“And with love?” His own lust and desire were as evident as the liquid heat between my thighs.

“Yes, and love.”

The floor was hard, with no goose down, no linen, no lavender-scented coverings. It mattered not one tiny feather from the pillows we did not have. I let him take me as he wished. Or perhaps I did not exactly allow it at all. He was not a man to ask permission, and I would have it no other way. My mind was wiped free of everything but the two of us there together in a house that echoed with emptiness, the sun gilding breast and thigh. Two private people entirely absorbed in each other, attracting no interest from the outside world.

“Why do we love each other, Will?” I asked.

“I’ve no idea. Don’t worry about it. Some things are granted simply to be enjoyed.…”

His enjoyment of me was balm to my soul, his weight solid, his possession thorough. I held on to him when every muscle and nerve shivered in response to his attentions, as I had never needed to hold on to any man before. My heart was full of joy, so much that I might weep again. But I did not. It was a time for rejoicing, and Windsor’s clever hands pushed back the shadows.

But not forever.

When he slept, hair mussed, face buried in his tunic folds, I lay awake. A trial? Unknown evidence? I held Windsor’s love for me close, a talisman to ward off the fear.

“Did they get Philippa’s jewels, then?” Windsor asked when it became necessary for us to dress.

I fear my expression bordered on the smug. “What do you think?”

“God’s Blood!” His laughter echoed strangely in the unfurnished room. “Tell me, then.”

“It pays to be prepared and vigilant. But they will require a little polishing.”

With some forward planning against the day when this might happen—had I not always been chary of just such an eventuality?—my steward had hidden them, together with Edward’s rings, in a sack half-full of weevil-ridden flour. Webster, thank God, had considered the confiscation of the detritus of my cellars beneath his dignity.

Windsor was making headway with the laces of his tunic. “By the by—I have this for you.…I was distracted.” He delved into the inner lining. “I don’t think I’ve ever given you a gift before.”

He took out a silver looking glass. It shone enticingly in the soft light, its engraved stems and leaves skillfully intertwining around the rim like the arms of lovers.

I frowned. “No!” I said stonily, ungraciously.

Windsor stared at the glass, and then at me with solemn astonishment, as if my female mental processes were beyond his understanding. “Alice, my love! I haven’t stolen it. I came by it by fair means—and show me a woman who does not use a glass.”

“She sits before you.”

“But why? Why will you not?”

“I don’t like what I see.” This was the truth; I was not seeking compliments.

“Which bits?”

Was this the time for humor, when I still sat, disheveled, in my shift? “All of them…I’m not…Oh, Windsor!” Infuriated, for it was a pretty thing, I clasped my hands in my lap.

“At what age does a woman begin not to care about her appearance?” Windsor had no intention of allowing me to refuse. “I think she must be on her deathbed.”

He fell to his knees beside me on his much-creased cloak, held the glass up, and with his free hand traced the line of one of my too-dark brows.

“I see no ugliness,” he said softly, “for you are lovely in my eyes. I want you to see Alice. I want you to see the face of my wife and the woman I love.”

His words took every refusal out of my mind. How could I not accept the gift without unforgivable churlishness? And my image was not as bad as I had feared. The face that looked back at me was no beauty, but the lack of symmetry was striking in itself. Even the brows were supportable. I tilted my chin and smiled, and my reflection did likewise; perhaps this unexpected happiness had given me a softening of feature. So I became an owner of a looking glass when I had vowed I would not, and was not displeased when Windsor kissed every bit of my reflected face.

We moved to Gaines, where we at least had a bed—so far.

I knew exactly the impression I wished to make for my appearance before the Lords. I had thought I would be edgy, apprehensive of the outcome, with mouth dry, heart pumping so that I must swallow against nausea. And I was, all of those, but more than that I was defiant! Since the visit of the deplorably efficient Webster, Joan—with the backing of the courts—had been encroaching step by poisonous step. My beloved manor near Wendover, Edward’s gift, had been taken from me, my people turned out, my furnishings impounded, without my even being there to give my yea or nay. As I was informed, my ownership of the estate was not legal. It had reverted to the Crown, and was now the property of King Richard. Not that he had much use from it. On his mother’s advice he granted it to his half brother, Thomas Holland, Joan’s son by one of her earlier, dubious, probably bigamous marriages.

I’m sure it gave her inordinate pleasure.

I seethed with impotence, for disconcertingly, worryingly, Gaunt too made much of my inability to fight back. My house on the banks of the Thames hopped easily from my hand to his. All my London property along the Ropery was added to the total of the royal Duke’s own wealth. Two of my choicest manors dropped neatly into the pocket of Gaunt’s son-in-law. I was truly dispensable in Gaunt’s eyes. He had no further use for me, and I learned a hard lesson: Never trust a man who puts power before loyalty.

So, to attend my so-called trial, I dressed not with circumspection but in a blaze of rebellion.

“There!” I smoothed my hands down my dress before fastening a loop of gold and opals around my wrist to match the collar lying snugly against my collarbone, addressing Jane, who sat on the floor of my bedchamber to watch the transformation from country wife to Court lady. Not all of my garments were stored at Pallenswick. “I’ll show them I don’t fear them!” I announced, and marched down to the parlor, where Windsor awaited me. For a long moment he remained slouched in a chair and looked me over.

“By the Rood, Alice!” His voice was belligerent.

“Is that good or bad?” I thought I looked very well for my summons to kneel before the overmighty Lords.

Lips tight pressed, without a word, Windsor marched me back to my chamber, picked Jane up off the floor where she still sat, and deposited her in the middle of my bed with an absentminded ruffle of her curls.

I clenched my hands into fists. “I don’t like your high-handedness!”

“And I despair of your lack of perspicacity!” He faced me, his manner annoyingly imperious, his voice cracking like a whiplash. Nor did I appreciate his choice of words. “Are you stupid? You are on trial, Alice. For fraud and treason. How difficult do you want to make it for yourself? Do you really want to antagonize the misbegotten titled scum who’ll sit in judgment over you before the first word is uttered?”

I felt my face flush with heat. “They are already antagonized. What does it matter what I wear?”

“Oh, it matters! You look like a concubine!”

“I was a concubine!”

“I know. We all know. But there’s no need to slap them in their high-blooded faces with it. Look at yourself in all honesty.”

He spread his arms to take in my appearance, and I forced myself to see through his eyes. Through the eyes of the Lords. It was, I suppose, on the edge of regally treasonable, as if I had usurped the power of the monarchy for myself. Not quite with the flamboyance of the garments I had worn as Lady of the Sun, but with enough éclat to take the eye, for I wore the same violet silk and gold cotehardie that had driven Isabella to wrath.

“You’re fighting for your freedom here—perhaps even…”

“My life?” I snapped back, the flush fading to an icy pallor.

“Don’t be melodramatic.” He barely hesitated. “I can’t say I see you on a scaffold, but you can’t argue against it—there’ll be more than one of those ranged against you who’ll call for your death.”

“Which seems to be a contradiction to me.”

“And to me also, my combative wife.” He pushed his hand through his hair and groaned. “You need to be careful; don’t you understand? If they choose to resurrect the charge of witchcraft against you…” I saw the worry on him. “And you need to wear something less…challenging.”

“If you say so.” I knew he was right. Of course he was. I sighed and began to strip off the splendidly offending garments. “It’s difficult when the mother of the King is sharpening her nails, isn’t it?” He did not reply. As I stood with my outer robe crushed in my hands, I admitted, “I am afraid. Oh, Will, I am afraid.” I needed his help and his fire in my belly.

Windsor’s voice gentled at last. “I know.” He took the garment from me and laid it on the bed, smoothing its folds with care. “It is very dangerous. But we know well how to manage hostile forces, do we not?”

“Oh, we do.” The underrobe, unlaced by Windsor’s nimble fingers, fell around my feet. I sighed again. “I’m sorry. I let my emotions run away with me.”

“Of course you did. You’re a woman. And a very dear one to me. I won’t let them harm you, you know.”

“I think you might not have a voice in the matter.”

“How little faith you have in me.” He thrust a pair of plain leather shoes into my hands. “Don’t stand there thinking about it. If you’re late, they’ll sneer even more down their aristocratic noses. But remember: I will be with you. I’ll not let you suffer alone.”

“Suffer! My thanks!”

I dressed rapidly and circumspectly, going to my trial in sobriety and seemliness. No jewels! To wear even one of Philippa’s jewels would be like putting a flame to dry kindling laid ready for the fire.