at her father as the carriage lurched into motion, and said, “You have gone to far too much trouble—as I feared you might.”
    “Nonsense!” replied the baron. “Only what was necessary—nothing more.”
    “Nine wagons—necessary?” She laughed, not at all put out by her father’s extravagance. “I’m not marrying the entire realm.”
    “ Au contraire, chéri , but you are,” insisted Bernard. “You will be queen and ruler of the realm—the woman all your male subjects will admire and all female subjects emulate.”
    “Your father is right , ” offered the baroness. “A future queen cannot be seen to hold herself too low, or she will lose the respect of those who must live beneath her rule.”
    “Nor would we care to be thought close-fisted on such an important occasion,” continued the baron. “We must by all means demonstrate the prosperity we intend to cultivate in the realm. The people must see what it is that we intend for them.”
    “Not all the people, surely,” said Sybil in mild derision. “I doubt I will have any dealings with the serfs.”
    “Do you not think so?” replied her mother. “Each and every one of your vassals will benefit from your rule—serfs as well as nobility. You must not allow yourself to become distant from those you rule. This is something that happens far too often in France, and I do not think it altogether a good thing.”
    This last pronouncement surprised the baron into silence. Coming from a bishop or cardinal such a sentiment would not seem out of place; but this—from the lips of a woman who, after fourteen years still did not know the names of the cook or any of the kitchen servants, and had yet to meet the porter, stabler, and grooms—it fair took his breath away.
    Lady Agnes turned to him. “Ce n’est pas , mon mari?” she inquired with a lift of her eyebrow.
    It took him a moment to realize she was speaking to him. “Oh! Indeed! Indeed, yes,” he agreed hurriedly. “Sadly, it is much the way of things in France, but we have the opportunity to do better now.” He smiled at the grave expression on his daughter’s face. “But do not worry, mon coeur . It will soon be second nature to you.” He glanced from his daughter to his wife, and added, “Why, you’ll be surprised at how naturally it grows.”
    “And you will have your handmaids and servants to help—as well as a seneschal,” Agnes continued. “A good seneschal is worth his weight in gold—and we shall make it a matter of some urgency to find one who knows what he’s about. Your grandfather will have some ideas, I think; I will write to him and ask him to send two or three and you can choose the one that suits you best.”
    “A Welsh seneschal would be better, surely,” ventured Sybil. “Because of the language . . .”
    “Tch!” her mother countered. “That would never do. You would soon fall into the errors of their ways. As I said, it will be your duty—the duty of us all—to teach them.”
    They talked of this and other things, and the day passed with the countryside juddering slowly by. Because of all the wagons, they could not move with any speed, and as the sun dropped lower and ever lower in the west, Marshal Orval searched for and found a suitable place to make camp for the night. While