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jongleur could put to music and play for us today, a sort of tribute to the young knights. ‘Twas performed in the courtyard before the ceremony. Did anyone hear it?”
    “I did!” Berte piped up. “‘Twas exquisite, Highness. What an inspired subject. The audience was captivated.”
    Luke caught Alex’s eye and shook his head, smiling.
    “‘Twas the verse itself that so enchanted them, I think,” Matilda said.
    “I was going to say that,” Berte claimed. “A triumph. But then, my lady cousin is so clever with words, is she not?”
    “How kind of you.” Nicolette seemed to be stifling a smile. “Yet, recently,” she confided to the queen, “I’ve begun wondering if all the time I spend at my writing desk isn’t disrupting my vital humors.”
    “Who put such rubbish into your head?” The queen laughed dismissively, and the others followed suit—including Berte, looking decidedly ill at ease. “Your talent is a gift from God, and I’m grateful to Him for bestowing it on you.” She sighed. “Would that you were a man. Then I could bring you to England as a court poet.”
    Alex saw Nicolette’s eyes light briefly at that prospect, and then dim. Little wonder it seemed so enticing, considering what marriage to Milo must be like.
    “‘Twouldn’t do, I’m afraid,” the king pronounced. “The English would regard me as even more of an eccentric foreigner if I established a lady bard in my court. I want them to accept me, not think me mad.”
    “You look more like an Englishman every day, my liege,” Alex commented. “Your hair is almost as long as mine now.” Emulating his conquered countrymen, Alex had allowed his hair to grow out of its severe Norman cut, but it was not yet long enough to bind into a queue, as Luke wore his.
    William grinned. “‘Twas your idea, was it not?” To the rest, he explained, “Sir Alex thinks ‘twill endear me to my English subjects if I look like one of them.”
    “Did you convince him to grow the beard as well?” Queen Matilda inquired archly.
    “That I did not, my lady. ‘Twas your lord husband’s own misguided notion, that.”
    “She doesn’t care for how it feels against her face,” the king announced.
    “My lord!” Matilda scolded.
    Her husband blinked. “Is that not what you said?”
    She stared him down with a rigid lack of expression that spoke more eloquently than words. He cleared his throat and muttered an apology—the great William the Conqueror reduced by a diminutive female to a groveling penitent.
    Yet one more reminder of how wise Alex was to hold out against the dubious blessing of marriage.
    “Alex de Périgeaux,” William said, “is the most anglicized all the knights in my private retinue, yet he steadfastly refuses to let me grant him an English estate. I’ve offered him one in Cambridge, near his brother’s, but he wants no part of it.”
    “‘Twould mean being released from your service,” Alex said.
    The queen frowned in puzzlement. “But you’ve earned that release. My lord husband tells me you’re among his finest swordsmen. Aren’t you the one they call the White Wolf, for the silence with which you approach your prey?”
    “They call him the Lone Wolf now,” Luke taunted. “For his refusal to marry and settle down.”
    Nicolette looked up from the chunk of marzipan she was breaking up and feeding to Hlynn, who’d awakened.
    “What quarrel do you have with the state of matrimony?” the queen asked him.
    Alex wished the conversation hadn’t followed this particular curve in the road—especially with Nicolette present. “None in theory, my lady. ‘Tis a holy institution, and I’ve the greatest reverence for it.”
    Luke choked on his wine. Faithe nuzzled baby Edlyn in an effort to hide her smirk.
    Her eyes sparking with amusement, Matilda said, “Your avowals rings hollow, Sir Alex. Tell me, is it women you object to?”
    Chuckling, Luke said, “Alex has never met a woman he objected to.”
    Milo