Chapter 8: Before the King

"Adultery, Majesty," Lothaire said. "In all but name."

His voice rang off the gold ceiling of the throne room.

He had dressed for it, in white and gold, his rings on three fingers, his hair brushed until it shone.

Half the court stood along the walls to watch.

Isaline's father stood among them in his grey coat, looking grave and sorry.

The king sat on the throne above them with his chin on his fist.

He was sixty, thin, with a long patient face that had heard a great many petitions and believed very few.

"Go on, Marbrecourt."

"Every night since my wedding, the Margrave of the Greymarch has slept at my wife's door."

"Alone with her, in a dark wing of my house. What husband could bear it?"

"Most husbands sleep in the same room as their wives," the king said. "You seem to bear that very well."

A few people laughed, and stopped.

Lothaire went pink.

"Majesty, the shame of it..."

"Yes. Duchess?"

Isaline stepped forward and curtsied.

"Majesty."

"Is it true? Does the Margrave sleep at your door?"

"He has never crossed my threshold, Majesty. Ask anyone who's tried."

"Why?"

"Because three nights ago someone drugged his soldier and filled my water jug with laurel water."

She kept her voice level.

"That's the fourth cup since my wedding, Majesty, if you count the physician's."

That went round the walls in a whisper.

The king's eyes moved from her to Lothaire.

Then to the tall man at her side.

"Halvardt. What do you say?"

The Margrave bowed, badly as always.

"I sleep on the boards, Majesty. My back will testify."

The king laughed.

It was a short dry bark.

The court laughed with him, loud and relieved.

"And has the duchess ever opened that door to you, Margrave?"

"In the mornings, Majesty. To tell me I look terrible."