Page 111 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Majesty.” Ead curtsied. “I did not know you had risen.”

“The birdsong woke me.” Sabran put her book to one side. “Come. Sit with me.”

Ead joined her on the settle.

“I am pleased you have come,” Sabran said. “I have something of a private nature to tell you before the feast.” Her smile gave it away. “I am with child.”

Caution was what came to Ead first. “Are you certain, Majesty?”

“More than certain. I am long past the proper time for my courses.”

At last. “Madam, this is wonderful,” Ead said warmly. “Congratulations. I am so very pleased for you and Prince Aubrecht.”

“Thank you.”

As Sabran looked down at her belly, her smile faltered. Ead watched the crease appear in her brow.

“You must not tell anyone yet,” the queen said, recovering. “Even Aubrecht has no idea. Only Meg, the Dukes Spiritual, and my Ladies of the Bedchamber know of my condition. My councillors have agreed that we will announce it when I begin to show.”

“When will you tell His Royal Highness?”

“Soon. I mean to surprise him.”

“Be sure there is a settle for him nearby when you do.”

Sabran smiled again at that. “I will,” she said. “I shall have to be gentle with my dormouse.”

A child would secure his position at court. He would be the happiest man alive.

At ten of the clock, Lievelyn met the queen at the doors to the Banqueting House. A silver thaw made the grounds shine. The prince consort wore a heavy surcoat, trimmed with wolf fur, that made him seem broader than he was. He bowed to Sabran, but there, in sight of them all, she took his nape in hand and kissed him.

Ead grew suddenly cold. She watched Lievelyn wrap his arms around Sabran and draw her flush against him.

The maids of honor were all titters. When the couple broke apart at last, Lievelyn smiled and kissed Sabran on the brow.

“Good morrow, Majesty,” he said, and they walked arm in arm, Sabran leaning into her companion, so their cloaks blended like ink.

“Ead,” Margret said. “Are you well?”

Ead nodded. The feeling in her chest had already dulled, but it had left a nameless shadow in her.

When Sabran and Lievelyn entered the Banqueting House, a throng of courtiers rose to meet them. The royals went to the High Table with the Dukes Spiritual, while the ladies-in-waiting pared away to the benches. Ead had never seen the Dukes Spiritual so pleased. Igrain Crest was smiling, and Seyton Combe, who usually darkened every doorway he entered, looked as if he could hardly keep from rubbing his hands together.

The Feast of Early Autumn was an extravagant affair. Black wine flowed, thick and heavy and sweet, and Lievelyn was presented with a huge rum-soaked fruit cake—his childhood favorite—which had been re-created according to a famous Mentish recipe.

On the tables, the bounty of the season filled copper-gilt platters. White peacock with a gold-leaf beak, roasted and soaked in a honey and onion sauce, then stitched back into its feathers, so it gave an impression of life. Damsons plumped in rosewater. Apple halves in a crimson jelly. Spiced blackberry pie with a fluted crust and tiny venison tartlets. Ead and Margret made sympathetic noises as Katryen lamented the loss of her secret admirer, whose love letters had stopped coming.

“Did Sabran tell you the news?” Katryen asked, voice low. “She wanted you both to know.”

“Yes. Thank the Damsel for her mercies,” Margret said. “I was beginning to think I would die of irritation if one more person remarked that Her Majesty was lookingvery wellof late.”

Ead glanced behind her to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

“Katryen,” she murmured, “are you quite sure Sabran missed her blood?”

“Yes. Don’t trouble yourself, Ead.” Katryen sipped her bramble wine. “Her Majesty will have to begin putting together a household for the princess in due course.”

“Saint. That will set off more peacocking than poor Arbella’s death,” Margret said dryly.

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